Rare Objects (23 page)

“Really?” Rusty took a step back, nodded to Smitty. “What about the kid wearing the silver handkerchief with no spine?”

“Oh, Smitty? I believe her dance card is free.” He wrapped his arm firmly around my waist. “I'll introduce you if you like. She's very friendly.”

Rusty held up his hands. “No, thanks! I've already got more friends than I know what to do with!” He gave me a wink. “You all right, Red? Don't forget my offer.”

“I won't. Good to see you.”

James watched as Rusty picked his way through the crowd. “Where'd you pick up that guy?”

“I found him under the table.” I was irritated that he'd ruined my fun. “He must've fallen out of someone's pocket.”

“Why'd he call you Red?”

“I'm a Communist.”

He searched my face. “You're lying, right?”

“We were plotting the downfall of Western civilization when you cut in. The revolution is the week after next. You may want to mark your calendar.”

He pulled me in close. It's a strange thing to find yourself in the arms of a man you don't like. I'd dealt with it every night at the dance hall. But something about James Van der Laar made the experience even more galling; perhaps it was that I was meant to be grateful to him, as my host.

“Well, he looks a bit suspect. I thought he might be bothering you. They let anyone in nowadays.”

I could feel his warm breath on my cheek, his hip against
mine; a firm hand pressed into my back, guiding me. He moved with confidence, never second-guessing himself, and more than any other man I'd ever danced with, he wasn't shy about taking command. It was different from Rusty, who kept you on your toes. I felt like a thing, an object to be placed anywhere at his will. At the same time, this certainty was a relief. Without meaning to, I relaxed against him, and our movements were effortless and assured.

Where I came from, men smelled good if they'd had a bath. But James Van der Laar was far more refined than that. A musky, leathery cologne blended with the heat of his skin, creating a subtle masculine scent; his dark hair was slicked back, sleek and shiny; pearl studs shimmered against his starched white shirtfront. He reminded me of a certain type who occasionally graced the Orpheum—the kind of man who didn't need the company of a professional dancer, who were most sought after by the girls and very often got extra dances for free. We called them Princes. But if he thought he was doing me a favor right now, he was wrong.

“On the contrary,” I said coolly. “I was quite enjoying myself.”

“Are you not enjoying yourself now, Miss Fanning?”

He was so sure of my answer. There was no response that wouldn't sound petulant. So I ignored the question. “If anything, it looks like you're the one who needs protection.”

“From Smitty?” He smiled. “I don't think so! We've known each other for years—and she's engaged.”

“Maybe someone should tell her that.”

He looked at me sideways. “You're not jealous, are you?”

“It's difficult, but I've just about got myself under control.”

“And what makes you think this is all chivalry on my part? Perhaps I have an ulterior motive.”

“Oh, I see!” I laughed. “Am I to be vetted again?”

I'd hit the mark; he colored a little. “Why is it that I have to work so hard with you?”

“Because you're lazy.” It came out before I could stop myself.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted, frowning. For the first time, his smooth exterior was rumpled.

“Men who get what they want usually are.”

“You don't know what I want, Miss Fanning.”

“Then why don't you tell me?”

I was used to flirting; I'd spent months in New York flirting for a living. And no doubt James Van der Laar was an old hand too. But this wasn't flirting; it was more like fighting. Ma's voice rang in my head—charm him, don't offend him. But his arrogance was more than I could bear.

For a moment he just stared at me. Like Diana, he had blue eyes that seemed two shades lighter than humanly possible—like pools of clear, cold water. Then he put his cheek to mine and spoke very quietly in my ear. “I wanted to hold you and feel your body against mine, Miss Fanning. That's why I cut in. Not to save you or to ask you questions or to be polite. But so that I might smell the sweat on your skin up close.”

It was such a shocking thing to say; I knew my face was flushing. “I should slap you!”

But he held my wrist hard. “You won't. Not tonight, at any rate.”

My heart quickened, my body warmed beneath his touch. But I willed my muscles to relax, to appear indifferent even though my mind was in confusion.

He held up his hand. “This ring must be lucky.”

“I thought you didn't need luck.”

“I don't. But I like it just the same.”

The music stopped.

I stepped back. “And now your luck's run out. If you'll excuse me, I really must find my political comrades.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn't used to people walking away from him. And for the first time that evening, I felt like I had the upper hand. As I wove my way between the crowded tables, I knew he was watching, so I slowed down a little, moving lazily, almost as if I were bored. And I noticed that James wasn't the only man whose eyes followed me.

It was just like at the shop. The more unattainable something was, the more valuable it became. And while I couldn't compete with the breeding or bank balances of any of the other girls in the room, I had one advantage: I wasn't afraid to leave.

James Van der Laar was dominating, profane, and yet compelling. I didn't like him, but I also wanted him to be watching when I left and waiting for my return.

When I came out of the stall in the ladies' room, Diana was there, back pressed against the wall. “I've been looking for you. I haven't been able to be alone with you for five minutes. I'm glad you're here.”

“Well, actually, I didn't have much choice.” I checked my lipstick in the mirror.

“What do you mean?”

“Your brother came to the shop and enlisted me. Said he wanted to meet your friends.”

She frowned. “Did he say anything else? Anything about me?”

“No. Who's this Smitty girl? She seems familiar. Is she famous?”

“Someone I went to school with. You've probably seen her picture in the papers. She's been engaged four or five times.”

“And she's a friend of yours?”

“She was. Now she's found more interesting company.”

“Why does she keep getting engaged?”

She shrugged. “Fickle, I suppose. Breaks it off at the last minute. It's getting to be something of a joke. So James just turned up at the shop?”

I nodded, taking out my compact. “I wanted to ring you first, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. He was quite persistent.”

“Yes, that's the thing about my brother. He is very persistent, especially where girls are concerned. The thing is,” she went on, “he's something of a louse, May. I know it's mean of me to say, but I think you should know.”

I stopped powdering my nose, looked at her through our reflections in the mirror. “Why are you telling me?”

“I'm just saying, because he's really a dreadful cad.” She went on quickly. “I mean, I
adore
him! After all, he's my brother. But he's so
unbearable
! So careless, in fact.” Her face was suddenly drawn and tense. “And most of all, I don't want to see you upset or hurt.”

“
Me!
” I laughed. “I can assure you, he doesn't interest me in the least!”

The tension in her body eased, as if she'd been holding her breath. “I'm sorry. I'm being stupid. But you see, he's an imperialist at heart—very interested in anything that doesn't belong to him.”

I shot her a look. “And to whom exactly do I belong?”

“Me, of course!” She wrapped her arms round my waist. “You're mine, May Fanning. I paid one very expensive silver pen for you, remember?”

“I thought that was a gift.”

“All gifts are bribes.” She kissed my cheek. “You know that!”

She seemed happy now, at ease. But it reminded me of what James had said to me in the shop.
You're not the first, you know.

As we walked out, I saw James circulating, making his way from table to table. Smitty had joined him, leaving her own unique impression. She'd stolen someone's cigar and was smoking it provocatively, draping herself around various men, ignoring the women completely. In contrast, James greeted each person with all the high-wattage sincerity of a political candidate at a rally—firm handshakes, slaps on the back, and wide smiles. He seemed to know everyone, and they in turn beamed up at him, enthralled, as if he was some hero returning from the war. Here was the social opportunity my mother had been talking about, a chance to meet new, important people. But of course it was Smitty on James's arm, not me.

He looked up briefly and caught my eye, but I looked away, pretending to be sharing a private joke with Diana. I wouldn't so much as glance in his direction again. He would have to come to me.

Back at the table, the Bores had become rowdy. Having failed to enlarge their circle of acquaintance and left too long to their own devices, they reverted to more insular pursuits. Ties loosened, hair disheveled, here they were in one of the most exclusive clubs in Boston, playing cards.

I couldn't believe it. “Who brings cards to a nightclub?” I asked Diana.

“It's Toepen, a Dutch drinking game.” She tried to pour another drink, but the bottle was already empty. “Just ignore them, they're South African—completely feral. Mother can't stand them. Of course they don't fit in anywhere civilized.”

“South African?”

“We have some land there, an estate,” she explained. “It belonged to my father before he died. James still spends a lot of time there. He never comes into town, but he's got a few of these apes in tow. He likes to drag them everywhere.”

“Why?”

“Don't ask!” She groaned. “He's involved in the local politics. Believes in building an independent government, blah, blah, blah. Honestly, if you ask, he'll bore you stiff about it. You see”—she nodded to them—“they all come from old Afrikaner families. Most of them are as rich as Croesus, they just don't know how to chew with their mouths closed or how to hold a conversation that doesn't involve cattle.” She leaned in closer. “James pretends he's entertaining them, but I know they've been told to keep an eye on me. They're nothing but great big babysitters!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw James working his way back toward our table, glowing like a triumphant prizefighter fresh from the ring. I didn't want to be sitting here waiting for him when he got back. “Well, then, why don't we give them the slip?” I suggested. “You can introduce me to some of your friends instead.”

“All right, then,” she agreed. “Let's mingle!”

But before I knew what she was doing, Diana had made a beeline for the stage and ducked behind the curtain.

There was nothing for me to do but follow.

I was hoping to meet some of her social circle. But instead we ended up backstage with the band, who were taking a break, sitting around on a sagging old sofa, smoking and drinking.

“What are we doing here? I thought we might crash another table!” I told her.

“But I want to make new friends. I know all those people, and they're hideous!”

“Yes . . . but . . .” I jerked my head toward the musicians and whispered, “they're
Negroes
!”

“Oh dear,” she said flatly. “Try to be civilized. It's not contagious.”

Strolling over, she wrapped an arm around the singer's shoulders.

“Gentlemen”—she smiled sweetly—“my friend and I simply
adore
the way you play! Do you mind if we join you?”

It didn't take long before Diana knew all their names and where they came from and was perched on “Savoy” Johnson's lap, giggling while he pretended to play the piano on her long, slender arm. I sat next to them, wondering exactly how she always managed to evade expectation, making the most bizarre situations seem utterly reasonable.

Savoy was smoking something he called a “Mighty Mezz,” a loosely rolled, sweet-smelling cigarette that he offered to Diana. She inhaled gingerly before passing it on to me.

“What is it?” I asked warily.

“Don't worry, Iceberg, this will melt you!” He chuckled.

I didn't like his tone. “Why are you calling me that?”

“Because you're cold as ice, and that sour face of yours could sink a ship! What are you afraid of?” he teased. “That you might melt?”

They all laughed, including Diana.

I took it from him and inhaled hard, too hard. The next thing I knew, I was choking and coughing.

The horn player, Cairo Joe, slapped me on the back. “Take it gentle, sister!” He had a thin Duke Ellington mustache and limpid deep brown eyes. “Like blowing bubbles in reverse,” he instructed. “Slow and easy!”

A flask of bourbon made its rounds, powerful and thick, and the knot in my chest began to loosen. In fact, I felt better than I had all night. I pushed off Ma's shoes. If any of them noticed the newspaper in the toes, they didn't say anything or care. Cairo Joe patted his knee. “Here, girl! Put those paws up here!”

And I did.

“You must be a dancer—look at those blisters!” he whistled.

The Mezz made another round. This time I inhaled gently. My face began to feel unusual—numb, as if it was made of rubber. And my scalp was suddenly so itchy. Off came the veiled “fascinator” hat, and the carefully coiffed curls tumbled free.

“Oh, she's melting!” Teacher, the drummer, pointed at me. “She's melting
good
now!” He laughed, only this time I laughed too.