Code name butterfly, p.5
Code Name Butterfly, page 5
“Elodie Mitchell.”
“Élodie? How French!”
“Yes,” Elly said with a quick smile. “I’m from Chicago.”
“I know Chicago! I had the pleasure of performing there a few times in my early days.” Josephine shivered. “Cold place. The wind can cut like a knife.”
“Yes, it’s not that far from St. Louis,” Elly said, eager to impress Josephine with her knowledge of her, limited though it was.
“No, it’s not,” Josephine said with a shake of her head. As though old friends, she brought a hand to Elly’s arm. “What brought you here to Paris? Are you a dancer? You move with such grace.” She moved with such grace? And Elly was suddenly reminded of the dreaded ballet classes Ma Mère had forced her to take as a girl where she’d never been good enough and she’d been constantly ridiculed because she’d been the darkest in the room. Maybe she’d acquired some gracefulness from them after all.
“No, ma’am.”
“Ma’am! Is that what I am these days?”
“I … just … well … you don’t look like a ma’am,” Elly said quickly. “But I like to play it safe.” Elly felt a rush of embarrassment wash over her. But she’d been raised where anyone older than you was a ma’am or a sir and beware if you failed to address someone correctly. As youthful as Josephine Baker appeared, she was also about ten years older than Elly.
“I’d say you like to live dangerously.” Josephine winked. “But I’m just teasing you!”
“I’m here for school,” Elly said, returning to the original question. “I’m working on my second master’s degree. This one in French literature.”
“Wow!” Josephine straightened, looking thunderstruck. Then she took a step toward Elly, closing the gap between them. She placed her other hand on Elly’s other arm. And Elly did not move even though every single nerve in her body was tingling. The Josephine Baker was touching her. And looking incredibly impressed by her. Just wait until she told her brother about this. “Just wow. And I really mean that. Very good for you, Elodie. That’s something to be proud of.”
“Thank you, Miss Baker, but it’s certainly nothing compared to all that you have accomplished.”
Josephine waved a hand. “Just call me Jo. And they’re two different fields entirely. I’m honored you came to my show. I so like to meet the smart ones,” she said with a laugh that made Elly want to laugh too. “Congrats again to you, my dear.” She patted Elly’s arm and moved on to the next person.
Elly reached for her purse simply to have something to do. She was trembling. How ridiculous. Josephine Baker put her pants on one leg at a time the same as everyone else. And yet she still could not squash the bubble of excitement that rose within her. She had met Josephine Baker! They had actually conversed! Just wait until she got back to her room. Her next letter home was going to be very long.
“Well, look who made it.” Elly glanced up to see Grant Monterey standing just a few feet away from her, his arms folded across his chest.
“Thank you, Mr. Monterey. I’ve had a wonderful evening.” He might not have fulfilled her personal fantasies but he’d more than made up for that.
He smiled, looking a bit pleased with himself. “Grant’s fine, Elodie, and I’m glad this was worth coming to.”
The handsome man called Pierre appeared at Grant’s side, unlit cigarette in hand. “Is this the little girl you found wandering lost around Paris?”
Elly glanced over at Grant whose attention was briefly caught by someone else. There was that word again: lost. And she might be young but she was no little girl. If he was trying to remind her that he was not interested in her, he was doing a fabulous job.
“She’s not quite so little,” Pierre continued, his voice languid and his eyes a bit hooded. At first glance, Pierre seemed like a mulatto, and it was possible he was, but there was something about him that made her think that both of his parents were probably just fair-skinned. Pierre’s whiskey-colored eyes looked her up and down in a very slow, methodical way that left Elly feeling like somehow he’d seen everything.
When their gazes collided, she raised one unamused eyebrow. He grinned, more challenged, then chastened. Elly watched him reach not into his pocket but into Grant’s shirt pocket for a lighter. Grant’s expression darkened but he didn’t say anything. How had Danny described them? Not as friends but as family. “You might need to get your eyes checked again, old man. It’s not just reading glasses you should be carrying.” Pierre lit his cigarette and lifted his chin in her direction before handing the lighter back to Grant. “Pierre Roche.”
What had Danny said? This man was living with a made-up name. Not surprising. Everything about him seemed staged and Elly didn’t care one bit if her judgment of Pierre Roche was harsh. “Elodie Mitchell.”
“What brought you to Paris, Miss Mitchell?”
Not particularly in the mood to entertain Pierre Roche, she said, “Can’t you tell? I’m French.”
Pierre’s grin was slow. “Is that so?”
“Oui.” There was an element of truth there. It was the reason she’d picked France over all the other countries in Europe—not that she’d ever have picked Germany. But she’d been heavily influenced by her own ancestry; by the town she’d been born in where a statue of her many times great-grandfather had been erected. The grandfather who had been born and raised in France but later lived and fought the British in Acadia. After losing, he was summarily exiled to what was now known as Louisiana. The same grandfather then decided to join the slave-owning community of the South, which led unsurprisingly to the creation of colored Valcourts who passed down sprinkled French like salt onto every generation that followed.
The first ten years of Elly’s life had been filled with bits and pieces of French everywhere. French was lullabies and food and names and swear words. It was history and pain and love and bitterness. It was her father, Louis Valcourt, who had held on to his past with both hands until he simply could not hold it anymore.
“I’m French too,” Pierre said solemnly, his eyes dancing with laughter.
“We all are.” Grant rolled his eyes.
“Look, Grant, one of your lost pennies turned up,” Danny said, popping up from nowhere. He’d wandered off after Josephine finished singing. Danny turned toward Elly. “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. There’s Mark over there. Nancy and Sarah. Will and James.” One of the men he’d named heard Danny.
“What did you say, Danny?”
“I said, Grant has a way of finding us in this country.”
“What would we do without Uncle Grant?”
“We love you, Uncle Grant!” several others cried out.
“Well, I don’t love you!” Grant called over his shoulder, sounding stern … and much older than everyone. He hadn’t been lying. He probably had more than a few years on her. He was just one of those men who was blessed with a young face.
Everyone in the room laughed at his comment, not believing his words for a second.
Slinging an arm around Grant’s shoulder, Pierre whispered, his voice heavy with emotion, “You collect us.”
“Oh, shut up, Pierre,” Grant said, reluctantly laughing as he shrugged off Pierre’s arm.
Elly was proud that she felt only mild disappointment upon realizing that she was not, in fact, special. With a small sigh she released her infatuation with the man. Pierre eyed her. “You didn’t say why you’re here.”
Feeling slightly exasperated, Elly said, “Have you heard of the cousins who traveled to Europe writing articles for the Chicago Defender?”
To the average person, this question would have been strange and random. But not to an American Negro. There were two colored papers that most of them read, no matter where they were in the world: the Chicago Defender and the Philadelphia Courier.
“That’s one of the reasons I came here!” Danny said, jittery with excitement. “They loved it here in France.” About six years ago, the Chicago Defender paid for two young colored women—cousins—to travel across Europe and write about their experiences so that Negroes could know what it was like to be abroad. The articles had been massive hits. The girls had loved France. They’d even enjoyed a Josephine Baker show.
“You’re a journalist?” Grant asked, tilting his head as he eyed her. “I thought you were here to study?” Ha, she wanted to say. I’m more complicated than you think. I am mysterious.
“I write about my time in France as a student.”
“A student,” Grant repeated slowly as he tapped a finger against his chin. She also wrote about the international mess that was Europe, but that was a tale for another day.
“It’s to encourage study abroad.”
“Bad time to study abroad,” Pierre murmured.
“Yes, well there was a bit more hope a few months ago. This evening will make for a very nice write-up.” She’d draft the article when she was finally aboard the ship taking her home.
“You’re lucky. This was our last shindig,” Grant told her.
“We keep getting smaller and smaller,” Pierre said. “Folks are returning to the States.”
“Then, I’m really glad I came. Thank you, again, Grant.”
Grant dipped his head. “You’re very welcome, Elodie.”
“Elly, please.”
They exchanged a few more words and brief nods and then Pierre and Grant drifted off in the direction of their instruments. Elly imagined that they were even more tired than she was. She eyed them one last time knowing she’d probably never see them again. Reaching for her coat and purse, she looked at her watch. It was getting late and she’d already seen several people gathering their things and leaving. The makeshift concert was over.
And then suddenly, the door Josephine had appeared through banged open and a young woman stood in the entrance. “Where’s Jo?”
Everyone looked around the room for the woman.
“She’s gone.” One of the musicians pointed to the exit. “Saw her slip out about two minutes ago.”
The young woman ran to the door, flung it open, and ran outside.
“Poor Polly,” someone muttered. “Always trying to wrangle Jo to the next thing. I do not envy her that job.”
“Is that Pierre’s girlfriend?” Elly asked Danny. Polly was a very pretty girl with curves in all the right places and still somehow holding on to the tiniest of waists. She could see why a man like Pierre would be interested in her.
“Pierre doesn’t do labels.” Danny leaned in close. “I’m going to be him when I grow up.”
Elly wrinkled her nose. Just like Catau, admiring the wrong people in life. “Why?”
Danny laughed, completely unbothered. “I’m going to be like him and like Jo. I want her fame and his joie de vivre.”
“Not Grant?”
Danny shuddered. “No.” He paused. “Maybe when I’m like fifty and even then I hope life is more exciting than whatever it is he’s doing. The happiest I’ve ever seen him is when he spots his favorite vendor at the farmers’ market. Thanks, but no thanks.”
“How old are you?” Yes, it was her little brother he reminded her of with that hopeful naiveté that rested in his eyes and that sort of eau de everything-will-work-out-right scent that surrounded him.
“Twenty.”
“Well that explains everything.”
“Don’t be rude. Do you need me to flag down a cab?” Danny asked Elly as he helped her into her coat.
“Would you please?” He cocked his elbow and Elly slipped her arm through his. “Where do you live?”
Elly told him the address. They’d almost made it to the exit when a very disgruntled Polly appeared, blocking their movements.
“You didn’t catch her, Pol?” Danny asked, sounding like he would have been surprised if she had.
“Oh, I caught her,” the young woman said, irritation lacing her every word. “Please tell me, how am I going to do this fitting when she’s gone? Paris-London starts in less than a month and I haven’t been able to finish the costumes because she’s everywhere except where she needs to be!”
“Don’t let this stress you out, Polly. You always pull through.”
“Shut up, Danny! I just need her body for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and I’m good as gold.”
“She needs a body double,” Danny joked. “Someone to handle the small things while she takes care of the big things.”
“Yes!” Polly said, reluctant amusement creeping in her eyes. “Someone this height.” She lifted a hand, stopping somewhere around the top of Elly’s head. “And this wide,” she created a space between her hands. “And I’d be good.”
“Oh. So you mean someone like Elly,” Danny quipped, and then lightly nudged Elly’s side. And then he stopped laughing and Polly stopped grinning, and Elly knew before either of them opened their mouths that they thought they’d found the solution to their problem.
CHAPTER 6
Elly held her hands up in protest. “I don’t think—”
“What’s your name?” Polly demanded, peering at Elly as if she hadn’t really looked at her before.
“This is Elly Mitchell,” Danny said, answering for her. “From Chicago.”
Polly touched a finger to her lips. “Move, Daniel.”
Danny dropped his arm and took a step away from Elly while Polly began a slow walk around her.
“It’s pretty late. I should probably get home.” With longing, Elly watched as several people slipped past them and exited the building.
“Ten minutes,” Polly said, holding up both hands. “Just give me ten minutes. Please.”
“We’re not really the same shape.”
“You aren’t. But you’re the same height and that’ll get me started. Please. I beg of you.”
Put that way, Elly didn’t see how she could say no. And she’d get to see what the Casino de Paris looked like behind the scenes.
“All right,” Elly said, hesitantly. She barely got the word out before Polly grabbed her arm in a tight grip.
“Wait down here, Danny,” Polly ordered. “We won’t be long.” Elly almost lost her balance as Polly dragged her quickly to the door she’d come through. Polly released Elly long enough to open the door and then grabbed her again as though afraid Elly might take off and run in the opposite direction.
“How long have you worked with Ms. Baker?” Elly asked, breathless and feeling like they were about to start jogging any second now.
“Years and years. You’d think I’d be used to this by now but it drives me crazy every time.” Polly let her go as they climbed a set of stairs.
“Where are we?”
“Behind the theater.” And indeed, around them, doors were opening and shutting and people were moving about carrying things and going places. “Just down this hall,” Polly told her.
Elly followed but then stopped when she got a whiff of something less than pleasant.
“You smell it, don’t you?”
“I smell something.”
“It’s her zoo.”
“Her what?”
“Jo’s zoo.”
The scent got stronger as they got closer. Polly stopped in front of a door but pointed a finger at a different door several feet away. “There’s a pig and a goat, birds, and maybe even a dog or two. I don’t know. I avoid the room but you can’t avoid the smell.”
Pushing open the door in front of her, Polly ushered Elly into a bright pink dressing room. It was filled to the brim with flowers. They were in every corner and crevice possible. “I always ask that Jo’s flowers are brought here. The perfume helps cover the scent of whatever is happening in the zoo.” Indeed, the room did smell fragrant. But also sour. Because the animal scent was strong.
“Can you change into that dress on the couch? And stand on this?” Polly pushed a small round circular thing into the center of the room.
“I’ll need some assistance getting out of this dress,” Elly said as she removed her coat.
Polly expertly helped her out of her pink and silver gown and into a long, gold, silk, V-strapped dress that fell past her feet. Then Elly moved to stand on the lifted surface.
“What a beautiful necklace you have on. It’s one of those pieces that will go with anything.”
“It’s on loan,” Elly admitted, fingering the shiny charms on Madame’s choker.
“Then that’s a good friend you’ve got. I know what you’re thinking,” Polly said as she retrieved measuring tape. “If I’ve known Jo for years, what do I need you for? Well, I’ve got to make sure it falls perfectly, don’t I? And that’s much easier to do with a body in a dress rather than out of it. If I have to take it up a few inches, I’d like to know now and not ten minutes before her next show.”
While Polly hummed and measured, Elly took in the mirrored dressing table in the corner of the room that held all sorts of bottles and powders, jewelry and fans, and combs and hair pieces. There was a record player next to the dresser and Elly wondered what sort of music Jo Baker found entertaining.
“Can you turn left?”
Elly obeyed, now facing a couch. Above it was a large photo of Jo Baker decked out in a feathery ensemble that didn’t cover much. It made her smile. There were worse things to be than proud of your own body. And, well, Jo ought to be proud.
“All right,” Polly said, straightening. “I’m going to run and grab the shoes she’s wearing with this number. I think your feet might be smaller but the height of the heel is all that matters. Just a few more seconds and we’re done. Thank you, Elly Mitchell.”
“You’re welcome, Polly.”
Polly disappeared out of the door. Lifting the skirt of the dress, Elly hopped down from the measuring stand very carefully. Polly had inserted a half dozen pins into the hem of the gown. If she moved the wrong way, a pin would poke at her ankles.
Slowly making her way over to the record player, Elly saw that Bessie Smith was currently resting on the turntable. Tucked just behind the stand and in the windowsill were a number of other records. Elly began to flip through them. Most of them were American artists that she recognized but a few appeared to be songs from operas sung by people whose names she’d never heard of before.
