Celeste's Harlem Renaissance (17 page)

“Spring! This almost feels like home!” I hollered.

“Time to set out a few begonias and geraniums, spruce up the porch a little. Maybe you can help me,” Mrs. Tartleton said.

“Glad to. Aunti says the Café Noir Le Grande’s not far from here. Seems like it’s miles away when we come home after working. Do you know the owner, Monsieur Jacques Le Grande? He’s nice. He gives us food for free. And such a fancy dresser for a man.”

“I’ve heard about his place. It’s just up the street and around the corner, on Lenox. The way you two travel at night, it probably does seem like it’s a smart piece off, especially when you’re on foot and tired.”

Ahead of us a woman pushed a wobbly cart bulging with bags, a broom, a mop, and pans. Around her several children carried armloads of clothes, while a man in the lead struggled to steer an even more rickety cart piled high with chairs, end tables, and a headboard, with a mattress on top. He had to peek from around the furniture to see where he was going. “You think they’re moving out or moving in?” I asked Mrs. Tartleton.

“In, probably. More folks come to Harlem than anywhere else I know.”

“I heard Aunti and Miss D talk about a place around here called Strivers Row. You think that’s where they’re going?”

Mrs. Tartleton raised her eyebrows. “Oh, no! Strivers Row is for rich Colored folks. It’s yonder ways. Strivers Row Colored people have homes the size of our boardinghouse. What’s a family of only two or three need with a house that big?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” I said. Strivers Row was the kind of place where I had imagined Aunti lived.

After we crossed a couple of streets lined with boardinghouses like ours, we turned onto busy Lenox Avenue, and voilá, as Monsieur would say, there was the Café Noir Le Grande! “It
is
close. Let’s go in. Maybe he’ll give us some chocolate squares.”

“No, we can’t go round begging, and I reckon his prices’ll hurt my pocketbook. I’m not dressed for dining in there, anyway.”

“Oh, nobody dresses fancy. And he gives food to everybody because they’re all artists and performers and nobody’s got much money. Please, Mrs. Tartleton, can’t we just stick our heads in and say hello?”

“Well.” She straightened and pulled on her dress the way I used to, and primped at her curled hair coiling out from around her hat. “For just a second, since you know him.”

Mrs. Tartleton made me stick by her right inside the entrance. Monsieur Le Grande flew around gesturing to people and his waiters, with his black shirt, bright red suit, and red and white beret making him look like one of those woodpeckers who drummed holes in our roof back home. Something was missing, though. No music! Mr. Andre wasn’t playing harp or piano on the raised platform. In fact, that beautiful white and gold piano was covered. The harp was gone. Maybe he didn’t play at lunch.

A waiter I recognized as Mr. Victor passed us with a tray of corn bread and chicken. He smiled and said he’d free up a table for us shortly. “But stay away from Monsieur,” he whispered. “He’s been in a snit ever since Andre quit last weekend.”

He hurried on before I could ask why. “I don’t think we want to bother Monsieur if he’s upset,” said Mrs. Tartleton. She tugged on my arm. But when Mr. Victor pointed to a table where a man in an army uniform like Poppa’s was leaving, I pulled my arm loose and headed for it. So Mrs. Tartleton had to follow.

Mr. Victor pushed in our chairs to help us sit down. “I never had a man do that for me,” Mrs. Tartleton whispered afterward. She fanned herself with her sun hat, looking around at the other folks.

When Monsieur Le Grande spotted us, he came over. “
Ma chérie,
my pretty-eyed Celeste. And who is this lovely mademoiselle?” He clasped Mrs. Tartleton’s hand in his, bent over it, and lightly kissed her knuckles as I introduced them.

Mrs. Tartleton stuttered, “Ch-ch-charmed,” and trailed off with her mouth open.

“How’s your beautiful Aunt Valentina?” he asked me.

“She’s in Philadelphia with the show. They’re trying it out before they open back here. Monsieur Le Grande, I don’t mean to be nosy, but what happened to Mr. Andre? I loved his music.”

“Oh, that Andre.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling fans, hissed, and shook his head sharply. “We mustn’t speak of him.” He tapped my violin case. “And what is that adorning your person? Your violin? You must play for me, and my guests!”

I thought fast for something to say to put him off. “I will, probably sometime after Aunti gets back.” Next time, when he asked me again, I could think up another excuse.

“No, right now! Let me escort you to the stage.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the piano. A man jumped up on the platform and uncovered it and the harp.

“Not yet! I couldn’t! I’m not ready!”

“No, she couldn’t,” Mrs. Tartleton added, fingering her collar. “She should get her aunt’s permission first, or Mrs. Dillahunt’s, who’s keeping her.”

“I’m sure her aunt would approve.” Monsieur Le Grande grasped my elbow. “Celeste, you promised weeks ago to play for me. This is the day!”

He clapped his hands sharply for attention. Forks and knives clinked against plates as people set them down to listen. Everything became quiet except for my heart rattling against my ribs. “Ladies and gentlemen, my violinist ingénue and child prodigy M’selle Celeste, niece of the exquisite actress Val Chavis, shall regale you with selections at this time. Kindly give her your complete attention.” He gently pushed me toward the platform steps.

“But I don’t know what to play,” I whispered to him.

“Play songs you know, or your scales. Improvise. Just do your everyday best, Celeste.” My tummy turned itself inside out. My blood swooped down to my toes and up to my head. I thought I was going to faint. Monsieur began clapping, and people joined in. With my back to the audience, I leaned against the piano to steady myself and catch my breath. I laid my violin case on the piano and lifted out Dede with shaking hands. What songs could I play? Nothing was coming to mind.

I heard Monsieur clear his throat.
Do, Lord, remember me!
I tucked Dede under my chin. I tapped keys on the piano and tuned up Dede, and that gave me a bit of confidence. When I turned around and saw all those eyes fixated up at me, I had to gulp in air to keep from tumbling off the stage. When my eye fell on another man in uniform, Poppa’s favorite war song “Over There” popped into my head. So I began with that one.

I raised my bow and began to play. A woman in front started clapping and chewing in time with me. I dropped a couple of notes watching her, but I got back on track, and after that kept my eyes on the ceiling fans. When I ended, everybody applauded loudly. Before I could drop Dede back into its case and rush from the platform, Monsieur said, “More,
ma chérie,
more!”

My poor little body went through the same tummy-twisting, heart-banging, got-to-pee-pee, about-to-faint hysterics again. Had Momma and Poppa felt like this when they’d played for Stackhouse Hotel guests? Did Aunti get nervous onstage? Somehow I managed to think of “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles,” an easy, silly piece, and when people laughed, I relaxed a little. They liked what I was doing, and suddenly so did I!

“I’m Just Wild About Harry”— my way — was next. I was even able to hum a little as I played. This was starting to be fun! Was I actually cut out to be a professional musician? Folks clapped loudly, whistled, and hollered “Bravo!” Someone else yelled, “Celeste’s the best!”

I stopped playing and curtsied, then stood there, wondering what else I needed to do. Monsieur bounced up to the platform. He bent low and swept off his beret toward me like men did during
Shuffle Along
rehearsals after Miss Lottie and Miss Adelaide Hall sang especially well.

“Magnifique,”
Monsieur said. He pressed a five-dollar bill into my hand. As he led me back to our table and Mrs. Tartleton, diners held out coins and dollar bills to me. “Oh, no, thank you,” I said, embarrassed. “I was just —”

“Take it. That’s how they’re thanking you,” he said. So I did.

“See how much we love her, Madame Tartleton? Celeste must come back to perform at lunch tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow!” he said.

“I’m not so sure,” Mrs. Tartleton replied. “Her aunt —”

“Is a dear friend,” Monsieur reminded her.

“But she’s in Mrs. Ripsey Dillahunt’s care right now, and —”

“Then I’ll seek Mrs. Dillahunt’s personal approval by stopping by your boardinghouse tonight at seven. I know where it is. I believe Val calls her ‘Miss D’?” Monsieur patted my shoulder. “You are gifted. Gifted!”

“Th-thank you,” I stammered as he skipped off to another table. I didn’t know people could get paid for doing something they enjoyed for free. My heart was still pounding. I didn’t even remember coming down off the platform.

Mrs. Tartleton turned to me, beaming. “I declare! That Mr. Monsieur is a Colored Rudolph Valentino. Is he an actor, too? And Cece, why, you’re a celebrity! You play so well, girl! Had ’em eating out of your hand. Miss D’s gonna have a spasm over what all she missed.”

“I’m having one now, Mrs. Tartleton. I was so scared. And look at all this money!” I spread the bills and coins on the table. “I can’t believe I got paid so much for playing ole Dede. You’ll have to help me persuade Miss D to let me come back so I can make some more.”

“You bet I’ll talk to her. You and your aunt don’t make that much after a
week
of scrubbing floors.”

Mr. Victor brought us tomato soup, a green salad, a fat chicken sandwich, green beans with almonds, and my favorite, chocolate squares. “Girl, you just stunned us,” he whispered, “and put Monsieur in a much better mood.”

“Thank you. I’m glad I didn’t have to say anything.”

“You spoke through your violin,” he said. “Your words came through loud and clear.”

I excused myself and hurried to the powder room, where I gave thanks to the good Lord for giving me the strength to perform. Was this what it was like? Thrilling and terrifying at the same time? Mrs. Tartleton had said Harlem was the right place for me and Dede. Could I do this for a living? Could it be more enjoyable and profitable than being a doctor in Raleigh?

I don’t remember walking home. But when we got there, Miss D was on the porch with her jowls shaking and her forefinger raised to fuss. Mrs. Tartleton held up her hands to ward off that finger and those jowls. “You got to hear where we’ve been and what’s happened, Ripsey,” she exclaimed. “This chile is a star and a moneymaker and Mr. Le Grande’s coming here to talk to you tonight about making her become more of both!”

Monsieur Le Grande arrived at the boardinghouse promptly at seven
P.M.
Miss D and Mrs. Tartleton waited in the lobby, perfumed and rouged up, with their best stockings on. It didn’t take but a minute for Miss D to say yes, I could play for him, as long as she was with me. Mrs. Tartleton added that she should help chaperone me, too.

I just listened.
Little ole mousey me playing violin in Harlem, New York!
Wait until Evalina, Angel Mae, and Swan heard about this! And Poppa! And Aunt Society! And Aunti Val!

“Celeste, my guests are easy to please,” Monsieur said. “You are
my
child prodigy, you hear? When you play that violin it’s like you’re just strollin’ down a Harlem street on a fine Saturday afternoon, and we’re all just strollin’ with you. Now, we must be professional about this. Mrs. Dillahunt, is five dollars a performance and all tips satisfactory as Cece’s pay? Until I can get a permanent musician?”

“Oh my, yes,” Miss D said. I agreed. Just getting the tips would be more than I had ever earned before. “And I’ll hold her money for her.”

“Thank you, Miss D, but I can bring a little basket and sit it on the piano. People can drop tips in there,” I said, surprising myself and her, too. I could tell because she opened her mouth and closed it.

“You sure knew how to speak up on that one, enty!” But Miss D followed that with a laugh. “That’s good. You’re a smart young lady. Don’t let nobody be in charge of your money but you, not even a bank.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Aunt Society had drilled into my head long ago that a fool and her money were soon parted if somebody else had their hands on it. I didn’t say that to Miss D. Not that I distrusted her. But it was sort of like that old saying, “Never leave your pocketbook on the floor,” because you never know what — or who — might sneak into it.

The next day Miss D, Mrs. Tartleton, and I paraded over to Café Noir Le Grande dressed up like it was Easter and Mother’s Day both. I even had a bit of rouge on my lips. I kept swallowing, because my mouth and throat were so dry from nervousness. I had to fight off my fright again, of course. Would the people like me as much today as they had yesterday? Would I play as well? This time I played “Forsythia,” “Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” “Amazing Grace,” “This Little Light of Mine,” and finished with Mr. Johnson’s “Lift Every Voice and Sing.” Humming while I played really seemed to please people. I forgot my basket, so afterward I held out my violin case and people dropped my tips in there.

“If this keeps up, I’m going to be rich,” I said to Miss D and Mrs. Tartleton. “I feel like how Aunti Val must feel when she’s singing and dancing. Being here might not be so bad after all, for now, I mean.” They nodded, staring at the money with their mouths full of peach cobbler.

In a little while Monsieur trotted over to us with a brown-skinned, slick-haired young man sporting a thin mustache. “You were splendid, splendid,
ma chérie.
And now I have good news. This is Monsieur Duke Ellington, a pianist from Washington, D.C.”

He was so handsome I could barely say hello to him. Miss D and Mrs. Tartleton didn’t have a problem pumping his hand, and smiling and speaking, though.

“I’ve enjoyed you so much, Celeste. You’re a fine, talented young lady, just divine,” said Monsieur. “Now I’m going to let Mr. Ellington try his hand, as I’m still looking for a permanent replacement for my former musician. But if you don’t satisfy my folks as well as Celeste has” — and here Monsieur shook his thick forefinger at Mr. Ellington — “then I shall come back to you, Celeste, on bended knee, and beg for your return.”