Heartsong (35 page)

Charging Elk walked two steps to the door, opened it, and stepped up onto the threshold. The warmth of the room came over him instantly and he realized that he had been holding his body stiff since entering this street, and not just because of the cold. But he had put all thoughts of evilness out of his mind. He wanted to be close to the girl with the blue gown.

“May I help you, monsieur?”

He was not the short fat man of the other night. This one was not much taller but his chest was broad beneath the white shirt and wing tie. The dark suitcoat was tight over his upper arms and his flat face had a scar that ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. The lips were set in a faint smile that did not look real.

Charging Elk was not prepared to answer the man's question. Instead, he looked into the room, trying to find the girl, but she was not there anymore; nor was the man she had been with.

“Perhaps monsieur is lost?”

Charging Elk continued to search the room. Then his eyes caught sight of the heavy wooden bar. “I would like a drink of the red wine, if you please.”

“But that is not possible, monsieur. This is a private salon. I'm afraid we don't let just anybody walk in off the street.”

Just then the small fat man whom Charging Elk had seen the time before from the window hurried over from his perch at the end of the bar. His bald head gleamed beneath the chandelier. “What is the problem, Gérard? For heaven's sake shut the door. My girls are getting goose bumps.”

“I was telling monsieur that this is a private salon. He insists that he wishes a drink, but I was just about to escort him outside.”

The fat man looked up at Charging Elk's face, then his eyes swept down the Indian's body, even to his shoes. Charging Elk took off his hat and held it before him, close to his chest. Like most people of his class, Charging Elk had a healthy contempt for those in authority; at the same time, like the others, he knew that he must be respectful. Nevertheless, he looked the owner in the eyes.

But the fat man seemed to like what he saw. He enjoyed men and prided himself on his ability to size them up correctly. In spite of the shabby attempt at finery, the ill-fitting coat, the cheap shoes, the ridiculous hat and fraying shirt cuffs, there was something almost
distingué
about the set of the gentleman's dark face, something oddly attractive about him. Certainly, he was a foreigner, and the fat man rarely allowed foreigners into his establishment, but this one had an air about him. He might be interesting, a welcome relief from the vain
haute bourgeoisie
that came to preen their feathers and fuck his girls.

“You are welcome to Le Salon, monsieur. Gérard, take his coat and hat. You mustn't be rude to such a gentleman. Only two years ago, you were fighting for your meals. Now you think you eat better than our clientele.”

Charging Elk understood that the small fat man was scolding his worker, and it made him uncomfortable. In fact, now that he was inside the smoky, cheerful room, he wanted nothing more than to leave as quickly as possible. It was clear that these men were gentlemen. Surely they would be able to look right through him and see that he was a coal-shoveler in the soap factory.

But the little fat man had taken him by the elbow and was steering him toward the end of the bar. “Permit me,” he said. Then he called to the man behind the bar. While they waited, the owner introduced himself. “I am called Olivier. And you are ... ?”

Charging Elk was about to say his name, but then he thought better of it. Whenever he said his name, people reacted with a puzzled
look and a vain attempt at saying it. “I am ...” He searched his memory and the first name that came to mind was that of René s helper in the fish stall. “I am François.”

Charging Elk shook the moist little hand that appeared from a curtain of ruffles below the shiny coat sleeve. His fingers felt a large ring, and when he looked down, he saw a deep red stone in a gold setting. “
Enchanté
François. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

The man behind the bar set two glasses with flat bowls and delicate stems before them, then poured them full with a liquid that bubbled and hissed. The one who called himself Olivier picked up his glass and waited for Charging Elk to do the same. Then he said, “Welcome to my salon. Cheers.”

The bubbly liquid seemed to dance in Charging Elk's mouth. It was difficult to swallow and he coughed and felt the bubbles shoot up into his nose. His eyes watered as he tried to snort the liquid out of his nose. Then he coughed again. He coughed and snorted, then snorted and coughed.

Three men less than two meters away had been throwing dice but now stopped to watch this display, at first attracted by the odd appearance of the newcomer, but now amused by the even odder behavior.

“Olivier, you must teach your friend to drink with his mouth like a gentleman,” said one.

“Is he all yours, Olivier?” said another.

“He's a big one—just your type, eh?” said the third.

Olivier chided them gently. “You mustn't make fun, gentlemen. This man is not of our culture.” He suddenly smiled brightly. “The gentleman is a prince of the Orient.”

The three men looked at Charging Elk, their mocking smiles suddenly frozen on their faces.

Charging Elk raised his glass, a little embarrassed but now in control of himself. “
Bonsoir, messieurs. Enchanté.”

The three, in spite of themselves, raised their glasses, but they didn't drink. “If he's a prince, I'll eat my hat,” said the first one, picking up the dice. The others turned away to their game.

“If he is a prince, I'll eat your hat—but I wouldn't touch those clothes of his.”

“It would be an act of public safety if Olivier burned them while he is fucking one of the sluts.”

“See which one he goes with. Perhaps we will have to burn her.”

Their comments were meant to be heard, but Charging Elk only understood that they were talking about clothes and fire. He wasn't paying much attention. He was looking for the girl.

“They are pigs, but their money is as good as any. I am forced to take their money but I do not like their kind in here.” Olivier laughed as he offered Charging Elk a cigar from a box he retrieved from behind the bar. “Unfortunately, they are the only kind who come here. They come from excellent families. Without them, I would be out of business.”

“They are pigs,” said Charging Elk, as he leaned over the match Olivier held before him. He puffed in the smoke and said again, “They are pigs. From the country.”

Olivier glanced up at him. He suddenly realized that he had no idea of the man's nationality, much less race. He had not seen such a human being in Marseille. He had not been to the Wild West show that winter of 1889—such things were uncouth to a man of his sensibility—and the only
indiens
he had seen had been in illustrated tabloids and they had worn feathers and war paint. A most disagreeable race of savages.

Olivier also wondered about the man's language. His French was very rudimentary and his accent almost swallowed the simple words. Now he wondered how much the man had understood of the three boors' comments. Perhaps he
was
from the Orient—or the South Seas—or even America.

Just then, Olivier felt a slight chill and glanced behind him at the door. Although he had been watching the door all evening—just as he had every evening for the past twelve years—to see who came and went, this time his heart suddenly lifted in his chest until it made his head pulse with its rapid throb. It was Breteuil. My Lord, he thought, he is still so beautiful, even after eight years. When they first met, Breteuil had been a young sous-chef in a mediocre restaurant down at the Old Port. Since then he had become the most famous chef in all of Marseille, perhaps all of Provence, his small exclusive restaurant on Rue des Catalans catering to the corrupt politicians, the phony aristocracy, and the
haute bourgeoisie
. Olivier hated them all, for he had once been a politician, a representative for the port district—the most important district in all of Marseille—in the Assemblée Nationale, until he had been caught with an Arab boy,
en flagrant délit
, in a small shelter on the Quai de Rive Neuve. Although he himself was a member of the bourgeoisie, albeit a somewhat shady member because of his sexual proclivities, he had been thrown out of office and shunned—but his salon was still patronized by the hypocrites, many of whom were themselves entertained by Olivier s boys in the back parlor. Including Breteuil. And to think he was once mine, thought Olivier. It always filled him with a mixture of bitterness and sadness to escort Breteuil to the back parlor. But to be close to him for just a minute or two again was worth the humiliation.

“Excuse me, François. Enjoy your champagne, my friend.” Olivier almost ran to greet the tall, beautiful chef with the glittering spectacles.

C
harging Elk did not see Olivier and the pale
diyoko
, arm in arm, wind their way through the crowd to the curtained back rooms. He was waiting for the girl with the blue wrapper to appear again. And
after a half hour she did appear, looking a little weary, and when she sat down on a divan, she did so with a heavy sigh and a plonk.

The room had been emptying in the half hour that he had waited. Now only a dozen men and half that many women were still there. Charging Elk had been listening to a man in gartered shirt-sleeves play songs on the piano. In the earlier crush, he hadn't noticed the music. He also had been watching the yellow-haired woman, who was still there and still surrounded by men. As far as he could tell, she didn't go through the curtains with any of them. They seemed content to light her cigarettes and listen to her laugh.

Charging Elk waited for a few more minutes, watching the girl in the blue wrapper out of the corner of his eye, and when he was satisfied that no other man seemed to want her, he moved away from the bar and approached her. He had no real plan—he didn't know how to deal with her—but he still had eight francs in his purse. Did he just give her the money, and if so, how would she react? Perhaps she just went through the curtains with certain men. Perhaps he would scare her.

Charging Elk was acutely aware of his shabby clothes now, his dark skin, his long, loose hair. He might have felt a dandy on the dark street, but here under the bright chandeliers, he could see his scuffed shoes, his frayed cuffs. He wondered what he must look like, in the middle of the room, away from the safety of the bar. But he was determined to be near the girl now, for he knew that he would probably never be allowed in here again. He had sensed that the little fat man thought of him as an evening's curiosity.

He sat down only a meter away from the girl, but he might as well have been in another room. The divan was circular and so he was facing in another direction, toward the front door and the muscular Gerard, who was watching him with the bland alertness that seemed to be his natural state.

Charging Elk rolled a cigarette, lit it, and dropped the extinguished
match into a standing ashtray. Although several people had been sitting here over the course of the evening, the ashtray was perfectly clean and the tile floor gleamed like marble. As he smoked the cigarette, Charging Elk tried to think of something to say, something that would be polite yet hint at what he wanted. Finally he slid a little closer to the girl so that he could at least see her profile. His mouth went dry as he breathed in a heavy scent of lavender. Strangely, he thought of Strikes Plenty. He saw the round face of his friend and he heard the teasing laughter—“Go on, are you afraid of a woman now?”

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle
, “he said, not daring to look at her yet. “Are you tired from your labors?”

She remained silent, staring toward the bar. The three men who had been playing dice were gone. The piano player had quit playing and was now drinking a glass of wine at the end of the bar, his satchel full of music resting at his feet. He stood alone, an employee in a frock coat that was too shiny at the elbows, in trousers too baggy in the knees, ignored in a house that catered to the rich and the indolent.

Marie had often watched the piano player, at home in his little corner of the large room, playing one song after another, basically forgotten in the loud drinking and the constant journeys to the back rooms. Once in a while, one of the patrons would request a particular song, or a group of tipplers would gather around and sing a popular song or two, and at least once a night someone would stand and lead a lugubrious version of “La Marseillaise.” The piano player would dutifully provide the music, the heavy chords vibrating the glasses on the bar. Afterward the drunken men wept or clapped each other on the back in brave camaraderie. And the piano player would be forgotten again.

Marie did not want to go back to her room again, except to sleep. She was only nineteen but she had been here for three years. She
couldn't begin to count the number of men she had serviced, nor did she want to. She wanted to forget this part of her life—to think of it as a period of time she would later remember as an old
grandmaman
with a distant secret—but she had nothing to look forward to. It was better than taking in cleaning, or sewing in one of the big textile factories, or even worse, taking care of some rich old lady who would heap abuse on her. But because of her occupation, she had no prospects for marriage, or even of becoming a mistress to a wealthy gentleman. Besides, she wasn't pretty enough—not like Aimée and Héloïse, who constantly told of men who wanted to give them clothes and jewelry and even set them up in their own luxury flats. All for exclusive rights to call on them as the gentlemen chose. Marie didn't know if she believed them—why would you work in a whorehouse if you could live like a queen?—but she knew one thing for certain: No gentleman was going to make her such an offer.