The 13th Fellow: A Mystery in Provence (27 page)

He was surprised when the first poet to read was older than he was, a distinguished black man, professor type, in a handsome dark suit.

Several poets were evidently about to perform, singing for their supper, which was being served at a large raucous table more or less in the middle of the restaurant. The applicant was there, looking totally different from the businesslike young woman who’d called on him that morning. She wore a cobalt blue, silky flowing thing, like the one in the picture on her website, and she had something on her head that looked like two silk scarves somehow woven and twisted together and tied across her forehead, Indian-fashion. He hadn’t thought about her appearance that morning, other than to register that she had a lot of hair, but now he noted that he was looking at a very striking woman. How did women do that? he thought. Turn from mice to birds of paradise, depending on the time of day?

He looked at his wife and daughter. Angie had changed into black jeans and a black T-shirt, and Audrey was wearing a soft green pantsuit. Celadon, she called it. Any man in the room would look at either of them; probably had by now. Italian women didn’t do the metamorphosis thing, he thought— didn’t need to.

The black man was going on and on about something historical. He was boring the pants off Eddie. Poetry! Jesus Christ, what he did to please his women. He was going to bust a gut if the guy didn’t shut up soon.

He had by now managed to secure a scotch and water, and he clutched it like a baby clutches a bottle, figuring there was one tried-and-true way to stave off the worst boredom in the world. He ought to know— he’d done it often enough before. The poem was about slavery, and it quickly went from boring to angry— or at least the poet was angry. Eddie wasn’t; he was merely uncomfortable at the man’s rising voice. He sipped away at the scotch, vaguely noticing that Audrey was giving him a disapproving look. (She herself was slurping on a white wine, but in her book that wasn’t the point— she liked being boss of herself and Eddie.)

The poet finished, to a faint flutter of applause— evidently the rest of the audience was as difficult as Eddie. And after him came a white woman, housewife type, who read obscene limericks. That he hadn’t expected, and he was oddly disappointed. If he was going to have an intellectual experience, then let it be shaggy-haired, dammit, even if it bored him to the toenails.

After the white woman came a black woman who’d had a job where people treated her badly. White people, of course. Too bad, but was it poetry? He was in critic mode by now, and also on his second drink. He was kind of enjoying hating it all so much.

Three more poets came after the black woman, but when Eddie tried later to remember them, he found they all ran together, but it couldn’t have been the scotch, because what he heard after that he remembered vividly.

He was just ordering a third drink when the emcee said, “And now for our star attraction— someone who got her start at Reggie and Chaz, one of our very first readers, a young lady who’s starting to make her mark in the poetry world— the Baroness de Pontalba!” The guy sounded like some asshole on TV.

Eddie settled down in his chair, getting comfortable and feeling grumpy, as the applicant flowed forward. The deep blue sea herself, he thought, and decided he had an aptitude for this crap himself— probably a lot more than the rest of these bozos.

He was paying for his drink while she introduced her first poem, but the gist of it seemed to be that some other poet that she didn’t even seem to mind stealing from had written some idiot thing about a cat having three names and she, Miss Talba de Baroness (he was proud of himself for that one) was like a little pussycat herself. He figured he was about to get a month’s worth of ribbing material for Audrey and Angie out of this one.

One thing, though. The woman’s voice was like cream. Or maple syrup, maybe.

No, it was butterscotch. Yeah. Unbearably sugary and sweet and exotic. Less familiar than chocolate, yet with more personality. Gentler. More tantalizing. Maybe the best stuff in the world, if you didn’t count oyster po’boys. When he was a kid, he didn’t give a damn for chocolate. Give him butterscotch every time.

“I am like a cat,” the poet said.

For Christ’s sake, give me a break, he thought. And then she really got going.

When I was born, I was a little piece of toffee.

Brown toffee.

Soft and sweet and just as innocent as the baby Jesus.

Just as innocent as my mama.

Or maybe I should say my sweet mama was just as

innocent as

her own sweet baby.

My sweet mama was so proud.

My sweet mama was so proud.

Even though her own sweet baby was born at

Charity Hospital—

(Couldn’t have been worse— there ain’t really no St.

James Infirmary)

She was lyin’ there at Charity like Cleopatra in exile

And she says to the Pill Man, the one who pulled her

baby out of her womb and stopped that relentless screaming pain—

She says to that nice young man, “What you think I ought to name my baby?”

My mama so proud of her little piece of toffee,

She wants to name her somethin’ fine. Somethin’ fancy.

Somethin’ so special ain’ no other little girl got the same name.

And the doctor say, “Name that girl Urethra.”

And my mama, she just as pleased, and she so proud,

And she say, “That’s a beautiful name.

Ain’nobody in my neighborhood name Urethra.

We got Sallies and we got Janes and we got Melissas and

Saras—we got LaTonyas, just startin’ to have Keishas—but

Ain’ nobody else name Urethra.

I’m gon’ name my baby Urethra for sure.”

And that’s my first name—the one they put on my birth certificate.

I am named Urethra. Now ain’t that a beautiful name?

But somebody knew. Somebody in our neighborhood.

Somebody told my sweet mama she name her little candy girl

after some ol’ tube you piss through.

My name is Piss Tube.

My name is Pee Place.

My name is Exit for Excreta.

And my sweet mama so proud.

Now she call me Sandra. I never did find out why.

Must be for the sand got in her eyes when she listen to that white man.

Do I look like a Sandra to you?

My name is Urethra.

My name is Exit for Excreta.

And I am a baroness.

Because a cat has three names and I am like a cat.

My sweet mama’s broken and weak now,

After what that white man did to her—

She never did trust no one again, black or white.

And I can never say again, “My mama’s proud.”

I didn’t want no African name,

‘Cause I am African-American, love it or hate it,

And I didn’t want no LaTonya, I didn’t want no La Keisha,

Latifah, Tanisha, Marquita, Shamika—

White asshole steal somethin’ from me.

I’m gon’ steal somethin’ right back.

I AM THE BARONESS DE PONTALBA,

AND YOU

can kiss my aristocratic black ass.

***

Shock value, he thought. She’s just going for shock value. Everybody’s heard that stuff about the interns at Charity Hospital, but nobody believes it. It’s just a story, for Christ’s sake. This is the kind of thing keeps the races apart. This girl isn’t doing anybody any good with this kind of crap.

Still. The poem made him feel a little shaky. Awkward, kind of. He stole a glance at his wife and saw she was staring at Angie, who was in tears. Good. A way out. “Angie, ya so softhearted,” he said.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with her,” Audrey said. “I thought it was supposed to be funny.”

“Supposed to be. Sure— supposed to be,” he said. “Well, I thought it was supposed to be sad and funny at the same time, but I don’t think it was either one, ‘cause I don’t believe a word of it. I think the Baroness is a hype artist.”

Angie gave him an, “oh, Daddy” look, and the poet started up again.

“That’s from a series of poems I’ve written— still writing, matter of fact— about my favorite subject: The Baroness Myself. ‘Course, I wouldn’t want you to think I’m self-involved or anything, but after a hard day of makin’ up verses, I find I still don’t have enough to cover the rent and shrink bills both. So I just get up and dive a little deeper the next day and put off that shrink appointment until the Hollywood money starts to roll in, and whatever I write keeps me sane. So y’all are going to have to forgive me if these things sound a little crazy.” She paused a second, and Eddie nodded to himself, thinking she really was an excellent performer. “Got another one for you. It’s called ‘Queen of the May.’”

Other girls’ daddies are po-licemen

bankers, lawyers, tubewinders, tolltakers,

worthless layabouts, drug dealers,

And cable TV installers.

Mmm-mmm.

Not my daddy.

My daddy ain’ nothin’ like nobody else’s daddy.

My daddy say, you ain’t no Baroness,

You Queen of the May

And I…

Am your faithful servant, at your service today.

Your Majesty, honey,

Come fly a kite with me.

And he take me out to the park to fly a kite,

And I cry ‘cause only the kite can fly and not me.

And he say, lucky for you we in the Enchanted Park.

Enchanted Park? I say.

He got my attention now.

“Only park in the history of the world

Got flyin’ horses.

You ever fly on a horse?”

And I say, “Daddy I never even rode on a horse.”

And we fly on the flyin’ horses

And I cry ‘cause they ain’t even real,

And already

I seen too many things match that description.

But he say, you want a horse?

I’ll get you a horse.

Great big chestnut horse

With a long silky mane and A hand-tooled leather saddle,

And he be real big and warm

And make you feel safe like nothin’ ever did in this world

Mmmm hmmmm. Other girls’ daddies be plumbers,

accountants, shoe salesmen,

bus drivers, bail bondsmen,

Preachers, and the random city councilman.

Not my daddy.

My daddy my faithful servant,

Do anything I want

Anytime I want

Because I…

Am Queen of the May.

So he get me that great big chestnut horse

And he put me up on top,

And I never in my life felt anything so big and warm and safe

Except my own sweet daddy’s lap when I climb up

and give him a hug.

Every mornin’ now my mama come in,

Come floppin’ in in her funny ol’ fuzzy slippers

And she say, Girl, why you sleep so late?

Who you think you is?

You think you Queen of the May?

And I say, five minutes, Mama, jus ‘five minutes more.

And I close my eyes

And I saddle up my horse

And we go flyin’ off again.

And I never in my life felt anything so big and warm and safe.

***

It’s her voice, Eddie thought. It’s her goddam voice. That and the scotch. He felt like crying, and he had to blame it on something. Audrey was cocking an eyebrow at him. He wasn’t actually tearing up, but he turned away just in case.

He hated this woman. Actually hated her. He could probably hire her for pennies, but he was willing to pay a living wage just to get her out of his life. Tomorrow he’d bite the bullet and run a real ad and get some young male hotshot. Angie had made her point.

The poet read some other stuff and it was quite a bit lighter, kind of funny, some of it. He even halfway enjoyed it, now that his decision was made.

And then it was over, and everyone was standing and chattering, and she was coming. She was headed right for him, cobalt folds flying about her, holding out her hand as graciously as a queen. The woman was scary.

“Why, Eddie Valentino, I never figured you for a poetry lover.”

“My wife made me come.”

He could hear Audrey gasp at his side, but the Baroness was utterly unfazed. “Audrey? Delighted to meet you. And you must be Angie. It’s so lovely of you to come. Will you come meet my mama?”