The Tenacious Mr. Talbot

With that simple logic, she slid off the sofa, scarlet silk trailing behind, bare feet quietly taking her the few feet to where the kitchen lay. The telltale sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, glasses clinking, said that she was after the promised drink. Being a law-abiding American citizen, she kept a secret stash of bootlegged booze on hand, her personal tastes trending to gin which, she assumed, would suit her British guest just fine.

As she set about assembling their drinks, she continued, “I might have been annoyed at first with you, English, but after our talk, I don’t know, I just got the impression that you’re basically a decent guy. And like I said, it would have come around sooner or later and if there was going to be a problem, I guess I would rather know straight away, you know?”

Drink in each hand, she returned to the front room, pausing at Leon’s side to hand over his. “Didn’t want to get too attached to you without knowing.” Her smile was all innocent flirtatious invitation. “Let me know if that’s too strong; I learned to bartend at the Tiger.”

"It does," he concluded, "It does the women and men, employers and friends alike. Parents, superiors, country, likely even King, though the same could almost certainly be said for him and my own wrath." He exhaled a soft huff of a laugh, continuing. "In England, I’d say we’re a pretty reserved group of people, generally very orderly; you know, we’re well-practiced in being subservient to royalty. Well, for whatever reason something in my parents did not seem to transfer over to me, and so I find that I’m a pretty confrontational person and people tend to not like that. Even over here, I don’t think they do… but, being that it’s not only a large part of my personality but also my job, there’s not much I care to change about it. Which is also not to say that it bothers me - it really doesn’t. Broadly speaking, I couldn’t care less if some chum were to dislike me because I put him on the spot. Naturally I care about your opinions since we’re…" Lifting a finger, Leon wagged it toward Reva’s doorway to indicate their close proximity. In that break of speech, he also took it upon himself to polish off the remnants of his drink.

"Look, English, I know that was a hell of a thing to throw out there, but it would have come out sooner or later and why not sooner? I like you and I trust you. I trusted that you wouldn’t start quoting scripture or call me a whore or, I don’t know, leave in disgust." She looked at him earnestly, honestly. There was no act here, no beguiling bubbly flirtation.

"And I can see you trying to do the math … I was fourteen when I started, sixteen when that Christmas party happened. So, I don’t know, I guess I miss what could have been more than anything? My folks were gone, they had died earlier that year, and this guy, a friend of the family, said he would take care of me and I was dumb enough to believe him." Reva shrugged here, as if falling victim to an older predator were just another folly of youth.

"I wound up at the Tiger. The girls there became like sisters to me, management treated us pretty well, and for the most part the guys were alright; most of ‘em just wanted a pretty girl to make them feel special, important, for a little bit. It was good money, too, which didn’t hurt …

"I suppose it would have been better if my folks were still around and I had stayed at home and kept at the voice and dance lessons, maybe got my face on a local ad campaign before hitting the big time!" She laughed. "But who knows? Maybe if that had happened I would be married with a kid by now instead of dancing with the ‘Dolls and living here and talking to you. And I can tell you this, English, I’d much rather be here with you."

Though it would have been easy for her last remark to be a come-on, considering the hour and her state of non-dress, it instead carried the warmth of friendly affection.

As he should have been, the reporter was a thorough listener and let the woman speak without interruption. The heaviness of the conversation was not his burden to bear, and thus he took in what was offered while trying to retain a sense of delicacy in further address.

"It seems increasingly rare to hear someone say that they're happy that they've come to Montford, and are genuinely glad for the audience they've garnered." Tucking his pen between the pages upon which he had just been marking, the reporter folded the ratty contraption shut. "Well, I think that's about all I need for now, as much as I would love to hoard your time for myself and a further barrage of incessant questions. Ms. Holiday, I must say that it has been a delight talking to you, and I look forward to the opportunity to sit down again in the future. I sincerely hope my review meets your expectations, after your show has thoroughly sated my own." He smiled, humbled and charmed.

Leon’s faux-suspicion was met with a nigh vaudevillian display of offended sensibilities. “I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing …!” Reva held a hand, dramatically splayed, to one silk-covered breast. “But now that you mention it, I might have a tale or two up my sleeve.” The hand was dropped, as was the act, disappearing with a sly smile and sideways glance. The faith she held in swapping stories with the well-traveled reporter was mostly bravado; Reva viewed her life’s experiences as mundane simply because they had happened to her and well within Montford’s meager city limits. She sipped slowly at her cooling coffee, sorting through memories for the perfect story to relate. Landing on one that was a favorite, if not perfect, she set her cup down, freeing her hands for its telling.

In fact, the reporter found himself a little tongue-tied. Not for faulting her for the sex, Leon was far from being a prude to deny women the same pleasure as men, but he couldn't quite shake the implication of desperation, of tribulation that was coupled with the misfortune of having to sell one's body for money. Especially coming from a woman who looked a few years short of his age, at best. Even his open mind couldn't quite rationalize it.

"Anyway, the next time you come see me perform, and there better be a next time!, I want you to wear something even wilder! I want to spot you straightaway from the stage!"

And like that, the girl’s sparkle returned, chasing away the gloom that had, for a moment, darkened her brow. Leon’s tale of European debauchery put all thought of small-minded judging from her mind, replacing it with vivid images of posh flats and carefully manicured lawns and free-spirited beauties of both sexes in diaphanous togas.

A delighted peal of laughter greeted the Brit’s description of his own painted costume, followed by a breathy, “I’m sure you both were beautiful …” Reva felt herself going green with envy; not a hateful, spiteful jealousy, but a softer, more wistful sort. She desperately wished she could fall in with the sorts who traveled and whiled away days in lavish parties; maybe find herself in the center of a torrid love affair or the winsome muse for a tortured artist. They were the romantic dreams of a young girl who had never been far from home, but hearing Leon describe his misadventures was akin to hearing a firsthand tale of heaven, of gaining a glimpse of a world that had only been hinted at in film and story. She was utterly and completely enthralled.

"It all sounds so wonderful! Oh, I’m sure there’s a terrible side to it all, but it honestly does sound like some sort of wild dream! You’re so lucky to have experienced that …"

Turning to the cup coffee set out for him, steam steadily fading from its surface mirroring the pastels of their surroundings, Leon leaned forward to fix it to his tolerance which was mostly diluted with cream and sugar. The more he partook of the turbid concoction, the more he disliked it; a wretched mix of dirt and acid without any of the subtlety of earth or preciously sundried leaves from which were leeched a rich, delicate flavor. Though it was far from Reva's fault, her neighbor couldn't help the wrinkle of nose that accompanied his initial sips.

"The Paris parties are always a bit treacherous," he then admitted, "London-ways we're a bit more subdued, but we do have our own brash collection of Bright Young Things." Shoulders lifting in a shrug as if to acknowledge the differences of the two special sorts, the man then inclined his chin to her. He looked down his sharp nose in a farce of suspicion.

A kettle of water was put on the stove to boil - “I’m out of tea, I hope coffee is ok!” - and a variety of sweets and fruits were gathered and arranged on a prettily painted serving tray, the offering brought out to be placed on the coffee table for the pair’s casual perusal.

Leon’s secondary comment would have brought a flush of color to the girl’s cheeks if she were the type to fluster at masculine flirtations. “Oh, I’m sure you could if you looked long and hard enough …” She winked, the gesture saucy. “I’ll be two shakes; I really should put something on. What would the neighbors say?” A faux scandalized statement as the lone neighbor to say anything was sitting in her front room.

On that teasing note, she disappeared to her bedroom, leaving Leon to continue his musical sorting. Unsurprisingly, the girl’s musical taste trended towards popular dance records, though a few eccentric gems could be found, too. A singular jazz album stood out not only for its label, which marked it as a race record, but also for the inscription in one corner of the cover: For My Angel, Love Conrad. No doubt a memento from a former flame.

Reva reappeared as the kettle whistled its task completion, sliding silently sideways to quiet the racket. Mugs, sugar and creamer were balanced on a plate-come-tray, the display much less impressive than Leon’s tea service a week before. This was set beside the platter proper and, back to stay, Reva lounged on the sofa. She had divested herself of sparkling gems and jacket, donning now a scarlet kimono with an intricate design picked out in golden thread. Whether she wore something or nothing beneath it was almost impossible to tell, though the front slit formed by overlapping fabric halves offered tantalizing glimpses of bare thigh, knee, calf, ankle.

“I've a pal in Paris who attends the national school of fine arts - École des Beaux-Arts, if we're to be more proper here - and each spring they hold what's called the 'Four Arts Ball', celebrating a certain set of studies before everyone goes on holiday. I'm not sure how far the word has travelled, but these things are notorious; I'm talking degenerate carnival, naked women on tables, floats and parades and just wild alcohol-fueled revelry like a springtime saturnalian ritual thrown to embrace the deities of art." Pausing his perusing of Reva's record collection to tell the story, Leon was clearly a visual orator. His face was alight with a wealth of expressions, a hand gesturing grandly when necessary.

"So, a year or so back, I was in Paris for a piece and my friend invites me and the girl I was seeing at the time to this ball whose theme was Greek mythology. With his other friends and also their friends, we had this huge group of half-dressed and undressed Gods and Goddesses. I'm not going to say we were the 'hit of the ball' because it's hard to overdo when everything is already so overstated, but it was something for sure. I was appointed Hermes, so my friend painted me gold and made me a pair of winged sandals and hat and I remember being thankful for the increasing warmth of the season because there was quite a bit of skin. My girlfriend was some sort of sea goddess - bare chested and colored blue, with kelp-like paper streamers and seashells tucked in her hair." Shaking his head softly, he smiled at the memory and focused back down on the records. "Midday following, a good chunk of us woke to find ourselves scattered about the flat of some half-deranged publisher who still had a string of post-mortem pigeons draped around his neck. I don't recall feeling distinctly sober until the end of that week." Spotting the inscribed record, he pulled it out and glanced aside to Reva.

Though they shared a wall, a hall, and a bathroom, Reva and Leon’s personal spaces were miles apart aesthetically. Where the Brit’s was modern, severe, dark, masculine, the dancer’s apartment had a decidedly light, feminine air that bordered on the old-fashioned. Walls had been left their original cream, portraits of movie stars and fashion plates - obviously taken from magazines yet rather artistically arranged given their humble origins - breaking the monotony of neutral color. The main living space housed second-hand furniture: A fainting couch covered in a white satin, back and legs a pale pink, and a pair of armchairs upholstered in a minty green that looked better suited to a spinster aunt’s drawing room. A radio stood in one corner, framed family pictures perched atop, and on a coffee table between the armchairs and couch could be found a gramophone and accompanying records, lifestyle and fashion magazines mixed amongst the vinyl.

All this was taken in as soon as the front door was opened, allowing both the apartment’s occupant and her guest entrance. They were returning from an evening at the Peabody, Reva as entertainer and Leon as audience member. The dancer’s spirits were high, infectious, her laughter ringing through the apartment’s halls as they made their way up the stairs. Her show had been a success, earning her enthusiastic applause and a small arrangement of gifts - most noticably bouquets of flowers which were now cradeled in the crook of one arm - as she left the building, breaking hearts in her wake.

Leon’s presence at the show, though she had only spotted him after, had been another boon to her spirits. Since their first real meeting, the girl had taken quite the unexpected shine to her neighbor and she was truly pleased that he had kept his word on seeing her perform.

"Make yourself at home," she called, voice trailing as she moved to the kitchen where the flowers were rather uncerimoniously dumped on the counter. "Feel free to put on some music or something if you’d like!"

Freely moving around the space, he took in everything - the pictures, the arrangement of furniture, the little touches of the woman that could clearly be picked from those that were a product of mass manufacturing and the inability to afford one (or two) of a kind. Leon smiled in the quaintness of it all; it was far from his tastes, but it seemed to fit the ragdoll perfectly.