#flapper friday

A young woman in a light blue Saab 900 Turbo parks in the wide arc of the driveway of the old building she’s meant to go into with a flip in her stomach as though she’s trespassing. It’s a big house. Grand, but only quaintly overstated Italian revival. Quite subtle for the historic quarter.

Heather twiddles the dial on the radio, dimming the sound of the Gin Blossoms, and turns the key in the ignition. She’d been instructed to ignore the front door and step around to the back porch. She’s grateful. No matter the welcoming tone the man on the phone had, there was something intimidating about passing through the massive bone-white pillars and ringing the bell of such a house. 

She’d grown up in a respectable neighborhood in a nearby parish, and usually these big old New Orleans mansions were the stuff of school field trips and drunken passes with her college friends, not places one actually visited. Still, she’d be a dummy to let this fabulous chance go when it had fallen into her lap. An interview like this is the key to her capstone project for her Bachelors’ in Journalism. A reclusive old lady who used to own a speakeasy club in the twenties and thirties? That was the kind of human interest interview real life journalists foamed at the mouth for. And because her grandmother and Madame P were friends, this opportunity had arrived like a winning lotto ticket. If she played her cards right, she might even get this story published.

Hence the nerves.

She checks her appearance again in the side mirror as she slams the door shut. Her naturally brown feathered bangs are nicely curled, her blue eyes bright. She plucks the collar of her blouse, straightens her black vest, and checks her jeans for spots. Once satisfied, she strides into the bright green lawn with her bag clutched tight, hoping her penny loafers don’t sink into the sod. The landscaping is formal but pretty. She wades through plush grass, under willow trees’ sprawling arms, and through plumes wafting from the azalea bushes so thick that it feels like wading through an alien jungle. 

When she rounds the corner she can see the edge of a wide back porch. Perhaps years ago it had been open as many Southern porches were, but this one had obviously had glass panes added to keep the heat away. She’s relieved. It’s going to be a scorcher today and she has no idea how long Madame P will keep her.

“Hello?” she calls, unwilling to ascend the steps and just waltz on in. “Mr. Peña?”

“Is that you, Miss Heather?” calls a warm voice. A tall, broad-shouldered figure sweeps open the double French doors and she’s greeted by a wide smile in a handsome face, his straight hair neatly combed, his suit pressed and with dark eyes that gleam bright with kindness and with mischief. “Well, won’t ya just come right on in. Happy you found us.”

Frank beckons her into the cool embrace of the porch-turned-sunroom. White wicker furniture and colorful cushions in tasteful, if old-fashioned prints fill the space, along with a collection of potted plants. A clean ashtray lies waiting on the coffee table, and when Frank asks her to get comfortable and offers a selection of beverages, Heather chooses an armchair and begins to unpack the recording equipment, her legal pad, and two sharp pencils from her satchel. Satisfied with her set up, she looks up at the old gentleman with a smile.

“Tea would be just fine, thank you Mr. Peña.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Very well. I’ll go collect Mother now. And for God’s sake, call me Frank, honey.”

As he leaves her to her thoughts, Heather doesn’t know what to expect, really. Madame P has a reputation known throughout New Orleans, but that’s essentially the whole of it – a reputation. She’s not sure who will appear from the other side of the door; will she be the Grand Dame of old fairy tales or just another Southern Belle grandma, not unlike her own?

She hears Frank speaking, but not clearly, and his voice is joined by another. Soft, musical, but vivid and bright, even through who knows how many walls? She had a beautiful singing voice, Heather’s grandmother’s voice echoed in her head. Always figured she’d make something of it.

Heather is pulled from her thoughts by the sound of someone entering the room. She looks up and is genuinely surprised by the sight of the infamous Madame Peña. As Heather scrambles to her feet, she realizes – the woman with the larger than life mythology is, in reality, incredibly tiny. Barely topping five feet, if that, her silver-white hair is piled into a wispy but neat bun at the top of her head. Her green eyes are bright and shimmering as she smiles up at Heather; it’s a sweet, genuine expression that fills her whole face. 

She’s wearing – well, Heather would be inclined to call it a housedress if it weren’t so well-fitted and delicate looking. A deep green with a leaf-print just a shade lighter than the rest, it falls to her shins in silky waves. Her shoes are flat, ballet-style slippers in the same color as the dress, with shiny green bows at the front of each foot. In her left hand, she holds a walking stick that shimmers gold, embossed with flowers all down the stem and topped with a curved silver handle. Unusually, the stick is several inches too tall for her, and her small hand settles comfortably under the handle instead.

“You,” she says, and her voice truly is that melodic, as if every word hides accompaniment, “look just like Paulie.”

“That’s a wonderful compliment, Madame Peña,” Heather says softly, taking the hand offered to her. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“I could say the same, sweetheart.” Madame Peña sizes her up. “Frankie did tell me you were overly polite, too. Please, my name is Dolly. Dolores if you must, but I prefer Dolly.”

“Dolly,” she repeats. “I can do that. I’m Heather.”

Dolly gestures to the seat Heather had been occupying. “Please, Heather. It’s too early and too warm to be standing around. Let’s make ourselves comfortable.”

Heather can’t help but smile. Dolly might physically be eighty-seven, but the spirit Heather can see shining through must match the young woman her grandmother knew. There’s no wearing down of her spark, she can already tell.

Must have a hell of a story.

Frank re-enters the room with glasses of sweet tea and leans on the doorframe, just visible in Heather’s peripheral vision, at the same time as Dolly eyes the little recorder and notebook set up on the end table at Heather’s side.

“I always wondered if anyone would ever want to know our story,” she says softly. “And I always wondered if I’d want to tell it.”

“Madame – Dolly.” Heather leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees and folding her hands between them. “You don’t have to tell me anything that makes you uncomfortable. Tell me your truth, but if there’s something you need to hold back, I will not judge you.”

Dolly shakes her head, her smile only widening. “No, no, darling. I agreed to this because I do want to tell it. We’ve lived in secrecy for too long. My family deserves better than that.” She arches a perfectly-groomed eyebrow at the younger woman. “The question is, Heather – you say you won’t judge me for what I hold back…”

“... but what will you think about what I tell?”

“Maman,” says Frank, in a tone that shows the question is well-worn and oft-repeated: “Are you sure about this? Dad always said…” he trails off with a minor shrug, a slightly uncomfortable look as he settles into the couch beside his mother, settling the tea between them on the table. Heather wonders how long the grieving process has been, how it has affected the venerable woman and this man who seems too near her in age to be her son. 

“This is for the paper, you know,” he reminds her.

“My capstone project for my journalism degree,” Heather amends. “So it won’t be published. Probably. I mean – wow, I wish! But only if that’s okay with you, ma’am?”

Dolly hums, and the corners of her soft mouth turn up. “My son fears I’ve quite lost my grip on things.”

Frank flusters. “Ma, I don’t think that-”

“But I am quite possessed of my faculties,” Madame Peña continues placidly, ignoring Frank’s protest. “And I declare, they make up new rules and nonsense every day. Your grandmother certainly didn’t have a degree. In fact, what she did have was a whole lot of spirit, entering into the newspaper trade. It was altogether a man’s business back then, you know, like nearly everything else.”

“She was your roommate, wasn’t she, Ma?” Frank asks, leaning an arm on the back of the cushions, further emphasizing the broad sprawl of his shoulders. Even for a man old enough to be her grandfather, Heather notes with a flush of heat over her neck how handsome he still is, and wonders if his golden skin and dark eyes take after his father. Dolly’s complexion is much fairer, but her son has the same sparkle and gentle smile. 

She has so many questions, she wonders where to even start. She wants to know how old Dolly was when Frank was born (sixteen? Even younger?) but hopes this will come out in due course of the story Madame Peña means to tell. She also wonders about the more salacious details – such as who Frank Peña’s father really is, and how Dolly came to own the famous club The Basement.

There were many questions Heather’s grandma had refused to answer, and while she’s a young journalist, Heather knows that the only way to get answers is to sit back, listen carefully, and earn this woman’s trust. She wants to ask every single one of the questions that burn in her throat, but not if they ultimately don’t serve the story.

Madame Peña, however, is a journalist’s dream. She already has a story in mind. Dolly points at the coffee table with her chin, her posture straight and composed. “I think it’s about time you turned that little device on, young lady.”

Heather obeys, the button clicks, the recorder tapes dials begin stately rotations, and Madame Peña begins without prompting.

A young woman with a small suitcase adjusts her cloche hat under the wide striped awning of the old building she’s meant to go into; there’s a flip in her stomach as though she’s trespassing. 

It’s a big place. Grand, and like many other businesses that survived that awful flood, tall and stately. However, for the business district of the French quarter, it’s positively understated. You wonder if that’s a measure of what’s inside, or simply the reflection of the state of business lately.

The building is red brick – facade or not, you aren’t sure. The double gallery on the second and third floors are bordered by iron railings of fanciful swirls, painted green.

Your appointment is in five minutes, and you’re hot and perspiring in your emerald dress and stockings, the same one you wore to take the train days ago. It isn’t as though you have any money to buy another. All your money is gone to the rent for this month. 

Even split down the middle with the girl you’d met in a blessing of fate on the train, you need to get a job, and that prospect is intimidating. Pauline is a journalist. She writes things. She interviews people, treads where you’ve been told young ladies never should. You’re both impressed and intimidated by her. 

The room she’s arranged at the boarding house, the one she is going to let you share, is shabby and damp, the wallpaper curling off in thin strips, the mattresses even thinner, with suspicious little droppings in the corners of the floors you had taken care to sweep up. Still, if it weren’t for the way she’d leaned over on the train and made a droll comment about your newspaper, where would you be?

You’ve never had a job before, and this is certainly not the position your mother had prepared you for. Still, Pauline said that since nursing spots are likely to be filled by more qualified girls, what was the harm in a job offer that’s fallen in your lap like fairy gold?

Pauline is lithe, with a no nonsense attitude and thin, hand-rolled cigarettes she lets you take nervous puffs from now and then as you pace the small room, though you’ve protested you don’t smoke.

“Just go, Dolores,” she had said this morning, comfortably reading the paper with her stocking feet stretched out on the bed, her round glasses dangling from the end of her nose, the cigarette smoldering in her fingers. “He liked you last week. The entire place was practically cawing for an encore.”

This much is true. They had been. Celebrating your arrival in New Orleans and the luck of your new friendship, the two of you had seen fit to wander into the Quarter and enter what you had thought was a dance hall.

Except it wasn’t. It was a nightclub. The only dancers were on the stage, the music a lively piano accompaniment so far from the Chopin of your mother’s drawing room that it sounded almost like a different instrument. Groups and couples were clustered around the space, draped over one another in dim corners, around round tables that breathed the smoke of cigars, long elegant girls and short fine ladies and men of every description. And every single one of them clutched a glass that fizzled or sparkled in the low light, bright amber or shining red or even a curious green. 

Alcohol.

Your stomach flips horribly. It’s illegal, and suddenly you’re not sure where to look, what to do, struck with worries of getting caught and arrested and shipped back to New York, so you’d glanced around the room in desperation.

It was a wide room, three arched tiered floors surrounding three walls with a circular well in the middle, so that every table had a prime view of the raised stage. It was dim, the spotlights trained on the girls as they twirled and shined their pretty red lips and the flash of their sequined dresses showing their knees. You almost blushed to look at them.

Pauline whispers something in your ear about the show; you aren’t entirely sure what, so shocked are you at the blatant illegality, the bawdiness of this establishment.

And yet… and yet.

The longer you sat in the booth with Pauline, sipping the wine she had ordered for you with nary a blink, the more your nerves loosened. Your heart cheered. You felt… excited. Eager. As though in the sweet, heady red wine you sipped freely, the first you had ever tasted outside of church or your parents’ home, there were droplets of the freedom you had longed for for so long. You sipped fast, cheeks warm.

And so, when the row of shimmering dancers bowed and retreated and the master of ceremonies had called for talent from the crowd, dizzy with boldness, you’d stood up when the club went silent and no other volunteers made themselves known.

“Yes, mademoiselle!” the man had said, relief coloring the soothing trance of his drawl. From where you stood, you saw the white flash of his smile. Part of you wonders if that is what drew you to your feet: the sonorous quality of his voice, the alluring pull of his stage energy. You could almost feel Pauline’s surprise beside you. Even only having known you a sparse few hours, she could tell this was truly well outside of your usual behavior.

But the master of ceremonies was so… entrancing. The wine was so sweet. Your legs ached for a stretch and your lungs felt like bursting, and so – why not? Why not, on your first night of freedom?

“Well, my fine little lady,” the man called to you in a lilting Southern drawl you were beginning to recognize, “What have you in store for us this fine night? Can you dance like our girls? Recite poetry? Will you perhaps perform a feat of magic, make this microphone disappear?” He gestures with the device in a grandiose sweep that makes the crowd at the myriad tables and booths chuckle.

Instead of answering, you’d opened your lips and… sang. 

You knew you were a decent singer. You had even had a little training. It was only proper for a wife to have accomplishments, Mother had said. And the song was something you’d heard in New York. Something your mother would shudder to know was in your mind, a song about stolen kisses and touches. The knowledge of its forbidden succor with the deep tannins of the wine on your tongue made the notes all the more delicious in your mouth. Better than coffee, or chocolate. Better than kisses, the few you had tasted. By the end of the last verse, you were smiling, your posture tall, and the entire room silent with attention.

Afterward the applause had abated and your flush cooled a little, he sought you out at your table, introduced himself. “Monsieur Ezra Peña at your service, ladies,” he had said, with a smile that shot through your heart. His eyes were dark. There was a shock of silver through his coiffed hair. He wore a dark coat over his right shoulder like a magician’s cape. “Come to me next week and audition, mademoiselle, and I dare say I’ll make you an offer. This town needs more music, wouldn’t you say?”

The heavy press of his wide hand on your shoulder had made your throat tight, and so you only nodded, and wished you could make out more of his features in the glare of spotlights and the darkness of the club.

And now you are here. Auditioning for a job as a singer in a nightclub. Your father would tell you to carry on and just light the red lantern, already.

“Whacha want? We ain’t open yet,” a girl tells you when you work up the nerve to step inside the establishment that might just house all your hopes and fears: The Basement.

You’re taken aback. The owner of the voice is a girl – a woman? – shorter than you, plump in places you’ve always been told a proper girl shouldn’t be… and yet, you’d be lying if you even suggested she wasn’t beautiful. Sunkissed, freckled skin; bright, amber eyes; tight bouncy curls the color of wheat around a face that showed visible lines of joy and happiness.

“You deaf or something, girl? Place ain’t open until five.”

You shake off your surprise. “Oh, I do apologize. I – Monsieur Pena told me to stop by for an audition…”

The girl laughs. “Oh, Monsieur Pena did, did he?”

Something about the way the girl says his name makes you realize you’ve gotten it wrong. “Um, yes. Is… is he here?”

“He is. And now I’m supposin’ you’d like me to go get him for ya?”

“Beatrix!”

The voice from your night out filters from behind a curtain at the back of the stage, and you notice there’s a spiral staircase leading up to a wooden door directly above. You have to assume that’s where Monsieur Peña has suddenly appeared from. He leans over the railing to peer down at you.

In the light of the early afternoon, he’s less ethereal but just as handsome. Without the wash of the spotlight, his skin is deep bronze; his dark brown hair has just the smallest touches of silver, that curious thatch of what you now recognize as blond over his right brow; his eyes are almost black. His mustache, slightly thicker than the ones on the men you’d known at home, traces a thin upper lip mirrored by a thick lower one. Your eyes linger just a little too long on the smoldering cigarette dangling between them.

“Mademoiselle,” he says, each syllable emphasized as though he is both pleased and relieved to see you, cigarette wobbling, the gravel of his voice more present in the daylight. It pierces through you with a jolt, as though you’re surprised, though you have no reason to be. “Welcome. You must forgive the discerning nature of our respectable Beatrix. We are much used to turning away riffraff at the door, and no one is more quelling to such ilk than the irrepressible young woman before you.” 

His gaze slides to Beatrix. “And yet the lady and I do have an appointment, madame. If I could convince you to leave us the stage, irrepressible Bea?”

You don’t miss the proud smile that crosses Bea’s face fleetingly. “Of course, monsieur.” She narrows her eyes at you, but she doesn’t seem unfriendly. “Good luck, girl.”

When Bea disappears behind a door to the left of the stage, Monsieur Peña fixes his dark gaze on you. “Do you have a name, songbird?”

You freeze. You haven’t really thought this through. “Dolores.”

His lips curl. “Just Dolores? No family name?”

“Can I just be Dolores?” Your ears burn red at the fear in your voice.

“Ma chère, here, you can be whomever you would like.” He gestures to the stage. “And up there, you can be whomever you need to be.”

You look out at the empty club. Monsieur Peña – Ezra, he’d reminded you after you revealed your own name – sits dead center, in a booth against the back wall, the heavy bulk of a midnight blue overcoat obscuring his right side. Perhaps locals were simply immune to all this heat. You try to steady your nerves, smiling at him as you let your eyes wander up in an attempt to find calm. There’s a row of oblong mirrors up high, opposite the stage. To enhance the lighting, you think. You’ve been to enough theatres to know some of the tricks. The club isn’t small, but at night it’s rather dark, as you remember from your trip the week before. The mirrors echo the stagelight around, diffuse it, warm the room, sparkle in the spotlights.

“Whenever you’re ready, doll.” Ezra’s voice isn’t commanding, it’s soothing. Encouraging.

You take a breath – it’s harder to sing with no music. Even last week, the pianist had taken cues from you and backed your voice. You try your best to imagine the gentle swell of the chords to keep your rhythm steady.

“If I… should stay, I would only be in… your way…”

The song you pick is slow, easy. But the chorus will show off your skill, you know this. And you cherish the build up, hoping, hoping Monsieur Peña will appreciate it, too.

“And so I’ll go, and yet I know, I’ll think of you… Every step of the way…”

It’s now or never. You press your hands to your diaphragm and let go.

“And I… Will always… Love you…”

A rich laugh begins to echo through the notes you’re focused on, and while you manage to maintain the intensity of the notes through the natural flow of the phrase, when the line comes to an end, you find yourself opening your eyes and seeking him.

“Good,” he rumbles, the smile in his voice breaking over his face like spilled wine. He is… very handsome when he smiles, you note. “Very good, fille lénifiante. Will you do another? Something…” he gestures with the broad expanse of his hand, fluttering around the room almost carelessly, “More lively. What will you sing when our guests desire pomp, demand excitement and celebration?”

Something sparks in you. Your mother would call it pride, suggest it immoral. But the light trained on you, his eyes on you… you don’t feel proud.

You feel inspired.

Another breath, another moment of incredible calm. And then:

“Tous les garçons et les filles de mon âge Se promènent dans les rues deux par deux Tous les garçons et les filles de mon âge Savent bien ce que c'est qu'être heureux

Et les yeux dans les yeux Et la main dans la main Ils s’en vont amoureux Sans peur du lendemain…”

You make it through the first verse and chorus before Ezra’s left hand raises.

“Parlez-vous français?” he asks.

You nod. “Ma mère m’a appris. Hélas, je ne parle pas parfaitement couramment.”

“I would never have known. Your accent is… impeccable.” He stands, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray that seems built into the middle of the table and taking a few strides until he’s standing just below you at the edge of the stage.

“The job is yours, should you want it, Dolores.” He bows gently. “However. If you choose to accept my offer, I might suggest you choose who you need to be on this stage.”

“Pardon me?”

He laughs. “Your nom de scène. Your stage name, chèrie. Dolores is lovely, I mean no disrespect, but you deserve something with a little… glamour.”

“I’m unfamiliar with such a guise, monsieur,” you say because you cannot begin to think  of a name for yourself, not when you have been so abruptly offered the thing you have only just begun to desire.

However, it’s suddenly on the tip of your tongue, spilling out before you realize how much you mean it.

“Lola.”

The name you wish you were, not the childish “Dodo” you are at home, but the alluring and beautiful “Lola”.

“Yes, yes, that’s better,” he says. His eyebrow arches. “Our songbird. Lola Sparrow, perhaps?”

You repeat it. “Lola Sparrow.” It feels… special. Exotic.

It feels wonderful. Like a fur coat. A false exterior of glory. One you had never been allowed to wear before. One that you think perhaps you’d like to try wearing under the gaze of Monsieur Peña.

“I accept, monsieur. Perhaps in time you may tell me how I can thank you.”

You watch his jaw work slowly, the slow spread of his smile’s return. His thumb lifts to smear across his plush bottom lip in thought. Something unnamed and almost new in your belly bubbles, curls. More than a tickle, yet less than a pain, you have no name for it but it rises hot and liquid inside you, unbidden and heady, and it’s tied somehow to his casual movements.

“Perhaps,” is all he says, and the ache inside you pangs. You wish he had said more. Would say more. Would look at you again with those dark, endless eyes.

You swallow hard. “And what now?”

His gaze trails over you, almost lazily. “Hm,” Ezra grunts, as though amused. “Come tomorrow, pretty thing. Sing for me again before I have to share you, won’t you?”

The thing bubbling in you jumps and twists, purring. “Yes, sir.”

His eyebrow quirks.

“Monsieur,” you correct yourself, and when he smiles, you wonder if this is what the old stories mean, to be under a spell, to be bewitched.

“Again,” he murmurs.

“Monsieur?” you ask, your voice thick.

“Hm,” he rumbles, eyes sparkling. “Yes, I think you’ll do nicely in my club, oiseau. A little lark like you is exactly what these old bones need.”

“You think so?”

“No, girl.” His grin is a flash, a wicked thing. “I know so.” His hand extends up to you to assist you off of the stage. When you take it, it’s dry and warm, and as soon as your French heels alight on the ground again, you’re slightly taken aback by how big he is.

It’s not that he’s tall. No, at least not much taller than most men, a head or so above you. It’s that up close, you feel really rather small. His left hand easily envelops your right, and the width of him is encompassing. Your eyes scan over the broad expanse of his shoulders, wondering as your cheeks warm whether the strange way he wears his coat like a shawl has anything to do with it. You catch the scent of coffee, tobacco, and something else. Cologne?

“Lola?”

Now you’re blushing, but you can’t deny a rivulet of pleasure drips down your spine at your new name. Your new identity. For at this moment, Lola can be anything.

You meet his eyes and discover they are a rich mahogany, and seemingly depthless as they stare at you, the corners crinkling slightly as a smile slides up one side of his face. You feel your pulse throb in your throat. Those eyes look like they could swallow you whole.

“Welcome to The Basement, Lola Sparrow,” Ezra says, and lifts your fingers to his lips in a brief kiss.

Heat erupts from the spot and zings up your arm and into your fluttering heart, and for a truly mad moment you imagine how easy it would be for him to pull you close by the hand and kiss you truly, on the mouth.

Would he kiss you like Albert had?

You startle slightly, and at once Ezra drops your hand and takes a tactful step back. His eyes remain on you, curious, as he calls out,

“Rosaline! Viens! Une jolie invitée pour vous!”

A pretty guest for you. His French is… not like yours. It sounds twangier, more like the accents the locals on the trams use, the drawl of your landlady. But before you have much more time to think of it, a goddess appears from behind the curtain, a scowl crossing her lovely, delicate features.

She’s tall, even taller than Ezra. Her golden hair is pulled tight in a demure chignon, her dress simple in soft blue tones, falling modestly around her shins. Her heels aren’t unlike yours, prim and proper, though hers are white and spotless. The whole look is unexpected for a girl employed in a club like this.

She makes you feel a bit less out of place, and you’re grateful to see her.

“Miss Lola, I would like you to meet Mademoiselle Rosaline Moreau,” Ezra offers. “Rosaline, our new singer, Miss Lola Sparrow.”

She doesn’t smile, but her eyes belie the severe expression; they shimmer with a suppressed kindness. It’s a familiar look; so many women in your former life held the same features. 

“Rosie, s’il vous plaît,”  she corrects. “Only Monsieur Peña calls me by my Christian name.”

There’s the French accent you recognize. It’s a vivid contrast to Ezra’s broader tone, breezier and crisper. “You’re from Paris?” you venture. 

“Oui, je suis né à Paris,” she replies, and it’s the first hint of a smile you see on her reddened lips. “I was born there and spent most of my life on her streets.”

“Rosaline is the beating heart of The Basement,” Ezra explains. “She has been the main attraction of our stage, enchanting and bewitching men and women both with her luminous poetry and storytelling.”

Rosie nods. “I prefer, however, to mingle. To chat, as it were, more privately than the stage offers.” Off your slightly scandalized look, she actually laughs. “No, no, not in any immoral way, Lola. I simply enjoy the art of conversation.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Ezra agrees, with such natural warmth that something in your chest squeezes. “But also, Rosaline knows this club almost as well as I do. She will show you around, and I will meet you out here when you are done so I can prepare you for tomorrow.”

Something about the way he says it makes that same feeling from earlier pool in your belly, but you simply nod and offer a smile. “Thank you again, monsieur.”

“It is my genuine pleasure, Miss Lola.” You’re sure he winks at you on the last syllable of your name, but Rosie has you by the elbow and is leading you to the same door the woman called Bea exited through. 

“Monsieur Peña is a kind boss, but a strict one,” Rosie says as she unlocks the door with a key she pulls from under the collar of her dress. “Rule number one is that no men are ever allowed in this room, excepting himself on a rare occasion. Only three of us have a key – Monsieur, our chaperone, Violet – you’ll meet Vi soon, and myself. Should you find yourself locked out, you can find us.”

You nod, slipping past Rosie as she holds the door for you. As it clicks behind you and you feel her at your shoulder, you take in what you now know is a dressing room of sorts. 

A row of mirrors, lit by soft amber electric lights, lay propped along one wall. On the other, a rack filled to bursting with dresses, hats, gloves, even feather boas and furs. 

“One never knows what costume will inspire a night’s performance,” Rosie says by way of explanation. “You, m’petite, probably will not fit into any of these dresses; you are much more diminutive than most of us, though too tall to borrow Bea’s. For now, you will need to wear your own dresses, but soon enough Vi will measure you, and monsieur will have pretty things just for you here within the week.”

“Who’s out there?”

It’s Bea’s unmistakable voice, an altogether different twang than Ezra’s, that comes from deep within the room, down the far end where there is another door buried in the shadows.

“Bea, stop shouting from the powder room.”

Rosie’s voice is tired, not unlike a mother who’s repeated the same thing ad nauseum. 

The door opens and slams behind Bea, who doesn’t so much as flinch. “Oh, hello there. Didn’t know you were back here, Rosie.” She sees you, her eyebrow arching. “Passed your audition, did ya, girl?”

“Be polite, Bea,” Rosie warns. “This is Lola Sparrow.”

Bea laughs with a sputter. “And I’m Clara Bow.” She eyes you up and down. “What’s your real name?”

“Beatrix!”

You pull yourself to your full – if still not very impressive – height. At least you’re taller than she is. “You’re right. My name is Dolores, but please call me Lola.”

Bea seems impressed. “A fair nickname. But Sparrow?”

“Monsieur Peña,” you are careful to pronounce his name better than before, though it still feels clunky and awkward in your mouth, “suggested that.”

Bea harrumphs. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Please don’t let Bea under your skin, Lola,” Rosie implores you, and she sounds genuinely concerned. “She’s truly lovely once you get to know her.”

“Or I can be your worst nightmare,” Bea offers with a toothy grin.

You feel yourself deflate, just slightly, but you choose the high road. “I hope that won’t be necessary, Bea,” you offer kindly. “I really don’t wish to be a burden.”

“Do your part and keep monsieur happy and we’ll be fast friends,” she replies, though now there is a hint of playfulness in her tone. “Welcome to The Basement, Lola.”

With that, Bea is off, gone in the moment between breaths, leaving you and Rosie alone again. She offers the first genuine smile of the day as her sparkling brown eyes meet yours. “Come, Lola. There is so much more to show you.”

“It’s really a lovely place.”

“I know, having been there myself.”

“And he – Monsieur Ezra – he wants me to come back today and sing for him again.”

“You’ve said.”

“And they have poetry and dancing and I only met two of the other girls, they’re quite nice. They said that they’d let me stop in on a rehearsal if there’s time, and-”

Pauline sighs indulgently and looks up from her coffee cup, pushing her glasses up her nose and setting an errant curl behind her ear. She’s taken you to breakfast this morning in a little café not far from the boarding house. Her strawberry blonde waves are set to perfection, as usual. You’ve seen how she sets each one in curlers each night with precise care. “Dolores,” she says, “Do you understand what you are doing?”

“Doing? Why, I’m getting a job,” you say with a laugh, finally quieting from your excited rambling. “I won't be able to pay rent if I don’t.”

Pauline scrunches her nose. “I appreciate your hurry to find employment. It’s just – you seem awfully chipper for someone who was all of a flutter the other night when I bought you a simple glass of wine.” Her voice dips to a confidential whisper. “Illegal or not, it’s de rigueur here.”

You flush and trace your fingertip over the rim of your cup. The dark liquid inside smells sweet, nutty. You’ve been talking so much you’ve hardly taken a sip.

“It’s just…” you hesitate. You want to explain how being Lola feels like a dream come true. How it felt to sing under the gaze of the nightclub owner with eyes darker than the Louisiana night and to let your voice carry you as high as you’ve always wanted to go.

“New Orleans isn’t like New York. Dames can get all sorts of work here and still turn out to find perfectly good husbands,” Pauline informs you.

“It’s not that, I-” you hesitate, your face turning red. “Wait, that’s the wrong – it’s – I’m not that sort of girl, Paulie. I don’t want to find a husband. And I don’t mind working in a club. I know it’s not as proper as your job is, but the police can’t exactly haul me off to jail, can they? I’m not selling liquor.”

The journalist snorts with amusement, and while her eyes are kind, it’s clear she doesn’t believe you. Or maybe she thinks it’s funny you believe her status as a working woman does anything but label her as a peace-disturber, according to many. “Well, just don’t count those chickens yet. I’m only saying it’s strange that he’s asked you back for a second audition all while he’s told you you’ve basically got the spot. And…” she sets her cup down and eyes you with a frank look. “Even if you do get the place, you realize he’ll be your employer. He… isn’t married, is he?”

You’re still hot, but take a sip of your coffee anyway. It allows you to look away from Pauline’s knowing eyes. “I know he’ll be my employer,” you say firmly. And as to the second question, well – you’ll just have to ask Rosie the next time you see her.

Because of course he’s got to be married. He’s dreamy. He’s got a business. You heard the way he talked to Rosie, the natural flow of those so-sweet endearments: chère, oiseau, songbird. You’d replayed all night in your mind the way he rolled your new name off his tongue like a caress – Lola Sparrow. But it’s all to nothing. It’s just the way men are down here, surely.

This is just a crush.

Surely.

“Wonder what he wants you to do at that second audition,” Pauline muses, pulling you from your thoughts. She chews her lip, breaking apart her piece of toast with her fingers.

“Sing, of course.”

“Yeah?” she challenges, her blue eyes glimmering with something you cannot read.

“Of… course? What else would he ask me to do?”

Pauline closes her eyes slowly. When she opens them again, her cheeks are pale, but she works up a smile. “Nothing, Dolores.”

You try again to decipher her suggestion, but her eyes are clear and her expression is soft and neutral. “Paulie, what —”

Something hits you. A memory; giggly whispers from the girls at the soda fountain, suggestions of things no proper lady should be caught discussing, and especially not in public. Pauline couldn’t possibly mean… that?

“Paulie!” you gasp, and her face settles into relief that you’ve understood her insinuation. “He wouldn’t! He seems — he’s… No. No, the other girls… They’d have told me.”

She hums, satisfied. “Well. It’s good to be prepared for any eventuality when you’re a working woman. It might be 1927 and women have the vote now, but men are always going to be…” She scoffs and makes a flyaway gesture with her hand, smirking when it makes you laugh.

When you knock at the green carriage doors of The Basement later that day, it’s opened by Monsieur Peña himself.

“Yeah, miss?” he says, looking you over from hat to shoes and back with a gaze that’s in no hurry.

You swallow, the flutter in your chest at seeing him again quelled by the fact that he doesn’t even seem to recognize you.

“Um. Good afternoon. I’m Dolores – Lola Sparrow? You told me to come and sing again for you, monsieur.”

There’s a flash of something in his eyes and one eyebrow lifts. He looks you over again. “Right, right. C’mon in Miss… what’s your real name?”

You follow him inside, welcoming the scent of stale tobacco and dust into your lungs. He’s wearing a dark suit today, much more formal than yesterday’s, although the jacket is loose and so is the bowtie. You wonder if there’s an event tonight he’s preparing for. Have you interrupted him? Is that why he seems so… abrupt? Absent minded?

“You told me I could be who I needed to be,” you remind him. “That I could be Lola Sparrow on stage.”

“Okay, doll, here’s how this is gonna work,” Monsieur Peña says in a tired voice, and a plume of smoke precedes him as he leads you into the center of the room. “You want me to hire you, I’m gonna need your government name.”

“I-I-” you stutter.

“Problem?” he turns, leaning against a table and turning to face you. The place is indeed done up more formally tonight. White linen on the tables. Sparkling glassware.

“No, sir,” you say quickly. “It’s Hadley. Dolores Hadley. Do you need my-?”

“Later,” he grunts, and begins to shuck the coat from his shoulders as though it annoys him. He drapes it over the back of a chair and drags it forward so that it faces away from the stage. He straddles it backwards and sinks into the seat, rolling up his shirtsleeves to reveal golden arms and thick wrists. 

He glances up at you. “We doin’ this, mademoiselle?”

You startle slightly. “Y-yes. Of course we are. I’ll just…” You shuffle forward and climb the steps onto the stage.

This feels so different than yesterday, when Ezra had sprawled comfortably in one of the back booths. You could almost pretend the room was empty. You could glance at him if you wanted to, when you felt brave. Now he sits front and center, his blinding white shirt dazzling in the house lights, the smoke from his cigarette rising in a haze to the ceiling. You can’t possibly look away.

Not that he’s looking at you. No, he’s drawing the cigarette between his lips in slow pulls, thumbing thoughtfully at the odd flecks of silver and blond in his hair, eyes on the floor. Listening?

“Should I-”

“Yes.”

Right. You wonder if you should just sing the same songs again, prove you weren’t just a one-time wonder. You decide you will, but you move on to a different verse to offer a new perspective.

Once again, you center by looking up to the mirrors.

Deep breath.

“And I hope… life will treat you kind… And I hope that you have all… That you ever dreamed of…”

Monsieur Peña tilts his head up, his dark eyes suddenly and all at once on you, and you stammer. You stumble.

“Oh, I wish…”

You forget every word.

“I wish…”

“Somethin’ wrong, sweetheart?”

The sharpness of his tone is like a punch to the stomach. You feel tears welling behind your eyes.

Why is today so different? What happened overnight? Did Rosie or Bea tell him something?

What have you done wrong?

“I, um…” You blink hard, keeping the tears back. “Can I do a different song, Monsieur?” You hate that your voice sounds childish, pleading. “I’m sorry, I’d like to prove my-”

He grumbles under his breath, and you know. This is it. Whatever happened, your dream — the one you hadn’t even realized you had — is gone. You start to back away, your heels echoing on the smooth stage.

“Well, are you gonna try again or what?”

You pause. There’s a note in his voice, still so different than yesterday, but familiar. A hint of the man you’d talked with then.

Gathering every last bit of courage left in you, you return to the edge of the stage. This time, you don’t take the moment to calm your nerves for fear you’ll think twice about the song rolling through your head.

Yesterday, you’d offered demure. Sweet. Romantic.

Maybe that was the problem. So this time, you delve deeper into your chest for another kind of offering:

“Men are not a new sensation… I’ve done pretty well, I think… But this half-pint imitation… Put me on the blink…”

Ezra’s head lifts, his eyes finding yours as the edges of his mustachioed lips curl just slightly, just briefly, and you steel yourself.

“I’m wild again… Beguiled again… A simpering, whimpering child again… Bewitched… Bothered…”

You hold his gaze.

“Bewildered… Am I…”

A breath to start the next verse, but he’s on his feet.

“Stop.”

Your throat closes immediately, a dried up whistle. You swallow hard into the depths of those eyes. They’d been so sparkling the day before, hadn’t they? Had you imagined the lax sprawl of his body, his broad frame draped in that dark coat, his chin in his hand as he’d listened to you sing not one song, but two? 

You weren’t sure what had happened between now and then to make him so... Scary isn’t quite the word, not when your heartbeat is fluttering in your throat, but it’s the closest one you have.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur,” you say, voice reedy. You stand there on the platform, sweat trickling down your back. 

“Señor,” he corrects with a note of annoyance, as though this switch from yesterday were obvious. Then he leans his bare forearms over the back of the bistro chair, dark eyes studying your face for the longest few seconds of your life before abruptly, he looks away.

“Start Friday,” he grunts, standing from the chair and throwing his overcoat over his arm. His loose bowtie dangles on the precipice of falling off, you notice. “Wear that dress.”

One last look that makes your bottom lip tremble – you’re sure you've displeased him but you can’t figure how, you can’t begin to dream how the same song could make him smile at you like that yesterday and very nearly glower at you today.

“Thank you, Señor Peña,” you manage, before he disappears into the back stairway and leaves you cold and covered in sweat.

Songs from the chapter:

"I Will Always Love You" by Dolly Parton

"Tout les garçons et les filles" by Françoise Hardy

“I am going to keep an eye on things from the crowd,” Ezra goes on. His thumb begins to circle the tender inside of your wrist, sending shocks up your whole arm. You’re not even sure he’s aware of it. His eyes are trained on yours. “If you should find yourself paralyzed or unsure, you find me. And while I am certain you will stun every soul in that room there, if you find yourself unable to go on, you look into my eyes and pretend it’s just us, just like the first time.” You take a deep, shuddering breath, and some of the nerves settle. A little. “And the second time,” you remind him. He wets his lips slowly. “Yes, dove. And the second.” The way he stares down at you makes your stomach hot, and yet you cannot look away. His eyes seem so dark at first glance, but in the dim gaslight they glow amber and golden rum, whiskey barrels and starlit nights. His thumb stops moving against your wrist. Perhaps he can hear your heartbeat thudding louder, louder, the longer you stare at each other. “Do you wish to know,” he says at last, “Why I do not allow men back here with my girls?” You nod, your breath catching fast and thick in your throat as he bends closer, the scent of the tobacco spicy and warm on your tongue. You could count his eyelashes. You want to. “It is because,” he murmurs, his breath whispering against your lips. “It is so easy to hide away so many little indiscretions.”