1 May 1928 It turned out that dancing was the same everywhere. It wasn''t something Louise Lloyd took for granted, but after ten months in Paris, it was something she was grateful for. Aquarius, the club closest to her apartment in the 18th arrondissement, was much like her beloved Zodiac in many ways: sweeping dance floor, big band, tables and the bar placed in as an afterthought. Every time she went, it made her homesick for something she once had. She had spent all of the time, from club opening to club closing, on the dance floor. Her body hurt. She had been passed from blandly handsome Frenchman to blandly handsome Frenchman, not once caring that they were using her as an object, not seeing her as a person. Louise was doing the same thing to them.
She carried her shoes, gravel and stones scratching at her stockings. It was three in the morning, and Aquarius had just closed. Rather than call a cab, it was nice enough for her to walk. She wasn''t that drunk; she''d never let herself drink too much again, and the night had a hazy, dewy feeling to it. If she were back in New York, if Gilbert, then his sister, had never happened, she would have piled into a cab with Rosa Maria and Rafael, laughed at nothing, and let it whisk her back to the apartment. Ten months on her own. She had the stack of correspondence on her desk to prove it. She was bad at letters, something she learned when her boat docked.
The past months had been quiet, in a good way. Louise had learned she liked normal hobbies, fostering a love of photography. She learned that she could survive on her own, something she thought she couldn''t do. If the past two years had taught her anything, it was that she was stronger than she realized. The room she rented was at the top of the building, maid''s quarters. To access the apartment, she had to go up five flights of stairs, exit into the warm night air, and climb another set of stairs. It usually wasn''t awful, but after a night of being on her feet, the last thing she wanted to do was climb them. So, she sank down to the stairs, feeling the cool cement through the thin fabric of her dress and her stockings.
She put her shoes back on, letting relief flood through her. From here, she could wait and rest, and muster the energy to take these stairs. No one looked at her, no one cared. Paris was a lot like New York in that way. No one cared about anyone else. She was in her own little bubble, and she liked it like that. She had work the next day; in fact, she had work in mere hours. Louise dug into her tiny purse, pulling out a cigarette and her book of matches.
Compared to everything else she had done, it was a job she could do half asleep or with her head in the clouds. And that was soothing. Louise watched couples walk home, cars pass her on the street. She smiled and waved at her Irish neighbor. The man lived right below her and fancied himself a playwright. He was astoundingly annoying, but he was also the closest thing she had to a friend in her building. She allowed him to pull her up and support her as they climbed the stairs together. He too was drunk, drunker than she was, and it turned out she was supporting him more than the other way around.
"Good night?" Ciarán asked as Louise got him to his door. "Sure was," Louise said. "You''ll be okay?" "Always am, Tiny." He could get on her nerves, but she genuinely liked him. She liked his optimism, which only shined when he was this drunk. He didn''t return the question; he never did. It was just as well. Louise wasn''t sure how she''d answer.
2 Mornings were for stopping by Dauphine''s Café. Dauphine''s on Rue Bachaumont was where Louise went every morning for coffee before work. This was partly because the lovely café reminded her of the one she worked in back home, partly because it was the best coffee she had ever tasted, but mostly because the Dauphine daughter, Clémence, was beautiful. Louise had had a crush on her from the moment she moved to Paris. They had nearly the same skin color, but Clémence wore it better. She kept her hair long, always secured at the nape of her neck. She had a gap between her two front teeth that she was shy about. Sometimes, she''d laugh, then clap a hand over her mouth.
Clémence was behind the counter, wearing a blue gingham dress with her hair pulled back. She was intently reading something, her nose wrinkling, as Louise pushed the door open. "We''re closed," Clémence said. "Would you make an exception?" Louise asked. Clémence looked up, her face brightening as she saw Louise. "You do this every morning." "It''s not my fault your café and my store open at the same time." Louise closed the door behind her.
She was early-thirty minutes, in fact. "No one in the world makes coffee like you do." "You Americans and your coffee. I will never understand the love affair. Come on." Clémence put her magazine away as Louise sat at the counter and began the work of preparing two cups of coffee. Clémence was a recent convert, only because of Louise. "How was your night?" Louise asked.
Clémence rolled her warm brown eyes. She was always trying to play coy, but this is what Louise knew about her: she was an only child, and she was intent on being an actress. What she really wanted was to move to America and star in films. Clémence began to pour the coffee, evenly splitting it between two cups. Louise was never sure if Clémence liked drinking coffee, or if she did it because Louise did. Adding a tiny bit of sugar, and then cream, Clémence pushed a cup toward Louise. Even for someone who didn''t like coffee, Clémence''s was amazing. It was everything Louise needed in the early morning.
Clémence wiped her hands on her apron, leaning forward on the counter. They were inches away; Louise could see her perfect philtrum over her perfect lips. "You know," Louise said, "I live above Ciarán Dunne. I''m sure he knows someone looking for an actress. And he does owe me a favor. Or two." Ciarán was the most hapless person she had ever met, including herself. He managed to conjure up trouble just by existing.
"I would love that," Clémence said. "I would love anything. How did you end up living above Ciarán Dunne?" It had been an accident; Louise had never heard of the Irish playwright before she had the misfortune of moving in above him. "I''ll see what I can do." Louise winked. By the time Louise arrived, every weekday night after work and before Aquarius, Le Chat Noir was always busy. Her group of friends was always seated on the patio, away from the smoky distractions of music; they were already locked in a myriad of discussions. "Louise!" Doris, Black, beautiful, and talented, was the lead singer of a jazz band that hailed from Nebraska.
They had gotten to Paris just before Louise had and had already taken up residence in a club nearby. Doris rose from her seat, handing Louise a glass. She was smoking, in intense discussions with Queenie and Tootsie. Toward the end of the table, which was actually several small circular tables pushed together under the awning to protect themselves from sporadic Paris rain, Ciarán and Monty were in a loud political discussion. Maude was jotting notes in a notebook. Le Chat Noir was home, more than any home had ever been. It was the place for immigrants, most of them Black, all of them starving artists. In fact, more often than not, Ciarán was the only white face in the crowd.
It was where they met to discuss art and life. Louise was happy to sit back and watch. The best part was that she didn''t have to say much. Artists, by design or necessity, only cared about themselves. "TINY!" Ciarán got more Irish as he drank, his accent heavier. He rose, his jacket already discarded, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His face was ruddy, and he wrapped Louise up in a big bear hug, effectively lifting her off of her feet. Seats were rearranged; Louise slipped in between Nathan and Doris.
"What are you talking about?" Louise asked. There was one thing they were talking about tonight. "Iris Wright," Doris said. Iris Wright was an artist making her name known in all the circles in Paris. Her work was immaculate, unnerving. She painted herself and other subjects in Renoir''s hazy, impressionist style. Louise had seen her work. The papers raved about her.
Monty exhaled. "I don''t know why we have to discuss her every night." He sipped from his glass as Ciarán patted Monty on the back. It was true, they didn''t have to discuss her every night, but they did. There was something about her. It was easy to sense jealousy from Monty. "Because she''s interesting," Ditsie said. "And has accomplished something you haven''t been able to.
" One of three Moulin Rouge dancers that spend a ton of time at the cabaret before and between their shows, Ditsie was always reading something. She was with the other girls, Queenie and Tootsie. All three were varying shades of brown, impossibly long and thin. All three had glasses of water in front of them. They often seemed as if they were one person separated into three bodies. Ditsie wore a pair of cheaters, low on her nose, and she looked up at Monty over the rims. "Or do you have a showing coming up?" She was the only person who could truly take him down a peg. Queenie giggled behind her fan.
Monty sighed and turned away. "She''s not even very good," Monty said with a pout. Nathan was writing, as he usually was, say.