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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 42: Brown 296
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Takano 97
When Pierre walked in with the other three, Missus Johnson came over with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re bringing in new musicians, and I like musicians, Derek.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Pierre said. “I don’t require wages, and will be happy to buy lunch here.” Derek held back a grimace. The two had not agreed on this, but had agreed to leave it to Missus Johnson.
“I don’t feel right doing that, sir.” Her eyes flashed over at Derek in remembrance.
“You run a business, but I know the numbers on these shack eateries. Hiring a fourth band member might hurt. For me, I do not mean to boast, but my last name is Beaufoy. Money does not bother me.”
“Must be nice,” Hannah Johnson humphed.
“It is. But what I want is some good folk who will let me play my Sousaphone with them. And I could do with an audience too. So, you see, Missus Johnson, it is I who am in debt to you if you will but let me play.”
“You’re a sweet, shy man, I see.” She smiled, and patted him on the arm. “I would be very glad to hear one of these fancy Suzy-phones, and I’m sure my customers would get a kick out of it, too.”
So they began to play to the larger-than-before lunchtime crowd. Pierre had picked up Saints quickly enough, and being a Sousa fan already knew more of Stars and Stripes Forever than they did. He also played on Amazing Grace, and they had worked up a quick arrangement of Silent Night, which Derek said would be appropriate given that it was already approaching mid November. Pierre sat quietly during the others, but Derek could tell he was studying the songs so he could play them, hopefully in time for Friday night.
After that was more red beans and rice, and andouille sausage, and Pierre appalled Derek again. He liberally splashed hot sauce on his plate, and ate it with evident enjoyment, making sure to add ‘my compliments to the cook. I’ve had beans at Beaufoy Mansion that were not as good.’ Missus Johnson appreciated that, and told him to come back.
“I can count on these others to come, but you--”
“I give you my word as a Beaufoy. Rain or shine, unless I’m so sick with fever or malaria as to be in bed, I will be here.”
That did the trick. It seemed that the Beaufoys’ word had a reputation attached to it. Over the next week, they played and practiced more until it came to Friday late evening.
Pierre arrived at their house shortly after five, and the burgeoning band set out to stroll to the nearest trolley car. Less than a mile later they climbed on board the electrified trolley, and Derek got his first bite of something unpleasant when Maurice went to the back area behind a moveable sign for Colored People. There was not much room back there, and with his and the other’s gear, especially the Sousaphone, he sat up front. More Blacks and Creoles joined at the next two stops, and the dividing sign was moved forward. Finally, he could take it no longer, and he turned to Pierre who was sitting in front of him, taking a whole row for himself and his sizable tuba.
“Why?” he demanded in a low voice, aware of the other Whites sitting nearby, “is there such racial discrimination?”
“Hmmm?” Pierre said, and looked confused until Derek glanced pointedly at the sign.
“Not by our choice,” he said with a shrug. “Few years back, we didn’t have it. All the time I was growing up it was not done. But the legislature said do it. No one wanted to. It's inconvenient, and the trolley companies, well, it costs them money. And besides, your wife, she looks Creole, some. Hard to say where she should sit.”
“But it’s wrong,” Derek said, frustrated.
“Oh,” Pierre smiled. “I had forgotten you’re a Yankee.”
Nonplussed, Derek stared at the back of Pierre’s head as the trolley halted, and they got up, along with Maurice in the back and a number of others, and transferred over to a trolley stop. Five minutes later, the trolley to Canal Street came by, and a large number got on. This caused the sign to move again, and now it was clear that what with Creole and Black, the majority of the trolley was darker than Derek or Pierre. But Pierre showed no sign of concern at this.
Arriving at Tenth Street, about half of the crowd got off, and a number of them smiled at the four who gathered together on the side of the road. Also, there were a lot of comments about how ‘theyus was lookin’ foahward to seeing dem play.’ One man just shouted ‘Les bons tempes roullez’ to which Derek responded with an uncertain smile.
“It means, ‘let the good times roll.’” Maurice whispered, and shouted back. “Come hear us play. We good.” The man replied that he would as soon as he ate supper. There was chatting, and the street was filled with clots of people going here and there, some home, and others dressed up ready for a Friday night out on the town. They stood in front of a three-story-high building, the Tenth Street Music Hall. They were nearly an hour early, and the air was cooler, and besides, Derek had some hard questions he wanted to ask Pierre. After a time, the crowds from the trolley dissipated, and Pierre turned to Derek.
“Well, mon ami?”
“What’s this about?” Maurice asked.
“Our band leader is being Yankee about the dividing of the races on the trolley.”
“It’s not ‘being Yankee’. Its a simple matter of right and wrong. Its wrong to treat Black people as less than whites.”
To Derek’s surprise, Maurice laughed. Derek turned to him, confused.
“I see what Pierre means. Do yous know whose my great grandfather, the famous one, was?”
Derek just shook his head no.
“Honoré Howland, owner of the fourth largest plantation around New Orleans before the War. He had a hundred ninety four slaves.”
“He was white?” Derek said, even as he tried not to, but he could not help it. Maurice just shook his head.
“Moe lasses black, he was. I seen the pitcher once.”
“But--” Derek began to say, but he felt like a computer in an old science fiction show. Does not compute, does not compute. Any second now, smoke was going to start coming out of his ears.
“What does ‘being Yankee’ mean?” Vashti asked quietly..
“Not understanding the situation, but having the enthusiasm to impose rules on others,” Pierre said.
Maurice spoke more bluntly. “Pig ignorant, and bossy.”
“I’m sorry,” Derek said. “I did not mean to come across that way. But still, I can’t see how it's okay to divide the rail cars, and how you two can agree with it.” He looked plaintively at the two.
Pierre quirked his lips. “I already told you, no one agreed to it. At least in the Big Easy. We’re not here to try to cause trouble when there need be none. Le bons tempes roullez, mon ami, le bons tempes roullez.”
“I don’s like it. But ‘s’not a big deal.” Maurice said. “‘Sides, White folk smell funny.”
“Its called bathing. You should try it,” Pierre said dryly.
“Oh’s, Ah seez how it is. First you steps on my notes, then you’ze telling me to taka bath. I hear unn that all the Frenchies take a bath with lavender water. Jes’ like a girl.” Things degenerated into a slap fight with broad smiles between the two at that point until Vashti threatened to show them ‘the fighting moves taught me as a bodyguard to the Calipha.’ To Derek’s surprise, he saw that the two, the French aristocrat in his mid twenties and the young Black teenager, had bonded as pals right in front of him. It confused him. According to what he had been taught it didn’t work that way.
Shaking his head, he led the quartet into the Music Hall. At the door, he gave his name, and those of the others, and they discovered they did not have a band name. For now, they were listed as the Brown Dixieland Quartet, but Derek wanted something better.
The man behind the chestnut table, with the fine penmanship, was putting down their names in a large open book, and was about to put down the price of $0 when Pierre lightly coughed. The man looked up, and saw Pierre for the first time.
“Mister Beaufoy. I did not realize you were with the band.”
“I know, Deveraux. Uncle is up to his usual games. Put them down for seventy five cents apiece.”
“I--”
“It cost twenty cents to travel the trolley here, and twenty back. Means that they will earn thirty-five cents, which is less than what they earn for lunch at a shack diner. We don’t want them to think we are poor hosts, now, do we?” The words were quiet, but the demand was clear.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. You four will be at the side tables with the other musicians, and we have coffee with chicory, or water, and pies for you to eat. We start playing in thirty minutes with Alfonso on the piano. He’s good. Listen closely.”
Pierre led them across the open space, and the tabled space, and the lines of chairs which he explained were the standing area and sometimes the dancing floor, and the cheap seats, and the expensive tables. On the far side of the room was a line of chairs with small tables here and there. A couple other musicians were already there. They all sat against the ebony wainscotting, and fans which dropped down from the high ceiling above on metal poles stirred the air. On the outside, the place looked to be three stories, but inside it was one, with a rim around the level of the second floor. Tall windows above that, running twenty feet tall and paned, gave light to the room during the day, and the floor was tongue and groove of some wood that Derek did not recognize. He could tell, though, that the acoustics were excellent. The stage was not much of a big thing, only three wooden steps up to an eighty foot square space at one end of the room, and graced on both sides by pulled back crimson curtains decorated with gold fleur-de-lis. On the wall behind the stage was a painting of a steamboat on the river. A very nice looking piano was already there.
A waiter came by and took their orders. None wanted food, but all of them ordered coffee, although Maurice ordered his with ‘lo’s o’ sugah an’ milk, please.’ The waiter nodded with a friendly smile, and agreed. In a few minutes, he came back, and Derek got his first taste of coffee with chicory, as bitter as coffee but with a nutty flavor. The room was already partially filled, and more came, and then the man who had said he was going to supper came over with his wife to greet them. They all talked for a few minutes, and then it was time for Alfonso to begin with his Ragtime music.
The pianist was tall, and spare, and dressed in a frock coat with white gloves. His skin was dark, and his eyes lively. He almost bounced around the stage, so energetic he was.
“Ladies and gentlemen of all races, we will be starting the music in a moment, but first our illustrious Mayor Claude Devault would like to say a few words.”
There is a behind-the-writings look at the thoughts, influences, and ideas of this chapter, along with eleven other sequential chapters of this novel, in mark Joseph "young" web log entry #503: Versers Progress. Given a moment, this link should take you directly to the section relevant to this chapter. It may contain spoilers of upcoming chapters.
As to the old stories that have long been here:
