the cafe-au-lait flesh pulled tightly over bone structure well defined. Yet it was not the effortless grace with which she moved the languid wrists, floated the slender fingers when she talked. And not the uninterrupted sweep of features, from broad, intelligent forehead past high-rising cheekbones, downward below the cherry-tinted mouth to the defiant little chin. It was in the line of blue-black hair drawn rigid to the coiled bun from which black wisps played with the back of her neck. And in the fierce pride of distended nostrils, the negroid nose. There, and in the regal tilt of her head, the impassable curtain of velvet black eyes. Eyes almond-shaped and weary from too much seen. If she rose, Lon knew, she would walk with a haughty bearing; Lon knew this with an unassailable certainty. Born to be a Second High Priestess, born to murmur the rhythmic incantations, weave the lithe body on nights when the sky is moonless and the sea beats the time for our chant. Lon dropped her eyes unconsciously to the heavy, snobbish breasts.
“You takin’ style notes? You analyzin’ my dress?”
Embarrassed, Lon shook her head. “No—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
What could be seen of Mavis’s dress was dull black and shapeless. Lon lifted the second bottle, drinking back the chagrin.
“This dress what you call a saque,” Mavis said tonelessly. “Been with me a long time. Man, couple years back the modistes caught up with me. But I pass ‘em up again. Now nobody in style but me!” Flashing a snowflake grin, the whiteness melting into brown repose. “Sassy say I look beat. Them beat cats jus’ catchin’ up with me, too. I beat befo’ they latch on Zen. Long befo’ they pick up on Gide. Baby, I beat from awa-a-y back. An’ don’t need to make some cafe expresso scene provin’ it.”
Now Lon faced the new bewilderment. Mavis fluctuated between a cultured enunciation and what seemed to be deliberate parody of minstrel show dialect. Finding courage in swallows of the tart beer, she said, “You sound like you know a lot. But you don’t talk like—” And stammering in the self-induced confusion, “You perplex me!”
Mavis lifted a cigarette from Sassy’s case, lying on the table between them. “Trouble is, you tryin’ put me in some peg-hole. Baby, go ‘head an’ crucify me. Go ‘head an’ vilify me. But don’t go messin’ ‘round tryin’ to classify me! I one thing now. Tomorrow I gonna be something else.”
“Don’t you want anyone to know how sharp you are?”
Sucking in the blue smoke, Mavis said, “That way I get me invited into white-color brain circles. Them folks can go home, tell they neighbors they had tea with a colored gal could quote Spinoza. Big deal! Man, I take a good ole-fashioned down-South nigger-hater over them kind.” Then, staring into the dim haze, “I talk my way. I read about some decadent French cats, that Proust talk. Read about some festerin’, slime-ooze creeps down South, that Faulkner talk. Ain’t for me.” And in a sudden spurt of animation, the heat of white-hot, white-directed resentment burned like the tip of her cigarette. “Mavis talk. That all you ever gonna get from me!”
The juke broke out with Poison Ivy. And Sassy, obviously bored with the pressure of being impressed, lifted her brows at the Violet kid. “Dance?”
“Crazy!” Violet wrinkled the little round nose, laughed her delight.
Sassy was even taller than Lon had suspected. The statuesque and the stubby left the table to jiggle their way into the moving crowd.
An alien excitement fell over Lon. Alone with brown Mavis and too tense to express what had lain dormant in her, Lon tried to force herself. Now, now, when at long last the closed doors had strangely opened to her. Feebly offering, “I’ve never known anyone named Mavis. Mavis what?”
“Jus’ Mavis.”
“Everybody has a last name.”
“Some born without ‘em. Some lose the right to use ‘em.”
Lon sensed that she had treaded on shaky ground. And began again. “You said you play the piano.”
“Yea-ah, Sassy got this Knabe grand. Used to be jus’ furniture in that fancy pad where she live. That big ole piano cryin’ its gut out f’lonesome till I come by.”
“I thought you said she used to go somewhere to hear you play.”
“Ruggio’s. Baby, I play in more pi-ano bars ‘n’ you got years. That the last place I play before I git unemployed. Ruggio, he tie the can to me.”
“Why?” Asking it indignantly, marking the faceless Ruggio a sworn enemy.
“Oh, couple gay gals start hangin’ ‘round. Ruggio don’t want that. I tip these gals, but that don’t stop ‘em comin’ on, comin’ on, requestin’ I play this numbah ‘n’ that numbah. Till one night he blow his stack. I gotta git!”
“But it wasn’t your fault, was it? Just because he didn’t like …” Lon swallowed the hard core taking form in her throat. “Were they girls like these?” Gesturing to indicate the dancers.
“Man, they don’t come no gayer. These gals, they both on the make. They wear a big neon sign keep flashin’ what they is. Same as these cats you seein’ now.” Mavis dragged deeply, exhaled, cooled the smoke with draughts from the brown bottle. “I say one thing ‘bout you. You look the same. But you diff’runt. You don’t wait till Sass leave the table, ‘nen make a pass. Too young? Too chicken?” She laughed shortly. “I perplex you? Well, you perplex me!”
The dark eyes mocked, then softened as Lon looked to the beer-wet redwood. Lon lifted her face at last to drink, thirsty swallows, drowning her lack of understanding. And still knowing. Knowing that you can belong and not belong, knowing how much and how little she knew. Until Mavis, wearying, it seemed, of the jazz-man, end-man jargon, dropped her cigarette to the concrete floor, bent to grind it under her heel and spoke with the precise diction of a speech-department pedant. “Sassy happened to be at Ruggio’s the night he fired me. Strangely enough, she had come alone that night for the first time. And I could have called the agent who booked me. Complained to the union. But I was beat. You know? Sassy’s folks were in Hawaii. Like when people find themselves in Pittsburgh—it’s raining—it’s a drag, so they get married. Later they ask themselves why.” She laughed again, the quick-dying jab of laughter. Amused by her story? More likely getting a laugh from Lon’s stunned reaction to the abrupt change in delivery. “Sassy’s got no imagination. You see, I have this dark skin. Types me with people like her folks. So we meet this housekeeper at the door. Sassy’s got one idea. I’m the new maid. Trite, but that does it! I’m still living there, making with the dustpans. Fractures me, watching Sassy cover up for the way I do a bed. It’s a funny hype.”
“But you can work in some other night club. Why do you want to—to lower yourself that way?”
Almond eyes explored the table with a soft melancholy. And Mavis echoed again her cotton-patch talk. “Sass an’ me, sometimes we dig each othah. Got a fine piano there. Got books. Don’ know, baby. That butch needs me bad. Jus’ don’ know.”
“You mean you’re going to stay there?”
“Toss-up. Do I leave Sassy, or do she tell me leave? Don’t look now like Sassy’s evah goin’ let up, but hard tellin’.” Mavis shrugged an indifferent shoulder. “Don’ nuthin’ last.”
“I’ve thought about that a lot,” Lon said. The cold beer warming her inside, the words coming easily now. “I’ve
