discipline.”
“And what happened to all the wishes you made?
You wanted a life like Josephine Baker’s. You wanted to live in France, and
marry a French count and have a palace in Marrakesh.”
“I did travel with Catherine Dunham. I did get
to France, and I did find my French count. He was not handsome, but he was tall
and blond. He thought I was not intelligent and so he invented a language for
me, half-baby-talk, half monkey-chatter, which he thought I would understand
better. He had a sadistic sense of humor. Once he called for me at the Hotel de
Crillon in an Arab costume, a poor soiled one, as if he had slept in it for
weeks. The manager was entertaining Arab royalty. The secret service men wanted
to arrest him. Then they found out he was the son of a deputy. Another time he
rented a beautiful apartment for me but gave me no furniture. Then he gave a
party for me. We entertained in leotards and jewelry. The fabulous jewelry he
had ‘borrowed’ from his mother who alerted the police.
“He never told me where it came from and I wore
it at the night club and the same secret service men came to my dressingroom.
He had to explain where it came from. Another time we sat for hours in a
crowded cafe and insulted each other. People who were concerned over the racial
equality were so shocked by what he said they wanted to interfere, until they
heard what I was saying to him. Another time he told me to wear my loveliest
dress, we were going to Maxim’s. He left me sitting at our table and went to
the coat room to leave his overcoat. He was wearing the jacket of his formal
suit over leotards. He insisted on taking me out to dance. Because his father
was a deputy, no one interfered with him. Another time I had a jealous tantrum
at the Ritz bar, and I began to break glasses. My Count calmly called the
headwaiter and said: ‘Bring me a tray with a dozen of your best glasses. If
Madame feels like breaking glasses she must have the best.’ This embarrassed me
so much I left the place. He always wanted the upper hand; he always won and I
enjoyed that. He spread the rumor that I had a neurotic fear of automobiles and
made me go about in a horse and carriage, and insisted I ride in it dressed in
jeans. That was the time a man stopped the carriage and said to me: ‘You must
be Leontine. I am Cocteau.’ With my Count, it was not so much a physical
fascination as a mental one. We were both absurd. No, he never did marry me,
and I never did live in a palace in Marrakesh, but he made me laugh for three
and a half years.”
“I remember your mother too,” said Renate. “She
worked in a factory stuffing woolly animals with sawdust. She smuggled out the
best ones for you, bears, camels, donkeys. Your mother was very worried about
your infatuation for your cousin, who was much whiter than you. She was afraid
he would take advantage of you and then not marry you. She asked me to find out
how things were, and I didn’t want to pry. So I invented a charade in which you
had to act a woman being made love to, and the cooing, dove sounds you made
were so realistic I knew your mother’s fears were justified.”
“I remember the day I came to get you to go to
the beach. I found you bathing in tea, you were ashamed of being so white.”
“I also remember the day you mentioned a
Haitian national party you were going to and I said I would love to come, too,
and you looked at me wistfully and said: ‘Renate, white people are not
invited.’”
Leontine laughed, and her long gold earrings
tinkled, and her bracelets tinkled, and her long chain of beads, and the
spotlight found her lighting up her eyes and smile. She went back to the piano
to sing for Renate, and Renate could find no trace of the little girl with
tight curls and a turned up nose who played in the streets of Brooklyn with
lions, kangaroos and monkeys stuffed and sewn by her mother in a nearby factory
which looked like a prison.
HENRI THE CHEF WAS THE ADOPTED SON of
“And what happened to all the wishes you made?
You wanted a life like Josephine Baker’s. You wanted to live in France, and
marry a French count and have a palace in Marrakesh.”
“I did travel with Catherine Dunham. I did get
to France, and I did find my French count. He was not handsome, but he was tall
and blond. He thought I was not intelligent and so he invented a language for
me, half-baby-talk, half monkey-chatter, which he thought I would understand
better. He had a sadistic sense of humor. Once he called for me at the Hotel de
Crillon in an Arab costume, a poor soiled one, as if he had slept in it for
weeks. The manager was entertaining Arab royalty. The secret service men wanted
to arrest him. Then they found out he was the son of a deputy. Another time he
rented a beautiful apartment for me but gave me no furniture. Then he gave a
party for me. We entertained in leotards and jewelry. The fabulous jewelry he
had ‘borrowed’ from his mother who alerted the police.
“He never told me where it came from and I wore
it at the night club and the same secret service men came to my dressingroom.
He had to explain where it came from. Another time we sat for hours in a
crowded cafe and insulted each other. People who were concerned over the racial
equality were so shocked by what he said they wanted to interfere, until they
heard what I was saying to him. Another time he told me to wear my loveliest
dress, we were going to Maxim’s. He left me sitting at our table and went to
the coat room to leave his overcoat. He was wearing the jacket of his formal
suit over leotards. He insisted on taking me out to dance. Because his father
was a deputy, no one interfered with him. Another time I had a jealous tantrum
at the Ritz bar, and I began to break glasses. My Count calmly called the
headwaiter and said: ‘Bring me a tray with a dozen of your best glasses. If
Madame feels like breaking glasses she must have the best.’ This embarrassed me
so much I left the place. He always wanted the upper hand; he always won and I
enjoyed that. He spread the rumor that I had a neurotic fear of automobiles and
made me go about in a horse and carriage, and insisted I ride in it dressed in
jeans. That was the time a man stopped the carriage and said to me: ‘You must
be Leontine. I am Cocteau.’ With my Count, it was not so much a physical
fascination as a mental one. We were both absurd. No, he never did marry me,
and I never did live in a palace in Marrakesh, but he made me laugh for three
and a half years.”
“I remember your mother too,” said Renate. “She
worked in a factory stuffing woolly animals with sawdust. She smuggled out the
best ones for you, bears, camels, donkeys. Your mother was very worried about
your infatuation for your cousin, who was much whiter than you. She was afraid
he would take advantage of you and then not marry you. She asked me to find out
how things were, and I didn’t want to pry. So I invented a charade in which you
had to act a woman being made love to, and the cooing, dove sounds you made
were so realistic I knew your mother’s fears were justified.”
“I remember the day I came to get you to go to
the beach. I found you bathing in tea, you were ashamed of being so white.”
“I also remember the day you mentioned a
Haitian national party you were going to and I said I would love to come, too,
and you looked at me wistfully and said: ‘Renate, white people are not
invited.’”
Leontine laughed, and her long gold earrings
tinkled, and her bracelets tinkled, and her long chain of beads, and the
spotlight found her lighting up her eyes and smile. She went back to the piano
to sing for Renate, and Renate could find no trace of the little girl with
tight curls and a turned up nose who played in the streets of Brooklyn with
lions, kangaroos and monkeys stuffed and sewn by her mother in a nearby factory
which looked like a prison.
HENRI THE CHEF WAS THE ADOPTED SON of
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