I’d believed in it.
IT WAS IN FULL EXPECTATION of calamity, then, that I made my way up the levee to Madame Lafargue’s. I moved through the Quarter as if through a stage-set to an opera which, having finished its run, might be struck at any moment.
I entered through the niggers’ door on Lime Alley — a trick Morelle had taught me on my very first visit — and slipped up the filigreed iron steps. Clem’s door was unlocked, and I pushed it open. She lay fast asleep under her tent of netting, her hair spread over her precise white features like a courtesan’s in the Arabian Nights Entertainments—; best of all, she was alone. I eased myself down onto the powder-and-wine-stained coverlet. Her eyes opened and fixed on mine.
“It’s you,” she said. She seemed relieved.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
She kept her eyes on mine, steady and unsurprised, and let the sleep drain out of them. When finally she chose to return my smile it was with a gentleness I’d despaired of ever seeing in her. I bit back the pleasantry I was about to give voice to—; my tongue thickened in my mouth and my lips went dry as parchment. Something had happened to Clementine while I was gone.
“I dreamt about you just now.” She stretched herself and yawned into her sleeve. “That’s how I knew to expect you.”
I brushed her hair aside with my finger-tips, looping it carefully behind her ears. I ached for a kiss but was afraid, as always, to touch my mouth to hers.
“Did you do me justice in your dream, Miss Gilchrist?” I said. “Was my waist-coat elegant? Were my stockings clean?”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell, Aggie. It was dark. And you were tucked away in bed.”
“Were you tucked away beside me?”
She shook her head. “I was spinning above you in the air. We were in a steam-boat cabin.”
My hand must have made a subtle jerk, because her eyes darted toward it. “What is it, Aggie?”
I took up her hand and kissed it. “I’ve missed you, darling. Terribly.”
Her eyes were clear now and she was looking at me closely. “Is that all?”
“I’m tired.”
“They work you hard, poor boy.”
I bowed to her. “We Jews are like the olive, Miss Gilchrist, as the Talmud says. We’re at our best when we are being crushed.”
She said nothing for a time, holding tightly to my arm. I savored the pressure of her thin, determined fingers at my wrist.
“How long has it been, Miss Gilchrist? Seven weeks? Thirteen?”
“You know how long exactly.” She pressed her knuckles to my temple—: they were cool and white as pianoforte-keys. “To the hour and the minute, you poor crushed olive.”
“I can’t deny it.” I kissed her hand again. “Tell me, darling, how you’ve lived.”
She turned away from me, not unkindly, and pressed her face into the cushions. “Come to bed now, Aggie.”
The change had been clear to me as soon as her eyes had opened—: the simple, unbegrudging welcome I’d dreamt of since our first encounter had finally been bestowed. I could think of no earthly reason why—; but I found, to my surprise, that I had no need of one. The fact of it was enough.
I stood and let my coat fall to the floor. My shyness had passed, and I was suddenly in a fever to possess her. She’s convinced, I thought. After all this time. I knelt and cupped her face in both my hands.
She gazed up at me sternly. “Your hands are filthy, Aggie! Go and wash them.” But as I rose from the bed she caught hold of me by my shirt. “We’re pieces in a puzzle,” she whispered. “We fit into each other. Did you know?”
“Yes, Clem. Something new is made when we come together,” I murmured, running a hand along her ribs.
She gave a quick, shrill laugh and brought the bed-sheet to her mouth. “If you only knew what! Run along now, Mr. Ball! Go on!”
I shuffled bemusedly over to the basin. She’d come to a decision of some kind, I knew, but my thoughts went no farther than the fact of her on the bed. There’ll be no great change, I told myself, with a sudden pang of joy—; only in her manner toward me and in my entire way of living. I did a very poor job of washing and came directly back to bed. She did not seat me at her feet — my usual station — but laid me close beside her, her eyes meeting mine in a frank, approving way that made the teeth rattle in my skull. The blood roared so emphatically behind my eyes that it was all I could do to keep from crying out. I’d never known such a violent and total happiness.
“I want to leave this place,” she said, pulling the netting closed around us. “I want to leave this place tonight.”
“We can go straight-away, miss,” I answered. “Get your garters on!”
“This is no promenade, Virgil.” Her voice was hushed and urgent. “We can’t simply walk outside, like two children playing at courting.” Her eyes moved past me toward the door. “I don’t mean to be dragged back to this pit once I’m gone from it. Not ever.”
As if by the sudden turning of a corner from sunlight into shadow, the air went cold around me and every object in the room was edged in a clear, transparent light. Clem was not at liberty. Fool that I was, the thought had never crossed my mind—; I hadn’t dared to conceive of her running off at all, much less running off with me. But she could not run off. The Trade owned this house, this room, this bed. Owned her.
“All right, Clem,” I said at last, letting out a breath. “I’ll come for you at seven. Don’t pack more than we can carry.”
She smiled at me — a smile such as I’d never seen her give, the smile of the girl she’d been, perhaps — and drew me closer still. “Can you manage it by six?”
I mulled this over for a bit. “I’ll need to find a room for us, firstly. Somewhere out of view.”
“Not in the Quarter,” she said. Her breath came quickly now. “We wouldn’t last five hours.”
“Of course,” I said. “Not in the Quarter.” The realities of our elopement, both its pleasures and its consequences, began to gather outside the netting like mosquitoes. I had no doubt we’d be hunted if we ran. The Trade specialized in runaways, after all. The memory of the shape I’d seen in the night made my eyes and throat go ticklish.
Clem was talking all the while, giving me precise instructions, repeating things often to make sure I understood. She’d been planning her escape for months, I realized — years, perhaps — telling not a soul. I listened closely to all she told me, and when she finished I rose quietly to go. Time was very tight. It would take at least till six to make the arrangements, but Clem was adamant that I return before that hour. By the time my coat was buttoned, I’d guessed the reason why—: a caller was expected at half-past.
“Who is it, Clem?” I mumbled. I’d never asked such a question before — made a point of not asking, in fact — but something in her voice gave me a queasy feeling. She was afraid of this caller, whoever he might be. A wave of jealousy swept over me, and in the self-same instant I found myself thinking it might be best, after all, for her to keep this last appointment.
The shame I felt at this thought undid me altogether.
“Who is it?” I asked again, more sharply. “Is it somebody I know?”
She rose from the bed and came to me. “Do you know why I’ve decided to run off, Mr. Ball?”
I gave a crooked smile. “Have you gotten yourself religion?” “I’m in the way of starting a family,” she replied.
When I said nothing to this, she leaned closer to me and whispered—: “And so are you, Virgil Isaiah Dante Ball.”