"Looks like they're arguing about the table."
"The Dada gang. Should've guessed," Indy said dryly.
They had taken over two tables on either side of the door, and now one of the men was rapping on the table and chanting what sounded like czar.. . czar. . . czar.... The other chimed in: arf.. .arf.. .arf....
"What are they saying?"
"Tzara and Arp. Tristan Tzara is a poet. Jean Arp is an artist. I heard they were going to be here tonight."
"So it's going to be a Dada sort of evening," Indy said unenthusiastically.
Shannon knocked back the rest of his drink. "They're really not a bad bunch. Just sort of abrasive sometimes toward anyone they see as standing for traditional ways."
"Toward anyone who walks in the door," Indy remarked. "They rub me the wrong way."
"They're making a break, Indy. We need people like that to wake us up sometimes."
"I agree, but they're as dependent on traditions as anyone. Maybe more so."
"How can you say that?"
"Where would they be without tradition, Jack? If there were no traditions, there would be no basis for nontraditional art."
Shannon grinned, shook his head. "Yeah, I guess so. But like I said, we need people who show us a way of breaking the old molds. If we don't do something different soon, we'll blow ourselves up in another war."
"You're making a break, Jack, but I bet you don't spit on priests and nuns. How's that sort of behavior going to stop us from making wars?"
"Indy, they spat on their own friends. It was an event, you know. They were just dressed like nuns and priests." Shannon stood up. "So you staying around?"
"Just for the first set."
"Listen, you serious about Greece?"
"I don't know, Jack. I've gotta think about it."
He punched Indy on the shoulder. "I've got the feeling
you're going."
The club was crowded by the time the band was mid way through the set. Indy emptied his second glass of Pernod just as a solo by Shannon came to a close. The green, licorice-tasting drink was taking its effect, and he felt like walking. He debated whether he'd go over to the bar for one more drink or leave right away.
He pulled on his leather jacket, and looked for his hat. He peered under the table and on the other chairs.
Finally, he reached up and felt it on his head. Yeah, it was definitely time to leave. He stood up and looked toward the stage. Shannon was pattering about the next song.
"I first heard this tune in a place called Dreamland in the Windy City," he said as Indy threaded his way through the tables. The song's by Freddie Keppard's band. Kep doesn't record his music. Says he's afraid people will steal his tunes. He's right because I remembered this one. It goes something like this."
As the song began and Indy headed toward the door, the dadaists looked him over. "Hey, where'd you get that jacket?" one of them called out. "You going on a bombing mission?"
Everyone at the two tables started chanting: Arp, Arp, Arp, Arp. Like a pack of seals, Indy thought. A real swell
bunch.
"You got something against our German brothers?" an other shouted in Indy's face.
"Save it for an old lady or a nun," he snapped, and moved on. As he reached for the door, something hit him in the back; alcohol splattered his neck. He stopped and turned.
"That's for the Red Baron's mother, ace," a bespectacled man yelled from the table on his left.
"Tzara, Tzara, Tzara, Tzara," the crowd shouted in cadence.
Indy stepped over to the man, jerked the chair out from under him, then grabbed the edge of the table and stood it on end. Drinks crashed to the floor. The wine bottle with the candle in it shattered. The flame hissed for a moment, then went out.
Suddenly, the music stopped and everyone in the club turned to see what was going on. No one moved or said a word for a long moment, then a voice boomed from the stage.
"That's my friend, Indiana Jones, all the way from Chicago," Shannon said. "He turned over a table on the South Side one night, but that was his own table. I think he was looking for his hat."
"What an asshole," someone said.
"Hey, do our table, man."
Indy started backing toward the door, but Shannon wasn't finished. "Then another time, this is a true story, he hung George Washington, the first president of the United States, and three of his friends from lampposts at the University of Chicago. Imagine that. A real traditional sort of guy. Well, he had his reasons. But watch out for him next Bastille Day."
Indy smiled, tipped his hat toward the stage, and left the Jungle. As he walked down the street, he felt the dampness on his neck and hair chilling him. But he ignored it. It was his own fault. Why had he let the bastards get the better of him? He could've just ignored them and left. Instead, he'd played their game with them, and they'd got just what they wanted—a reaction.
He wandered aimlessly around the Latin Quarter, his thoughts drifting from dadaists to his impending decision.
Maybe it was time for him to leave Paris. He needed a change; he needed something.
He passed a theater with a marquee advertising several serials from The Perils of Pauline. He slowed, and glanced at the poster in the front window, which showed a blonde hanging by her fingertips from a cliff. He smiled. He'd grown up on that stuff. Pauline never failed to get herself in a bad fix. If she wasn't dangling from an airplane or facing a roaring locomotive, she was trapped in a snake pit, sinking in quicksand, or chained in a dungeon. He looked at another window displaying coming attractions: The Death Ray, The Poisoned Room and The Blood Crys tals. He would be gone before the serials arrived, he thought. He moved on. Now he knew he was leaving.
He walked for nearly an hour and finally found himself back in Montparnasse and outside a neighborhood dance hall. He knew he'd stopped here because this was Madelaine's favorite bal musette, and one of the first to move from the Luxembourg district. Soon, no doubt, they would all be located in the Latin Quarter. Popular trends, it seemed, always followed the artists by a few years, and the bohemian crowd was well ensconced here, just as the Impressionists of the last century had been in the Montmartre district.
Inside, dancers were fox-trotting to an accordion player and a violinist. The crowd was young, and well behaved compared to the Jungle or any of the boites. Once on the dance floor, the men never even spoke to the women they asked to dance. It was considered uncouth. In some ways, things hadn't changed much since the days of the minuet.
"Indy, I haven't seen you for ages. How are you?" Madelaine said in her high squeaky voice. He turned and she planted a light kiss on his cheek. She was as vibrant and bright-eyed as ever. Her short, bobbed hair curled around her sharply sculptured face, softening it.
"I'm okay. How about you?" He cursed himself for not noticing her first. He hadn't really expected to see her and didn't particularly want to talk to her. But now he didn't have a choice.
"I'm wonderful, and it's a wonderful night." She tilted her head, listening to the music as a new song began. "Do you want to dance? We can do the java to this one." Her hand slid down his arm and gripped his fingers. She took a couple of steps and her body swayed in front of him.
"No thanks. I'm not up to dancing tonight." Madelaine was her usual exuberant self, the life of the party, and acting as if nothing had come between them.
"You're no fun, Indy," she pouted.
"I'm going to Greece," he blurted, as though his pend ing trip would make him more interesting to her, worthy of her attention.
"What? Greece? How splendid. Can you take me along? I'd love to see Greece."