That had called for fast thinking, he congratulated himself, and for direct action. He wondered what Robert would say... but he refused to worry about Robert.
After all, why shouldn’t Hattie and Mr. Simpson see Mardi Gras together? If he could find a bow and arrow, he reflected, he might pose for a picture of Cupid.
Chapter Twelve
Individuals such as Sonia Jenson have made their appearance at irregular intervals throughout the written history of our world. From every land and from the most divergent environments.
They are born, flame gloriously for a more or less brief period, and vanish... leaving behind them no trace other than an increased sense of futility in the hearts of those whose privilege it has been to contact them intimately during their spectacular careers.
If they leave progeny behind them (and this seems rather the exception than the rule) they are invariably a dull and uninspired brood, failing utterly to follow the laws of heredity; seemingly more in accord with the compensatory mandate which decrees each positive shall breed a negative.
Perhaps it is best so. It shatters the imagination to visualize a world inhabited by Sonias. Yet, they serve a certain purpose. Providence is wise in thus holding before us at intervals a mirror in which we may see reflected the image of our dream-selves.
The Sonias are that. An unrestrained ego which knows no restrictions, jeers at all rules imposed by civilized society, scorns inhibitions and all such advanced psychological theories; in short, an atavistic reversion to the untrammeled savagery of the primitive who recognized no law save the urge of fierce instinct.
Masculine or feminine, it matters not. Soldier of fortune, or voluptuous hussy. Picaresque villain, or bejeweled demivirgin. In various guises they have marched across the pages of our history, causing, each, a ripple of varying intensity... a ripple which is immediately absorbed, blotted up, by the larger progression of humanity.
Sonia’s parentage has no real significance, but is of interest to show from what curious beginnings this type may emerge. Her father was Oscar Jenson, an eager Swedish youth, with cold blue eyes and a thatch of blond hair. Broad-shouldered and mentally laggard. Her mother was Sonia Vlastovich. Dark, haggard, undernourished; with sharp teeth, glittering eyes, and a bitter smile.
They met at Ellis Island, and Sonia Jenson was conceived there amid the bustle and odor of disembarkation. Her parents were married a few days later, and Oscar was gored to death by a Jersey bull on his uncle’s farm in Minnesota two weeks before Sonia was born.
His wife did not fit into the jig saw of the Jenson menage, and she took to the streets with her daughter when Sonia was two months old.
Twenty years have elapsed since the younger Sonia lay upon a dirty bundle of clothes in the corner of an ill-smelling room in St. Paul and gurgled happily while her mother was otherwise occupied in the same room.
That sort of thing continued for fourteen haphazard years. Sonia secured a fragmentary education at various public schools during those fourteen years, and absorbed a great deal of valuable information that is not yet a part of the curriculum of our enlightened public school system.
Then Sonia’s mother died — died so to speak — with her boots on. The man in the case was wealthy — a purely fortuitous circumstance — and the daughter proceeded to put to good account a portion of the knowledge she had imbibed while knocking about the country in the wake of her free-lancing mother.
In other words... she shook the gentleman down for a handsome sum. Sufficient to provide her mother with an ornate casket and decent burial... with enough left to launch Sonia upon her predatory career which she followed with great success during the six years intervening between her mother’s death and our meeting with her in New Orleans.
At twenty, Sonia was extravagantly beautiful. A wistfully soulful expression was her most important business asset. Her technique had been perfected to the point where she had merely to select her prey. The slumbrous cry of passion in the depths of her eyes, and the blustering lust of men did the rest.
She had come to New Orleans two years previously. Hunting was good in New Orleans, and the picturesque background pleased her artistic sense. So she remained. She had found that a certain reputation was an asset. Men regarded her as dangerous, and were thereby attracted... and invariably scorched by the flame of her passion.
Perhaps it was fate which sent Sonia to the Dancing Dervish at midnight of Mardi Gras eve. Possibly it was pure coincidence. No matter how the threads of destinies become entangled. There is no escaping the Master Weaver who draws the variegated fibers into grotesque patterns.
Sonia was bored. Emphatically and wholly. She was alone and it was the eve of Mardi Gras. She did not care to be alone. Remnants of distorted memories were apt to slink upon her when she was alone. She despised herself for morbid brooding.
So she had come to the Dancing Dervish to find gayety and escape from thought. She sat alone at the only table not occupied with revelers and surveyed the assemblage with scorn. She was twenty years old. She felt four times twenty. It was nearing midnight and she sat upon the fringe of a Mardi Gras festival.
She had refused many invitations for this night, and now she regretted her refusals. She moved restlessly in her chair and drew a long cigarette holder of pure jade from her handbag. What the devil had got into her? she asked herself. Was the game palling? She shivered as she peered down the drab vista of a future from which zest had departed.
She lit her cigarette and smiled wryly. She was wholly isolated from the din which beat upon her in waves. The interior of the Dancing Dervish was long and narrow. Two rows of tables along each side and four rows at front and back enclosed a rectangular space for dancing. Sonia sat at a table near the right front corner of this rectangle. It was closely packed with sweating couples who jiggled their bodies lustfully in time with the rhythm produced by a Negro string ensemble.
Sonia ordered a champagne cocktail and sucked in her tongue as she withdrew her eyes from the erotic spectacle. Life was a rotten farce to-night. The waiter brought her cocktail... and upon his heels was the headwaiter with Hattie and Mr. Simpson following bewilderedly in his wake. The headwaiter’s name was Henri, and he knew Sonia very well indeed.
He bowed and spoke softly:
“You will pardon? Two guests to sit with you? There are no other vacancies.” He shrugged his shoulders and spread out the soft palms of his hands.
Sonia looked through him.
“Okay,” she murmured. She surveyed the couple languidly as Henri seated them. Then she sat up straighter and stared at them.
Hattie had chosen a Spanish costume. It was the only one in the shop with a decently long skirt to modestly garb her thin shanks. It was too large for her, and the vivid colors clashed violently with her sallow complexion. A rhinestone comb set coquettishly in her graying hair was an added, incongruous touch.
Sonia blinked her eyes twice and set her glass down. Then she transferred her gaze to Mr. Simpson. He removed his sombrero awkwardly as he sat down. He looked very unhappy in the midst of the glitter and glamour of the gathering.
They weren’t, of course, possible, Sonia told herself. They were too perfect to be possible. She would close her eyes again, and the couple would be gone when she looked. She tried it, but the illusion persisted. The man’s wide mouth opened yawningly, and squeaky words came forth.
“Here we are, huh?” He smiled uncomfortably. “I guess we’re right in the swim. Mighty swell here.”