Blue No More
first published in
Literary Fever,
Issue 3
Nick Gautreau loved Blue Lu Barker and her husband. Danny Barker said his wife had the sexiest little girl voice. He wrote songs for her, and put her in front of his jazz band. Nick missed out on hearing her live, but he listened to her music devotedly.
Regularly, he was able to hear Danny Barker, in his later years, at The Palm Court. Everyone thought Blue Lu would go first because she was so ill. Fortunately for Nick, he got to meet Blue Lu a few times back in ‘95. He said he was a huge fan. In a husky smoker’s voice, she told him she was happy being Danny’s wife; she never really wanted to be a jazz singer. She told Nick to call her Miss Lu.
Years after Miss Lu was gone, a woman started singing her songs at El Matador. Sabine Dupré was doing a new Blue Lu repertoire on Friday nights. Nick was skeptical, but he went.
It was a typical New Orleans summer night; the air was thick. Walking Decatur Street, Nick’s undershirt, cotton dress shirt, and linen suit kept him cool.
El Matador was atmospheric with dark red velvet draperies and red lights. Edging his way to the bar, Nick noticed another anachronism. Seated was a young flapper wearing a white dress and cloche hat. Surrounded by a darkly clothed crowd, and the red light staining her ensemble pink, she was a vision of mystery. She must have admired Nick’s suit and hat because she raised her martini glass to him and drank.
The martini looked appropriate but instead he had a whiskey neat.
Then Sabine Dupré, dressed in a black satin gown, sashayed up to the mike and went right into the number Buy Me Some Juice. The voice was damned good. This made Nick smile. He got another whiskey and downed it. He ordered a martini and an orange blossom.
Confidently, he delivered the martini to the flapper and brought the orange blossom to the stage. Sabine leaned down and accepted the drink.
She sang the last line, “…and we can have a ball,” then took a sip. “Juice with jump, thanks.”
Nick bowed, then backed up to a wall decorated with a black velvet portrait of a matador. The flapper asked him to dance.
“Lead the way, Zelda.”
Sabine sang New Orleans Blues while they did a modified box step. The flapper danced well and soon the crowd was paying almost as much attention to the dancers as to the band.
After that song, Sabine called out, “Y’all all come shake a leg.”
The next number was Don’t You Feel My Leg. Nick wasn’t sure if it was Zelda’s silk dress on his fingertips, the whiskey warming him, or the bawdy lyrics, but as they swayed, he closed his eyes in pure pleasure. Sabine’s voice was Blue Lu’s. The flapper’s right leg slid between Nick’s legs. Taking his hat off, he buried his face on her neck. He smelled perspiration, talc, and gardenias. He felt overwhelmed. It was as if Zelda, Sabine, and Blue Lu were all one supreme feminine entity encompassing him. When Nick opened his eyes, the flapper was smiling.
At the bar, an old man congratulated Zelda and Nick.
“What for?” she asked.
He pried, “You two did just get married, didn’t ya?”
“Nope.” She smirked.
“But the white dress and his suit,” he pointed out.
Nick shook his head. The old man stuck a finger at his chest aggressively.
He ordered, “You really gotta marry that gal.”
“Maybe.”
The old man mumbled something and walked off.
“Wanna go straight to the honeymoon?” Zelda asked with a wink.
Then they left.
Arm in arm, Nick and Zelda strolled down Esplanade Avenue. Her real name was Isabel. She was also a neighbor; she lived in the 1200 block of Royal; Nick in the 500 block of Governor Nicholls.
After climbing many marble steps to the third floor, it took only one step inside to convince him that Isabel wasn’t putting on this flapper façade. She was living it.
Vintage posters of Josephine Baker, Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo, and Louise Brooks graced her walls. The works of Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Edna Ferber, Dorothy Parker, P.G. Wodehouse, and Dashiell Hammett stood on her bookshelves. Monstrously large Art Deco armoires threatened to touch the fourteen foot ceilings. Isabel opened one, revealing a modern stereo.
“Pick out something,” she said before disappearing down a hallway.
Nick perused a drawer labeled “undergarments” with CDs of female vocalists. He was debating between Bessie Smith and Billie Holiday, when Isabel returned, dressed in a white slip. She handed him a cobalt flute of champagne.
“No, not those girls, play some Lu.”
The next morning, Nick walked home with a weighty hangover. The last thing Isabel said was, “See you Friday.”
And Friday, he did see her again, and the Friday after that, and every one thereafter for the next two months. Friday nights became an elusive dream with Lu, Sabine, and Isabel. Yet, Saturday mornings were awkward as Nick tried to get Isabel to do anything else with him. She said “no” to breakfast at Croissant D’Or, picnic lunch in Audubon Park, Sunday brunch, dinner, a movie, and a stroll to Beckham’s. The frustrating flapper wouldn’t give him her phone number. She’d stick her pointy tongue in Nick’s ear, retract it, and whisper, “See you Friday.”
One Friday night, Nick Gautreau walked to El Matador. It would be the last time. A poster on the door had a contemporary photo of Sabine Dupré with the disappointing words, “All New Act.”
Reluctantly, he entered and stood at the bar. He ordered a whiskey, scanned the room. No Isabel. Sabine thanked the few people who were there for coming out. She sang a pop tune. It hurt Nick’s heart. He got another whiskey. No Isabel. Could he blame Sabine? Musicians want to play their own material. Another whiskey. Still no Isabel. Whiskey. He couldn’t stand it.
Nick stumbled down Esplanade and turned on Royal. In the Verti Marte, he got a bottle of cold champagne. With forceful jabs, he buzzed Isabel’s apartment. She came out onto the balcony in a white robe.
He looked up. “Lu’s gone.”
Isabel nodded.
“May I come up?” Nick showed her the bottle.
She shook her head, then vanished inside.
Nick buzzed her relentlessly. Finally, he heard footsteps on the stairs.
Her eyes were fiery as she opened the door. “It was just a fantasy, Baby. That’s all it was. Now it’s over.” She closed the door and ran up the steps.
Nick stood there stunned. As the snub sunk in, he had a flash of all three women together: Sabine, Isabel, Miss Lu. They were gone. What once bewitched him, now rejected him.
Nick hurled the bottle at the balcony. Despite his drunken aim, it hit the wall and shattered. He squinted in self defense. Waiting for her to come out, he watched the champagne flow down the façade. Isabel’s white curtains remained still.
Nick straightened his jacket and got another bottle at the Verti Marte. On the sidewalk, he popped it open. He took a long, deep swig. It was cold.
***
Read this story in French, No More Blue.
© 2008 kristin fouquet