Chapter XVII
It would be difficult accurately to describe the character of Louella Leota. She was a mixture of so many absurdities, so many contradictions. For one thing, there were periods when she visited fortune tellers two or three times a week. She would have her palm read, her future worked out from tea leaves, or spend hours with a crystal gazer.
Then abruptly she would change. She would declare that palmistry was a fraud. All prophets were charlatans. They ought to be run out of the country.
Again at times she was superstitious. She would not walk under a ladder. She shuddered if a black cat crossed her path. She was a believer in all the queer magic that people have believed in for ages.
Then abruptly she would lose faith. She'd laugh at black cats, smash mirrors for the fun of it and deliberately give parties where thirteen sat down together at the table.
Spiritualism, too, appealed to her in much the same manner.
"There are ghosts all about us," she used to say. "There are voices in the wind. Spirits murmur in the treetops and as they walk across the wheat their garments sweep the fields like brooms."
However, of belief in spirits, she always retained full measure.
"Shadows are more real than people," she always declared. "It is the shadow that directs the footsteps of a man and not the man that controls the shadow. We cannot escape ghosts, for even as Stephen Phillips has written, 'Ghosts go along with us until the end.' He might have added, 'and a considerable distance afterward.' All earthly things are only shadows of some greater celestial sphere. Nothing exists, nothing is real. We are only wraiths."
Louella was a weird mixture of vixen and saint.
One of the most frequent visitors to her establishment was an artist called Ivan Alter. He was a giant of a man, larger even than Yekial Meigs, and more of a monster in appearance. His clenched fist was like a ham and his feet were so large he had to have his shoes made to order.
It was his head that attracted the most attention, an extra large head with a mass of shaggy black hair that never appeared to be combed. It was ever in rebellion. His eyes were very black and penetrating. His nose suggested Cyrano and his large sensuous mouth with his thick lips was almost repulsive. He was belligerent-looking but his heart was as tender as that of a child.
Sometimes he sat upstairs in Louella's apartment for hours and talked to her about art and people. He was one of the few men who were ever permitted in that sanctuary. Louella was attracted to him because he was an artist. Since Steve Garland's death she had taken an ever-increasing interest in art. In her own rooms she had many famous paintings, among them two Whistlers and a Zorn.
Ivan loved to talk to Louella. To her he poured out his heart. He had never married. Yet he was a great lover, tender and thoughtful of women.
"When I was twenty," he once told her bitterly, "I fell in love with a blonde girl, a silly vapid creature who was pretty in a stereotyped way. She was always smirking and never capable of a serious utterance. She was bad-mannered and dull. She was boy-crazy. There wasn't a thing to be said in her favor, but I loved her desperately. I planned the day when we would be married. She gave me every cause to think that she would become my wife. But another chap came along. He was ten years older than I and already had attained an important position in the financial world. Without a moment's hesitation she cast me aside. I meant no more to her than a worn out glove or a last year's coat. There were thousands of other women warmer and more beautiful, with softer, more yielding bodies and sweeter lips. I, however, wanted that one. When I knew that she was engaged, something snapped within me. I have never quite got over losing her despite the fact that now in my mature years I can see clearly how worthless she was. I explain her away with logic but the old ache remains. She was small and selfish when we parted for the last time. I asked her to kiss me good-bye just once. It would have meant much to me, something lovely to remember. She refused. I dare say had I been willing to pay for it she would have obliged. My life has been a cruel one. I was born with the face of a gargoyle and the heart of a poet. Christ, if you only knew how sensitive I am about my appearance!"
Louella thought a great deal of Ivan whom she laughingly called "Ivan, the Terrible." To her he wasn't repulsive. He wasn't ugly. There was something fine about him, something of the strength and power of a mountain or a great oak tree.
He would talk for hours to her about art, his likes and dislikes, his hatreds and enthusiasms. He was famous for his portraits and he continually had a waiting list of prominent people who imagined themselves sufficiently important to be immortalized on canvas. Few of the world's great men are ever painted, for most of them are never known.
"The cubists, impressionists, vorticists and their ilk," he told Louella, "while seeking new modes of expression have actually gone back thousands of years to prehistoric days when man was first beginning to experiment with art pictorially. He drew his designs on the walls of caves and on huge rocks among the hills. Sometimes he drew his pictures in the sand by the sea and the waves crashed up and erased them. But ever he drew the figures anew. This was before he knew anything about perspective, harmony or design. Hence we see pictures of huge men standing beside trees that are no higher than their knees. Mountains which these colossal men could pick up and cast about as though they were stones. Or else we have paintings where one object is placed above another without any attempt at proper placement. One would imagine that men lived on shelves. Or else we see conceptions of landscapes that are such a hodge-podge of blurs and colors that they resemble a maniac's vision of a dish of soup. Nevertheless this swing back to the primitive is merely the working out of natural law. We live in cycles. The immorality in the world today is a swing back to the orgies of the Romans. All life is lived in circles. The universe is a massive wheel and at stated intervals the same spokes reappear. It is apparent in women's dress. And the system has many merits. This rotary history is vastly interesting. Man is learning to paint all over again. Now he is back to the ancient art of thousands of years ago but he will advance. He will progress. He will gain knowledge until eventually a new Rembrandt or a Rubens is born."
"I love to hear you talk like that," murmured Louella. "Such enthusiasm makes me feel young again. Perhaps man is also experimenting with the color of love."
"Exactly," agreed Ivan, "even as he is experimenting with the color of life. We all live our lives in different colors. The choice is our own. Some of us choose only drab shades. An artist knows that colors are much like the notes on a piano. He must get the proper tones, the proper rhythms. The colors must not clash. They must blend into a perfect symphony. There is perfume in color even as there is music in perfume. They are all modes of expression. Harmonies in different form but ofttimes interchangeable."
Thus Ivan would ramble on and Louella joyed to listen to him. He was a good friend though she had always scoffed at friendship. Only a very rich man, she once believed, could afford the luxury of friendship. An enemy was a far different matter; almost a necessity. If one was in only moderate circumstances, one should acquire an enemy. To spur one on to greater and greater effort. The effect of a friend was neutral, like putting sugar in tea or ice cream on peach pie.
Ivan, Madame believed, gave an air of distinction to her apartment. He created a comfortable atmosphere. He was a born talker. His voice was silver, magnetic, strangely at variance with his appearance. Sometimes, though, on special occasions, he roared like a bull. He assumed a ferocious attitude. His voice was more ominous than the roar of China.
Ivan had a wonderful disposition. He was always willing to do anything he could for those in trouble. Several times he had helped Madame with her philanthropies.
There was the case of Reba Gair. Reba was eighteen years old and so beautiful that she was a constant lure to men. Her father kept a restaurant in Milwaukee and she had been one of the waitresses, a slender, blue-eyed little thing that men adored. Her father's business was prosperous simply because men enjoyed gazing at her as they ate their food. She had wonderful eyes and she did not mind using them to advantage. Nor did she mind showing her slim, silk-stockinged legs. She wore dresses daringly low cut.
Although she was not a salamander she liked to play with fire. She never got scorched unfit a certain young polo player who had a great deal of money, good looks, and neither morals nor brains, chanced to spy her. He smacked his lips at the delectable morsel. At once he began to shower her with gifts. He took her to theatres, to dinners and for long rides in his imported car. They explored the country for miles around. He was smitten by her young freshness, so different to the painted ladies with whom he was accustomed to associate, from the upper strata of society and the stage.
Finally he bought her a diamond ring and secured her consent to an elopement. Like thousands of other fool girls she believed it would be a honeymoon. It was, though without the formality of a marriage ceremony. When he was fired of her three months later, he turned her over to one of his friends.
Reba had grown to love luxuries. They were a necessity to her. So she adopted the line of least resistance and permitted herself to be deeded over.
Six months later she was swapped again. This time to a man old enough to be her grandfather. He had a vicious nature besides being a bit of a sadist. For a week, she tolerated him. Then she fled.
She imagined that her life was ruined. That there was no chance of her ever returning home. There was nothing for her to do but bow to the inevitable and become a woman of the streets. Her decision was arrived at bravely after hours and hours of reasoning.
Not for a moment was she aware that her reasoning was wrong. There was no other road open to her. All she could do was to choose the streets she liked best.
She had heard about the establishment of Madame Leota through male members of the social set in which she had moved. Madame Leota, it was said, was a mistress at the gentle art of love. Madame Leota took an interest in her girls. She watched over them like a mother. So Reba decided she would go to see Madame.
Louella Leota was attracted by Reba the moment she beheld her. Here was no common girl. There was still a halo of innocence about her. Reba had seen much of life, though in rather a dazed sort of way as if she didn't know what it was all about. Madame Leota took her upstairs to her own apartment, a thing she seldom did with the new girls. When they were seated, she said crisply:
"Now tell me your story. I never bother with a girl until I know everything about her. Now come on, tell me everything there is to tell."
Without more ado Reba poured out her story, a story more hackneyed than a confession story in a magazine. The only item of originality in the whole narrative was that it took place in different rooms.
When she had finished, Madame took a pinch of snuff. Not till she had sneezed violently did she make any comment. Then she said: "And that is why you want to become a professional woman?"
"Yes," said Reba meekly.
"Ever been in a house before?"
"Never?"
"You have a lot to learn. You'd better think seriously about it."
"My mind is made up."
"It's a long long road," sighed Madame. "Few have the strength to come back after they set out upon it. A few years as a rule is sufficient. The girl's beauty fades and unless she has saved her money she is a forgotten lady. In the end she is in the gutter, swapping her charms for a glass of whiskey or a bite to eat."
Reba shuddered. "I'll never get to the gutter," she said firmly. "I'll save my money."
"The gutter is much nearer than the stars. It is forever holding out its arms to you."
"I'm not afraid."
"What a pity."
"I don't want pity."
"And I don't blame you." Madame's manner abruptly changed. "After all it is a swell life. That is, of course, if you are a heavy drinker."
"Booze nauseates me."
"What a pity." Madame again shook her head sadly. "I don't see how you can be a success without it."
"Then I'll learn to drink."
"Good. I think you'll do. I have a very special patron. I'll have you meet him tonight. He's a bit rough but has plenty of money. . . . Terese!" she called to her maid, "see that Reba Gair is assigned to a room."
That night Reba was introduced to Ivan Alter although of course she did not know his name. Names were seldom used at Madame's establishment except when patrons did not desire anonymity.
Ivan had never looked so much of a gargoyle. He wore no collar. His shirt was filthy, open at the throat, displaying a hairy chest. His hair was unkempt and greasy and exuded an unpleasant odor.
"Never mind how I look, kid," he said harshly. "You see I've been out on a bat for a week. Don't let that worry you though, I've got lots of dough."
Reba shuddered as she gazed upon him, but she made no protest as they were shown to a tiny dining room downstairs. In a corner was a couch to be used in case of emergency.
One of the colored servants brought in large plates of chicken soup which she placed before them.
"We're in a great hurry," he told the girl, "so rush the meal through" As he spoke he winked slyly at Reba.
Then he sat down and commenced to eat. He ate so fast and ravenously that the soup spilled out of the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin. He made no effort to brush it away. Between sips, he tore off huge pieces of bread and fairly gorged himself. Then he belched loudly.
Reba sat and stared at him with horror. What was she sup posed to do with this man? He noticed the terror in her eyes. At once he sprang to his feet.
"Why I haven't kissed you yet," he said.
He caught her in his arms. He pressed his thick lips to hers. The soup on his chin wet her mouth. His breath was vile with whiskey. So hard did he kiss her, she almost shrieked. But she clenched her fists. She must not cry out. She had decided on this life and she would not surrender.
During the meal she ate practically nothing. She just sat and stared at this monster as though she were hypnotized. Ivan was in his element. He told filthy jokes and laughed uproariously. He made a pig of himself as he devoured the roast chicken. He ate with his hands and when his fingers became greasy, he rubbed them in his hair. Every once in a while he leaned over and kissed her. Her lips were cold. She felt as though she were dying.
Finally he rose to his feet.
"Now lead the way to your room!" he cried. "At last we arrive at the dessert, the finish of a most excellent feast."
Reba's nerves broke, then, completely. With a shriek she dashed upstairs, up flight after flight until she reached the apartment of Madame Leota. Cursing like a fiend, calling her obscene names, Ivan tore after her. Madame sat in the centre of the living room, reading a book. As usual she was wearing a dressing gown that was a mass of ribbons and ruffles:
Reba flew to her arms. "Save me, save me!" she cried hysterically.
"My, my," said Madame curdy, "what is the matter?" But she made no resistance as Reba rushed, to her arms.
"Oh, I don't know," she moaned. "I am so frightened."
"What have you been doing to her?" Madame wanted to know.
"Nothing," Ivan said innocently. "We were eating. I didn't do a thing. I admit I belched, but I couldn't help it. Nature is at fault for building me that way."
"You mean you haven't been to her room?"
"Not even to the threshold."
"Then what is the matter, child?" asked Madame Leota, stroking Reba's hair. "Why, Mr. Luigi here is one of the kindest of men. All the girls adore him. None of the boys are more considerate than he."
"And I'm liberal with tips," broke in the supposed Mr. Luigi.
"Please don't make me go with him," begged Reba.
"Of course I won't, dear. But it does seem to me that you're not suited to this work at all."
"I'm not. I guess I'd better die."
"I don't think you are any more suited to that work either," said Madame Leota drily. Madame turned to "Mr. Luigi." "S.R.O. sign is out," she said curtly. "You'll have to be satisfied with Lucille. She'll be more than glad to see you."
After the man had gone, Madame Leota ordered Terese to bring some toast and coffee and marmalade. As they ate, she talked soothingly to Reba.
"You haven't a thing to worry about," she assured her. "Tonight you will sleep right up here in my own apartment. No one will disturb you, for nobody is allowed up here. This is a sort of sanctuary."
Impulsively Reba threw her arms about Madame's neck and kissed her. That was a complete surprise to Louella. It gave her an odd and pleasant feeling. To hide her emotions she took a pinch of snuff.
In the morning over breakfast, she talked long and earnestly to Reba.
"Go home," she said simply. "Your mother will be glad to see you and your dad needs you to help run the business. One swallow doesn't make a summer and you mustn't let a lark spoil your life. In an establishment like this, you're more out of place than a woodpecker in the petrified forest."
"But what can I tell my folks?" said Reba hesitantly.
"Tell them you were working for me," explained Madame glibly. "I'll give you a letter of recommendation. I'll say that you were my social secretary. Of course I won't let on that you weren't very social. You can tell anybody who asks that you changed your mind and didn't marry because on investigation you found your burning youth was knock-kneed. It doesn't matter what excuse you give except that you mustn't let on if he snored or sang in the bath tub."
"It sounds easy."
"It is easy. You haven't a thing to worry about. I'm the one who has the worries. Through you I may lose my best customer."
That afternoon Reba left for Milwaukee. There were tears in her eyes as she kissed Madame Leota good-bye.
In the evening Ivan Alter arrived at the apartment. He was in a bad humor.
"It took me hours," he said, "to scrub myself clean and I simply couldn't get that damn smell out of my hair. Besides I ate too much and I ate so fast that I think I'm going to die of indigestion."
"Then indigestion will prove to be some good after all," chuckled Madame.
"Is that a nice way to treat me after I helped you so abundantly in your nefarious plans?" he snorted. "At that, I admit the girl was a lovely little thing and well worth saving."
Madame sneezed violently. "She was a damned little fool," she declared.
"Since we are calling names," said Ivan, "would you mind if I mentioned that in all sincerity I think you are a great lady?"