Art Chowder September | October Issue No. 29 | Page 32

Excerpt:
Earlier, as they’d assembled for today’s rehearsal — the musicians tuning their instruments, the dancers stretching, Josephine bending and
twisting her body into provocative shapes, tilting her ass in Claude’s direction and bending over to show her cleavage, reminding him of what he was
missing — Mrs. Caroline had walked onto the stage and announced that M. de Maré was going to make some changes. In a few minutes he would arrive
with his friends, including M. Jacques-Charles and a new dancer, from Nigeria.
“What do we need a new dancer for?” Josephine said.
“They want more . . . color,” Caroline said. Too dark? Not for them. The French were not interested in Negroes who looked white. Vive la
différence: They wanted exotique.
Josephine’s heart beat a little faster. They were cutting out most of Maud de Forrest’s songs and, now, they were adding a dancer. That must
mean they wanted her to sing! She saw herself on the stage in her red silk dress, draped in feathers and jewels, singing “Brown Eyes,” the audience
cheering and shouting for more.
“They want you to wear these feathers,” Caroline said.
On her head? As a necklace? Josephine eyed the paltry bunch in Mrs. Caroline’s hand. From the back of the stage, she heard laughter.
“Necklace, my ass,” Mabel said.
“You are to wear only these, my dear. Feathers around your waist and nothing more, like savages in the African jungle.”
Josephine took the feathers, wondering how they would cover her.
“Naked?” Josephine said. “They want me to dance with no clothes on except these feathers?”
“They want you to dance in them, with Joe Alex. The choreographer will create La Danse de Sauvage, the ‘Savage Dance.’ ” French people
were different from Americans, Mrs. Caroline said, as if Josephine had not already noticed this. “They are not so prudish about the human body. Women
have been appearing topless in the dance halls for many years. But never a Negro. You will be the first!”
Josephine broke out in a sweat all over. “I ain’t a stripper, missus.”
M. Jacques-Charles said something in French, gesturing toward her.
“Monsieur wants you to remove your blouse,” Caroline said. Josephine crossed her arms over her chest, her face burning.
“Choose somebody else,” she said. “Please.”
“The others are too light-skinned. They want you, Josephine.”
Mrs. Caroline begged, and Joe Alex pled, and M. de Maré threatened to send her home unless she did what he commanded. Everybody
watched her, including the musicians in the orchestra pit, even Sidney — everyone except Claude, who wouldn’t meet her eyes. Was he feeling guilty for
making her sleep with ghosts while he spent his nights in that sleazy brothel on the rue Pigalle? She’d slipped out after him and followed him there, had
seen three white girls — two skinny ones with bad teeth and one with a butt as big as a mule’s — welcome him at the door, greeting him by name like he
was a cherished return customer. Had he forgotten the contours of her body, the breasts he compared to sweet apples, her perfect ass? Now was as good a
time as any to remind him. Keeping her eyes on Claude, she whipped off her shirt and unclasped her bra, and let it all hang out.
One of the Frenchmen blew out his breath, as though the room had suddenly grown hot. Not knowing what to do with her arms — she wanted
to cover her chest, but not from Claude, whose eyes were, now, just where she wanted them to be — she held them stiffly at her sides. In the auditorium, a
man she hadn’t noticed before sprang to attention in the fifth row, his eyes alert and focused on her body and his hand moving a pencil across a sketchpad
in broad, bold strokes. Josephine forgot about Claude. Each mark the artist made enlivened her, as if he were caressing her skin. Her nipples hardened.
She thrust out her chest and arched her back, posing. If she had to do this thing, she might as well make the most of it. The men talked excitedly, waving
their arms. Joe Alex smiled at her, big white teeth ready to eat her up.
“Good, Josephine, good!” Caroline said. “Do you hear what they are saying? Parfait. That means perfect. You’ve got the finale —
congratulations, my dear. You will be a sensation —the first Negro to dance nude on the stage in Paris. The first in the world!”
Dance nude? Josephine shivered, suddenly cold. Forgetting the man with the pencil, she covered herself again.
“But — I’m a comic, miss. A clown? Remember?”
“Yes, you are. You will make them laugh, yes, even as they are adoring your wonderful dancer’s body. They will desire and love you — and
so, perhaps, the inflammatory Parisians will not riot. Although, if they did, that would be good for us, too.
“My God, Josephine, I hope those are tears of joy on your face! Because you are on your way to stardom, just the way you wanted.”
32 ART CHOWDER MAGAZINE
—From Josephine Baker’s Last Dance, by Sherry Jones (2018, Gallery Books)