the years that lay ahead. Men of this type, of all races, filled the roads and towns wherever she went. A woman had as much chance of survival on a city street as an antelope wandering into a pride of lions. Gilda shook the image from her mind and moved away from the raw smells and animal fear.
When she was back on a main street she slowed her pace and turned to look in the shop windows, hoping to supplant the images that tried to take root. The city was growing so fast merchants barely had time to keep up with it. Elegant gowns were hung next to daytime dresses; divans reclined beside kitchen stoves. The whole city felt as if it were bursting with life.
Gilda stopped in front of a store that held tools and looked at the saws and lawn mowers, then pulled back to catch her image in the glass. According to superstition, she had no soul; therefore, she could cast no reflection. But those of her kind had lived long before Christian mythology permeated contemporary society. In the glass, Gilda recognized the face she’d always known. Almond-shaped eyes, never quite ordinary, even without the orange flecks of hunger, dark eyebrows that gave her face a grave intensity, full lips now firm with thought—the same West African features that she’d seen in many other faces as she’d traveled the country. Gilda smiled at her reflection, set her beret at an alluring angle, straightened her jacket, then hurried back toward the Evergreen.
Benny Green had bought the corner building where his club was located almost as soon as he saw the sign EVERGREEN. It was fate; the place was almost named for him. He’d been saving for years with one idea in mind—to own something, a place where colored people could be comfortable, some people would get work, and he’d be an easy part of the world because he’d created it. He didn’t know how long he could keep his ownership hidden from his employees and friends, but in the months since he’d opened up he’d dodged all questions. With Prohibition it was hard enough: police looking for a handout, enforcers, who seemed to work all sides of the street, demanding their cut. Rivals were always looking for an opening so they might take over the prosperous business that the Evergreen had become. Sometimes they tried to push—causing trouble in the club, harassing patrons outside. It was simpler for Benny to let everyone think he was somebody he wasn’t. He paid for protection, kept a low profile, never let his joint get in the papers, and pretended he was just a manager who reported to someone else.
The door into Benny’s flat was at the top of the stairs that led up from the street behind the club. Gilda stood on the landing in a moment of anticipation. She would be in a room full of people, her people, for the first time in decades. The colored people of Chicago liked being invited to Benny’s parties. She tapped on the door and a small woman in a maid’s apron opened it almost immediately. Her face was suffused with a smile, which she worked very hard to maintain as she examined Gilda’s austere pants and matching jacket.
“May I take your … wrap?” she said, barely belying her confusion.
“No, thank you. The ensemble wouldn’t work without it, wouldn’t you say?”
The maid laughed easily. “You can sure say that, ma’am.” She swept the door open wider to usher Gilda in as she continued to chuckle.
“Kinda cute, though. Kinda cute,” she repeated as she waved Gilda toward the living room and walked away.
His apartment above the bar was a rambling affair that Gilda had visited only once before. She’d heard how he’d hired an out-of-work friend to repaint it. Then he’d hired another club patron, who’d just lost his job, to decorate the parlor, and when one of his waitresses needed extra money, he’d hired her to redo his dining room. Eventually one friend or another had tended to the whole place. Morris always teased, “That man’ll never give you a free drink. But he always got a job for ya.” The result of Benny’s fragmented approach to decoration was a flashy blend of opulence and primitivism, each of which seemed to be evolving. An African mask was hung amid chiffon draping in the entry hall. Through the door, Gilda saw the clean, curving lines of the period in the sideboard and divan. And