Chapter 94

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -

… I can't blame myself for not seeing what Lionel was up to when he invited Mother and me to his and Andrew Vale's Greenwich Village brownstone for supper to celebrate my birthday. The fuss Mother made preparing herself and me for the occasion should have at least made me suspicious. However, between mid-ocean storms, the rally the night before, and just being pregnant, I was tired, and my mind wasn't as sharp as usual.

That Mother insisted that I wear the black silk Schiaparelli evening gown with the pink roses and green stems embroidered on the front was a further clue. Such a Paris creation was far too elegant for a small informal supper among friends. Sarah Beauchene had insisted I have it made for me after she used her friendship with Elsa Schiaparelli to persuade her to work in an appointment for me.

Supper was quite pleasant. Lionel's newest lady friend, Missy, was a cheerful, bubbling fountain of stories about the bohemian life. She wished fervently that she didn't have to work as a department store model to pay for her share of the rent and her painting supplies. Andrew assured her that her work was developing nicely, and she was sure to carve out a place for herself in the art world before too long. He was right. She did have some mild success as a modernist with an aggressive style completely at odds with her likeable personality.

I enjoyed myself so much that I was completely blinded to any inkling that Lionel had an astonishing surprise in store for me. It was afterwards, when Lionel began to drive out of his way instead of directly to our hotel, that the fog finally began to clear. The last wisps blew away when we arrived at Sheridan Square and I realized where we were going.

John Hammond was waiting for us in front of our destination along with a cute brunette whose name, I think, was Trish. There were five more in our party, Lionel; Andrew; Missy; Mother and me. Mother looked around uncertainly. To his credit, Lionel appeared perfectly comfortable in the unusual surroundings in which we soon found ourselves. From the doorman dressed in rags to the girl following the cigarette girl and shouting "ashes, ashes" to the satirical murals of the snobby rich out on the town to the slogan 'the wrong place for the right people,' Café Society was a very witty parody of the kind of nightclub he usually frequented.

Van would have loved the irreverence for which his money was partly responsible. He also would have been happy to see black and white jazz lovers amiably mixing together, something that would have been looked on with horror at the Stork Club or El Morocco. I felt pretty out of place, dressed in a Paris original next to a tuxedo-clad Lionel in a club where most of the audience wore the same kind of suits and dresses they might have worn on the street or in an office during the day.

The men even wore their hats inside-fedoras instead of top hats-because there was no hat check girl. Lionel hadn't made it entirely clear to Mother exactly what kind of nightclub Café Society was because he wasn't aware of all the differences himself. He would never have appeared in any nightclub not dressed to the nines and he simply didn't realize that the patrons of a bohemian jazz club might not share his thinking.

John Hammond introduced us to the owner and manager, Barney Josephson. He was small and unremarkable looking, but a lively and engaging man. After a minute or two of pleasant conversation during which we were so relaxed that we might have been passing the time at the town square gazebo back in New Bedford on a lazy summer afternoon, he insisted that I call him Barney. I agreed as long as he called me Grace.

We were friends from that moment until his death just last year. He saw to it that I was treated like a queen. He refused to accept Lionel's money for the very reasonable cover charge or to allow anyone in our party to pay for anything. I was to consider the gesture a birthday present and thanks for everything Van and I had done for the Spanish Republic, much less for the club.

Barney waved off the faux pas when I apologized for being overdressed. He even expressed regret that I had to celebrate my birthday away from home. As I told him, I didn't feel like complaining. Given that my home is Northern Ontario, and my birthday is in January, I have seen it postponed by snowstorms more than once. When I was a child, it was always on a school day or a Sunday. At least I was celebrating it on the correct day.

We were escorted to a couple of front and center tables with a perfect view of the floor-there was no stage-where some of the finest talent of a golden age of jazz performed. It turned out that our waiter was a Lincoln Battalion veteran who had known Van and liked him tremendously. He saw to it that the service was enthusiastic and efficient.

Cocktails came first. I was introduced to a new nonalcoholic one called a Shirley Temple. It was bubbly, tangy, and sweet and I liked it even more than the St. Clements. There was even a birthday cake and the ritual singing of "Happy Birthday." The puzzled glances my evening dress had at first attracted died immediately when Barney Josephson introduced me as the widow of a hero of the International Brigades. The entertainment that night was not merely excellent, but legendary.

Standing in the spotlight, proud and joyous; a gardenia in her hair; a knowing smile on her lips and magic welling up from her throat, was Billie Holiday in her prime. She glowed with life and wove pure jazz enchantment from within a slowly drifting blue haze of cigarette smoke. I remember that her set included "Sailboat in the Moonlight," "Miss Brown to You," and "The Very Thought of You," but not her searing anti-lynching anthem, "Strange Fruit" which she hadn't yet introduced.

In her hands the most uninspired lyrics were infused with sparkling wit and wry wisdom. The most stolid melodies were made to soar and intrigue. Great songs were distilled to their purest essence so that their truths, which were the truths of the mature humanity that made them, were unmistakable. The combination of heroin, abusive men, and racial harassment that wore her down until she slipped out of life and into a too early grave had not yet fastened a torturing grip on her soul. The last two elements were already there, but the first was years away.

The love of life was still strong with her. That night, on that stage, she transformed entertainment into art and art into blessing. It was the kind of experience that you know at the time is special and consider a privilege to carry as a memory to the grave.

Being escorted by Barney Josephson to meet her in person was almost too much for consciousness to bear. Offstage she was relaxed, brushing off my attempt to address her as Miss Holiday and insisting that I call her Billie. She was as understanding as Barney about my dress. I insisted that she call me Grace. She and her accompanists, including the brilliant jazz pianist Mary Lou Williams, very generously gave me autographs for Maisie. I enthused over her performance. I wished that Van could have been there to see it. So did Billie.

I knew that Van had been acquainted with her before we met. She even slipped once and called him James, not being used to his name change to Vanaver Mainwaring. I had no idea that she remembered him so fondly. Something about the nostalgic affection in her eyes made me wonder just how close she and Van had been.

I asked John Hammond about their relationship afterwards. He assured me that they had dated a couple of times, but he was pretty certain that it hadn't gone beyond friendship. "Van was a gentleman who treated women with kindness and respect. He wasn't really Billie's type."

John said that last with more than a little regret for Billie's poor taste in men. I didn't press him for details.

Next Week: Maisie's dad. Family news. A soldier's return.