Chapter 51

Harlan and his band arrived in France on a clammy March morning. Eugene Bullard met them at the pier, embraced them one by one, and pressed hard kisses onto each of their cheeks.

Georgia born and bred, tall, dark, and handsome, Bullard had fled the oppressive racial atmosphere of the South as a teenager by stowing away on a ship bound for Scotland. From there he made his way his way to Paris where he supported himself as a boxer.

At the onset of the First World War, Bullard enlisted in the Foreign Legion and became a machine-gunner. In time, he joined the French Air Force, where he took part in more than twenty combat missions before being promoted to the rank of sergeant. His heroism earned him the Croix de Guerre and he would go down in history as being the world’s first black fighter pilot.

After the war, Bullard, a skilled drummer, returned to Paris to pursue his love of music. He eventually became the manager of the famous Le Grand Duc located in the Parisian neighborhood of Montmartre before going on to open his own cabaret, L’Escadrille.

In the sedan, the group exchanged few words, struck silent by the sights of pigeon-filled squares, narrow streets lined with cafés, pastry shops, and Parisian dames strutting along the cobblestone boulevards in peep-toe high heels and jaunty hats.

On their arrival in Montmartre—the Mount of Martyrs, the Harlem of Paris—Ivy pressed her forehead against the window and pointed at a white-domed building perched on a high hill. “What’s that?”

“It’s a church called Sacré-Coeur,” Eugene explained.

“Ugh,” Ivy responded. “It looks like a giant birthday cake!”

“Looks to me like some big ole white titties,” Harlan commented loudly.

The observation raised a chorus of raucous of laughter.

Eugene rolled down the window, flooding the car with a staggering bouquet of strong coffee, freshly baked croissants, and heady perfume. Reaching his hand out, he indicated the Moulin Rouge, saying, “Josephine Baker performed there. And you see that hotel over there? That’s where Langston Hughes stayed when he first came to Paris. There, to the left, is the American Express office. You can receive and send letters and telegrams from there. That club over there is Le Grand Duc. I used to manage it back in the day when Bricktop was the main attraction. Do y’all know her? Oh, look, that’s where Pablo Picasso once lived, and right over there is my club: L’Escadrille.”

Their heads swiveled with the dizzying commentary. They’d recognized some of the names, but not all. Nevertheless, they nodded and hummed interestedly in their throats.

“W.E.B. Du Bois used to sit in that café and hold court for hours.”

The sedan slowed to a stop.

“Ah! That is Florence. It used to be called Chez Florence, named after Florence Jones. Phenomenal talent and a pistol! One night she dragged Prince Henry onto the floor and coaxed him into participating in a Black Bottom dance contest. He wasn’t very good.”

Eugene fell quiet as the car rolled forward again. When it reached the corner, he added with mournful reverence, “Florence is dead now.”

They would stay in the Lyceum Hotel—a slender, daisy-colored building sandwiched between a garden on the verge of bloom and a café so small it could only accommodate one customer at a time.

They followed Eugene through a vestibule covered in aqua-colored tiles, into a lobby no bigger than a box. There, Eugene spoke a few quick words of French to the young towhead at the front desk. She replied with a gracious smile and slid three brass keys across the counter.

The rooms were tiny and plain: radiator, window, a set of twin beds, no closet. Guests either kept their clothing in their luggage or hung the articles on the row of nails that had been driven into the wall for just that purpose.

“The toilet is down the hall,” Eugene told them. “There are plenty of places to eat cheap. Get some rest and be at the club no later than nine.” With that, he trotted down the stairs and was gone.

Outside, the residue of an early-morning shower glimmered on chimney pots and slanted terra-cotta rooftops.

Harlan opened the window, stuck his head out, and bellowed, “Paris, I’m here!”

Behind him, Lizard collapsed onto the bed and kicked off his shoes, which clattered to the floor. Harlan whipped around. When his eyes met Lizard’s miserable gaze, he asked, “What’s with you?”

Lizard shook his head. “Nothing, man. Nothing at all.”