Page 81 of Mazywood

The man nodded, appraising Mazelle. “I can think of a few ways to put her to good use. Call my girl to bring her in for a screen test,” he said. “Four o’clock on Monday.”

Mazelle thought she had heard wrong. Was this all it took to get ahead? Getting smuggled into the right parties to get the right introductions? She forgot to thank the man before he drifted away, but he hadn’t been addressing her at the end; he’d been talking to Lorenzo. Bargaining over his property.

“Who was that?” Mazelle whispered to Lorenzo.

“Christ, you’re a babe in the woods,” Lorenzo whispered. “Jack Warner. Warner Bros.? He put out Casablanca. Sweetheart, you’re batting a thousand. Just like I knew you would.” His hand rubbed her lower back. She didn’t mind his touch this time. “He almost put Hazel Scott in Casablanca instead of Dooley. Just think: That could’ve been you.”

Mazelle couldn’t rival pianist Hazel Scott, who had been trained at Juilliard, but she could carry a tune as well as Dooley Wilson. Richard told her that Dooley had only mimed playing the piano, and at least she could play that tune. The possibilities in this glittery room were dizzying. She didn’t have the exposure and experience of Dooley and Hazel, but why stand in the long line? Lorenzo had brought her to the short line. A party like this was worth almost anything.

A little gratitude would be nice, he’d said.

“Thank you, Jerry,” she said. “I mean it this time. You were right about this shindig.”

Lorenzo grinned, giddy. He snatched another drink from a tray and downed it like a shot. “And the night’s just getting started.”

“You’d really let me out of my contract?”

He coughed in surprise, mid-swig. He didn’t answer. She’d known he wouldn’t.

“If I do a screen test, they might want to sign me to a contract too,” she said.

“It’s called a loan. MGM loaned Clark to Selznick to do Gone with the Wind.”

Mazelle was the one who’d argued to him that she could be loaned out if she won a part in Cabin in the Sky, so she didn’t need an explanation. MGM must have gotten a slice of the profits. And she was just a nobody, but if she convinced enough studios to give her a screen test, Lorenzo might get a lucky payday. No wonder he was so giddy.

“What’s in it for you?” Mazelle asked.

Lorenzo’s eyes turned flinty. “Let me and your agent think about business, Mazelle. Do you know how ecstatic he’s gonna be when I tell him about tonight? All you need to do is smile and charm their pants off exactly like you’ve been doing.”

“That I can do,” Mazelle said. If a new studio bought out her contract, she could get away from Lorenzo and stop moving backward. She couldn’t mistake Lorenzo’s horse-trading for true affection, or a courageous racial stand. She was just property to him.

But that was all right, as long as she didn’t fool herself about who he was. She was here.

The faces and conversations blurred as Mazelle smiled her way through the room.

“Who’s your little brown princess, Jerry?”

“I thought they didn’t allow Negroes in here…”

“Good for you, Jerry! I tell you, this country’s treatment of Negroes is shameful. How can we fight for freedom overseas when our Negro citizens don’t have full freedom at home?”

“You’re the same one from Lorenzo’s pictures? You’re too classy for this mope, baby.”

“You’re the most gorgeous woman in this room—it’s such a shame.”

This last man had a languid French accent that drew her ear. Lorenzo was busy chasing the closest drink tray, so the man must not have power. The handsome young man in tweed might be an actor, but she didn’t recognize him. He addressed her in a bland, familiar way, as if they were continuing a previous conversation. But his blue eyes were cool and detached.

“What’s the shame?” she asked.

He gestured around the room with his cigarette. “Because they don’t see you. Their world is too small. They have a kind of… what is the word? Myopia? They are thinking, ‘Ah, she is so pretty for a colored girl.’ You should come to Europe instead, once the war is over. With these people, you don’t have a chance in hell to be a star.” His eyes were dispassionate as he gave her a polite smile and turned away, absorbing himself in a group of giggling socialites.

Mazelle’s face sagged beneath the weight of her smile. She felt as if the stranger had slapped her. He had made no effort to be kind or cruel, he just enjoyed the sound of his own speculations. And his prophecy sounded so real that it was as if the French stranger had broken her spell and Cinderella had been revealed as a scullery maid despite her exquisite gown.

The crowd was swelling, making it harder to glide through. Fewer people noticed Mazelle as the arrivals of philanthropists and artists floated in, with a few familiar faces joining the crowded suite. She thought she saw Bette Davis in the throng, or a woman who could be her twin.

“Mazelle Washington!” Lorenzo was saying loudly, already sounding drunk. “Look at her right over there. Look at that face. That figure.” His voice was grating. Was this an auction?

The party was too loud: every word, laugh, and cough. Mazelle’s smile was a bigger burden, fraying when she forgot to tend to it. She couldn’t keep ignoring her bloated bladder. The hotel’s public restrooms were officially segregated, so she made her way through the crowd to find the suite’s private bathrooms.