She sat up, rubbed her eyes and yawned. The countryside had given way to roads and buildings. She went to her duffle bag and dressed, then tied the bag. Brakes squealed and the train slowed. If the train slows enough, I will get off here and see if I can find supper, she thought.
She stood and slung the duffle bag over her shoulder. The guitar case she slung against the front of her body and cinched up the carrying strap to hold it snugly. Well-padded inside and made of waterproof fiberglass, it did a good job of protecting her precious guitar. She put her left arm around the guitar case to hold it. The train slowed some more.
Up ahead, the tracks crossed a wide road. She swung out and clung to the slatted side of the car. As her feet hit the pavement, she released her grip and veered away from the train. The driver of a waiting car stared at her. She slowed to a walk and smiled at him as she loosened the strap on the guitar and slung it across her back.
When she saw a policeman up ahead, she broke into a graceful, long-legged run. He looked up as she approached.
”Evening, Miss. Can I help you?” the policeman asked.
”Good evening, m’sieur. I hope so. I am an entertainer. Do you know where I could find a bar or restaurant that might hire a singer for the evening?” Her fluttering hands embellished her words.
He scratched his head. “Well, several places on up ahead about half a mile sometimes hire singers and such, mostly on weekends. You new in town?”
She nodded.
”Well, good luck and stay out of trouble. Some of those places get a little rowdy at times.”
She smiled. “Thank you, m’sieur.”
She walked on, her step light, a swing to her hips. After about five minutes, she came to a place called Mike’s Bar and Grill. Going in, she looked around, then went over to the bartender. “May I speak to the manager, please?”
The man licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair, then sauntered over, leaning on the bar across from her. “You’re talking to him. How can I help you?”
”My name is Antoinette Duval.” Her hand touched her breast as she gestured. “I am a singer. I would like supper, and I am willing to sing for it. May I do so?”
”Sure, baby. You can start right now.”
She looked at him for a moment. Underneath the charm, she could see an arrogant possessiveness in his stance, a predatory glint in his eye. Non, she thought, you are not le bon Dieu’s gift to women. I do not wish to be raped.
”Thank you, m’sieur. First I want to get something.” She turned and left the bar. She didn’t run, but her long strides covered the ground rapidly.
She tried several more places without success. I may go hungry tonight, she thought. She shrugged, heading for the last bar she could see. It will not be the first time, nor the last. The sign outside proclaimed the place as Pete’s Tavern. Thirty or so little round tables clustered around a small semi oval stage, about half of them with customers. The room was dimly lit, but not gloomy, with dozens of small colorful bulbs hanging from the rafters. Friendly shadows. She liked the place.
”May I please speak with the manager?”
”Half a minute,” the bartender said. He stuck his head through a door behind the bar. “Gal here to see you, Mr. Pete.”
A short, stout man came out. “What can I do for you, Miss?”
”My name is Antoinette Duval. I am an entertainer, a singer. I would like to have supper, and I am willing to sing for it. May I?” she said, gesturing as she spoke.
He frowned. “How much are you asking?”
She made a negative with her hands. “That is for you to decide, m’sieur.”
”Okay, give us an hour, and I’ll give you dinner. If I like what I hear, we can talk about the rest of the evening.”
She nodded. “That will be fine. Thank you. May I have a glass of water?”
”Sure.” He turned towards the bar. “Joey, a glass and a pitcher of water.”
She sipped at the water, then carried the pitcher and glass over to the stage. She slipped off the duffle bag and kicked off her sandals, then opened the case and took out her guitar. She placed the open case at the front of the stage for tips. Placing a tall stool next to it, she sat down, put her right foot on the top rung and began a quiet, meditative song. Her warm contralto voice, soft but carrying, spread through the room. She sat, eyes closed, face thoughtful, long black hair swaying with her movements, barefoot, wearing a blouse of thin, soft, dark blue cotton embroidered in white that left her shoulders and midriff bare along with a rich brown wraparound skirt.
When the song was over, she opened her eyes and looked around, smiling. “Mesdames et messieurs. My name is Antoinette, and I will be singing for you tonight. If there is a song you would like for me to sing, please tell me.”
Three songs later, she paused for a sip of water. “This next song has a strong rhythm and is best with a strong accompaniment. I cannot stomp the floor very well,” she raised one slim bare foot, “and my hands are busy, so I can not clap. Perhaps you will help me out? It goes like this.” Long before the hour was up, she had the audience in her hand.
The manager caught her eye and beckoned. She stood. “Mes amis. I will go eat supper now, but I will be back.” She bent to lay the guitar on the floor as they began to clap. She laughed, extending her arms in an embrace. “You are a lovely audience.”
She stepped off the stage and walked over to the manager. “Was I satisfactory, m’sieur?”
”Not bad,” he said.
The waitress next to him snorted. She was a big-boned girl in her late twenties with blonde hair. “Not bad? Petey, you hard-hearted old goat, she was great and you know it!” She turned to Antoinette. “Don’t let him fool you, sugar. Under that stony exterior beats a heart of pure granite. What’re you having? We’ve got chicken salad, ham and cheese, egg salad, and roast beef sandwiches. To go with them, corn chips or potato chips.”
The manager cleared his throat as the waitress turned away to fill her order. “As Flora says, you were quite good. The customers seem to like you. Do you have a place to stay?”
”Non, m’sieur. Not yet.”
”I thought as much. How about a hundred dollars for the rest of the night? Six more sets, forty-five minutes every hour until we close. Plus meals and you can sleep in a little room in back.”
”I would like that, m’sieur. Thank you.”
Closing time came and Flora collapsed at a table and began counting her tips. Joey looked up from the cash register.
”Mr. Pete, will you look at this,” he said in his mournful voice. “Look at these receipts. You’d think it was a Friday, not a Wednesday. You did yourself a real favor when you hired that little French songbird.”
Antoinette sat down by Flora. “How did you do, Flora?”
”Lordy, sugar, at this rate, I’ll be rich, and dead of exhaustion! Here,” she pushed part of the money towards Antoinette. “This is part yours.”
”Ah, non!” she exclaimed as she pulled her hands back. “You did all the work!”
”You worked, too,” Flora said.
”Non. Singing, it is not work, it is fun. You were the one running from table to table all the night. But, thank you.” She touched the back of Flora’s wrist.
Joey came over. “How’d you do, Flora?”
”Two hundred fifty-three dollars and forty-seven cents.”
”Yeah. You should see the till. Looks like a Friday.”
”Here he comes,” Flora said. “Whatever he’s paying you, sugar, make him double it.”
”All right, you two,” said Mr. Pete. “Let’s get this place cleaned up so we can go home. Antoinette, may I speak to you for a moment?”
”Oui, m’sieur.” She followed him back to his office.
”You did a very good job tonight.” He handed her five twenties. “I’d like you to stay on a while longer. I’ll pay you more.”
She smiled. “That is not necessary, m’sieur. I will stay for a few more days, but when I decide to leave, I will go, and you will not try to keep me?”
”Okay. Hundred and fifty a night, plus food and a room. One set an hour, starting at six P.M. Sound good?” She nodded. “Good. You can sleep here, on the sofa.”
She looked around. “This will be fine, m’sieur. Thank you. May I trade in my tips for bills?”
”Sure.”
At the bar, she counted out her tips. He gave her a ten and four twenties.
She walked over to Flora, who was wiping tables and chairs. “Where is there another towel, Flora? I will help.”
”That’s not part of your job, sugar,” Flora said.
Antoinette shrugged. “I want to help. You are tired.”
Flora hesitated a moment. “I’d love it. Here, take this rag and I’ll get another.”
At three A.M., the others left. Antoinette went back to the office, stripped and curled up on the couch, the Texas air warm against her bare skin and fell asleep.
