Mardi Gras Madness (Carnival of Love)

Chapter Twelve

Individuals such as Sonia Jenson have made their appearance at irregular intervals throughout the written history of our world. From every land and from the most divergent environments.

They are born, flame gloriously for a more or less brief period, and vanish... leaving behind them no trace other than an increased sense of futility in the hearts of those whose privilege it has been to contact them intimately during their spectacular careers.

If they leave progeny behind them (and this seems rather the exception than the rule) they are invariably a dull and uninspired brood, failing utterly to follow the laws of heredity; seemingly more in accord with the compensatory mandate which decrees each positive shall breed a negative.

Perhaps it is best so. It shatters the imagination to visualize a world inhabited by Sonias. Yet, they serve a certain purpose. Providence is wise in thus holding before us at intervals a mirror in which we may see reflected the image of our dream-selves.

The Sonias are that. An unrestrained ego which knows no restrictions, jeers at all rules imposed by civilized society, scorns inhibitions and all such advanced psychological theories; in short, an atavistic reversion to the untrammeled savagery of the primitive who recognized no law save the urge of fierce instinct.

Masculine or feminine, it matters not. Soldier of fortune, or voluptuous hussy. Picaresque villain, or bejeweled demivirgin. In various guises they have marched across the pages of our history, causing, each, a ripple of varying intensity... a ripple which is immediately absorbed, blotted up, by the larger progression of humanity.

Sonia’s parentage has no real significance, but is of interest to show from what curious beginnings this type may emerge. Her father was Oscar Jenson, an eager Swedish youth, with cold blue eyes and a thatch of blond hair. Broad-shouldered and mentally laggard. Her mother was Sonia Vlastovich. Dark, haggard, undernourished; with sharp teeth, glittering eyes, and a bitter smile.

They met at Ellis Island, and Sonia Jenson was conceived there amid the bustle and odor of disembarkation. Her parents were married a few days later, and Oscar was gored to death by a Jersey bull on his uncle’s farm in Minnesota two weeks before Sonia was born.

His wife did not fit into the jig saw of the Jenson menage, and she took to the streets with her daughter when Sonia was two months old.

Twenty years have elapsed since the younger Sonia lay upon a dirty bundle of clothes in the corner of an ill-smelling room in St. Paul and gurgled happily while her mother was otherwise occupied in the same room.

That sort of thing continued for fourteen haphazard years. Sonia secured a fragmentary education at various public schools during those fourteen years, and absorbed a great deal of valuable information that is not yet a part of the curriculum of our enlightened public school system.

Then Sonia’s mother died — died so to speak — with her boots on. The man in the case was wealthy — a purely fortuitous circumstance — and the daughter proceeded to put to good account a portion of the knowledge she had imbibed while knocking about the country in the wake of her free-lancing mother.

In other words... she shook the gentleman down for a handsome sum. Sufficient to provide her mother with an ornate casket and decent burial... with enough left to launch Sonia upon her predatory career which she followed with great success during the six years intervening between her mother’s death and our meeting with her in New Orleans.

At twenty, Sonia was extravagantly beautiful. A wistfully soulful expression was her most important business asset. Her technique had been perfected to the point where she had merely to select her prey. The slumbrous cry of passion in the depths of her eyes, and the blustering lust of men did the rest.

She had come to New Orleans two years previously. Hunting was good in New Orleans, and the picturesque background pleased her artistic sense. So she remained. She had found that a certain reputation was an asset. Men regarded her as dangerous, and were thereby attracted... and invariably scorched by the flame of her passion.

Perhaps it was fate which sent Sonia to the Dancing Dervish at midnight of Mardi Gras eve. Possibly it was pure coincidence. No matter how the threads of destinies become entangled. There is no escaping the Master Weaver who draws the variegated fibers into grotesque patterns.

Sonia was bored. Emphatically and wholly. She was alone and it was the eve of Mardi Gras. She did not care to be alone. Remnants of distorted memories were apt to slink upon her when she was alone. She despised herself for morbid brooding.

So she had come to the Dancing Dervish to find gayety and escape from thought. She sat alone at the only table not occupied with revelers and surveyed the assemblage with scorn. She was twenty years old. She felt four times twenty. It was nearing midnight and she sat upon the fringe of a Mardi Gras festival.

She had refused many invitations for this night, and now she regretted her refusals. She moved restlessly in her chair and drew a long cigarette holder of pure jade from her handbag. What the devil had got into her? she asked herself. Was the game palling? She shivered as she peered down the drab vista of a future from which zest had departed.

She lit her cigarette and smiled wryly. She was wholly isolated from the din which beat upon her in waves. The interior of the Dancing Dervish was long and narrow. Two rows of tables along each side and four rows at front and back enclosed a rectangular space for dancing. Sonia sat at a table near the right front corner of this rectangle. It was closely packed with sweating couples who jiggled their bodies lustfully in time with the rhythm produced by a Negro string ensemble.

Sonia ordered a champagne cocktail and sucked in her tongue as she withdrew her eyes from the erotic spectacle. Life was a rotten farce to-night. The waiter brought her cocktail... and upon his heels was the headwaiter with Hattie and Mr. Simpson following bewilderedly in his wake. The headwaiter’s name was Henri, and he knew Sonia very well indeed.

He bowed and spoke softly:

“You will pardon? Two guests to sit with you? There are no other vacancies.” He shrugged his shoulders and spread out the soft palms of his hands.

Sonia looked through him.

“Okay,” she murmured. She surveyed the couple languidly as Henri seated them. Then she sat up straighter and stared at them.

Hattie had chosen a Spanish costume. It was the only one in the shop with a decently long skirt to modestly garb her thin shanks. It was too large for her, and the vivid colors clashed violently with her sallow complexion. A rhinestone comb set coquettishly in her graying hair was an added, incongruous touch.

Sonia blinked her eyes twice and set her glass down. Then she transferred her gaze to Mr. Simpson. He removed his sombrero awkwardly as he sat down. He looked very unhappy in the midst of the glitter and glamour of the gathering.

They weren’t, of course, possible, Sonia told herself. They were too perfect to be possible. She would close her eyes again, and the couple would be gone when she looked. She tried it, but the illusion persisted. The man’s wide mouth opened yawningly, and squeaky words came forth.

“Here we are, huh?” He smiled uncomfortably. “I guess we’re right in the swim. Mighty swell here.”

“They look terribly wicked,” Hattie said hopefully. “I declare, I don’t know what possessed me to fix up like this and come here. I don’t know what Robert will think. Everyone smoking and drinking and carrying-on.” Her eyes avoided meeting Sonia’s, though her quick glance flickered over the cigarette and tall glass.

“I ’spect we had ought to order something,” Mr. Simpson said unhappily. “This waiter feller keeps hanging ’round like he’s waiting for us to.”

“Why I... I suppose maybe we should... but I don’t know...” Hattie’s voice broke off in tremulous indecision.

“Pardon me,” Sonia spoke impulsively. She was surprised to hear the words issue from her mouth. “Won’t you be my guests?” she asked. “Please. Let me order something.”

Mr. Simpson stared at her mournfully while Hattie started, and looked at Sonia in dismay.

“That’s right nice,” Mr. Simpson said heavily. “But I don’t think we had ought to...”

“Nonsense!” Sonia interrupted him imperiously. She gestured to the waiter and pointed to her own glass... holding up two fingers. He smiled and departed.

Sonia planted her elbows on the table and studied Hattie and Mr. Simpson through a cloud of smoke. She was lovely, and she had a way with her.

“Let me do this,” she begged prettily. “I was so lonesome, sitting here all alone. It’s no fun being by oneself on Mardi Gras evening.”

“But you’re a perfect stranger,” Hattie said accusingly. She tried not to look at Sonia’s carmined lips and heavily rouged cheeks.

“I’ll fix that,” Sonia told her calmly. “I’m Miss Jenson. Sonia Jenson.”

“Sonia? That sounds furrin,” Hattie snapped.

“It’s uh right purty name,” Mr. Simpson protested weakly. “My name’s Simpson, Miss... and let me introduce you to Miss Hattie... uh... Miss Hattie...”

“Sutler!” Hattie supplied the name severely. “It seems a loose way of doing, but I ’spose it’s all a part and parcel of this carnival nonsense.” Her nose wriggled in a devil-may-care manner.

“Of course,” Sonia said soothingly. “Informality is one of the nicest things about Mardi Gras.” As she spoke she wondered what on earth had prompted her to speak to this strange couple. But they were pathetic, she reminded herself, and it might be amusing to watch them enter into the spirit of Mardi Gras.

The waiter brought their drinks just then and set two champagne cocktails before them. Sonia lifted her own glass high.

“Here’s to us,” she said gayly.

Mr. Simpson tasted his drink, hesitated, took another sip, blinked his eyes and gulped, then tipped the glass and drank heartily.

Hattie sniffed at her glass suspiciously. Wrinkled her nose, sniffed again, and tasted it.

She set the glass down in alarm and lifted her shoulders portentously. “Liquor!” she said sharply. “Ugh! Mr. Simpson! There’s alcohol in that drink!”

“Oh!” He set his glass down resignedly and peered at Hattie in mild surprise. “Tastes right nice,” he protested.

“It won’t hurt you,” Sonia gurgled. “It’s just a champagne cocktail.”

“Champagne?” Hattie bristled. The very word was suggestive of wicked excess. “I’ll have you to know, young lady, that a drop of liquor will never pass my lips.”

“That’s foolish,” Sonia protested. “That’s a part of Mardi Gras. Just like putting on a costume.”

“Humph.” Hattie sniffed three times and her nose wriggled furiously. “Why I’d... I’d... I’d as soon commit adultery as drink that vile concoction.” Her lips were set in a thin line.

“Well, I guess so.” Sonia shrugged elaborately. “Who wouldn’t?”

Several moments passed before Hattie understood the awful construction Sonia had put upon her words. Then her face flamed scarlet, and she gurgled helplessly. Mr. Simpson looked away in shame-faced silence as Sonia leaned forward cheerfully.

“I’m sorry,” she laughed. “I’m being a rotten hostess. Forgive me.” She patted Hattie’s arm. Mr. Simpson took advantage of the diversion to drink surreptitiously from his glass.

“Never have I been so insulted,” Cousin Hattie stated wildly. “Never!”

“Don’t be angry,” Sonia said soothingly. “It just slipped out. Look. I’ll send this sinful cocktail back and have them bring you both some punch. They have a wonderful recipe here that’s known all over the south.”

“There’s no... no liquor in it?” Hattie questioned suspiciously.

“Oh no,” Sonia assured her in a shocked voice. “It’s made out of absinthe, and grenadine, and vermouth, and Bacardi, and... oh, things like that. Really a wonderful tasting punch. They call it Dervish Delight.”

“Very well then,” Hattie said haughtily. “If you’re sure there’s no alcohol in it.”

“Of course not,” Sonia laughed. She beckoned the waiter again. “Take away these nasty cocktails,” she said coldly. “And bring us a pitcher of Dervish Delight. Be sure there’s plenty of ice in it.” She settled back with a sigh as he gathered up their glasses. “You must forgive me,” she said plaintively. “I do want you both to like me.” She looked at them wistfully from beneath long dark lashes.

Hattie softened visibly while Mr. Simpson beamed.

“Of course,” Hattie said graciously. “I don’t want you to think we don’t appreciate your kindness.”

“Here we are,” Sonia said happily as a frosted pitcher was set on the table, and three sparkling glasses deposited before her.

The punch was a deep ruby, and triangles of unpeeled orange floated on the top.

“It looks lovely,” Hattie conceded as Sonia poured three glasses.

“It tastes better than that,” Sonia assured her. She watched Hattie furtively as she lifted the glass to her lips, trusting the exotic flavor of the punch to conceal the alcoholic taste from her.

“Umm. That’s very nice.” Hattie sipped the triple-strength punch appreciatively. “Very nice indeed,” she conceded, as she tossed off half a tumbler with gusto.

Mr. Simpson was slower to appreciate the qualities of the punch. He tasted it doubtfully, and was dismally certain that it was, in truth, nonalcoholic. But it was pleasant to the palate, and he emptied his glass with much bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

Then he set the glass down and smacked his lips. He swallowed twice, and hesitated. A questioning look came into his eyes as a warm glow spread through his stomach. He looked at Sonia enquiringly.

She winked at him deliberately. A slow smile appeared on his lips, but he changed to stern gravity as he turned toward Hattie.

“Have some more punch,” he said solicitously. “It’ll be my treat next time.”

“Wait till I finish this,” Hattie said gayly. “It does hit the spot, doesn’t it?”

Sonia lit another cigarette and sat back to watch Hattie and Mr. Simpson with tolerant amusement. The punch disappeared from the pitcher at an alarming rate, and with each glass Cousin Hattie declared more gayly that it was, indeed, a wonderful punch.