Madam by Cari Lynn Page B

didn’t exist. He heard nothing but the music. Within this space of just the instrument and him was where he found his true self: a jumble of pride and disgust. One moment impressed with his abilities, the next infuriated by his limitations, real or imagined.
    A faraway voice called his name, and a wrinkle of irritation crossed his face as if he were absentmindedly flitting at the buzz of a fly. Only, the voice wasn’t far away at all. “Ferd,” it repeated, now gently demanding. After another moment or two: “Ferdinand LaMenthe, you listen up now.”
    Jarred, Ferdinand looked up, glassy-eyed. Standing in front of him, holding a steaming clay pot of red jambalaya cradled in a towel so as not to burn her hands, was Hattie Lala.
    “Don’t make me fuss at you to eat,” she warned, setting the jambalaya on a nearby table.
    Slowly reentering reality, Ferd caught himself twisting in what surely must have been a sour mug. But he quickly covered, not wanting Hattie to sense she’d disturbed him.
    “Don’t want you getting so thin you have to stand up twice to cast a shadow,” she said.
    “You betta listen to her, cap,” added Pete, popping his head out from the kitchen.
    Ferdinand looked from Hattie to the table, where the meal awaited him. Even though he was onto something in his composition, he forced himself to lean back from the keys, push away on the bench, and move to the table to eat. The Lalas had been good to him, and he mustn’t be showing disrespect.
    After all, it was Pete Lala who’d supplied Ferdinand with his very first musical opportunity—a paying gig. Sure, it was just playing to locals who stopped in for a hot meal between work shifts, but playing for patrons had given Ferdinand confidence. And the clientele seemed to enjoy the music, so much so that a coal seller told his wife about the fine playing, and she told the wealthy lady of the house who employed her as a servant, and the lady—whomever she might be—went on to inform a prominent judge of young Ferdinand’s talent, and, lo and behold, an invitation showed up at the café, requesting Ferdinand to entertain at a fancy-dress party at the home of the Honorable J. Alfred Beares, senior judge of the Civil District Court of Orleans Parish. Tonight was the night.
    Mindful not to muss himself, Ferdinand carefully spread a cloth napkin over as much of his pressed white shirt as it could cover and tucked a wide corner behind his collar. He then moved his face as close to the steamy bowl as he could get. The smoky aroma of andouille and beans met his nose, and he suddenly realized he was quite hungry after all, as if the composing had depleted him and the jambalaya was now warming him back to normal sensation, to the sights and smells of the little café and the hum of Pete and Hattie’s chatter.
    “Eat up,” said Pete. “There’s gonna be trays of food walking all around you at that party, and you aren’t gonna be allowed any of it.”
    “Leave him be, Pete,” Hattie scolded. Having no children of her own to flap over, she looked to Ferdinand with parental pride. “He’s going tonight with the honor of playing, not eating.”
    Pete laughed. “They know how to get their money’s worth, then.”
    Ferdinand smiled a mouth full of stew, knowing it was true—no matter that he was thin as a matchstick, he could eat as if there were five of him.
    Pete untied his apron and retired it to a hook, then pulled a chair next to Ferdinand and sank onto it. “Ah, don’t it feel good to sit for a minute,” he sighed. “So, how’s your composing coming along?”
    Ferdinand forced his smile to remain. “Slowly,” he said, hoping the subject wouldn’t linger. “Doesn’t matter for tonight, though. No one will be angling to hear my original works. I suspect common Dixieland will suit those fancy dans just fine.”
    “You’re studying so hard,” Pete said, “you’re gonna be a professor of the piano one day soon.”
    Ferdinand looked up from