Polytechnic High School - Polytechnic Yearbook (San Francisco, CA)

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THE POLYTECHNIC Very well put, my friend, but you have not yet solved the riddle, said Rodrique. Look! Both turned. A big, fierce looking fellow, wearing a black sweater had lounged over and sat insolently on one edge of the girl's table, and started to address her familiarly. She did not raise her eyes; she merely turned half away and said in a hard voice, Fiche-moi le paix! (the French equivalent for beat it ). The man paid no attention; he merely leaned further over the table and leered into her face. The girl was distinctly annoyed. She hesitated a moment and then deliberately shrugged one thin shoulder free of its loose covering. Laurence and Rodrique, who had been watching this proceeding with interest, simul- taneously gave a little exclamation of wonder, for on the bare shoulder startlingly black against the white skin, was the imprint of a black rat, which had been burned or branded in. The girl uttered a single word, Regardes! A change came over the man. His face blanched to a sickly gray; he dropped his bullying manner, and tremblingly slid from the table murmuring, Ah— pardon—, and withdrew. Ca! exclaimed Rodrique, explain that if you can. By heavens, I am cornered! replied Laurence. If 1 were only a romantic school boy w hat a story I could weave about an Apache queen, leader of a gang, whose sign is the black rat, burned into the skin. Of course that solution is ridiculous, but, even so, I cannot help wondering— His sentence was cut short by a commotion at the other end of the room. A young man rose, stepped to the center of a space that had been cleared of tables and cried in a loud voice, Silence! Rodrique gave Laurence a nudge. Watch now'. 1 his is the treat of the evening. The artists of this quarter come here in the wee hours to offer their talents, and to be hissed or applauded as the case may be. The young man, w'ho seemed to be master of ceremonies, opened an old piano, crying as he did so, Allons, la divertissement! His fellow Bohemians quickly took up the cry: Oui, oui, la divertissement! The announcer addressed himself to the room and inquired, Who has some- thing to offer? In the far corner, a dark young man rose, with a sheaf of papers in his hand. Moi, j ai des poemes, he said quietly. He was evidently well known to the habitues of the cafe for they greeted him with welcoming cries of, Ah, Pierre! Pierre de Gaulon! The young poet stepped forward and read in a deep, vibrant voice, while the pianist played softly the while. I hey were rather good, pretty lyric things, mostly sonnets to Madelon, Laurette, Renee, etc. He was applauded appreci- atively but not encored. Following him came a pianist and an actor who w'ere respectively hissed and acclaimed I ]

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THE POLYTECHNIC It is my turn to tais-toi , Laurence. 1 cannot let you thus slander me. But come, en avant, we must hurry if we are to reach the Cafe du Rat Mort before old Pierre has sold his last bottle of Chianti. At this, the two grown-up playfellows recommenced their climb up the steep, narrow stairs to the top where the crooked little street climbed and twisted its tortuous way into the sinister shadows. I he air in the Cafe du Rat Mort hung heavy w ith cigarette smoke and the vapor of steaming food. Old Pierre beamed happily; business was good. There were several tourists to augment his regular clientele; besides there was M. Rodrique, the artist, who was always generous, and with him was a friend who might prove to be equally liberal minded. It was past midnight. Rodrique and Laurence sat smoking and chatting over their liquers. Laurence was entertaining his companion by guessing who and what were the habitues of the place. He was a keen judge of human nature and his characterizations came close to the truth in most cases. Rodrique looked speculatively around in search of some more difficult type w ith which to puzzle his friend. Suddenly, he gave an exclamation and, turning to Laurence, said, Ah, M'sieu le savant, here is some one to try your powers on. Can you tell me who and what the person seated at the second table to our left is? Laurence turned and gasped, for the creature of whom Rodrique spoke was an oddity indeed. He—or possibly she—was clad in an old, ragged Blue Devil's coat, the sleeves of which ended in tatters at the elbow's, disclosing incredibly thin white arms, one of which rested on the table. The claw-like fingers of one hand held a Russian cigarette and from time to time flicked the ashes from it. The head was turned from the watchers so that all that could be seen was a shock of close-cropped, straight, black hair. The rest of the body was hidden by the inter- vening tables. Laurence was about to speak when the creature suddenly turned, and two large, black eyes, glowing like coals were fastened on him. He saw in that brief moment that it was indeed a girl. But what a girl! She was more like a bird than a human. The face, which would have been a perfect oval but for the sharp, thin chin, was a sort of ghastly white; the lips and cheeks were colorless; the only relief was the great dark eyes which burned so abnormally large in the thin pinched face. Above these eyes were straight, thick black eyebrows. The nose was very aquiline—almost Semitic—and by reason of the tightly-drawn skin and narrow straight mouth, gave her the look of a bird with a large beak. She looked as though she had not eaten heartily for weeks, yet she sat with her shoulders hunched up, and sipping a glass of absinthe, the price of which would have more than paid for a hearty meal. I admit 1 am puzzled, said Laurence speaking in a low voice. Of one thing 1 am certain: we are beholding a rara avis, of which much has been written and little known—a feminine Apache. And yet, there is something contradictory about this one. She is not of the grisette type; there is something of the boy about her, a sort of grown-up gamin, an atom of Paris as Victor Hugo says. [24]

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THE POLYTECHNIC I hen there was a pause. Everyone seemed to be waiting for the event of the evening. Suddenly someone cried, La Pi! La Pi qui chante! (the singing magpie). The others took up the cry, La Pi! La Pi qui chante! Rodrique whispered, Regardez done! our Apache queen must be ‘La Pi qui chante!' Indeed the girl whom they had noticed earlier in the evening had risen from her seat and was walking indolently toward the piano. She made an odd picture standing there in her nondescript clothes, like some mongrel that had wandered in from the street. She sang a popular song of the boulevards, a lurid, raucous thing, in a shrill voice. Rodrique and Laurence were disappointed; they had expected something more unusual. I he song, however, was rendered with spirit and evoked much applause. The girl s thin cheeks flushed, her dark eyes grew luminous, and for the moment she was almost attractive. I hen she saw the two men who were sipping their drinks unconcernedly and not joining in the applause. She seemed non- plussed; she was evidently accustomed to unanimous enthusiasm. Rodrique, leaning over to Laurence, murmured, How incongruous that this ugly little Pi should sing at all. The girl spoke rapidly to the accompanist. He shook his head and seemed greatly amazed. She stamped her foot, struck two or three high notes on the piano. I he pianist finally acquiesced and she turned once more to the audience, which was hushed in expectancy. Rodrique and Laurence looked at each other in astonishment as the first exquisite notes of Un Bel Giorno flowed from the lips of this little Apache. Clear and smooth and effortless they came with the artistry of the true music lover. As the last sweet sound died away, the girl, with the true savoir faire of the real artist, held her pose for a moment, and then bowed to the audience. And there was triumph in her glance as she observed the dumbfounded Laurence and his friend. A veritable storm of applause greeted the efforts of La Pi, but to this she seemed strangely indifferent, for she turned suddenly and darted out of the cafe into the night. It was warm in the great Metropolitan Opera House. One might be excused for napping through the first two acts of Lucia di Lammermoor, especially if one had an assured social position. So Rodrique Paget snoozed on comfortably. He was rather tired of this high brow stuff anyway; he would have preferred the Follies; at least there was some snap to that. His friend Laurence, however, was following the opera closely. Perhaps it was that, as a newspaper owner, he wished to be sure that his critics were correct, or it might be that he was interested in the prima donna, a new French singer, who was creating quite a sensation. [ zb]