#bengali harlem

[[a continuation - well, a prequel really - of this story]]

“Trixie bè, come on, come with me.”

Trixie lets her sweet friend’s house rest in her mind the way she rests on her shoulder, their own little world amidst the noise ruckus of the Dixie Drug Store.

Oh don’t let the name and the plain little storefront fool you - the drugs of choice in this joint weren’t those newfangled sulfa or insulin or pepper-up or stinksap, oh no no no. Just say the magic words and the friendly nurses will dispense some fine bootleg  - firewhiskey and gin and daisywood draught and absinthe, currently being poured in a glass by Fern in preparation for a slotted spoon, a cube of sugar, and Incendio.

Fern, Trixie, and a small group of other friends were at one of their regular nights at the joint, listening to good time jazz and watching shake dancers and laughing at each other’s progessively zozzled joking.

Zozzled - surely that explains Fern’s claims about this swanky party at this exotic far-off city? I mean - fountains of champagne and dragon-barrel brandy, oysters Rockerfeller and butterbeer bonbons by the plateful, the skies lit up with violet and sapphire fireworks, the best of the dirty blues singing to molls in their finely tailored suits and dolls in their ropes of pearls and diamonds - maybe just the pearls and diamonds? (That got her attention.)

“Are you sure there really was such a shindig, Fern shè, or did the Green Fairy give you a mirage?”

Fern stirred the melted sugar into her absinthe glass and took a sip. “I’m telling you, it’s real! My cousin has this canny ability to bring the right people together and create a swell time! You could say…it’s like magic.”

The rest of her friends laughed, which made Trixie roll her eyes. It’s not like the rest of them had nothing to do with magic - those limeys might have tried to put up some statute or other, but America’s ley lines were throbbing with power. Even if you weren’t especially trained, like Fern at Hogwarts or Trixie with the matriarchs in her family, you knew enough to sprinkle salt on your doorways for protection or tie a knot in your clothes to find a lost item.

Still, there were some things about magic that the other people in her table wouldn’t be able to appreciate in quite the same way: the underlying rules and logic, the effort to skillfully harness magical power without letting it overwhelm you, the sheer amount of work and study it took to really understand magic, its potential, its limitations.

Most people just assume that being magical meant you could snap your fingers and all your wishes would come true. Indeed it was Trixie’s friends, children of her parents’ friends and neighbors, a porous yet tight-knit group that lasted through the years, that named her: “Tricksy”, she of the rabbits and hats and voodoo dolls. As the gang got older their ideas of magic became a little more nuanced, but the old nickname stuck - and sometimes so did the jokes.

Then there was Fern. Fern was in most ways very different from Trixie - while Trixie was as flapper femme as they came, Fern stylised herself like one of those bull-daggers, solid and steady with a predisposition for fine suits. But Fern was similar to Trixie in one very crucial way: she, too, was a trained witch.

Fern’s training was rather distinct from Trixie’s; Fern’s English family had sent her off to Hogwarts, a fancy formal school where students took special classes in things like spell-casting and ayurveda but named them things like Charms and Herbology. The school wasn’t new to her - her father had mentioned some distant relatives that had decided to head to Bilat instead of Markina and had sent children there or that other fancy European school, Doomstrang maybe? and her mother had sometimes wished she could have sent Trixie to Beauxbatons so that she could learn to be a more refined fluently-French belle, but alas circumstances and currency were not in their favour. Bit of a blessing, really; Trixie couldn’t see how a school named after pigs or pretty sticks could teach her the depths of her family’s inheritance.

Even so, even with its cross-cultural variations, magic - like music and love - was universal. One could meet a wizard, witch, spell-caster, shaman, jadukara, sorcierè, and be able to strike a kinship on shared understanding and skill. Trixie wasn’t always fond of the way Fern and people like her tended to brand non-magical folk as Muggle, separate from them - but at the same time she was deeply appreciative to find someone that gets it.

(Doesn’t hurt that she’s a sweet sight.)

And now Fern was telling her about this fantastic shindig, supposedly run by a cousin of a cousin (I thought it was us Bengal kids that were supposed to have the convoluted family trees) who had himself gone to Hogwarts before deciding to explore the New World (nothin’ new here). Fern had been invited one time, while back up in New York visiting family, and could not stop talking about it since. 

And Fern wanted her to come along.

“Sounds like a good time,” remarked Walter, one of the others at their table. His mother used to see Trixie’s mother all the time for remedies to maladies medical or otherwise, and while they had their meetings he and Trixie would have their playdates. Now he was one part wisecrack one part dreamer, his fashion sense carefully created to display effortlessness, always looking for a way up. Running the business that kept the Dixie Drug Store stocked wasn’t quite enough for him. “If you ain’t going I’ll go.”

“It’s invite-only, Waldo.”

Walter shrugged and took another sip of his whiskey. “Then I'll be Trixie. With her shapeshifting dresses and sparkle and whatnot. What are they gonna do, put me through some magic body scanner to see if I’m the right person?” He shook his head; Trixie did not seem to really appreciate the golden opportunity in front of her. He really would take it if he could.

“I wouldn’t put it past him, honestly,” replied Fern, drinking the last of her absinthe. (Maybe her last absinthe for the night. For now.) “He does like his experimenting. Every time I hear about him he’s gone and transfigured something else or made up some new charm.”

“Ooh, a scientist,” cooed Florence, another friend of Trixie’s whom she had known in school. She was fond of learning, the group’s resident bookworm with the voracious appetite, and occasionally did experimenting of her own. Trixie was sometimes glad that Florence wasn’t a witch simply because who knows what kind of chaos that girl would cook up? “God, I wonder what his library would look like. If his parties are that spectacular, imagine the books!”

“Maybe you should go, Florence - you’d probably appreciate it better,” said Trixie, sighing. “Me, I’m just ordinary.”

The fifth person at the table slammed their shot of bourbon on the table. “Child, you are not ordinary,” bellowed Ailene.

Ailene, Trixie’s oldest friend, a whirlwind of confident energy who created new bonds fast and held on to them hard. Indeed, it was so long that they’ve known each other that Trixie wasn’t quite sure when it started: all she could remember was that her mother had been unusually kind to Ailene’s mother, a single parent, and they’ve been close ever since.  

Sometimes Trixie wondered if Ailene was really a witch in hiding: she did have a really peculiar ability to read people’s truest intentions, protect against harm, attract all sorts of weird and wonderful circumstances. Ailene didn’t say. Maybe she was magical the way everyone was magical, each individual carrying innate abilities to create and destroy and transform. Maybe she was magical the way only Ailene could be magical.

“If anyone’s not ordinary it's you,” said Trixie.

Her friends weren’t having any of it.

“Stop it, girl. Yes, we know Ailene’s extraordinary. What we’re saying is - so are you.” Walter took Trixie’s hands in his while Fern rested her hands on Trixie’s shoulders and Florence and Aliene watched on. “You have a gift for haute couture of the deepest kind: your work makes people not just look - but feel like one of your Sultanas.”

“That’s just because my family left me with all these fabrics from back East. Anyone could look like an exotic princess with some sparkly gold-embroidered fabric.”

“Any old fool can try - but your work? Bè, you make it real. Every last cut and stitch - smooth as silk. And I know you put in some of them magic skills to make it look like you’re wearing liquid jewels. Even an old frumpy puss like yours truly can be a superstar.”

“You’re never a frumpy puss, Walter.” Indeed, with his leather jacket (old and well-loved, charmed by Trixie to withstand any wear and tear) and a shirt that seemed to shine even in  the darkest night (a gift from Trixie for his birthday many years ago, still fits beautifully), Walter had a sharp dress sense to make even a sack of flour look fabulous. But yes, Trixie’s knowledge of dressmaking went beyond the typical seamstress standbys: magical silks called for magical skills, and her father had been very particular about her mastering the family trade even across oceans.

“Oh and honey, that bottle you gave me all those years ago?” chimed in Florence. “Couldn’t ace those tests without them. I was a quakin’ mess! And whoosh – flying colours!”

Trixie remembered the little vial she had given Florence when they were at high school together and Florence was about to collapse from exam stress. A standard of her mother’s and one of the first potions Trixie learnt to brew, it was said to give the wearer luck - well, really, what it did was lift the wearer’s spirits enough so that they created their own luck. That little boost was enough for Florence to face the exams with calm confidence and get straight As. (Not too long ago Fern had told Trixie about Felix Felicis, a fairly common potion back in Limey-Land, and she wondered if the idea had jumped over with the slave boats.)

“That was mostly your smarts, Florence dear, that’s kind of the point of the potion.”

Trixie was never really very good with taking in praise. Sure, her clients loved her work - most of them had been familiar with her parents’ work and were glad that there was someone else continuing the legacy. Also there was a sudden revival of interest in the Orient, which made her work even more in demand just for the exotic factor. But being strongly skilled in dressmaking or potions-making was expected of her; it would have been unusual in her family if she wasn’t at least competent. Whenever someone asked her if she was any good, she didn’t feel like she was the best person to answer - she knew she had the technical chops, but she didn’t have Ailene’s confidence or Walter’s drive or Florence’s intelligence or Fern’s whimsy.

She was Trixie, dressmaker and potion-maker, trained in the magical arts, but not quite sure who she is outside what she can do.

Well, she had dreams. Dreams of travel, like Fern: being able to see the world and retrace the footsteps of her father’s people. Dreams of learning, like Florence: diving into subjects she’d never even thought about and soaking up everything there is to know. Dreams of ambition, like Walter: jumping on any opportunity that presented itself and really make something of herself. Dreams of poise, like Ailene: commanding a room with just her presence, no problem too big for her, self-assured and strong.

“You know, Trixie, I think you undersell yourself,” said Ailene after a while. “Yeah, maybe Walter would look great anyway and Florence would have graduated. But you’re the spark that gets things going. You have a talent for bringing out the best in people. You see what’s possible – and you make it possible.”

Trixie was somewhat taken aback by her oldest friend’s assessment. “But I thought that was your thing!”

“Where the hell do you think I learnt it from, sweetheart? Your mother befriended my mother when no one else would. You befriended me when no one else would. Your heart is in everything you do – and the purest of hearts can accomplish wonders. I tell you, Trixie, New York? New York will be a goldmine for you.”

Trixie looked at Ailene, then at Fern, then at everyone else around the table. New York could be a goldmine, yes. Maybe she can parlay some of the trendy Orient there. And she did always want to get out of Storyville for a spell.

But what would she do without all the people that made her who she is? People were leaving Storyville by droves already, including some of the gang’s old friends that would have otherwise been at this very table right now. How can she abandon her closest ones like these?

Sure, Fern would be there with her – but for how long? Fern never really stayed at one place long enough for anything; it was a wonder Fern hung about Storyville for longer than a month. And what about the rest?

“Hey, listen. You get to New York, you become a superstar, then we’ll come to visit, okay?” said Florence, noticing Trixie’s anxiety.

“Yeah babe, we’ll be fine. We still have lives here,” continued Ailene. “But you – you are destined for the stars. Or at least more of this world. I can feel it, I know.”

Walter leaned back and smiled a rare smile. “And hey, you stay there long enough, maybe you can invite me to this party. See if it’s as good as Plants here says it is. Then I won’t have to be you to get in, I’ll just be me.”

Fern would have thrown absinthe at Walter in response, but the absinthe was all gone, and she wasn’t going to waste a drop anyway. “Yeah. At least come up for the party. You can always come back. Just one weekend.”

Just one weekend. One weekend that could change everything, or one weekend that could give her a blessed break, or one weekend that could just be the same ol’ same old.

You ain’t gonna know if you don’t go.

Trixie drank some of her brandy and let the jazz roll back into her brain, sparking daydreams of golden fountains and brass horns.

“One weekend. Let’s do it.”

[[source: Andrew Ding]]

She pulls out the last of her dresses from her closet. Every shade of the spectrum, embroidered so finely with saffron-gold and mallowsweet-ruby and dittany-pearl; you could swear the lines moved under the light. The lush fabrics were from her father, one of the early nodes of the chikondar network stitched between Hooghly and Treme, selling yards and yards of dreams of the fabled Orient. It was her father who taught her how to sew, how to bind seams with just a squeeze of the index and thumb, how to charm each dart with a fitting spell so that every body can wear your work, how to interweave strands of glamour and fortune.

She takes out a mahogany box lined with velvet, and carefully places vials of perfume within. Notes of asphodel and honeywater and jimson weed; one little whiff and your spirit apparates. The potions were from her mother, granddaughter to a granddaughter to a granddaughter of a Voodoo Queen, matriarch and crone and mediwitch to a community of vagabond peddlers and creep joint princesses. It was her mother who taught her how to brew, how to steep just enough belladonna to fly but not enough to crashland, how to portion off each tincture and oil with masterful precision, how to bottle fame and brew glory.

She picks up the tube of kajol that is older than she is and paints haunting dark rings around her bright doe eyes - a ritual since birth, when her father’s sister draws into her strength and protection.

She cradles the stole made from a wolf that died before she was born and hangs it off her limber slender shoulders - a familiar since birth, when her mother’s brother wraps around her power and sanctuary.

They are all long gone now, her elders: abbaandmomanandfupiandtonton. Claimed by tuberculosis and cyclones and Jim Crow. They left the world for her and left her the world. She’s always had a touch of the bede and the gitane in her, likely decanted from strings of long-losts dadis and grand-mères. The spirit of transience stirs in her - longing for adventure, getting away from the fading homeliness of New Orleans, mulling over her sweetheart’s invitation to New York.

Should she take up that invitation, head to unknown territory, start over? Enchant the locals with canny magical skill grounded in sincere empathy?

Isn’t that what her parents ultimately accomplished? Is that not just an approval but her birthright?

It’s time for her to follow in her family’s footsteps, and go.

Viola ‘Trixie’ Shafiq locks the door to her childhood home at the edges of Storyville and resists looking back.

[[picture source: this article about rose-based perfumes - I’ve tried looking for the original source for this specific picture but haven’t been successful. Also trying to find a 1920s vaguely South Asian looking lady is hard.
Most of this story is based on the book Bengali Harlem, which talks about the migration of Bengali people into the US, including a significant number of clothes merchants that traded and eventually settled in New Orleans. Here’s more information about this and other Bengali-US migration movements. For some reason a lot of the daughters in the Bengali/Creole of Colour families were named Viola.
There is a Part 2 (or at least a Part 1.5) of this story, which explains where she’s going and who she ends up meeting in New York (guess who!). I would have written the second part here but it’s late and I’m tired so here’s a teaser.]]