Free A Free State by Tom Piazza

agree to. After some argument, he suggested that he be onstage from the beginning of the second half, seated until “noticed” and called upon to prove his prowess. As a refinement, we established that he would be mute the entire time. In tribute to his nonverbal eloquence we would call him Demosthenes Jones.
    Was this entire idea brazen, and perhaps unhinged? Yes. Yes it was. But suddenly the predictable continuum of the everyday was replaced by a set of effervescent possibilities, and that, I suppose, was what I had been addicted to my entire life. The process was intoxicating, as music was. It was all just plausible enough to seem workable and practical. And what, I asked myself, was the worst that could happen?
    Letting Rose in on Henry’s identity was unavoidable; he needed to be fitted for his outfit, so there was no way around it. Or perhaps it was in fact avoidable, yet I needed to share the secret of my plan with someone, and the idea of a complicity with Rose was too attractive to deny. Of course it was a risk, yet I had a strong intuitive notion that it would be all right, and that she could be trusted with the secret. By this time, Rose and I had become . . . not friends, exactly, but we had a certain comfort with each other that comes from understanding that neither person’s boundaries would be tested further. Still, I thought to check with her first on the question.
    â€œRose,” I said, “we are going to need an outfit for a guest performer, but his identity needs to be kept secret. Even from the fellows.”
    â€œAll right, James,” she said, stitching carefully.
    â€œListen, Rose,” I said. “I need to be certain that you will keep the secret.”
    She looked up at me for a moment as if to see whether I were joking. “Do you imagine I can’t keep a secret?”
    â€œWell . . .” I began.
    â€œI would win medals at it, if they awarded them,” she said. Then she added, “You would be my only serious competition.”
    â€œThen I’ll ask you this: Do you have antipathies toward Chinamen, Negroes, Mexicans, or other foreigners?”
    Now she looked hard at me. “I take people as I find them, James.” Her look of reproach made me confident that I could import Henry without causing uneasiness in her.
    Two days later, in the late morning, Henry met me at the theater so that Rose could take his measurements and get to work making a costume. She was wearing a simple frock, and she had on a washwoman’s bandanna, tied around her head. But this touch had the paradoxical effect of making her seem even more elegant than usual.
    â€œI bought some embossed satin for the costume,” she said. “The receipt’s on your desk. I’m going to make a turban with the leftovers. Maybe you’ll let me play an Arab princess.”
    â€œI’ll conduct the audition privately,” I said, flirting back with her.
    â€œYou’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said.
    â€œWell,” I said, “why don’t we get Henry fitted?”
    Henry was standing back in the shadows; I turned and threw him a quizzical look. He stepped forward, and I said, “This is Henry. But we are going to do a little routine for the boys, so think of him, for now, as Juan.”
    He stood there, wordless, with his hands in his trouser pockets. Rose was frowning. I worried that I might have misjudged Rose’s willingness to accept a Negro, but the worry passed when she spoke.
    â€œAren’t you hot in that flannel?” she said.
    â€œNo,” he said. “I’m fine. It’s chilly in here.”
    â€œIs it?” she said.
    There ensued an awkward silence, which I broke by suggesting that we get Henry measured, and we proceeded to Rose’s workroom.
    Once there, Henry submitted to the usual measurements. Rose showed me the bolt of glossy light-green satin, embossed with shiny stripes, which I agreed would