The Tenacious Mr. Talbot

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The Death and Burial of Poor Cock Robin, 1863 H. L. Stephens

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After Party || Reva Malone + Leon Talbot

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"I’ll be honest, I’ve seen girls dealt better hands than mine who folded," Reva confided with a shrug. "I don’t know … I guess I just inherited my dad’s stubborn streak! I mean, keeping on was better than any other alternative."

With that simple logic, she slid off the sofa, scarlet silk trailing behind, bare feet quietly taking her the few feet to where the kitchen lay. The telltale sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, glasses clinking, said that she was after the promised drink. Being a law-abiding American citizen, she kept a secret stash of bootlegged booze on hand, her personal tastes trending to gin which, she assumed, would suit her British guest just fine.

As she set about assembling their drinks, she continued, “I might have been annoyed at first with you, English, but after our talk, I don’t know, I just got the impression that you’re basically a decent guy. And like I said, it would have come around sooner or later and if there was going to be a problem, I guess I would rather know straight away, you know?”

Drink in each hand, she returned to the front room, pausing at Leon’s side to hand over his. “Didn’t want to get too attached to you without knowing.” Her smile was all innocent flirtatious invitation. “Let me know if that’s too strong; I learned to bartend at the Tiger.”

Situated once more in her preferred spot, legs crossed, one bent elbow resting against the couch’s lone arm, she regarded the reporter. “Does your … innate impertience,” the words were nigh-foreign to her vocabularly and she covered her unfamiliarity with them with a sip from her glass, “Often have you facing the wrath of the women in your life?”

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"It’s perfect," the man reassured before even trying the concoction, but such was not to be mistaken for any delay in the form of hesitation. On the contrary, Leon quickly followed his words with a generous swig. When the glass was near expiration his manners kicked in and in lowering it he offered a toast. "Yes, indeed. Perfect. Cheers, my darling." Late blooming daintiness curled a finger to his lips; a pause to consider his neighbor’s question.

"It does," he concluded, "It does the women and men, employers and friends alike. Parents, superiors, country, likely even King, though the same could almost certainly be said for him and my own wrath." He exhaled a soft huff of a laugh, continuing. "In England, I’d say we’re a pretty reserved group of people, generally very orderly; you know, we’re well-practiced in being subservient to royalty. Well, for whatever reason something in my parents did not seem to transfer over to me, and so I find that I’m a pretty confrontational person and people tend to not like that. Even over here, I don’t think they do… but, being that it’s not only a large part of my personality but also my job, there’s not much I care to change about it. Which is also not to say that it bothers me - it really doesn’t. Broadly speaking, I couldn’t care less if some chum were to dislike me because I put him on the spot. Naturally I care about your opinions since we’re…" Lifting a finger, Leon wagged it toward Reva’s doorway to indicate their close proximity. In that break of speech, he also took it upon himself to polish off the remnants of his drink.

"Yeah, maybe I’m talking myself into a circle now. What fun."

[l-talbot]

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Gli Spettacoli Pirotecnici sul Piave [Pyrotechnic Shows on the Piave], 1918 Antonio Rubino

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Challenge, Day 6: Resources & Abilities, con't

Why do they have their resources? Because a person needs resources to be anything other than a hermit? Not… really sure how to more thoroughly answer this. Maybe see below?

How long have they had them, and how have they served the character over time? (Ex. Contacts, money, political power, fame, etc.) He's had them since he left college and decided to take the plunge into the real world. Leon's resources - in the form of contacts - likely originated with his printmaker father and those college professors who took a shining to him. As he grew and branched out in his career it's only natural that more are acquired, moreso with his young eagerness and ability to chat with near anyone. Nowadays, this approach may not be so fortuitous; he's a bit more jaded, especially when it comes to Montford.

Regarding money, it's all earned. If he ever "borrows" money from his parents it is all spent, and despite the nagging urge to be responsible and start saving for the future, he has little in savings or investments.

His contacts, of everything, likely serve him the best. Friends in a vast array of cities are always good to have when you're lacking the funds for a hotel, sources to call upon when you need verification of a story, officials and entertainers… never know when you're going to need a quote!

[l-talbot]

Challenge, Day 5: Resources & Abilities

Where did they learn their abilities? A creative upbringing certainly helped Leon acquire not only his writing ability, but his sense of style and preferences in art. Following his formative education, he attended college - the Slade School of Fine Art in Bloomsbury - but dropped out before completion.


If they have an income, where does it come from? Though his parents are pretty well-to-do, he supports himself (mostly) as a journalist for The Montford Gazette.


Do they have a job? Do they like it? How do they feel about their co-workers? See above. He does like it, but as it's a competitive field, I imagine his relationship with the other reporters can be anywhere from easygoing to terse and strained. Leon can sometimes be an unfriendly person, especially when it comes to work, so it would not be strange for someone to think him an ass based on how he treats people on the newsroom floor. He definitely does appreciate his editor, though!

[l-talbot]

J’Accuse [one sheet], 1919 Origin Slovenia

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A Modern Dance of Death, ca. 1912 Joseph Sattler

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After Party || Reva Malone + Leon Talbot

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"Conrad was a client who became a lover," Reva corrected. "And Angel wasn’t a term of endearment; it’s what I was called back then." Her smile remained as she didn’t take offense to the Brit’s assumption, though a certain feline slyness colored it.

"Look, English, I know that was a hell of a thing to throw out there, but it would have come out sooner or later and why not sooner? I like you and I trust you. I trusted that you wouldn’t start quoting scripture or call me a whore or, I don’t know, leave in disgust." She looked at him earnestly, honestly. There was no act here, no beguiling bubbly flirtation.

"And I can see you trying to do the math … I was fourteen when I started, sixteen when that Christmas party happened. So, I don’t know, I guess I miss what could have been more than anything? My folks were gone, they had died earlier that year, and this guy, a friend of the family, said he would take care of me and I was dumb enough to believe him." Reva shrugged here, as if falling victim to an older predator were just another folly of youth.

"I wound up at the Tiger. The girls there became like sisters to me, management treated us pretty well, and for the most part the guys were alright; most of ‘em just wanted a pretty girl to make them feel special, important, for a little bit. It was good money, too, which didn’t hurt …

"I suppose it would have been better if my folks were still around and I had stayed at home and kept at the voice and dance lessons, maybe got my face on a local ad campaign before hitting the big time!" She laughed. "But who knows? Maybe if that had happened I would be married with a kid by now instead of dancing with the ‘Dolls and living here and talking to you. And I can tell you this, English, I’d much rather be here with you."

Though it would have been easy for her last remark to be a come-on, considering the hour and her state of non-dress, it instead carried the warmth of friendly affection.

"All this soul bearing! Do you want a drink? Something more to your liking than the coffee?" And like that, she had turned it back on, the sparkle and brightness returning like an effervescent shield.

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"A bit more of a biter would be divine, dear," Leon confessed following another sip of the coffee. Though it might have been some lingering vestiges of the stereotypical British reserve that had him holding his tongue to the girl of whom he was growing fond, even if he had been served tea the answer would have been the same.

As he should have been, the reporter was a thorough listener and let the woman speak without interruption. The heaviness of the conversation was not his burden to bear, and thus he took in what was offered while trying to retain a sense of delicacy in further address.

"That's a rough hand to be dealt. It's a wonder you're not a wreck from it, but onward and upward, I suppose." Cynicism abandoned for a smile more true, Leon briefly lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "It's awfully generous of you to have invested some trust in me considering our brief knowledge of each other. I should hope my innate impertinence won't have me taking it for granted down the road lest I face your wrath a second time."

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Well Received. || Grace & Leon

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"The same way most artists do when they’re first starting out. I worked my way from town to town all across Ohio and Indiana until I finally got to Chicago. Pittsburgh was my stepping stone out of hometown, but a big city gig was always my goal." She smiled at the reporter as his pen flew over the inkblotted pages of his notepad. During her first interview, she’d spoken embarrassingly slowly, fearing that the journalist wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. She had learned by now that they were as good at their job as she was at hers. "I performed in Chicago for a little over a year before circumstances led me to Montford, but I’m ever so glad they did. I couldn’t be happier to be here." Her story was sweet and concise, conveniently leaving out the parts about her multiple changes in managers and the reasoning behind those. She wanted to focus on the present and the future and hoped that Mr.Talbot wouldn’t go digging too deeply into her past.

[l-talbot]

Indeed, for the time being the singer was safe from the scrutinizing eye of the Gazette. Leon was true to his word and intent to let her go with little hassle.

"It seems increasingly rare to hear someone say that they're happy that they've come to Montford, and are genuinely glad for the audience they've garnered." Tucking his pen between the pages upon which he had just been marking, the reporter folded the ratty contraption shut. "Well, I think that's about all I need for now, as much as I would love to hoard your time for myself and a further barrage of incessant questions. Ms. Holiday, I must say that it has been a delight talking to you, and I look forward to the opportunity to sit down again in the future. I sincerely hope my review meets your expectations, after your show has thoroughly sated my own." He smiled, humbled and charmed.

However, before completely releasing the woman from his proverbial grasp, Leon retrieved a business card that displayed all of his pertinent details. It was offered across the table. "Perhaps this is a little gauche, but if you ever have a story, a record on the cusp of being released, or an event that needs announcing, I'd be happy to break it." It wasn’t the gesture itself that was underhanded, but his staking claim and insisting that she talk to him rather than anyone else at the newspaper might have been. He worked a competitive field, after all.

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After Party || Reva Malone + Leon Talbot

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She didn’t comment on it, but Reva did note Leon’s wrinkled nose as he sipped at the coffee. A mental note was made, then and there, to keep a tin of tea onhand at all times so as to please her British neighbor’s palate. For herself, she, obviously as it came from her kitchen, quite liked the strong brew and the warmth it brought to limb and belly. It was a comforting thing, just as much as a favorite blanket or well-worn pair of slippers. 

Leon’s faux-suspicion was met with a nigh vaudevillian display of offended sensibilities. “I am shocked that you would even suggest such a thing …!” Reva held a hand, dramatically splayed, to one silk-covered breast. “But now that you mention it, I might have a tale or two up my sleeve.” The hand was dropped, as was the act, disappearing with a sly smile and sideways glance. The faith she held in swapping stories with the well-traveled reporter was mostly bravado; Reva viewed her life’s experiences as mundane simply because they had happened to her and well within Montford’s meager city limits. She sipped slowly at her cooling coffee, sorting through memories for the perfect story to relate. Landing on one that was a favorite, if not perfect, she set her cup down, freeing her hands for its telling.

Read More

[l-talbot]

It was in the seconds following the closure of her tale that Leon saw Reva in a completely different light. The young dancer had transitioned from day to night, with a long, uncertain shadow to perpetually trail what he now assumed was a persona of bubbliness, an act put on for whoever’s benefit. She wasn't all sunshine and good times, no, there was far more to it and, oh, how deceptively murky that avenue of enlightenment was. There were many things he could say, but not asking for it wasn't one of them.

In fact, the reporter found himself a little tongue-tied. Not for faulting her for the sex, Leon was far from being a prude to deny women the same pleasure as men, but he couldn't quite shake the implication of desperation, of tribulation that was coupled with the misfortune of having to sell one's body for money. Especially coming from a woman who looked a few years short of his age, at best. Even his open mind couldn't quite rationalize it.

"I daresay if that Conrad fellow thinks you an angel, then his impression is all wrong," Leon tilted his head, a semi-sardonic smile coming to crease his cheeks. "Do you miss the naïvety of youth?"

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After Party || Reva Malone + Leon Talbot

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"Folks here just like to pretend they’re conservative," Reva countered. "That they’re better than other folk because they make a big show of going to church and following the rules. But I can tell you, English, that once you get them behind a closed door all that goes right out the window. Hypocrites, the fat lot of them." The certainty with which she weighed her last words spoke to firsthand experience with this; being a burlesque dancer would certainly have her raising the ire and judgment of said godly folks as the men amongst them continued to pay good money to see her dance nearly nude.

"Anyway, the next time you come see me perform, and there better be a next time!, I want you to wear something even wilder! I want to spot you straightaway from the stage!"

And like that, the girl’s sparkle returned, chasing away the gloom that had, for a moment, darkened her brow. Leon’s tale of European debauchery put all thought of small-minded judging from her mind, replacing it with vivid images of posh flats and carefully manicured lawns and free-spirited beauties of both sexes in diaphanous togas.

A delighted peal of laughter greeted the Brit’s description of his own painted costume, followed by a breathy, “I’m sure you both were beautiful …” Reva felt herself going green with envy; not a hateful, spiteful jealousy, but a softer, more wistful sort. She desperately wished she could fall in with the sorts who traveled and whiled away days in lavish parties; maybe find herself in the center of a torrid love affair or the winsome muse for a tortured artist. They were the romantic dreams of a young girl who had never been far from home, but hearing Leon describe his misadventures was akin to hearing a firsthand tale of heaven, of gaining a glimpse of a world that had only been hinted at in film and story. She was utterly and completely enthralled.

"It all sounds so wonderful! Oh, I’m sure there’s a terrible side to it all, but it honestly does sound like some sort of wild dream! You’re so lucky to have experienced that …"

The displayed record brought the dancer, sadly, back to the all too familiar facets of her own life. Glancing at the inscription, blue eyes gave a small roll. “Conrad was … He was fun. And then he wasn’t.” She shrugged, shifting how she sat, legs drawing up beneath her body. “He’s … He’s one of the ones who knows he’s double-faced, but doesn’t know what to do about it.”

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"We'll put that one back then," he commented, putting the lot of them back into their home. Apparently nothing had particularly caught the reporter's fancy. Or maybe he was just snooping.

Turning to the cup coffee set out for him, steam steadily fading from its surface mirroring the pastels of their surroundings, Leon leaned forward to fix it to his tolerance which was mostly diluted with cream and sugar. The more he partook of the turbid concoction, the more he disliked it; a wretched mix of dirt and acid without any of the subtlety of earth or preciously sundried leaves from which were leeched a rich, delicate flavor. Though it was far from Reva's fault, her neighbor couldn't help the wrinkle of nose that accompanied his initial sips.

"The Paris parties are always a bit treacherous," he then admitted, "London-ways we're a bit more subdued, but we do have our own brash collection of Bright Young Things." Shoulders lifting in a shrug as if to acknowledge the differences of the two special sorts, the man then inclined his chin to her. He looked down his sharp nose in a farce of suspicion.

"Anyway, look at you, damsel-dancer. You've surely had some wild experiences that you're carefully avoiding mentioning..."

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After Party || Reva Malone + Leon Talbot

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“You have! But you can say it again; you can tell me all night how wonderful I am!” The dancer’s laugh rang like so many bells throughout the apartment, tracing her movements as she stepped from living room to kitchen and back again.

A kettle of water was put on the stove to boil - “I’m out of tea, I hope coffee is ok!” - and a variety of sweets and fruits were gathered and arranged on a prettily painted serving tray, the offering brought out to be placed on the coffee table for the pair’s casual perusal.

Leon’s secondary comment would have brought a flush of color to the girl’s cheeks if she were the type to fluster at masculine flirtations. “Oh, I’m sure you could if you looked long and hard enough …” She winked, the gesture saucy. “I’ll be two shakes; I really should put something on. What would the neighbors say?” A faux scandalized statement as the lone neighbor to say anything was sitting in her front room.

On that teasing note, she disappeared to her bedroom, leaving Leon to continue his musical sorting. Unsurprisingly, the girl’s musical taste trended towards popular dance records, though a few eccentric gems could be found, too. A singular jazz album stood out not only for its label, which marked it as a race record, but also for the inscription in one corner of the cover: For My Angel, Love Conrad. No doubt a memento from a former flame.

Reva reappeared as the kettle whistled its task completion, sliding silently sideways to quiet the racket. Mugs, sugar and creamer were balanced on a plate-come-tray, the display much less impressive than Leon’s tea service a week before. This was set beside the platter proper and, back to stay, Reva lounged on the sofa. She had divested herself of sparkling gems and jacket, donning now a scarlet kimono with an intricate design picked out in golden thread. Whether she wore something or nothing beneath it was almost impossible to tell, though the front slit formed by overlapping fabric halves offered tantalizing glimpses of bare thigh, knee, calf, ankle.

“I have to say, English, I’m still in absolute awe of what you’re wearing tonight! It’s brilliant; I adore it all! It’s enough to almost make me wish other Montford men would be so bold as to color their nails, but no — I want it to stay yours and special.” A Cheshire Cat smile was aimed at the Brit, just visible above the rim of the mug cradled in the girl’s hands.

[l-talbot]

"That's kind of you," Leon grinned with a brief glance up. If he had noticed the flashes of flesh displayed between swathes of silk as the dancer lounged, he didn't comment. Though he maybe should have been, the Brit wasn't scandalized in the least - he'd seen far more skin in passing elsewhere 'round the world, a subversive explanation easily gathered from his further chatter. "It's quite different to return to the addled conservatism of the States after seeing how the rest of the world does it. This, even, is far from the wildest I've ever worn to go out somewhere, though the thought did cross my mind that painted nails might be a little much for Montford.

“I've a pal in Paris who attends the national school of fine arts - École des Beaux-Arts, if we're to be more proper here - and each spring they hold what's called the 'Four Arts Ball', celebrating a certain set of studies before everyone goes on holiday. I'm not sure how far the word has travelled, but these things are notorious; I'm talking degenerate carnival, naked women on tables, floats and parades and just wild alcohol-fueled revelry like a springtime saturnalian ritual thrown to embrace the deities of art." Pausing his perusing of Reva's record collection to tell the story, Leon was clearly a visual orator. His face was alight with a wealth of expressions, a hand gesturing grandly when necessary.

"So, a year or so back, I was in Paris for a piece and my friend invites me and the girl I was seeing at the time to this ball whose theme was Greek mythology. With his other friends and also their friends, we had this huge group of half-dressed and undressed Gods and Goddesses. I'm not going to say we were the 'hit of the ball' because it's hard to overdo when everything is already so overstated, but it was something for sure. I was appointed Hermes, so my friend painted me gold and made me a pair of winged sandals and hat and I remember being thankful for the increasing warmth of the season because there was quite a bit of skin. My girlfriend was some sort of sea goddess - bare chested and colored blue, with kelp-like paper streamers and seashells tucked in her hair." Shaking his head softly, he smiled at the memory and focused back down on the records. "Midday following, a good chunk of us woke to find ourselves scattered about the flat of some half-deranged publisher who still had a string of post-mortem pigeons draped around his neck. I don't recall feeling distinctly sober until the end of that week." Spotting the inscribed record, he pulled it out and glanced aside to Reva.

"’For my angel, Love Conrad,’" Leon read aloud, "Isn't that sweet."

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After Party || Reva Malone + Leon Talbot

Though they shared a wall, a hall, and a bathroom, Reva and Leon’s personal spaces were miles apart aesthetically. Where the Brit’s was modern, severe, dark, masculine, the dancer’s apartment had a decidedly light, feminine air that bordered on the old-fashioned. Walls had been left their original cream, portraits of movie stars and fashion plates - obviously taken from magazines yet rather artistically arranged given their humble origins - breaking the monotony of neutral color. The main living space housed second-hand furniture: A fainting couch covered in a white satin, back and legs a pale pink, and a pair of armchairs upholstered in a minty green that looked better suited to a spinster aunt’s drawing room. A radio stood in one corner, framed family pictures perched atop, and on a coffee table between the armchairs and couch could be found a gramophone and accompanying records, lifestyle and fashion magazines mixed amongst the vinyl.

All this was taken in as soon as the front door was opened, allowing both the apartment’s occupant and her guest entrance. They were returning from an evening at the Peabody, Reva as entertainer and Leon as audience member. The dancer’s spirits were high, infectious, her laughter ringing through the apartment’s halls as they made their way up the stairs. Her show had been a success, earning her enthusiastic applause and a small arrangement of gifts - most noticably bouquets of flowers which were now cradeled in the crook of one arm - as she left the building, breaking hearts in her wake.

Leon’s presence at the show, though she had only spotted him after, had been another boon to her spirits. Since their first real meeting, the girl had taken quite the unexpected shine to her neighbor and she was truly pleased that he had kept his word on seeing her perform.

"Make yourself at home," she called, voice trailing as she moved to the kitchen where the flowers were rather uncerimoniously dumped on the counter. "Feel free to put on some music or something if you’d like!"

Then, reappearing, still all dazzling smiles and high spirits, “Would you like anything? I don’t think I have much, but I can scare something up…!” Still in parts of her costume, she looked something like the actresses she so obviously idolized; hair tousled, lips painted, costume jewelry sparkling at throat, ears, wrists. She still wore her jacket, a small reminder that beneath it she was nearly nude. If she cared about her state of undress, and in the presence of a gentleman visitor, she gave no sign. “Ahh, English, I’m so glad you were there!”

[l-talbot]

"Happy to have been invited, my dear. Did I tell you how great you were? Surely I've already said..." the reporter replied only half-absent mindedly, removing overcoat and suit jacket to drape over the back of one of those softly-spearmint chairs. Though the properness of his dress could have certainly been debated amongst the prim & proper conservative set as the young man had taken some liberties with his outfit that evening, he also could have put together worse. First and foremost it was like he had taken a page directly from Queen Victoria herself, each cloth section of the ensemble being a rich, dead black. Both tie and bowtie were surrendered for the shimmering panes of a necklace forming a sharp golden sun, tucked just beneath the triangle cut of collar that was previously partially obscured by the open neck of the coat he had just removed. Most outrageous were his nails, glistening red and matching the shade of velvet his slippers were made of. If it looked like he had lost his mind, that might have been the partial truth, though he would have claimed bigger cities and bigger parties and bigger experiences as the blame for the daringly drastic forwardness of style.

Freely moving around the space, he took in everything - the pictures, the arrangement of furniture, the little touches of the woman that could clearly be picked from those that were a product of mass manufacturing and the inability to afford one (or two) of a kind. Leon smiled in the quaintness of it all; it was far from his tastes, but it seemed to fit the ragdoll perfectly.

"I'll have whatever you can suss out," he said then, appointing himself master of the other green chair. Taking up his neighbor's other offer, the man pulled out a stack of records from their holder and began to sort through them. When Reva's face appeared again he looked up from his fingers' sifting. "What a trap - can barely find your eyes through all that sparkle."

[l-talbot]

Well Received. || Grace & Leon

[grace-holiday-rpg]

A soft sigh of relief escaped her when he assured her that this interview wouldn’t be published verbatim, hoping that he wouldn’t twist her words or make her out to be just another dim-witted singer as some journalists had done in the past. “I would never say such a thing. At least, not before I’ve read your review.” She laughed softly at her own little joke, before quieting herself and mentally kicking herself for the joke that may have been in poor taste.

She was thankful when his questions continued along the lines of something she knew: music. “I wrote the lyrics and had ideas for the melodies and pacing of both, but I have to give much of the credit to Al, our bandleader, for the music. He is wonderful to work with and I can only hope he enjoyed working on these songs with me as much as I did with him.” Grace paused, taking another breath as she collected her thoughts and quickly wet her lips and throat with another sip of water. “I’ve been performing professionally since I was sixteen, but I’ve been singing for as long as I can remember. My first time singing in front of an audience was when I was six, for a school talent show.” A more nostalgic smile crossed her face as she thought back to when it had all begun. “This might sound a little cliche, but music actually chose me. An agent heard me singing in a charity show and offered to take me to Pittsburgh. My mother encouraged me to go and, as they say, the rest is history.”

[l-talbot]

Though her comment did not fall on deaf ears, Leon was a sport enough to acknowledge the jest with a wry smile and move on. The Brit was rather easy-going in the realm of taking offense to things. It would have been a shame for him to wind up a hypocrite, being in such an occasionally offense-inducing position himself.

"Pittsburgh, hm?" he mused, fingers briefly twirling the shining lacquer exterior of his pen between them like a stubby baton. "So how, from there, did you come to be here?"