The Property of a Lady (42 page)

The big dressing room she shared was full of flowers.
There were bouquets for every girl, and the most popular ones had so many they had overflowed into the corridors. And she had flowers too, a huge bouquet of Madonna lilies from Mr. Ziegfeld with a note wishing her success; a spray of lilac-tinted blossoms from Madame Elise, telling her to remember she was
ravissante
and to stand
tall;
a posy of pink roses wrapped in silver paper with love from Azaylee, and a big bunch of spring flowers from Beulah, with affectionate good wishes.

“What more could any girl ask for?” she wondered, smiling. But deep inside she was scared, and she wished she had told O’Hara so that he could be here to protect her, because it was really tougher doing this all alone than she had ever imagined. She had sent Rosa and Zev tickets, but she was worried they might not come after all. Then just before showtime another bouquet was delivered. Two dozen deep-red, long-stemmed roses, with a card that said,
“Mazel tov
and success, with love, Zev.” She clutched the roses to her, smiling. He hadn’t forgotten her after all.

Even though the wind was blowing the rain sideways and the sidewalks were a minefield of puddles deep enough to come over the top of her shoes, Forty-second Street and Broadway were jammed with limousines and crowds of people gawping at the celebrities arriving for Ziegfeld’s opening night. Rosa jumped the puddles expertly, pushing back the wet strands of hair and hanging on to her hat as she elbowed her way through. The ticket touts were doing a roaring trade on the corner, with seats in the stalls changing hands at fifty dollars each. She watched for a while, noting carefully who was giving the best deals, and then she approached one and offered him her expensive ticket. She drove a hard bargain as she did every day at the butcher’s or the fishmonger’s. After triumphantly pocketing fifty dollars as well as a ticket for a seat in the cheapest, uppermost corner of the balcony, she headed into the theater.

Her seat was to one side of the steep balcony, but at least it was near the front and she smiled complacently, glancing at the people around her. They were like she was, wet and poorly dressed, staring down at the glamorous audience in the stalls and dress circle, eager to share the luxury and fantasy that only Ziegfeld’s sumptuous extravaganzas could provide. But unlike her, they did not know the new star of this show.
She
was here to see Missie, and she was keeping her fingers crossed for her.

The lights dimmed and the orchestra finished the overture and began to play the opening notes of Jerome Kern’s new song as the curtain rose slowly on a sumptuous Arabian Nights scene. The audience gasped. Everything glittered in bronze and copper and gold, the dancers wore gold-spangled harem trousers and gold-jeweled boleros, the caliph sat on a jeweled bronze throne in his stiff gold-embroidered caftan, and the slaves were like gilded statues, their heads topped with sprays of shimmering osprey feathers. Oriental silk carpets and layers of shaded draperies lent mystery to the scene, and across the footlights stole the scent of sandalwood and myrrh and exotic eastern spices.

Rosa caught her breath along with the rest; she had never seen anything like this, never imagined a place filled with such sumptuousness. She was entranced by a fantasy world created by Mr. Ziegfeld’s genius, and for a few short hours she was Mr. Ziegfeld’s devoted slave. He promised her escape from the drabness of reality and gave her the stuff of dreams to remember. Ziegfeld knew what people wanted and he gave it to them—only more so and better,
and
he made a fortune doing it.

Rosa laughed loudly at Fanny Brice and cheered the Arcos Dancers and in the interval she sat quietly in her chair, studying the program. Missie’s name was featured in the next scene, only of course now it was “Verity.” She bought a box of chocolates from a passing vendor, stowing them carefully in her coat pocket to give to the children
later. Then, clutching her hands together anxiously, she waited for the curtain to rise, praying “Verity” would be all right. After all, she thought worriedly, she’s little more than a child herself. She crossed her fingers again, hoping that Missie had done the right thing.

At last the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play a soft undulating melody, rhythmic and slow yet compelling. The audience leaned forward expectantly as a second blue gauze curtain rose on an underwater scene. Dancers in chiffon tunics in shades of turquoise through deep blue performed an elaborate ballet around a huge silver scallop shell in the center of the stage, while showgirls wearing sequined mermaid tails and fantastic headdresses made from sparkling shells swung to and fro in boat-shaped swings suspended from the ceiling. As the music rose to a crescendo the silver shell slowly opened to reveal a huge creamy pearl. Another crescendo and the pearl split in two and there was Missie in wisps of silver gauze with legs that seemed to go on forever, her arms open wide, her head thrown back, her hair falling in a shining cascade to her waist.

“Oohs” and “aahs” of admiration swept through the theater. A silvery light beamed down on her from a diamond moon half hidden behind the layers of blue gauze overhead, and she tilted her lovely long throat and held up her arms to it in supplication. A bevy of young men in blue tights and silver jerkins crowded around her, holding out their hands, and she strode forward, floating gracefully across the stage to a huge silver ramp descending slowly from above. As she stepped onto it she turned again to face her audience, flinging her arms wide, her violet eyes sparkling as she smiled, and then she was wafted up the ramp with her escort of young men to the moon in heaven above. Ravel’s “Bolero” crashed to a climax as the curtain came down amid thunderous applause.

Rosa wiped a tear from her eyes. It was ridiculous, it was silly, but she had loved it and so had everyone else.
All around her people were saying it was one of Ziegfeld’s most spectacular scenes yet and that Verity Byron was a beauty, tall as an evergreen tree and fragile as the moonbeam she had represented. She was ethereal, subtle, had fabulous eyes, incredible legs … Rosa could hardly keep herself from crying out “But I know her! She’s my friend! That’s Missie out there onstage!” She couldn’t wait until it was over and she could go backstage and see her.

The finale had Verity walking elegantly across the stage in a puffed violet silk crinoline as Marie Antoinette, carrying a huge ostrich-feather fan with a tiny chihuahua dog tucked under her arm, and the applause that greeted her was tremendous. As the final curtain fell, Rosa ran all the way down from the balcony to the street without stopping once, darting breathlessly along the alley behind the theater to the stage door. She wasn’t the first; a line of smart men in dinner clothes, white silk scarves, and silk hats were already waiting, and the doorman was being kept busy passing their little notes to the girls, as well as several of what looked to Rosa like jewelry boxes.

“Hey, Mr. Doorman,” she called, edging her way to the front, “tell Miss Verity Byron that her friend Rosa is here.”

He threw her an indifferent glance and went on collecting up the little notes, sorting them out carefully and pocketing the ten-dollar bills that somehow slid from the young men’s hands into his.

“Hey,” she called again angrily, “you with the deaf ears, I asked you to tell Verity that her friend is here. Rosa’s the name, Rosa Perelman.”

This time he didn’t even glance her way. She stuck her hands belligerently on her hips ready to call him a few names, but the smart young men were staring curiously at her and she didn’t want to cause a scene and embarrass Missie. She would just have to wait here until she came out. Unless? After waiting until the doorman was heavily involved in his next transaction, she slid silently behind
him through the stage door, running along the drab corridor before he could stop her.

“Hey,” she called to a passing dancer, “which way to Verity Byron?”

“Upstairs, third on your right,” she replied, continuing on her way.

The door was covered in little silver stars and said “The Ziegfeld Girls,” and when she opened it there they all were, all twelve of them, laughing and talking at once, and all of them dressed to the nines in silk gowns looking ready for a party. Missie was in the very center, being hugged and kissed as they congratulated her, exclaiming over the shower of notes on her dressing table and the bouquets of flowers that were constantly being carried in.

Rosa thought she had never seen her look so lovely. She was wearing a beautiful red taffeta dress with the diamond snake bracelets around her upper arms and her lovely hair was swept up at the sides with diamond clips. But it wasn’t the dress and the diamonds, she thought, awed. Missie didn’t need them tonight. The poor, pretty girl from Rivington Street had acquired the beauty and sparkle of “a star.”

“Rosa!” The other girls turned to stare curiously as Missie flung herself at the bedraggled figure standing by the door. “Oh, Rosa, I’m so glad you came. I got you a good seat so that you wouldn’t miss anything. Tell me, what did you think?”

Her eyes searched Rosa’s anxiously for approval and Rosa grinned. “Mr. Ziegfeld kept his promise,” she said. “He made Missie O’Bryan into Verity Byron, the star. You were wonderful, Missie, just beautiful.”

Missie laughed, then her face fell suddenly, “The only thing is, Rosa,” she said uncomfortably, “I don’t actually
do
anything—like dance or sing or make jokes. All I do is stand there to be looked at.”

“For two hundred a week—is enough,” Rosa said
firmly. “If Ziegfeld wants you to dance and sing, he pays a thousand.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Missie said, laughing.

“The ticket I changed for fifty dollars also,” Rosa said. “I couldn’t sit next to the swells in the stalls dressed like this, could I?”

“Ohhh.” Missie hugged her contritely. “Of course, I should have thought of it.”

“No reason you should,” Rosa replied softly. “You should forget all about being poor as soon as possible. Poverty does not make good memories.”

“But there’s
you
, Rosa,” Missie retorted, “I will never forget you. You are still my best friend. And Zev.” She looked at her, puzzled. “But, where is Zev?”

“You don’t know?” she asked, astonished. “By the butcher, by the baker, by the carts, everyone is talking about it. How Zev Abramski sold up his pawnbroker shop and left for Hollywood. To make his fortune in the movie business. That’s what they said.”

Missie glanced at the flowers on her dressing table, “You mean he has gone?” she asked, shocked. “Without saying anything? Without at least telling me?” She felt let down, sad … like O’Hara, Zev had always been there, he had become part of her life, her friend … and now this.

“Believe me,” Rosa whispered, patting her arm reassuringly, “is for the best. A young man like Abramski is not for you. And he knew it too. He left no forwarding address. It’s better what he’s done. Forget him, Missie, and live your own life. Like Ziegfeld said, ‘Enjoy. ’”

“It’s time to leave for the party,” the girls called.

Missie looked sadly at Rosa and said, “I have to go. Ziegfeld is throwing an opening night party at Rector’s. Will you come and see me soon, Rosa? Bring the children?”

She clutched her arm, looking suddenly pathetically young despite the new veneer of sophistication, and Rosa
replied, “I’l? come when you need me. Don’t worry, Missie, I’m still your friend.” And with a wave and a smile, she disappeared down the corridor, sniffing at the irate doorman as she scampered past.

Eddie Arnhaldt sat in the aisle seat in the fourth row of the stalls in the New Amsterdam Theater, feeling vaguely irritated by Fanny Brice’s comedy routine and wishing that Gaby Delys had been on longer. But what he was really waiting for was Verity Byron. In the interval he took a stroll round the foyer, smoking a special handmade Turkish cigarette and inspecting the ladies, though he thought they compared unfavorably with German women: too slight, too breastless, too brittle. Not one of them in this foyer could compare with his mother when she was a young woman and even now that she was older, she was still stately and handsome.
And strong
. Eddie knew what he liked in women. He was the same as all the Arnhaldts; he liked them tall, full-breasted, and strong enough sexually to satisfy his appetite. And in Europe he had gained quite a reputation as a ladies’ man.

As the second act bell rang, he crushed out his cigarette and strolled back to his seat, waiting impatiently for Verity’s entrance. When the silver seashell finally opened he took out his opera glasses, studying her intently. She bore no resemblance to the Ivanoffs and neither was she his ideal, but if he was forced to sacrifice himself on the family altar, he was prepared to do so. And somehow, he did not think the task of seducing the delicious Verity Byron was going to be unpleasant.

When the final curtain fell he strolled around the corner to the stage door, arrogantly surveying the crowd of
young men already waiting for the girls. He knew that this was not for him. His would be a more subtle approach.