She reached out and patted him on the arm. “My dear sir, you’ll accommodate an old lady. Your audience will forgive you, knowing that my husband can fire the whole lot of them.”
She lifted a thick handful of skirt, and climbed to the stage, and settled beside the harp, which she began tuning, sometimes letting her fingers trill out a chord. The notes were throaty and lingering. She was a gray presence on a dark stage.
“It will only be during the intermission, in front of the olio,” she said. “The rest of the evening is yours to ruin.”
August sighed. Philipsburg had a few surprises, but so did most of the towns he booked. He said nothing. Perhaps the dowager queen of the mining town could stumble through some music. Most of the audience would be out in the lobby, or visiting the water closets, or next door downing a fast one at the Quail saloon. On the other hand, she could chase the crowd away, and the second act would play to a few survivors.
But then, after she had fiddled a little, and ran nimble fingers—probably numb with cold—across the strings, she slipped softly into melody, the name of which he didn’t know, but it was sweet and lyrical, and not at all painfully wrought. She was playing on a dark stage, barely lit by light spilling back from the lobby.
It depressed him. Keeping some sort of lid on his show was the hardest of all his tasks.
She was accomplished. He confessed to that. And she was playing sentimental ballads, the sort of thing a miner might appreciate.
He resolved to say nothing at all. He wouldn’t approve; he wouldn’t get into a predicament about pay. This was between the formidable lady and McFarland.
“Count me out of it,” he told the proprietor. “It’s not my show. She’s not an act. I don’t know what she is.”
Marshal McFarland grinned. “She owns the town.”
“And I’m not paying for firewood. I’ll have my people in here shortly to set up footlights, the limelight, and stow the props. There may be some people practicing. Especially Charles Pomerantz’s wife.”
He had barely spoken the name when he heard her singing, picking up on a ballad the harpist was playing. Her voice, the harp, the sound was gold. The harp was made for Ginger, and Ginger was made for the harp.
And that meant trouble.
“Now sing one I don’t know,” Mrs. Wall commanded.
Ginger launched into “Cielito Lindo,” singing it in Spanish. Flawlessly, Mrs. Wall added chords and flourishes, creating an eerie beauty even though the song was intended for brass, for a mariachi band. It was a tender thing, this accord between Ginger and the dowager empress of Philipsburg.
August knew when to bend. “All right, Mrs. Wall, you’re hired for two performances,” he said. “I’ll have cash for you after the second show.”
“Oh fiddle, I don’t want money. I want this child to savage the hearts of those knuckleheads, the smeltermen in the audience. And with a few flourishes from me, she’ll do it.”
“How shall I introduce you, madam?”
“You won’t. Every man and woman in that audience will know who I am. If you introduce me they will applaud, for fear of not applauding. I could wear a mask and they still would know who I am. I could play badly and they would still applaud. They believe my husband knows all, and punishes his critics. They believe he has snitches in the mine, who report to him. Maybe Marshal McFarland is a snitch. Let them think it. In fact, I play quite well. So let them gossip and worry. That’s how it all works, you know. Some gossip rescues all enterprises.”
Beausoleil gently entertained the notion that Mrs. Wall was a godsend. But swiftly dismissed it. He tended to be superstitious.
A thin warmth began to welcome mortals to the opera house. Ritually, August began a tour of the place. It always helped to know everything. He eyed the olio drop, and lowered it himself, making sure it fell behind the harpist and singer. He walked out to the rear of the auditorium and listened. Ginger’s voice carried well. This was a small house. It would likely carry well even when packed, but there were always surprises.
The seats were hard and uncomfortable, rising in slightly canted rows. McFarland had not concerned himself much with comfort, but perhaps he was right. He had the monopoly on entertainment in this place, and his customers could take it or leave it.
They would need footlamps here. He surveyed the front of the stage and found a shallow metal trough intended for the lights. Each light burned inside a hood that threw the light onto the performers and hid the flame from the audience. A mirrored interior assured that the light would be reflected forward, upon the artists. The company carried eight of them, and a limelight, which was also a hooded device, larger, that directed a hot gas flame upon a cylindrical column of quicklime until it threw brilliant white light. He would use that, also. Most of the acts would be as far downstage as he could manage them. Upstage was poorly lit. He could burn a lot of fuels in a single performance. Running a show in an opera house that had not been electrified was far tougher than one that relied on incandescent lights.
Even as the morning quickened, his two hands placed the footlights, made sure their reservoirs were filled, and set up the limelight. He watched Mrs. Wall and Ginger shape an act, and hoped it would work. Instinct told him it might. But who could say what a notional, powerful woman might do?
Around one, his troupe drifted in. The house was almost warm; the footlights and crowd would do the rest. Some had eaten lunch. Others would wait. A few wouldn’t touch food until both shows were done. He eyed The Genius, Cromwell Perkins, and hoped for the best. He hoped Ethel, a veteran of the stage, could steer the man away from shoals. An old professional like Ethel was a comfort and consolation to him. She was capable of marching The Genius off the stage if things erupted badly.
A boy showed up with a wire for Ginger. She read it and beamed. Break a leg, it said, and it was from Charles, who was working the advance in Missoula. She was puzzled, momentarily, and then smiled. Well, this would be one hell of a show. New acts, untried talent, new town, cold weather. But that was the business. You bent, you ducked, you stood tall, you improvised, you wrestled the dragons, especially illness, the thing that caused more cancellations than anything else. Especially in cold weather like this.
Outside, a thin layer of cloud softened the sun, but the Saturday was bright and the air was quiet. The smeltermen and their mates and families drifted in. He stood quietly near the box office, watching the crowd, largely male, almost all young, dressed in work clothes for the want of anything finer in their wardrobes. Mostly men, lonely men, bored men who had only a few saloons in this isolated town between themselves and dreariness. Their wives, if they had any, were far away, in the East, in Europe, across the seas. Not here, not in the wilds of a new state. This opera house, where no large company had yet appeared, was the magnet. But they laid down their greenbacks and settled in the hard seats. He did spot a few women, mostly the wives of managers, he guessed. They would be looking for anything that would color their isolated and slow lives.
He saw a reporter, brandishing a pass, come in. There’d be a review, but it wouldn’t appear until after the second show, the morning they pulled out. Even so, August itched to read it, and thought to hunt down the twice-weekly paper to see the verdict.
He hoped to give them a memorable time. And if Mrs. Wall said to clap, they would, and if she didn’t raise her hands in applause, neither would they. August thought it was the damndest bind he’d been in.
27
AUGUST EYED the crowd. The house was full. McFarland had sold some standing-room tickets, and now twenty more stood at the rear. Philipsburg was flocking to the new show in the new theater.
He nodded. A stagehand stepped out, lit the footlights, struck a match to the jets that fired up the limelight, and retreated. It was six minutes past two. The acts waited quietly in the wings. He signaled a stagehand and the curtain parted. This house had draw curtains, and no flies. The limelight caught him in his top hat, tuxedo, white bib, a gold-knobbed can
e in hand. Before him, a dim-lit gulf of pale faces peered upward.
“Ladies and gents, welcome to the Beausoleil Brothers Follies,” he said. “It’s our pleasure to play here in Peoria—or is it Altoona?” He glanced toward the wings, awaiting an instruction, an old joke. “Ah, forgive me, it’s the noble city of Philipsburg, Montana. The finest town on the continent!”
They laughed.
“Thank you for coming this cold afternoon. And now, ladies and gents, those gorgeous and talented ladies, the one, the only Wildroot Sisters!”
The girls trotted out along with the accompanist, and away they went. They put their hearts in it; Ethel had drilled that into them. And they always had a good opener to warm up the crowd. They hugged the limelight, a trio of bright-lit songstresses, a stage full of butterflies.
“What a trio! Give them a hand, ladies and gents. You’ll be seeing more of the beautiful Wildroot girls. And now, as a special treat, the country’s finest monologuist, the gent who’ll tickle your funnybones, the gent who taught Mark Twain how to do it, the one, the only Wayne Windsor!”
He led the applause as Windsor, still a little rocky from his laryngitis, stepped out and was met with polite acceptance. This crowd was male, and it was looking for female entertainment. Windsor had a little spring to his step, no matter how he felt. And a wry smile that anticipated some delicious bon mot. He faced right, then left, letting the crowd admire him.
“I’m pleased to be here, in this great, rich, jewel of the Rockies—at least that’s what the mayor says,” he began. “I think I’ll talk about robber barons today. I’m all for robber barons. Are there any out there? If so, stand up, sir, and take a bow.”
He peered out upon a quiet crowd.
“I don’t see any. A pity. I was going to heap praise upon him. The world needs robber barons. They clean out pockets of ore; they clean out workingmen’s pockets. They clean out the till of every merchant in town.”
August watched from the wing. The gifted Windsor had his audience, and that act would be fine. There was always an edge to his humor. He did best picking on someone or something. He rarely reduced an audience to fits of laughter, but his sly humor worked its way through the crowd, gaining chuckles and smiles. And today he was in good form, his voice holding up, bouncing off the rear wall, where those standing customers lounged.
August rolled out the Marbury Trio next. “Ladies and gents, this afternoon you’ll see something brand new. Some incredible footwork, called tap dancing, that will make you snap your fingers. It’s all the rage in Memphis, and now it’s flaming in all directions, conquering audiences everywhere. This is talent, my friends. This is music as you’ve never felt it. I’m proud to offer you the one, the only, the sensational Marbury Trio.”
The trio tapped their way out from the wing, their rhythm perfect, the gents in black dinner jackets, Delilah in a daringly short red skirt. These miners had never seen the like, or heard a dance done with tapping of shoes, and they sat silently, blotting it up, and finally smiling, and even laughing at one of Delilah’s extravagant solos. Her partners peeled back, turned her loose in the limelight, where the dress shimmered in the brightness, and her feet lifted into a staccato that was broken now and then by a whirl of the skirts, and a new rhythm. August was suddenly aware he was watching a virtuoso. That was the thing about the business. Something grand always cropped up.
When they took their bows, he applauded along with the happy crowd.
“Weren’t they a sight? That was just magnificent. The Marbury Trio. Take that home and tell the world about it.” He paused a moment, letting the crowd settle down. “Next, ladies and gents, is Harry the Juggler. He’s got three names I can’t pronounce, and all I know is that he is not from the South Pole. And he’s the best juggler on the planet. It’s a miracle he doesn’t break all the china in Montana. The one, the only … Harry.”
That went fine, too. And then it was time to try Ginger. She was waiting quietly in the wings, wearing that white dress of hers that made her all the more girlish.
He signaled, and Josephine Wall’s men rolled the golden harp out, but kept it away from the limelight. Mrs. Wall wore a glittering brooch on her bosom.
“And now, friends, a special treat for you all. The loveliest singer you’ve ever heard, with the voice of an angel. Miss Ginger, my friends, Miss Ginger.”
Ginger floated out gently, and settled herself in the limelight, which caressed her white gown. She smiled, took her time.
“I see many faces before me,” she said. “I know you come from many countries, far across the sea. And many of you remember the lady you left behind, the one you dream about, the one you hope to bring to the New World … someday soon. I will sing ‘Far Across the Sea’ for you, and for your sweethearts.”
She started gently, alone, her voice indescribably rich, rising from some heartland within her, and then Josephine Wall picked up the chords on her harp, instantly catching the melody and mood, not so much playing as adding resonance. Ginger sang to those men, her gaze slipping from one to another, and sometimes to those who stood at the back.
A different sort of applause greeted her. It was respectful and firm, polite and glad. Beausoleil listened knowingly. This was exactly what he had seen in her. A tremor coursed through him. She had added an introduction, and now she had an act.
She sang two more. First, “Frost Upon My Garden,” a gentle song about love lost before it could ripen. And once again, Mrs. Wall added the melodic company of her harp, this time with more flourishes than before. It was as though they had practiced this over and over, getting it right. But they hadn’t. Mrs. Wall was gifted in her own right, and the honeyed voice and gentle harp seemed made for each other.
There was, oddly, no applause. No one wanted to break the spell Ginger had cast over the darkened theater.
“It’s cold outside,” she said. “And I think you just might enjoy something spicy and warm, from Old Mexico. Of course it’s a love story, too. It’s called ‘Cielito Lindo,’ and it won’t be in English, but I think you’ll know just what it means.”
And that was fun. This one was lively, the middle song had been sad. And after the first chorus, she invited her rapt listeners to join in.
“Ay, ay, ay, ay,
sing and don’t cry, heavenly one,
for singing gladdens hearts …
Ay, ay, ay, ay,
canta y no llores,
porque cantando se alegran,
cielito lindo, los corazones.”
Now they loved her. With each wave of applause, Mrs. Wall added a resonant flourish of her harp, somehow deepening the acclaim. August watched, feeling the glow work through him. He chose a moment to return to the stage, swept a hand toward Mrs. Wall, who rose and bowed, and then Ginger, who lowered her head a moment, as if saying grace, and then slowly exited the limelight.
That closed the act. The curtains rolled. The cheerful audience drifted out. A hand extinguished the limelight. The footlights soon revealed Mrs. Wall, before an olio, playing intermission music, pale hands plucking harp strings, and plainly enjoying her moment. August looked on, entertained. In the business, who could ever predict a thing?
August led off the next act with the Marbury trio again, this time all three clad in tux and tails, each with an ebony walking stick that doubled as a baton. He had never put them in that spot before and he wanted to see if they launched the second act with gusto. They did, and he moved easily into the rest of the afternoon’s entertainment.
“And now, ladies and gents, a brand-new act, The Genius and Ethel. I’m not sure which of them is The Genius, and which of them is Ethel, but you’ll figure it out. We found The Genius in a saloon in Butte, and life hasn’t been the same since he joined the troupe. I give you the one, the only Genius on the planet, and the one and only Ethel.”
The Genius showed up in a brown tweed jacket and a deerstalker hat, and Ethel followed in a dowdy dress that turned her into a sort of pyramid, even as the ol
io drop closed behind them.
“Well, sir, how did you get to be a genius?” she asked.
“It’s my vocation, madam. Some people choose to be carpenters. Or miners. I chose to be a genius.”
“What makes you a genius, sir?”
“My natural superiority, madam. I am the world’s greatest expert. I know more about everything than anyone here.”
“Well, you don’t know much about women,” she replied.
The audience enjoyed that.
“Ask me anything, madam, and I’ll prove it.”
“Okay, genius, tell me how many people are out there watching you.”
Perkins swelled up and gave her a withering glare. “More than you or anyone out there can count, so there’s no reason to be specific.”
“How do you know you’re smarter than anyone out there?”
“Madam, that’s simple. They live here.”
“You don’t think much of Philipsburg, do you?”
“Madam, being a genius is lonesome. If there was even one genius out there, one genius equal to me, I’d be happy to live in Philipsburg. Until then, though, I’d have to consider the place poor and deprived.”
“I like Philipsburg,” she said. “They came to our show.”
“That’s why they’re not geniuses,” he said.
The banter went along like that, pretty entertaining, Beausoleil thought. It would be fine if they didn’t run too long, or let the joke get pretty thin. It made a light act, a diversion. And they’d probably improve it as they worked the audiences. Maybe Cromwell Perkins could be a little more outrageous.
They quit after a few minutes, and got a good hand. That sort of braggadocio was a novelty, and the miners out there were entertained.
“The Genius and Ethel,” Beausoleil said. “Let’s hear some applause for Ethel.”
That won more cheer.
He ran the acts in order. Harry did his juggling act with knives and scimitars. Wayne Windsor did a brief monologue on misbegotten English, which the miners appreciated, since they were misbegetting English constantly.
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