by George Baxt
Herb Villon and Don Magrew were standing with Doctor Romanov, who had removed his monocle and put it in a jacket pocket. His eye was too damp to hold the piece properly and he was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief.
“Spies?” Villon asked Magrew as Hurok and Mae stood next to them, listening to the two Russian men take turns thanking the audience and telling them how happy they were to be on American soil. Hedda said to Hazel Dickson, “I wish they were under it.”
Alongside you, thought Hazel.
Hurok quietly asked Villon if he knew what was ailing the doctor. “Looks like the flu to me,” said Villon, “or maybe he’s diabetic.”
“Diabetic!” gasped Hurok. ‘Then maybe he should have a shot of insolence.”
Fred and Ginger applauded graciously as the two Russian men departed the stage. Again into the microphone Fred said, “And now, ladies and gentleman. Ginger and I take great pleasure in introducing the three great artistes we will be privileged to work with. First, the great prima ballerina assoluta. Miss Nina Valgorski!” Nina oozed glamour as she wafted down the stairs, drinking in the applause as if it were the champagne she would have preferred. She thanked the assemblage, then Fred quickly introduced Luba Nafka.
Jim Mallory dined on her with his eyes. Here was his dream girl in person at last and he was determined to wangle an invitation. But his reverie was interrupted by the chorus of female cheers that greeted Gregor Sukov’s entrance. He literally slithered down the stairs and Hazel decided he was a snake who’d be welcome in anybody’s garden of Eden. The five stars had joined hands to take a bow together and as they filed off the stage, Barry Ennis said into the microphone, “Patience, ladies and gentlemen, patience. There’s a great treat in store for you in a few minutes!” Voices hummed as the room buzzed with anticipation. No doubt Fred and Ginger were going to dance for them. Several guests were wondering who the men with cameras were. They could not be the usually recognizable professionals because they didn’t ask any of the guests to pose. Instead they took candid shots at random, and several of the guests correctly guessed that these were secret-service men.
Ginger was cautioning Hedda. “Behave yourself, Hedda!” She had no fear of either Hedda or Louella. “These people are our guests. There’s no need to be so rude.”
‘They’re commies and not to be trusted. It’s a disgrace! I dread to think what your mother has to say about this!”
“1 should think at this hour Lela is rolling over in her bed,” said Ginger.
“Have you no shame?” persisted the columnist relentlessly. “How dare you and Fred agree to dance with them!”
‘They are great artists,” said Ginger hotly, hardly believing she was sincerely defending the Russians, “and what we are doing is art, not politics!”
Hedda warned her. “HUAC has their eyes on the two of you!”
“Let them have a good look! Fred and I have nothing to hide.”
Steamed Hedda, “The FBI is here and they’re taking names and pictures.”
Ginger suggested something else that the FBI could take and Hedda blushed.
Hazel, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, said, “There’s several of them who are welcome to my phone number.”
Ginger said, “Hazel! Your hair!”
Herb Villon, standing off to one side listening, checked a rising guffaw.
Hazel took Ginger’s comment as a compliment and said to Villon, “Boy, you’re certainly in the minority where my hair is concerned!” Villon ignored her, his mind on Romanov who had requested a Bromo. He’d been eating some of the buffet and Herb worried some anticommunist crackpot might have fiddled with some of the food. Hedda Hopper had gone in search of Franklin Pangborn, who was at the opposite end of the ballroom autographing programs for some of the FBI, who recognized him from films but weren’t too sure of his name. A select few were rewarded with Pangborn’s phone number.
Fred was now with Ginger. “I hear you and Hedda had a bit of a dustup. Too bad Lela wasn’t here.”
Ginger snapped, “You leave Lela out of it, Lela is a very sincere patriot.”
“So was Nathan Hale and a fat lot of good it did him.”
“Nathan who?”
“Well, you two, I’ve been looking all over this place for you.” The stars greeted Edward Everett Horton, the character actor-comedian who had appeared in and stolen several films of theirs. “What a night! I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I love ballet. I’m a true balletomane. I’ve been one ever since I saw the great Anna Pavlova dance The Dying Swan in Philadelphia when I was just a child … recently. I must say, there are so many men who’ve been taking my photograph. They’re really feeding my ego. Oops. Here goes another one!” He shouted to the Russian secret-service man, “I’d appreciate your sending me the proofs! I always have photo approval.” He asked Fred, “Why’s he scowling? He doesn’t seem to have understood me.”
Fred told him, “I think he’s Russian secret service.”
“Oh really? Oh really?” Horton was notorious for echoing himself. In films it drove the other actors crazy, which was exactly what Horton intended. Horton’s eyes followed the secret-service man as he stealthily moved away, sizing him up favorably. “Well, I have a secret or two he’s perfectly welcome to service.”
“Eddie, behave yourself,” cautioned Fred as he took Ginger’s hand and led her to the bandstand. En route they were confronted by Sol Hurok. “The doctor asked for a Bromo-seltzer but I got him good old Seidlitz powders instead. Did you know the hotels pharmacy stays open all night? How very convenient.”
Ginger, concerned, asked, “How is the doctor feeling now?”
“There’s a little more color in his cheeks. He wants to go home and the nurse—what’s her name …”
“Alida Rimsky,” said Ginger.
“That’s right. She’s looking for their car and chauffeur. But in this crowd, it’s like looking for a noodle in a haystack.”
“You can do better than that,” said Fred. He and Ginger continued on their way to the bandstand while Hurok wondered what Fred meant. “You can do better than that.”
Fred had signaled Barry Ennis, and the bandleader asked for a drum roll.
Outside, Alida Rimsky was describing the doctors limousine to a valet parker, who dutifully went in search of it. She heard a familiar voice say, “I’ve been looking all over for you.” Theodore Varonsky pulled her behind some shrubbery and took her in his arms, and they kissed passionately. “My darling, it has been so long.”
“Too long,” said Alida. “If you hadn’t arrived I might have exploded with anxiety. So many years without you, so many years.” They kissed again.
The valet parker found the doctors car, but discreetly waited for the couple in the front seat to complete their kiss. He then tapped on the window on the chauffeur’s side. The chauffeur, Mordecai Pfenov, lowered the window and asked sharply, “What do you want?”
“You Dr. Romanov’s chauffeur?”
“I am.”
“The doctor wants the car. His nurse is looking for you.”
“All right. Thank you.”
The valet parker hurried away. Mordecai Pfenov said, “You heard him.”
“I heard him but I wish I hadn’t. One more kiss.” The chauffeur obliged. Luba Nafka patted his cheek, got out of the car, and hurried back to the ballroom.
FIVE
“So, Igor Romanov, we meet again after all these years.” Nina Valgorski spoke with a trace of a smile.
Romanov spoke with an effort. “You haven’t changed.”
“ How kind of you, Igor. How is your wife? Is she here or still in Russia?”
“I’m sure she is still in her unmarked grave in Siberia.”
“But how tragic.” Her voice was cold and unemotional, the way it was when she congratulated a rival on a fine performance. “I had heard she escaped with you.”
“That was the original scenario. But it was revised. Elenas escape from the gulag was aborted.
She was shot. I heard the gunfire from outside the men’s section where I hid, waiting for her to join me. I waited longer than I should have. I was almost caught.”
“But you weren’t. How happy I am for you. And now you are a successful psychiatrist in your adopted country. But you aren’t looking too well. Let me get you some soda water.”
“No thank you.” But Nina was already on her way to a waiter carrying a tray of soda water and glasses. She commandeered the waiter imperiously, who stopped and poured soda into a glass. She looked past other guests and stood watching Dr. Romanov, wondering if her life would have been different had she married him when he beseeched her those many years ago, she a rising ballet dancer, he a promising concert pianist. She walked slowly back to Romanov, watched by Hurok and Mae Frohman, Hurok wondering why Fred and Gingers dance hadn’t begun.
Mae heard a click and turned on a Russian secret-service man. “You get away from us, you stupid spy. Shoo! Shoo!” She waved her hands so ineffectively she wouldn’t have frightened an alley cat. “My God, Mr. Hurok, the ballroom is crawling with spies!”
“Mae,” said Hurok solemnly, “everybody in the Soviet Republic is a spy. Spying is more popular and challenging than sex.”
Mae said, “Sex is less complicated.”
“Since when?”
Nina watched Romanov down the soda water. She took the empty glass and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter. Romanov thanked her and wondered where the hell were Alida and the chauffeur. The ballroom lights dimmed and Nina turned to look at the stage. Fred and Ginger stood at the microphone awash in a wave of applause, while behind them Bruce Ennis gave the downbeat. The orchestra blared away and Fed and Ginger began singing: “‘Flying down to Valparaiso, That’s where all the gals and guys go..:”
Alida and Mordecai Pfenov found Romanov and hurried him out of the ballroom.
“‘Where some of the dumb and some of the wise go, And lots of the lows and lots of the highs go. To Valparaiso.’”
Sam Goldwyn beamed at Fred and Ginger. How he ached to do a film with them and wondered if there was a spot for them in his next production, Porgy and Bess.
Alone, Fred was singing: “
“‘Some may think it somewhat silly. To follow your heart way down to Chile…’” And Ginger rejoined him: “‘But we went there willy-nilly, To Valparaiso!’”
Actor Cesar Romero was having a difficult time steadying Louella Parsons. She kept tickling him under the chin and he told a waiter to bring a chair in a hurry. Louella Parsons was incontinent and all of Hollywood knew it, and Romero prayed she wouldn’t embarrass him.
“‘They taught us down in Valparaiso, To let our blues and let our sighs go. And then blink your flirty eyes so, And tell some white lies, though. It’s Valparaiso … Valparaiso … Valparaiso hohoh!’” Fred and Ginger began tapping and the crowd went wild. Fred leapt from the bandstand to the dance floor and turned to catch Ginger as she gracefully leapt and pirouetted into his arms. The years turned back and they seemed twenty years younger. Their taps were like machine guns exploding and they circled the dance floor many times in a dazzling display of their artistry.
Luba Nafka stood with Gregor Sukov, both holding glasses of champagne, mesmerized by the Astaire and Rogers magic. Luba said, “It does not look too difficult. Perhaps we can learn to tap dance for the television.”
He had something else on bis mind. “Did you find Mordecai?” She nodded.
“Then he is still working for the doctor?”
“Yes. As both his chauffeur and his valet. And his aunt, Malke Movitz, is also still in the doctor’s employ. So all is as it should be. Look! Fred and Ginger are magnificent! His lifts are so clean and seemingly effortless! My God! They are dancing on air!”
Now Fred was spinning Ginger around the floor, and the room exploded as they danced over chairs and tables carefully placed as they had been at rehearsal. They danced their way to the center of the floor, while above them the multicolored glass orbs spun in a dizzying kaleidoscope. Fred and Ginger came to a halt in the middle of the room, each standing with a hand triumphantly stretching above them, and the dance was over.
Sol Hurok, applauding wildly and beaming from ear to ear as though the stars’ triumph was his very own said to Sam Goldwyn, “Sam! Sam! Tell me! Have you ever heard such an evasion?” The ever-present Mae Frohman corrected him. “Ovation.” The way Hazel Dickson’s hands were flapping together Villon feared she might take off and go flying overhead. The guests were shouting “Bravo!” and cheering huzzahs while Edward Everett Horton grabbed Franklin Pangborn, shouting, “Come on, Frankie, let’s show them a thing or two.” A flustered Pangborn shoved him aside crying, “Now really, Eddie, behave yourself. What will people think?’
“The same thing they’ve been thinking for years, you party poop.” He executed some dance steps, singing under his breath and snapping his fingers. “I wish I’d brought my castanets!”
Nina Valgorski stood alone, thinking about Igor Romanov, of their teenage romance, and how after so many years they were finally reunited. She didn’t realize she was the subject of a subtle study by Don Magrew. The handsome CIA agent watched as the bat out of hell named Hazel Dickson to whom he had been introduced by Villon took possession of Nina Valgorski. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but Hazel was indicating Villon and Jim Mallory, who was champing at an invisible bit in his anxiety to make contact with Luba Nafka. Even in their mimicked dumb show Magrew could figure out Hazel wanted Nina to meet Villon. Or, he wondered, had Villon asked Hazel to introduce him to Nina because he was possibly on to something. Beyond Nina and Hazel, Magrew saw Hurok and Goldwyn with Fred and Ginger, Mae Frohman was pouring champagne into the glasses they held.
Ginger was saying, “We really didn’t have enough rehearsal. We really didn’t.”
Fred said to Ginger, “It’s practically the same number we did in Swing Time. The only thing that was different was the furniture.”
Hurok effused, “You were glorious! Like two fathers blowing in a breeze!”
“Feathers,” corrected Mae, still wondering if Hurok had been kidding about thinking sex was complicated. Celebrities were gathering around the stars and Mae felt faint when her beloved idol Cary Grant said, “Let me help you,” and relieved her of the bottle of champagne. His smile was dazzling ivory and then he turned to bestow a kiss on Ginger. Mae wondered why somebody was banging on a drum until she realized it was the passionate beating of her heart.
Sam Goldwyn was wondering if audiences were sophisticated enough to buy an all-white Porgy and Bess. Then Ginger could tap dance Bess and Fred would be a perfect Sporting Life. He couldn’t do Porgy because Porgy has no legs, unless they used dream sequences and you couldn’t get away with too many of them.
Nina was blatantly flirting with Herb Villon, who was enjoying every second of her come-on and Hazels unsubtle annoyance. He wondered if gray hairs ever showed through henna. “So, Mr. Villon, you are really a detective?”
“Really.”
“Are you undercover?”
“Only when I sleep.”
A rusty “Ha!” slipped out of her mouth. “You are droll. Perhaps it would interest you to know that I am also a trained criminologist.”
“Indeed? I’m impressed.”
“So am I,” she said without a pretension to modesty.” I have read the works of all the great detective story writers of the Soviet Union.”
“Really,” he said, “I didn’t know there were detective story writers in your country.”
“But of course there are!” She snapped her fingers at Hazel, indicating her champagne glass needed a refill. The astonished Hazel signaled a waiter, who promptly produced a bottle. Nina was rattling off names with the passion of a train conductor rattling off the stops his train would make. “There are such great Soviet writers as Arthur Conan Doyle, Dashiell Hammett, John Dickson Carr, Raymond Chandler..
Villon masked his amusement as he said, “Are you sure they are R
ussian?”
“But of course,” she said with spirit, her eyes flashing. “Especially Agatha Christie, who is a truly Honored Artist of the Republic. I adore her character…” Mae Frohman was passing on her way to a buffet table. “… Miss Mopple.”
“Marple,” corrected Mae.
The startled ballerina was too late to see who had corrected her as Mae was swiftly swallowed up in the crowd. Past Ninas head, Villon saw Jim Mallory dogging Luba Nafka, Jim wondering if the dancer would ever shake Gregor Sukov so he could introduce himself.
Villon saw Theodore Varonsky looking like a lost sheep waiting for rescue by Boo-Peep, when he was actually wondering where Alida Rimsky had disappeared to. Mikhail Bochno was under the surveillance of two FBI operatives who looked like used-car salesmen who had stumbled into the wrong party. Villon heard Nina say, “Am I boring you, Mr. Villon?”
“My God, no,” Villon said swiftly, realizing the dancer was a star who required and demanded ones undivided attention. “I was wondering why some members of your company seem so uneasy “
“Why? If you the detective don’t know or haven’t guessed, it is because we are continually under scrutiny. In the Soviet, we scrutinize each other all the time.” She smiled. “Sounds sexy, no?” Villon didn’t comment. He rewarded her with an enigmatic smile as Nina continued talking, “Here in America, the people do not spy on each other?” She said to the unusually silent Hazel, “But you spy on people.”
“Me?” Villon thought Hazel looked like a startled chipmunk. Nina persisted. “I have seen you eavesdropping.”
“Oh. I suppose you haven’t been told. I collect gossip to sell to gossip columnists.” She pointed out Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons, each of whom had collapsed into an easy chair and fallen asleep.
“They are gossip columnists? I don’t understand.” Hazel explained Hedda and Louellas function painstakingly and Villon was impressed. When Hazel finished her discourse, Nina said to Villon, “Are you and Miss Dickson a liaison?”