A voice murmured near my left ear the instant I was set down. “Come, lovely lady. Forget the prince and the cattle baron and have a glass of bubbly with me. Make this tired heart sing.” Izzy Rubens materialized at my side. He was still wearing the grubby brown ensemble from our meeting in the alley this afternoon.
“Izzy! I’m surprised to see you here. I assumed reporters were persona non grata at these affairs.”
“The opposite. Rich people love seeing their names in the papers. But I’m off duty, tonight. I promised Briley.” He paused. “Truthfully? I hate working for Clow. I’d love to find a nice juicy murder or train robbery or political coup happening somewhere and get back with a respectable newspaper. One that pays well of course.”
It was funny but Izzy reminded me of a male version of Savanna. My best friend was full of humor and bluster and good will, which hid a formidable intellect. I suspected Izzy possessed the same.
The reporter took my hand. “Come with me, kiddo. Let me give you the Rubens guided tour of the Ellingsford mansion. I’m a fairly frequent guest. I can give you the scoop on all the grand sights - and there are many.”
I’d seen "The Great Gatsby"(Robert Redford version) and thought that’s what a jazz age party was like. I always believed that things had gotten wilder through the Twenties, not before the age of flappers really started. I was wrong.
These folks made the characters of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novels look like monks. Booze flowed from every container in the house. Men and women sans clothing were jumping into the backyard pool, champagne glasses still in their hands. Couples in various corners of every room were doing some serious making-out. Also sans clothing. From a huge balustrade on the second floor, chorines in silky lingerie slid down into the waiting arms of eager gentlemen in tuxedos. A sweet smoky odor drifted out of one corner of a room filled with Egyptian objects d’art. Marijuana?
I was way too innocent to be here. College and four years in Manhattan in Greenwich Village had never been like this.
Izzy and I hastily backed out of a room where the occupants were engaged in more than heavy petting on top a huge brass bed. Two seconds more and we’d be witnessing porn.
“Izzy? Izzy Rubens? Where are you?” Lili Ellingsford’s soprano voice trilled from downstairs.
Izzy bowed. “I leave you to explore. Our hostess requires my presence. Will you be all right?”
I nodded. “I’ll find someplace less occupied. Thanks again for the tour.”
I tentatively opened the door to a room next to the porn stars and exhaled in relief. The furnishings here didn’t seem to belong to the rest of the house. Instead of a huge new Grand Piano a sturdy upright stood in the corner. A clarinet rested in a tall chair next to the piano. A flute lay on a footstool. A violin had been neatly placed on top of a desk. Five chairs faced the piano in a semi-circle. Sheet music lay in stacks everywhere.
I lifted the piano lid, and ran my hand over the keys. A different voice than Izzy’s quietly filled the space behind me. “This room was used by Lloyd’s grandparents and three cousins. All of whom were musicians. They died during the Spanish influenza epidemic two years ago. It was such a horrible time here in New York. Didn’t matter if one were rich or poor, a veteran or a chorus girl. A plague like that doesn’t discriminate.”
I nodded, remembering the reports from history books. “ It hit down South as well; in fact Memphis lost nearly a quarter of its residents. My family was pretty lucky.”
His voice caught. “Unfortunately, my family wasn’t. Frank and I were in France. That’s where we met Michel Dupre, who died in the hospital in Paris where Frank was recuperating. Michel was aware he was dying. He asked Frank and me to bring his wife and son to America if he possibly could. Frank comes back home - and disappears. I was still in Paris. Then my parents died from influenza - after they’d offered to help the Dupres. Thanks to Mr. Ziegfeld, Denise and Nevin finally emigrated to New York.” His voice caught.
My eyes misted. “Losing a loved one is so hard. My mom died two years ago in a car accident. Drunk driver. My Dad and I have been really cut up about her death.”
Briley took my hands in his. “I’m so sorry. I get selfish, remembering my own family. I forget others have had hard times too. How horrible for you.” He paused. “Wars, epidemics and idiots who drive drunk. Not much of a century so far, is it?”
I nodded then smiled. “My mom always told me to follow my dreams. I swear I can see her watching over me when I design a costume she’d’ve liked.”
Briley asked, “You design? As well as dance?”
“I’m a much better designer than dancer. More comfortable with it too.”
Briley nodded and didn’t look at me like I had two heads. “Well, if you design anywhere like you dance, I bet you end up another Lucille Duff-Gordon.”
“Aw, thanks.”
Briley sighed. “I hate to bring this up again, but this business about designers and seamstresses has me worried about all the Follies girls - and Francesca Cerrone’s murder.”
“You believe it was murder? Not just an accident?”
“Well, the death itself sounds like it wasn’t planned but lion skins? That’s drool.”
“Uh, drool?”
“Nonsense.”
“Oh.”
We stared at each other. My pulse started hitting maximum rates.
I swiftly began talking. Chattering was more like it.
“These instruments look lonely, don’t they? Seeing them here is like a kick in the stomach for me. My grandparents had a music room at their house that looked just the same –– sheet music and stands covering everything. I spent a lot of hours listening to them play. In fact, I took piano lessons over at their place.” I smiled. “I was terrible about practicing. I always wanted to play the popular songs instead of classical. And Grandpa was always getting into trouble with Grammy because he’d encourage me.”
Dim shapes of bodies suddenly materialized behind Briley as a troupe of laughing men and women entered the room. Saree and the Count led the pack of guests who’d invaded the music room. The couple was now comfortably ensconced on the loveseat. Two other Follies’ chorines whose names I wasn’t sure of, their dates, the Dupres, the Ellingsfords, Grady Martel, and Prince Peter (minus Eloise) had managed to squeeze into the now crowded space. Saree had obviously heard my last few statements.
“Did you say you play piano, Melody?”
“I’m no Lady Ga-ga, but I manage.”
Stares all around.
“Who?”
“Oh. Uh, Lady Ga-ga. Plays in the nightclubs in Memphis. She’s amazing. Anyway, yeah, I play.”
Saree pointed at Briley. “Don’t you play violin, Briley?”
He tossed her a ‘get you for this’ grimace and owned up to it. “Yeah, I’ve been heard to bow a pretty mean fiddle at times.”
Saree’s grin was wider than the piano keyboard. “The Count plays clarinet. Where’s Mr. Bongo? Oh, stupid question. He’s probably in the kitchen flirting with the maids. I’ll find him. It’s time for some music. And Izzy, if we see this reported anywhere in any paper, I’ll personally skin you alive, or sic Mr. Bongo on you.” Saree began hollering louder than a farmhand bringing home the cows. “Mr. Bongo! Hey, Mr. Bongo! We want to hear some ragtime.”
Mr. Bongo magically appeared with a drunken Eloise Jenkins draped over his arm. I’d yet to hear the chauffeur speak a single word. He continued his silent streak. He gently deposited Eloise on a small love seat, then picked up drumsticks from the snare where they’d been lying for probably the last two years, plopped himself onto a stool, and began a preliminary drum roll.
It was useless. We’d been roped into being the entertainment. In comparison with some of the other entertainment I’d witnessed downstairs earlier we were going to be pretty tame. At least no one was naked.
I played a quick scale. Still in tune. Someone had taken good care of this piano. The Count picked up the clarinet then started searching thr
ough the case under his chair for a clean reed.
Briley gently brought the violin to his chin and drew the bow once across it. It seemed to have been recently restrung. I gathered the piano wasn’t the only instrument to receive loving care. Lloyd had kept the music room intact.
Briley smiled at me. “My brother was an amazing pianist. He loved Chopin and Beethoven, but could also pound out ragtime and theatre tunes. He was the kind of musician who didn’t even need sheet music.”
“Liked to jam, huh?”
“What?”
“Forget it. Improvisation. That sounds like what Frank did.”
Briley still looked puzzled. I took the opportunity to peruse the intro to Bert Williams’ song "Nobody," which topped the sheet music stack nearest the piano. The crowd of chorus girls, Peter, Grady, Izzy, various males, and Denise found spots on the floor and in the hall. Eloise was snoring softly. Nevin snuggled next to me on the bench like it was his rightful place.
“Can I sit with you?”
“Sure.”
I was pleased. I’d sat next to my Grandpa for many years just that way.
For the next forty minutes or so, we made music. Lili’s folks had compiled an eclectic collection that included Johann Sebastian Bach, Amadeus Mozart, Irving Berlin, Harry Tierney, Sigmond Romburg, and Eubie Blake. Our audience was receptive; clapping and singing along with the tunes they knew.
Nevin poked me.“Mel-o-dee? Play from Memphis? Quelque chose nouveau?”
Something new. That opened a wealth of dangerous choices. I glanced at Grady and decided that Ft. Worth was far enought from Memphis for me to worry about the “new music” having made it to Texas. I looked at the expectant faces. The impish visage of Fiona Belle flashed in my head. With an impish grin of my own, I turned back to the piano and starting playing and singing.
“'You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, cryin’ all the time!'”
Saree and two other girls started dancing around the room. Briley was laughing so hard I worried he’d split his abdomen in two. Mr. Bongo went right with me on the rhythm. The Count listened then added a little harmony after the first chorus. Izzy started writing something down on a little pad, noticed Saree glaring at him, and began doing high kicks with her instead. After I finished that first Elvis Presley hit, I went on to "Blue Suede Shoes."
I spent the next hour going through my entire Elvis Presley repertoire, including the remix of “Don’t Be Cruel” and “All Shook Up.” Grady got up and tried to lead Denise in some version of the Texas two-step. Izzy and Saree were laughing and improvising a warped version of the Hora. Even Briley added a little baritone to the mix. The only soul not singing was the Russian prince. He looked confused. As for royalty? I grinned, musing to myself that ‘The King may have left the building, but it’s obvious in any era - he still rules.’
Chapter 11
I slept in the next day. I imagine everyone who’d been at the Ellingsford party slept in. It was past two in the afternoon when Mrs. Donovan knocked on my door and shouted: “Wake up, darlin’. Ya got a show to do tonight. And another party.”
I groaned. I missed getting up at a reasonable hour, throwing on sweats, taking a run in a park, coming home and having breakfast with the dog. I missed Lucy licking me awake and begging to go out. I even missed Savanna calling me past midnight to ask me if I had a date. But I didn’t have time to mope - or wonder if my dog was enjoying time with whichever Fiona Belle clone currently had her.
The party Mrs. Donovan was talking about was an official Follies Opening Night thing. Saree had told me last night that a club in midtown, Francy’s, had been reserved for the bash. Time to steal from Bettina Markham again. I took a quick shower in the community bathroom then threw on a slinky black dress that fit me perfectly. As I was tying my own pair of black boots I noticed a new addition to Rm.413. A dozen red roses were lying in a box on the floor near the bed.
A card was neatly attached to the box. “Best wishes for your first opening with us. Here’s to many more. Flo Ziegfeld."
Wow. I hadn’t realized I’d made that much of an impression. Maybe he did this for all the Follies girls? I wondered if Briley ever sent flowers.
I smiled grimly. If he sent plant life to me, it’d probably be poison ivy. I thought I’d cracked a little of the shell around him, but he hadn’t really said much to me on the way home from the Ellingsford party. He and Saree had talked of nothing but Francesca Cerroni. Briley kept mumbling that he felt responsible for all the girls at the Follies. The Count had reminded him that security was not the job for a stagehand/electrician/engineer so Briley had sunk into a blue funk and stayed silent the rest of the trip. When we arrived at East 12th street, I’d jumped out the limo before giving anyone a chance to escort me inside.
I was due at the theatre in thirty-five minutes. I ran downstairs. A teenage boy was manning the desk. I stopped and ask if he’d mind putting the roses in a vase and bringing them down to the lobby for all the girls to enjoy.
Between the subway ride, and a brisk run, I made it to the theatre with five minutes to spare. I signed in at the stage door and headed to the dressing room. Thirty minutes later I was ready. And terrified.
I wasn’t the only one. It was like a repeat of dress rehearsal. Terrified chorines, terrified stagehands, terrified Ziegfeld. The only person I ran into who seemed calm was legendary song and dance man, Bert Williams. He smiled at me while I waited in the wings.
Places were called, entertainers scurried to their spots and the show was up and running before I realized it. I wasn’t in the opening, a Follies “Salad” mix, but it was was quickly followed by a tableau of the last twelve years of the Follies with a chorus girl representing each year. I was to replace the 13th Follies girl, Jessie Reed, if she was ever out some night.
My first chance to be on stage came with the music "Tulip Time" sung by Delyle Alda and John Steele. I was - yes - a dancing tulip. I didn’t have time to worry about my performance because I was too busy making a quick change for the Shimmy Town scene, then the minstrel show, where I did high kicks and slapped a tambourine.
Act II started with a scene called Harem Life that included just about every one in the Follies. I was a ‘lady of the harem.’ I saw my fellow understudy Mary De Luca trotting by as a ‘favorite wine’. We smiled at each other for support. When the number finished, I hurried off to change for the huge Prohibition scene. It seemed to me that for “just an understudy” I was on stage an awful lot.
The Prohibition scene was a blast. Bert Williams sang a funny song called "You Cannot Make Your Shimmy Shake on Tea." I was ‘live scenery’ for this number, understudying the girl playing “Coca-Cola”. I knew those steps well, so I let myself enjoy Mr. Williams.
I remembered the television show about the Follies where they’d talked about Bert Williams. His appeal as a comedian; his timing and his strange dancing style. Not a strong singer in the sense that John Steele, a classically trained tenor was, Bert Williams nonetheless could sell a song faster than a peanut vendor on Broadway fills bags for tourists. Even without meeting the man I had thought it would have been so neat if he had lived in an era where he wouldn’t be held back by the prejudices of 1919. I now found it beyond painful watching a black man in “black face”. I knew he must find it excruciating. He was more trapped by time than I.
I had to ditch these thoughts when I realized it was time for the Circus Ballet. I was part of the corps de ballet of clowns. Several other ladies were bareback riders. The operative word was “bare.” I was relieved to be Bozo and not Lady Godiva.
Then we lined up for the staircase. Irving Berlin had composed his masterpiece in one night. "A Pretty Girl is Like a Melody." John Steele sang it, we flowed straight-backed with hips forward, and the audience went wild. I glanced into the wings as I came halfway down those stairs. Briley was staring at me. I nearly lost my balance and ended my career before it started.
The last number I was in was a patriotic tribute to the soldiers i
n World War One. Entitled "We Made the Doughnuts Over There," it featured the majority of the Follies girls in Salvation Army uniforms singing our hearts out. We almost didn’t make it through. The moment the audience saw John Steele,they gave him a standing ovation and non-stop applause.
Then it was over. I had performed in the opening night of the "13th Edition Ziegfeld Follies." My name wouldn’t appear in the program. I’d never be able to tell anyone in my own time period, but I’d remember this night for the rest of my life. I already felt different, prettier, more self-assured. Nice.
Music was blaring full blast at Francy’s. I could hear saxophones wailing from halfway down the street. The excited sounds of people partying were even louder than the band.
Francy’s had crammed tables, celebrity photos plastered onto every conceivable wall space, and elegantly clad waiters expertly weaving through crowds to deliver their goods. And a ton of smoke. New York changed its smoking laws in the 1990s, restricting cigarettes and cigars from public places, including bars and restaurants. There was no such curb on tobacco here. I could barely see five feet in front of me through the haze.
I plowed through the blue mist and found a back room that had been stripped of the tables and set up for dancing. It’s hard to waltz with a cigarette in one’s hand, so the ballroom air was fresher and the floor clearer. At least twenty couples were dancing. Before I had a chance to further inspect my surroundings, a hand grabbed mine.
“Want to dance, Melody? Or are you too pooped from the show?”
Izzy Rubens grinned at me. I couldn’t help but grin back. “Don’t you own any other clothes, Izzy?”
He was wearing the same brown outfit he’d been in the day before.
“I forget. Hey, I’m clean. Swear. Wait a sec. Are you saying you’ve seen me in this before?”
I laughed. “Now and again. And yes, dancing with you will undoubtedly be an experience.”
The band was playing a waltz. I love to waltz. I couldn’t help wishing I was waltzing with Briley but I was going to enjoy the moment dancing anyway. I looked over Izzy’s shoulder for the elusive Mr. McShan. He couldn’t miss the opening night party. He’d been as much a part of the success of the 13th Edition Follies as any one on the stage. I finally spotted him dancing with Denise near a gilt-edged bar. I tried to ignore the stab in my stomach. Stupid to be jealous. She was a widow with a little son and she was probably still grieving for her late husband. She had a little son. Of course, none of that made a difference if Briley had the hots for the gorgeous, tiny Frenchwoman. I felt certain he could cheer her up with a glance, a smile or a soft kiss.
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