Rules of Civility - Amor Towles [15]
Given the miscast performers and the amateurish makeup, you could almost laugh at the production—if it weren’t for the grown men crying in the front row.
When the duet ended, the performers bowed three times to boisterous applause, and then ceded the stage to a group of young dancers in skimpy outfits and black sable hats. What commenced was a tribute to Cole Porter. It began with “Anything Goes” and then ran through a couple of refashioned hits including, “It’s Delightful, It’s Delicious, It’s Delancey.”
Suddenly, the music stopped and the dancers froze. The lights went out. The audience held its breath.
When the spotlight came on again, it revealed the dancers in a kick line and the two middle-aged performers at center stage, he in a top hat and she in a sequined dress. The male lead pointed his cane at the band:
—Hyit it!
And the whole ensemble finaléd with “I Gyet a Keek Out of You.”
When I first dragged Eve to Chernoff’s, she hated it. She didn’t like Delancey Street or the alleyway entrance or the Chinamen at the sink. She didn’t like the clientele—all facial hair and politics. She didn’t even like the show. But boy, it grew on her. She came to love the fusion of glitter and sob stories. She loved the heartfelt has-beens who led the numbers and the toothy hope-to-bes who made up the chorus. She loved the sentimental revolutionaries and the counterrevolutionaries who shed their tears side by side. She even learned a few of the songs well enough to sing along when she’d had too much to drink. For Eve, I think an evening at Chernoff’s became a little like sending her daddy’s money home to Indiana.
And if Eve’s intention had been to impress Tinker with a glimpse of an unfamiliar New York, it was working. For as the rootless nostalgia of the Cossack’s song was swept aside to make room for Cole Porter’s carefree lyrical wit and the long legs, short skirts and untested dreams of the dancers, Tinker looked like a kid without a ticket who’s been waved through the turnstiles on opening day.
When we decided to call it a night, Eve and I paid. Naturally, Tinker objected, but we insisted.
—All right, he said stowing his billfold. But Friday night’s on me.
—You’re on, said Eve. What should we wear?
—Whatever you like.
—Nice, nicer or nicest?
Tinker smiled.
—Let’s take a stab at nicest.
As Tinker and Eve waited at the table for our coats, I excused myself to take my turn in the powder room. It was crowded with the gangsters’ dolled-up dates. Three deep at the sink, they had as much fake fur and makeup as the girls in the chorus and just as good a chance of making it to Hollywood.
On my way back, I bumped into old man Chernoff himself. He was standing at the end of the hallway watching the crowd.
—Hello, Cinderella, he said in Russian. You’re looking superlative.
—You’ve got bad lighting.
—I’ve got good eyes.
He nodded toward our table, where Eve appeared to be convincing Tinker to join her in a shot.
—Who’s the young man? Yours or your friend’s?
—A little bit of both, I guess.
Chernoff smiled. He had two gold teeth.
—That doesn’t work for long, my slender one.
—Says you.
—Says the sun, the moon and the stars.
CHAPTER THREE
The Quick Brown Fox
There were twenty-six red lights in the mahogany panel over Miss Markham’s door, each one identified by a letter of the alphabet. That was one light and one letter for each girl in the Quiggin & Hale secretarial pool. I was Q.
The twenty-six of us sat in five rows of five with the lead secretary, Pamela Petus (aka G), positioned alone in front like the drum majorette in a dull parade. Under Miss Markham’s direction, the twenty-six of us did all correspondence, contract preparation, document duplication, and dictation for the firm. When Miss Markham received a request from one of the partners, she would consult her schedule (pronounced shed-ju-wul), identify the girl best suited to the task and press