The Property of a Lady - Elizabeth Adler [138]
“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