I perked up. “The theater?”
“The New Amsterdam.” He held out a small envelope and paused. “A message from Mr. Ziegfeld.” It took everything in my power not to snatch it out of his hands and rip it open right there and then. “He’d like you there early tomorrow morning, so I’ve taken the liberty of having our driver take you home if that’s acceptable to you.” He nodded to a parked car at the sidewalk, and the driver tipped his hat.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the note from his hands a little too eagerly. “Does this mean he wants me in the show after all?”
“I believe so. There’s a note inside,” he said, tapping the envelope in my hand and opening the car door for me. “He’s spoken with your agent and relieved you of your contract. Best of luck to you.”
I kept my composure until the car pulled away and Mr. Brock waved and walked toward Broadway, then I ripped the envelope open.
Dear Miss Shine,
I simply can’t allow you to waste your talent in that terrible show. If you’re still interested, a space has opened up in theFollies.Please arrive promptly at 9A.M.tomorrow morning for rehearsal. Allow me to make you a star.
Very best,
Florenz Ziegfeld
CHAPTER FIVE
It was the finale of act one, the theater was dark, and an edgy, serious air pervaded the empty orchestra pit where only the lighted glow of a cigar betrayed Mr. Ziegfeld’s presence. We’d been going for almost fifteen hours, repeating the numbers again and again, and we were finally nearing the end.
The lights went up and the curtains parted to reveal “the Ingénues,” a nineteen-member all-female orchestra. They played center stage while two men and twelve women played pianos perched on the steps of a dramatic double staircase. You’d think I would be used to it by now, after eight weeks of rehearsals every single morning, followed by more dance lessons in the afternoon at Stage Dance Studios—apparently Ziegfeld thought my pirouettes and piqués needed some fine-tuning—but this was the first time we’d done the full dress rehearsal, onstage, all the way through.
The costume and set designers hadn’t let us get a glimpse of thefull feathered costumes until that day, saying the plumes could get ruined with too much use. But here we were, the chorus, wearing nothing but cream silk leotards the color of our skin and enormous white ostrich feather fans strapped to our arms.
When the principal dancers came onstage in white costumes, with gold fringe and gold feather hats and headdresses, for the final few moments there were more than eighty people onstage. I couldn’t believe I was one of them.
Ziegfeld came into the light and removed his coat.
“When he takes off his coat, he means serious show business,” one of the girls whispered next to me.
“Blue foots up on a dimmer at the start of the overture,” he called out to the electricians in the wings as he walked up the stairs to the stage. “White and amber foots up on dimmer at the end.” We all froze in our final position, still smiling, hoping we wouldn’t have to run through the whole thing again. “Next scene, all lamps floor until finish, then dim down to blue and white one-quarter up and palm curtains open.”
It was all Greek to me. He walked across the front of the stage and surveyed us. “The final act dragged,” he said to no one in particular. “It has to be perfect. Howie?”
Howie, the choreographer, appeared by his side. “Bring the principals on earlier, I want a full ensemble, everyone onstage for longer than just the last few moments.”
He walked over to my row of girls in feathers and stared at us as if we were dolls he was surveying in a toy store window. My pulse raced. What was he going to say about us, what was he going to do with us?
“I want this row up front,” he said. I nodded to show I was willing. “Now,” he barked.
We shuffled forward as best we could without rubbing our ostrich feathers against one another. Eighty people on a stage felt hot and crowded.
“Final moments before the lights go dark, you open your arms to reveal your figures.” He demonstrated, and we copied him. He didn’t look satisfied. “Wallace?” he called out. “Where’s Wallace?”
Within seconds the costume designer was onstage. “I want these outfits remade into two pieces, top”—he gestured to the bosom of one of the girls—“and bottom. I’d like to see more of their figures.” One of the girls gasped, but Ziegfeld, if he heard, chose to ignore it. I thought the costume change was a wise choice, a more dramatic reveal.
“Yes, Mr. Ziegfeld.” Wallace nodded, his slim fingers scribbling down notes in a well-used, scruffy notepad.
“But not vulgar, you know how our competitors offend my artistic sensibility with their vulgarity and nudity. I want elegance, class and artistic integrity when we undrape our women.”
Draped or undraped, I didn’t care. The splendor of it all—the lavish costumes, the scenery and props, the sheer intensity and passion he had for his show and the determination of every one of the girls around me to make it big—was electrifying. But looking out into the empty house gave me the biggest thrill. I’d been told tickets for opening night were selling for $200 a pop and all seats would be filled. I couldn’t wait for it all to begin.
Opening night was magical, but it was not without its blunders. In the second act, Marylin rode an ostrich with a rhinestone collar across the stage. In every rehearsal it had gone off without a hitch, but on that night the roar of applause that filled the theater must have spooked the poor thing. It looked around frantically, then fixed its eyes and aimed straight for me. I leapt out of the way, breaking formation from the other girls, but it seemed determined and raced toward me. In hindsight it was likely the ostrich feathers I had strapped to my arms, which I’d been pulsating like some kind of mating dance, that sent the bird into a whirl of confusion. Once I stopped moving and stood still for a few moments, it turned and ran in the opposite direction, and then into the wings, looking for its trainer, or an exit, sending Marylin to the floor in its frenzy. She handled it like a champ, of course—stood up, brushed herself off and took an exaggerated bow as if it were all part of the act, and then she went on with her next number. But offstage she was livid and said she refused to share the stage with that animal again.
We all planned to meet at Casa Blanca after the show to celebrate a successful opening night, despite the ostrich incident. Ruthie, who’d been in theFolliesfor a few years already, had been showing me the ropes. She had shocking red hair, huge blue eyes and a face that was more interesting than traditionally beautiful.
“Now when the two of us walk out the back of the theater, there’ll be a big crowd waiting—men and women, but mostly stage-door johnnies.”
