“Those are Walt Whitman’s words—he tries them every time.”
“Words to live by, perhaps,” I said.
He laughed. “I’m Archie,” he said. “I apologize for my friend’s behavior, but I can’t say I blame him for wanting to talk to you.”
“I’m Olive,” I said, giving him my hand.
“Lovely to make your acquaintance.” He kissed the back of my hand and a surge of excitement ran through me.
“Please, join us and meet some of my more respectable friends.” He moved in and made space for me to sit down. “Emily, I’d like to introduce you to a new friend of mine.” He looked at me and grinned. “This is Olive.”
“Lovely to meet you,” she said.
“Emily’s a writer. You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Frank.” He gestured toward him. “He has a charming bookshop around the corner.”
“And I publish chapbooks.” Frank suddenly came to life again, slurring like a sailor. “When this crowd wakes up tomorrow morning around noon, you’ll find them stumbling into my shop and taking shelter amongst words.”
“Oh.” I looked around. I couldn’t imagine anyone in that room functioning in the daylight.
“I take it you’re more of an uptown girl,” Archie said. “You’re used to a swankier establishment.”
“I don’t like to get used to anything. I like a little variety in my days.”
Someone came over and placed a tray full of teacups on the table. Archie handed one to me.
“This is Emily’s husband, Lou.” Archie reached over and tapped the shoulder of the gentleman sitting on the other side of Frank. “Olive here sings.”
“Wonderful, I’m a lyricist. Emily and I both write songs.”
“You sing?” Emily asked. “You should come to our salon. It’s on Saturday nights at our place, you’d love it.”
“Thank you,” I said. Everyone was so friendly. I was surprised at how intimate it all seemed, skin against skin as we pressed into the small booth together, our drinks pouring over into one another’s teacups as we said cheers. “I’d like that,” I said.
She scribbled her address down on a scrap of paper and slid it across the table. I reached out to take it and Archie put his hand over it first.
“You have to promise you’ll come, otherwise I might never see you again,” he said.
“I’ll do my best,” I said, sliding the paper out from under his hand and feeling a slight thrill again when his hand touched mine.
“It was nice to meet you,” I said, standing up.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Archie said. “But do you really have to leave so soon? The night is young.” He took my hand and I desperately wanted to stay. I glanced to the front of the room where Ruthie was dancing with Lawrence, and my date for the evening was standing alone at the bar.
“It would be impolite of me to leave my friends,” I said, and I reluctantly walked away.
On Saturday I performed in theFolliesand then theMidnight Frolic. It was two in the morning when I was done and I should have been exhausted, but I wasn’t ready to go home. All of us girls were in the habit of staying out all night and sleeping until noon or two in the afternoon if we didn’t have rehearsal the next day. Ruthie had already left to meet a new chap after the show, a banker who’d sent a bouquet of flowers and a diamond bracelet backstage to her dressing room the night before and asked her to dinner. I’d surprised myself that week—I’d been thinking about that Archie fella ever since I met him. Ruthie and the girls would say I was crazy lusting over a bohemian from the Village when I could have my pick of the wealthy businessmen who frequented theFrolic,but there was something about him that appealed to me. He was dashing in a slightly disheveled way, and the way he spoke, his confidence, was magnetic. But there was something else that I couldn’t let go of: he had a kindness in his eyes. I was itching to get downtown again.
Mary, one of the principals in the show, had been given a car by an admirer, but she didn’t know how to drive, none of us did, so a few of us pitched in and hired a chauffeur named James to drive us around town. That night James was still parked out front when I left the theater, which meant all the other girls had dates. I handed him the slip of paper Emily had given me, which I had folded and refolded many times throughout the week. He dropped me off at 13 East Eighth Street, a block north of Washington Square Park.
Piano music poured from the top-floor apartment. When I looked up, windows were open and people were leaning out, smoking,singing along. I hurried up the stairs and found the front door open, so I walked in—no one was going to hear me knock anyway. People crammed together on worn velvet couches, a couple sat cross-legged on the old Persian rug, a group crowded around a grand piano, and everyone had a drink in their hands. One woman danced with abandon, weaving in and out of people. She was older, pushing fifty, clad in sheaths of fabric sheer enough to reveal her nipples and her generous rolls of flesh. At first I thought she was crazy, skipping around like that barefoot, barely clothed, a few ballet steps, then some animalistic moves, kicking her legs out to the side at odd angles, her arms in the air, a frenetic, carefree energy about her. But after a few moments, I found myself mesmerized by her strange, free-flowing movements, her head thrown back as she danced, the trailing sheaths that followed behind her like the smoke of a cigarette. I looked around and saw others watching her, too. It was unlike any kind of dancing I’d seen onstage—always structured, rehearsed, crisp and perfect. I thought of the Ziegfeld walk, how it had to be uniform, each of us in perfect shape, in strict formation.
The music stopped and the room filled with applause. The pianist stood and took a small bow, then sat down at the stool, ready to begin again. The dancer wiped the sweat from her brow, took a deep curtsy and fell into the lap of a boy… well, a man, I suppose, not more than twenty-one. She was twice his size and age, and yet he looked at her adoringly, then kissed her with more passion than seemed appropriate in a crowded room, even for the Village.
I looked around for a face I might recognize from the Pirate’s Den a few days before. I looked around for Archie. It had been amistake to come all the way downtown, showing up alone at this hour, I thought.
At the bar I saw Frank, the bookstore owner, but I doubted he’d remember me.
“Olive?” I felt a tap on my shoulder. “I’m so glad you made it.” It was Emily, the writer. She led me to the bar. “What can we get you? You remember Frank?” He looked at me as if trying to focus, then as if something registered. “Ah yes, the uptown girl.”
