“Please do. Tell him that Florenz Ziegfeld came by to compliment him on his production and on his spectacular cast.”
I nodded, trying not to appear too eager to meet him.
“And you, you were quite spectacular yourself, Miss…?”
“Miss McCormick,” I said. “Olive McCormick.”
“Yum-Yum indeed.” He took my hand and kissed it, holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his other hand. “You saved the show this evening.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Indeed, your bravery, your calmness and your presence of mind to keep singing in that beautifully sweet voice of yours averted what could have resulted in a stampede.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way; I’d just really wanted to sing. In fact, since the show had ended, and I’d heard the cast members in the dressing room talking about the terrifying earthquake and how we could have all been crushed to death in the rubble of the theater, I briefly thought that my continuing to sing could have actually done a lot more harm than good if there’d been another tremor.
“Truly, Miss McCormick,” he continued, “hundreds of lives could have been at risk if everyone panicked and tried to flee.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right; I did save the day. Thank you for the lovely flowers,” I said, reaching for them.
“Oh…” Mr. Ziegfeld hesitated, laughed, then handed them over. “I like your confidence.”
I realized as I took them that they weren’t intended for me. After all, we’d only just met. He hadn’t come backstage to meet me, he’d come to meet the director. I suddenly felt foolish, but I wasn’t about to let on, so I breathed in the scent and smiled one of my best.
“I have a little show in New York City,” he said. “You might have heard of it.”
Of course I had. This was the Broadway showman and creator of theZiegfeld Follies,the man who turned young women into overnight sensations if they could sing or dance. But I’d be coy, play it as if I hadn’t a clue.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”
“Oh yes, theZiegfeld Follies. I have the most beautiful, most talented girls in the country. I know from one glance if they have the proportions and beauty to be a Ziegfeld girl.”
“Really? One glance? And I suppose she must disrobe for you to have such insight?”
“Not at all. She can be fully robed. One look at her ankle and her neck will tell me exactly how her whole leg will look. I like a straight American girl’s nose and a short upper lip.” He eyed me, moving his head to the side to analyze my facial structure.
“And how do I hold up to your high standards?”
“Quite nicely. You’ve got the face for it.” He looked down, and while I was wearing a robe he allowed his eyes to follow the length of my legs from the ankle up to my thigh as if he could see right through the fabric. “The proportions are perfection, and if you couldsing on Broadway the way you sang on that stage tonight, then you’d be just fine as one of my ponies.”
I gave him a cockeyed look—what the heck was a pony? I was an opera singer. I laughed and started to turn away.
“You must come and visit me next time you’re in New York City,” he said. “The New Amsterdam Theatre on Forty-second Street. You can’t miss it, it’s got my name in white lights out front.”
We played in San Jose for one more night and then went to San Francisco, Sacramento, and then Hollywood for the final show. It was a matinee: apparently everyone in Hollywood was more interested in going to the movie show in the evenings than in watching a live opera. But that was all right with me, because that evening the producers took our whole troupe to the Brown Derby for dinner. It was a rounded brown dome of a restaurant made to look like a derby hat right on Wilshire Boulevard. They ordered for the table—chopped chicken livers, spaghetti and a Derby plate of crabs’ legs, celery, avocado and Thousand Island dressing. Afterwards some of the girls ordered ice cream and sherbets and made their way back to the hotel, but I was dying to see a little more of the Hollywood I’d heard so much about. After we said good night and went back to our rooms, I sneaked out and walked across the street to where I’d seen a big sign that read, “Ambassador Hotel—Cocoanut Grove,” and underneath, “Ray West and his Cocoanut Grove Orchestra.”
I approached the heavy glass doors with as much confidence as I could muster and smiled at the doorman.
“I’m meeting my friends inside,” I said, not stopping as he tippedhis hat and opened the door for me. Thrilled by my subterfuge, I sailed past him. The minute I stepped inside, the music hit me, swirling around a room full of tables dressed in white linen, a frenzied dance floor and actual full-size palm trees grazing the ceiling. The atmosphere was electrifying, and I tingled with excitement. Looking around, taking it all in, I noticed an empty seat at the bar, where I might be able to linger without my being alone getting too much notice.
“A Coca-Cola, please,” I said to the barkeep. “And a straw.”
“How about I put it in a glass for you, so you can sip it like a lady?” He laughed.
“That would be great.” I took the glass of Coca-Cola and turned around to face the orchestra. It was wildly fun, and I wished more than anything I could get up there on the dance floor.
“You’re not here alone, are you?”
It was the gentleman sitting to my left. I hadn’t even noticed him when I sat down. He was at least twenty-five years older than me, maybe more, but slightly handsome in a slick kind of way, hair greased back, his tie loosened a little at the neck.
