“Tell me, Louis, how does it feel to be famous?” And believe it or not he told me; it was the last time I ever tried irony on that boy … on any dancer because, for some reason or another, they are the most literal-minded crew in the world.
When he had finished telling me what it was like at the end of a ballet when the applause was coming up out of the darkened house (“like waves”), our waiter eased by with the drinks as I watched, fascinated. Most queens walk in a rather trotting manner with necks and shoulders rigid, like women, and the lower anatomy swiveling a bit; not our waiter, though … he was like Theda Bara moving in for a couple of million at the box office, in the days when a dollar was a dollar.
“Here’s your poison,” he said in that slow Mae Western manner of his.
“That’s a boy,” said Louis and he swallowed a shot of gin which he immediately chased with a mouthful of water. He grimaced. “Lighter fluid,” he said.
“What did you expect, lover, ambrosia?” Obviously a literary belle, our waiter … and what a joy it was to hear her say “ambrosia”!
“Just a little old-fashioned gin.”
“You want some more?”
“The real stuff.”
The belle looked at him beneath sleepy lids which even in the dim light I could see had been heavily mascaraed. “Are you that dancer?”
“That’s me.” And Louis flashed the ivory smile.
“That’s what Mary said when you came in but I said, no, this one’s too old.”
One for the belle, I said to myself, as Louis’ smile vanished. “Get the gin,” he said, suddenly rough and surly.
“I didn’t mean any offense,” said the belle, with a smile of triumph; she ambled off swaying like some tall flower in a summer breeze.
“Bitch,” said Louis, in a bad temper. But then two admirers came over, college boy types, very young and drunk.
“Hey, you Louis Giraud aren’t you?” asked one of them, a crewcut number, short and stocky. The other was a gentle-looking blond.
“Yes,” said Louis, obviously taking no chances after his experience with the waiter.
“See, what did I say?” said the short one to the tall one.
“He’s kidding you,” said the blond.
“No, he’s not,” I said, just to be helpful; Louis was beginning to look very tough indeed.
“Giraud’s right calf is about half an inch thicker than his left,” said the blond.
I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was a balletomane.
“Please show us,” said the short one. “I got a bet.…”
Louis, exhibitionist to the last, pulled up his trouser legs to reveal those massive legs, like blue marble in this light; sure enough one calf was bigger than the other. They both touched him very carefully, like children in a museum. “I win,” said the short one and he pulled the taller one away, with some difficulty now that Louis’ identity had been established.
“Nice boys,” said Louis, with his old good humor. “Like little pussycats, fuzzy and nice.”
“They don’t look much like pussycats to me,” I said austerely.
“Why don’t you come off it, Baby? Stop all this girl-business.”
“I can’t help it, Louis. I got a weak character.”
“I could teach you a lot,” said Louis with a speculative look; before he could start the first lesson, however, the belle returned with another shot of gin.
“Compliments of the management, Miss Pavlova,” said the belle insolently.
“Why don’t you go stuff …”
“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” said the belle, with a faraway Blanche Dubois smile.
But then the chief entertainer Molly Malloy came over, a man in his late thirties with small regular features; he was wearing a crimson evening gown and a blond wig like Jean Harlow.
“Hi, there, Louis, long time no see,” said Molly in a husky voice, not precisely female but on the other hand not very male either. He sat down at our table, drawing all eyes toward us. I felt very self-conscious.
“How’re you doing, Molly? I’ve been tied up all season … haven’t been able to get out once.”
“That’s not what I hear. This your new chick?” asked Molly, giving me the eye.
“Yeah,” said Louis, beaming, “Pretty cute piece, huh?”
“Well you always get the best, dear. And I know why.” There was much vulgar laughter and I looked politely away, looked toward the bar where youths and old men of every description were furtively nudging one another, all engaged in the maneuvers of courtship. It was a very interesting thing to watch.
“You still doing the same act, Molly?”
“Haven’t changed it in ten years … my public wouldn’t let me … even if I could. Tell me, dear, about all that excitement you’ve been having uptown: all those dancers murdering each other. Who did it?”
“Damned if I know,” said Louis, and he changed the subject, the way he had with me all night whenever I tried to get the conversation around to the murders, tried to question Louis about one or two things which had to be cleared up before I could get the proof I needed. But Louis wasn’t talking. And I wasn’t giving up … not if I had to get him drunk, a hard job but, under the circumstances, a necessary one since I’d heard he talks a lot when he’s drunk and there’s truth in the grape, as the ancients used to say.
“Well, dear, it’s been a real sensation … let me tell you. And such publicity! If it doesn’t sell tickets my name isn’t Molly Malloy.” I couldn’t help but wonder whether or not his name really was Molly Malloy. “Come here, Miss Priss,” said Molly sternly to our waiter who obeyed with the air of a royal princess dispensing favors, or maybe Saint Theresa scrubbing floors. “Another gin for Louis Giraud the dancer, another coke and a Tom Collins … understand?”
“You don’t have to act like I was deaf,” said the aggrieved, petulantly; another round was brought us and when Louis finished his third shot of gin he was definitely in a joyous mood … just next door to drunkenness and indiscretion. I bided my time.
Then Molly Malloy went into his act, to the delight of the initiates though it was pretty bewildering to me, full of references to people I never heard of, and imitations of celebrated actresses which weren’t remotely like the originals, or anything else for that matter. He finished the act with a torch song and, when that was over, disappeared through a door behind the stage to much applause. Beneath clouds of blue smoke the pianist continued to play; voices sounded louder and the mating at the bar grew more intense and indecorous.
During Molly’s last number, Louis had taken my hand in his and held it like a vise. After a while I stopped trying to pull away; it wouldn’t last forever I knew. That’s what I always tell myself in difficult situations, like the war … fortunately he soon got tired of kneading my palm and let it drop. I sat on my hands for the next half hour.
“Swell place,” said Louis, after Molly left the stage. “Swell,” I said.
“I came here on my first night in New York … maybe ten years ago. I was just a kid from Europe … didn’t know a word of English. But I got by.” He laughed. “Right away a nice old gentleman took me home and since any French boy can make better love than any American, I got me a home real quick; then, later, I go into ballet here … to keep busy. I like work … work, sleep and …” He named his three passions.
“When did you meet Mr. Washburn?” I asked casually.
“When he came backstage at the old ballet company where I was working. I had done one beautiful Bluebird; I guess maybe the best damned Bluebird since Nijinski. Every company in America was after me. Washburn had the most money so I joined him and he made me premier danseur. I like him fine. He treats me like a king.”