The end was near — and so damn predictable — that Danny had all he could do to keep from groaning the inevitable concluding wordlet, “love.”
By this point, Edgar was pirouetting around the room. He rushed over to Tashkenian, kissed him on the cheek, and announced, “He loves it, Danny loves it!”
Sweating and gasping for breath, Leon looked up at the Renaissance man of modern music.
“What do you think, Mr. Rossi?” he asked like a nervous neophyte.
“Leon, it gives the word crap a new dimension.”
“He’s kidding, he’s kidding.” Edgar laughed nervously.
“He’s not,” said the young man at the piano, quietly but with less diffidence. And then, turning to Danny, he inquired, “Could I have some more specific criticism?”
“Specifically, Leon, I object to the clichéd use of ‘one-six-four-five-one.’ ”
“A cliché is what you make of it, Mr. Rossi,” Leon replied. “Richard Rodgers used it beautifully in ‘Blue Moon.’ ”
“You’re not Richard Rodgers — and that mindless sequence of notes isn’t music.”
Tashkenian was young, but he was aware of his own worth, especially at this moment. After this latest barrage of insults, he owed the maestro no more deference.
“Look, Rossi, I’ve got better things to do than sit here and be abused by a pretentious, overrated asshole like you. I know damn well my chord progressions are familiar. But that’s the name of the game. The clichés make ’em think it’s something they’ve heard before. They’re half-remembering it even before they hear it. And that means they can hum it at intermission. And that, in the musical theater, spells success, You don’t have anything against success, do you?”
At this point, however, Edgar Waldorf felt impelled to defend the star who was providing his show with light if not heat.
“Mr. Rossi is one of the great composers of our time,” he said.
But Tashkenian had gone too far to back down.
“Of what?” he sneered. And then turned to Danny. “You’re not even that good at classical. I mean, at Juilliard we studied the last movement of your pseudo-Stravinsky Savanarola ballet — as an example of heavy-handed orchestration, You’re nothing but an Ivy League con man.”
As suddenly as he started, Leon stopped, gripped with fear at what he’d allowed himself to say.
Danny could say nothing. Because some pellets of truth in Leon’s wild shotgun rage had hit home.
They simply stood there, glaring at each other, both frightened at who might explode next.
Curiously, it was Leon Tashkenian. He began to cry. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, wiped his cheeks, and then said quietly, “I’m sorry, Mr. Rossi. I spoke out of turn.”
Danny did not know how to respond.
“Come on,” Edgar pleaded, “he said he was sorry.”
“I really didn’t mean what I said,” Tashkenian added meekly.
Danny concluded that magnanimity would be his only way of saving face. “Forget it, Leon, we’ve got a show to think about.”
Edgar Waldorf rose like a phoenix from his sofa of despair.
“Oh God, I love you both. You are two beautiful human beings.”
By some miracle, both men avoided his passionate lunges. He then took Leon’s lead sheets and handed them to Danny.
“Here, schmaltz ’em up with your classical virtuosity.”
“What?”
“You gotta play these tunes to the cast tomorrow morning.”
What new humiliation was this? Was he to “schmaltz” up Leon’s musical guano as this cheap hack looked on gloating?
“Why do I have to play it?”
“Because it’s supposed to be your stuff, Dan.”
“They don’t know about Leon?”
Edgar shook his head emphatically. “And they never will.”
Danny was speechless. He turned to the young man, whose eyes were still red with tears, and asked, “You really don’t want any credit?”
Leon smiled shyly. “It’s part of the business, Mr. Rossi. I’m sure you’d do the same for me.”
“They’re humming! Do you hear me, Danny? They’re humming!”
Edgar Waldorf was phoning from the manager’s office of the Shubert Theatre. It was the first intermission after Leon’s numbers had gone into the show. They had even added a reprise of “The Stars Are Not Enough,” which Theora Hamilton would now sing just before the curtain fell (Sir John Chalcott, who had threatened to resign if this change were effected, was at that moment on a flight back to London).
Danny had not been able to bring himself to go to the theater for fear of — he knew not what. Hearing the new songs fail? Or, worse perhaps, hearing them succeed?
“And, Danny,” Edgar continued to enthuse, “I smell success. We’ve got a winner! Trust Edgar Waldorf, we’ve got a smasheroo!”
Toward the midnight hour, there was a sensuous tap-tap-tapping at his hotel door.
It was the distinguished — and heretofore coolly distant — leading lady. Miss Theora Hamilton was carrying a bottle of showbiz soda water, otherwise known as champagne.
“Mr. Rossi,” she cooed, “I’ve come to toast a genius. That new ballad you wrote for me is a classic. I could see tears in their eyes as the curtain fell.”
Danny had never taken much heed of her opinions, but he had always entertained some interest in her breasts. He was pleased to see that she had not neglected to bring them along.
“Well, may I enter, or do we have to drink this in the hallway?”
“Madame,” said Danny with a gallant bow, “je vous en prie.”
And so the legendary Theora wafted in. First bottle, then breasts, then the heart that lay passionately within, They all were his that night.
Yes, music hath charms. Even if it is by Leon Tashkenian.
On the night of the New York opening, Danny had his driver bring Maria from Philadelphia directly to the theater. While she went in to watch the performance, Danny and Edgar paced nervously in the empty lobby. Every time they perceived laughter or applause they exchanged glances and mumbled something like, “Do you think they liked it?”
During the ride to the party, Danny anxiously asked Maria what she thought.
“Well, frankly, the original version was a little more to my taste, But the audience seemed to like it and I guess that’s what’s important.”
“No, it’s only what the critics think that counts.”
“I looked everywhere,” she said, “but I didn’t see Stuart and Nina.”
“They were both too nervous,” Danny improvised. “In fact, I don’t think they’ll even come to the reception. They’ll probably just sit at home and watch the television critics.”
By eleven-thirty, almost all the important reviews were in. The networks had been unanimously favorable. All complimented Stuart Kingsley’s literate book (Edgar’s wife, who had stepped in when Neil Simon declined the rewriting task, went graciously unbilled). And all remarked on Danny Rossi’s “sinewy, melodic score” (CBS-TV). It now seemed a foregone conclusion that the Times would come through with a rave.
And it did. In fact, Edgar was on the bandstand at that very moment, tearfully reading the words that would make them all rich and famous forever.
“It’s a Valentine!” he shrieked, waving a yellow sheet of paper above his head, “an unadulterated Valentine! Listen to his goddamn headline — ‘Melody Makes a Mighty Return to Broadway.’ ”