swallow a laugh by coughing, but I don’t think it worked. “He sleeps with his gloves on, so the music never escapes his fingers, he says. This man stands on his head every morning. He claims it promotes hair growth. Has it worked? Non, of course not.”
This time I couldn’t disguise the laugh that escaped me. Sashay seemed to be gathering steam as she went on. “And the music, mon dieu, always the organ, always those mournful minor keys. And those melancholic composers — Gruntz, Langosteen, and worst of all, Vladimir Ughoman.” Her lip curled beyond its usual pout as I recalled my own encounter with the Churlish Concerto that morning. One was definitely a full helping. She paused, sighed, and added quietly, “But Rudee loves me ... and I love him. It’s just better for me if he’s on the other side of Paris, you know. He calls me every day and tells me I’m the loveliest of all and that no one can dance like I can. Ah, maybe twenty years ago it was true, but now I get by on craftiness, some mysterious music, and the audience’s desire to be entranced. What used to be all me is now mostly lighting, dry ice, and a three-drink minimum at work.”
She stood up to pour some tea from a swan-shaped teapot.
“Sashay, I wish I could have seen you then,” I said. “I’m sure Rudee’s right.”
Her smile made me feel like such a child. She slipped through a beaded curtain and returned with a long silver tube, from which she extracted a yellowed poster of a woman who looked part cloud, part whipped cream, her eyes glowing through all this motion and flashing like little jolts of amber lightning. The image of a young Sashay was magical, and underneath in ornate script was written:
Sashay D’Or. La Reine Des Rêves
The Queen of Dreams
One Show Nightly at the Lido De Paris
The same eyes looked at me as she rolled up the poster. “To work, we’ve both got a show tonight!”
From a gigantic shipping trunk, she pulled out miles of assorted fabrics and tossed them here and there. She draped me with each one then stood back, shaking her head, pouting, murmuring little “mmms” and “ouis” and “nons” as she worked.
“It’s all scarf, Mademoiselle Mac, it has nothing to do with buttering your little cheeks with blush or balancing you on a pair of pumps with heels like La Tour Eiffel. It’s not the scarf with the perfect little origami folds. And none of that awful whiplash look, wrapped around your neck like a maypole. Mon dieu, non.”
I agreed with everything, trying to stand still as she wrapped and unwrapped me in layers of satin, silk, cashmere, and chenille till I thought my neck would break out in hives. If my mom could see me now....
“And you don’t want to look cold. One doesn’t buy a watch for its ability to tell time, oui? We must drape, casually, elegantly, with that certain ‘oh I don’t really know how it fell like this’ look. Once over each shoulder, a little toss to one side then the other. A little pouffe in the front, et voila! Oh yes, and let your hair fall in your eyes. It says ‘so what.’”
I knew that part would be no problem. I can do “so what.” Looking in the mirror, I felt silly but more ready for Le Moulin D’Or than I had been an hour ago. I was going to ask what to expect at the club when Sashay glanced through the curtains and spotted Rudee’s taxi. “Our carriage is here, ma petite.”
Eleven
As we zoomed to the club, Rudee kept glancing back in the mirror with, I thought, a mixture of amazement and amusement. Sashay swept me though the backstage door, down a dark hallway behind the stage, to her dressing room. From inside the club I could hear the blah-blah of voices and the occasional too-loud laugh, mixed with the sound of some old song that everyone but me remembers. As Sashay did a few salad-tossing moves with my hair, she whispered some last minute instructions.
“They’ll be the ones on the balcony; you can’t miss them. It’s dark up there. Remember what Rudee said. Just listen and don’t try to talk to them. You’ll be subbing for Michelle the cigarette girl. If anyone asks, just say she’s sick.”
She must have read my expression as she looped a tray around my neck filled with every brand of cigarette on display. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to smoke to sell them. They’ll order from you all night.” Sashay kissed me on both cheeks and whispered, “Bonne chance. Meet me here after the show.”
I turned to push my way through the heavy curtains beside the stage, and for a moment, my courage faltered. What am I, a kid from Upper Mandeville, California, who isn’t old enough to drive, never mind smoke, doing here? Will I fool anyone? At that moment, the curtains parted and a small, elegantly-dressed waitress with a tray full of empty glasses almost knocked me over. “Oh, excusez-moi, go ahead, doll.” She smiled and held the curtain open into the club.
My mouth went dry, and my heart skipped a few beats. The murmurs I had heard backstage swelled to a sea of voices, clinking glasses, and couples laughing, accompanied by a creaky piano player. The room was washed in cool green and blue light. It was filled with little circular tables, attended by waitresses bearing exotic drinks of every colour in every shape of glass. Lights in the floor resembled lily pads, and the ceiling seemed to have stars embedded in it. I was transfixed by the mood of the place; it was like nothing I’d ever seen. My reverie was broken by a voice that sounded like a cough. “Mademoiselle, while we’re young, if you don’t mind.”
I followed the voice to a group of dimly lit tables set above and back from the main part of the club. I couldn’t see the face behind the voice, but I heard the snide laughter that followed as I tried to steady my legs and start the climb to the balcony. My hair fell in my eyes, but I hung on to my tray and remembered Sashay’s advice.
A single candle lit each table on the balcony, which was more like an alcove that overlooked the club. A group of five black coats and hats that I supposed had men in them were clustered around two of the three tables. The first thing that hit me through the dense cloud of smoke was the slightly swampy odour that hung in the air. That and the mirrored sunglasses. Two were wearing theirs; there were two pairs on the table, and the fifth had his hat pulled low enough to hide his features completely. “You want us to die of too much fresh air?” hissed the tallest of the group as the others laughed ugly, wheezing laughs. “What took you?”
Before I could answer, he grabbed a pack and some Moulin D’Or matches and tossed down a bill, waving me off like a mosquito. As I was about to make my escape, a bony hand grabbed my wrist. “Playing favourites, kid?” he almost whispered, then glancing at the selection, made his choice and looked me in the eyes. He had long, wispy silver hair beneath his hat and strangely smooth, bluish skin. A thin white scar snaked from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Minus the glasses, his eyes looked like what you see in the fireplace just before the fire goes out. I felt like my blood was slowing down in my veins from the cold chill that washed over me. “Where’s Michelle?”
“Uh,” I started to reply, but my tongue wouldn’t move.
However, they soon lost interest in me, and I left as quickly as I could to gather myself. I was back and forth between the balcony and the friendlier patrons on the lower levels all night until the music stopped and the stage lights dimmed for Sashay’s performance. I had turned toward the stage, excited to watch my new friend, when I heard a rasping voice from the balcony and saw a hand beckoning me back into the darkness. By now I was getting used to their cheesy comments and overall rudeness, but I was still on my guard as I made my way up the stairs. Suddenly I was pushed aside as a new group emerged onto the balcony from a doorway that I hadn’t seen before. Two more cookie-cutter trench coats and fedora hats
