by Gore Vidal
“Did you tell them?”
“No, I didn’t. Which was unwise of me I suppose, but I have no intention of losing Garden just as she’s begun to dance like a real ballerina. Under the circumstances I don’t think the police are very much interested. After all, it’s to their advantage to have the case finished.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“By the way, what did you tell that man from the Veterans’ Committee yesterday?”
“I told him that it was up to them to prove Wilbur was a Communist.”
Mr. Washburn chuckled. “You will be happy to know that you have been accused of being a Communist-sympathizer, a party-liner, a fellow-traveler and a degenerate by one Abner Fleer … have you got anything to say in your defense?”
“Nothing at all … except that I was driven into the hands of the enemy by Mr. Fleer and his kind in the days of my youth; even before my America First button had begun to tarnish, I found myself disenchanted with the keepers of the flame.”
“I sympathize with you. The charges against Wilbur are getting serious, though. The columnists are beginning to take up the question, and, frankly, I’m worried about Chicago. It’s not like New York. The Veterans’ Committee is a joke here but out there it carries a lot of weight and we may be in trouble if they decide to blackball us.”
“What can we do?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Couldn’t we take an ad and say that he’s already been cleared twice?”
“We’ll have to do something like that. Think about it, anyway. That’s your big assignment for the next week … getting Mr. Wilbur, and us, off the hook.”
“I’ll think of something,” I said with that same air of quiet confidence which has made a fortune for any number of movie actors, con-men and politicians.
Eglanova, in a summer dress and a set of sables (the day was hot but she wouldn’t be Eglanova without sable), swept into the office. We both rose and Mr. Washburn leaned across the desk and kissed her hand.
“Such wonderful last night!” she exclaimed, glowing with pleasure. “Such applause! Such loyalty! I weep to remember it.”
But her narrow mascaraed eyes were dry, the lashes as artfully curled as ever.
“Darling Anna! You are the prima of our time … the ultimate.”
“Such nice thing to say, Ivan. Of course last night I tried. That makes difference. But those awful people!” She scowled, looking like Attila the Hun or maybe Genghis Khan contemplating traitors. “Who are these people anyway? Who are people who throw things when Eglanova dances? Ivan, you must do something.”
“They weren’t throwing things at you, Anna. They were throwing them at Wilbur.”
“Even so they hit me when I dance Swan Queen. If they don’t like Jed why don’t they throw things during Eclipse?”
Mr. Washburn laughed. “I expect they intended to but they got their signals mixed. In any case, we won’t have trouble with them in Chicago … rest assured.” Eglanova did not look as though she were resting assured but she changed the subject.
“Dear Peter,” she said, turning to me and smiling a dazzling smile, “I must thank you for not telling police about those big scissors. It was sweet of you … very brave. I thank you.” And she patted my arm.
“I told her,” said Mr. Washburn. “I told her that you didn’t want to incriminate her.”
I mumbled something graceful and incoherent.
“So strange,” sighed Eglanova. “Why would Miles want to put scissors in my room? I who am last person to harm fellow artist.”
Both Mr. Washburn and I expressed wonder at the murderer’s intention; then, aware that some ballet plot was afoot, I excused myself. I was sure, even then, that Mr. Washburn had told the police about having seen Jane at Miles’ apartment.
2
Jane and I were very cool with one another that evening and even cooler the next morning when we got up early, at ten o’clock, and made breakfast. She was angry at my having scolded her and I was alarmed at her bad sense; the fact that the night had passed without love-making didn’t put me in a very good mood either.
It wasn’t until we had finished a pot of coffee between us, that I told her what Mr. Washburn had said.
“Well, there wasn’t any reason for him to say I was there.” She looked sulky and she wore her dressing gown which was a bad sign … usually neither of us wears any clothes around the apartment.
“Except that he could get into trouble, too, for not mentioning it … but I’ve got a hunch he did tell them … if only because they know already.”
“I think you’re making an awful fuss about nothing … that’s what I think,” said Jane, massaging her calves.
“How was the rehearsal?”
“Tough.” She sighed. “It isn’t like a rehearsal with Alyosha … I’ll say that. Wilbur screams at you and half the time I think he makes up the ballet as he goes along.”
“I wonder if it’ll be any good?”
“I suppose so. They say this is the way he always works.”
“He wasn’t like this during Eclipse, was he?”
“He was pretty noisy … of course I wasn’t there too much of the time. He worked mainly with the principals … especially Louis.”
“How’s the big affair coming?”
“Not so well … I don’t think Louis likes him very much.”
“But he likes Louis?”
“Madly. You should see the way he looks at him, like a spaniel or something.”
The telephone rang. Jane answered it. She said “yes” several times then she said, “Come right over.” And hung up.
“Who was that?”
“Magda. She’s given up her apartment and she’s going to move in here.”
“I see.” I turned to ice, thinking of my own lonely apartment downtown.
“I thought I’d let her stay on here after we go to Chicago. She’ll look after the apartment and everything.”
“And for the next week?”
“Well, I mean it’s only a week …”
“And I can go home?”
“But think of all she’s gone through … not a friend in the world except me. As a matter of fact, she may be pretty sick starting tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“She’s found a doctor who’ll … you know … fix her, take care of the baby.”
“What about her family?”
“They’ve gone back to Boston, thank God.”
For a number of reasons, none charitable, I thought it best not to complain. With the air of a martyr surveying the flames, I packed my suitcase while Jane telephoned all her friends to discuss Magda, the ballet, Jed Wilbur and the doings of rival companies.
We were both dressed and ready to leave when Magda appeared, looking dumpy in a linen suit and carrying a suitcase. The two girls embraced tenderly.
“I hope I’m not being too awful … I mean moving in like this,” said Magda, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. She had obviously been weeping steadily for over a week now. I never felt more uncompassionate toward anyone in my life, at that moment anyway.
“Of course not,” I said, with an attempt at cheeriness. “I think it’s wonderful … now that your family’s gone.”
“We were just going to rehearsal,” said Jane. “Why don’t you make yourself at home. I’ll be back at five.”
“Do you think they’d mind if I went too? I’d like to sit and watch awhile … see what the new ballet’s like.” She sounded very wistful. “I can get my other bags later.”
“That’s a fine idea,” said Jane who seemed more pleased with this new arrangement than she had any reason to be. So I grabbed the suitcase, bade the ladies farewell and took a cab for my Ninth Street apartment. Then, after a visit with Miss Flynn at my own office, I walked to the studio.
The Grand Saint Petersburg Ballet operates a school over in Hell’s Kitchen, on the West Side. They occupy the fifth floor of a terrible old building which should have been conde
mned long ago. Their section, however, has been done up handsomely, very modern, and they have four classrooms as well as a large studio which is often used for rehearsal, sparing Mr. Washburn the unnecessary expense of hiring halls which he occasionally has to do during the season.
I arrived at about three-thirty and visited some of the classes before I went to the room where Jed Wilbur was creating like mad with Jane and most of the company.
There was a very chic-looking reception hall where the dancers often sit about in tights waiting for their hour in class, a long hall decorated with mobiles and paintings of dancers, with a desk at one end where Madame Aloin, formerly of the Paris Opera, sits in splendor and receives visitors and incoming telephone calls.
I said good afternoon to Madame Aloin who gave me a stately nod; then I wandered into the nearest classroom. Here a number of dismal tiny tots were being run through a set of exercises by a bored, overweight dancer who had once been celebrated before his thyroid had begun malfunctioning. The mothers, a row of somber ladies, gray and determined, glared at me as the piano plunked one two one two. I shut the door.
The next two classrooms were more interesting: lovely blond girls in black tights practicing intricate variations with a group of muscle-bound sissies. Somewhat aroused, wanting to be aroused since I was angry at Jane, at the celibacy she had arranged for me, I went to the fourth classroom which was empty, a cube of a room, like the rest, with mirrors at one end and a waist-high bar at the other end where the dancers did exercises, and tall windows which went almost to the floor. In one corner of this room is a door which opens into the rehearsal hall, a sneak entrance often used by the stars when they want to get out quickly, when they see the bores, the balletomanes, waiting for them at the main door.
The rehearsal looked like a panic. Most of the corps de ballet was there, in tights and T-shirts, drenched with sweat, as the piano banged out a phrase of Poulenc, over and over, while Wilbur shouted excitedly at them, his thin gray hair on end and his face flushed.
“Lift with the music! Lift with the music … it’s not that difficult. Listen … there is your phrase. Lift the girls on the second beat, start it then, finish on the fourth. Da da dum dada … hear? Da da lift … da da lift! Now try it again.”
I sat down on the long hard bench by the door and watched the corps de ballet go through its paces. They all looked tired and wretched in the heat. I was glad I wasn’t a dancer.
Jane seemed worried as she did her solo in front of the company who were, in the meantime, doing a complicated movement behind her. Louis, who was not in this particular part, came ambling over to me with his usual grin. “Hi, Baby … long time no see.” For some reason, Louis, when he learned English, absorbed a great deal of Nineteen-twenty slang which sounds very funny coming from him, with his French accent and all. He sat down beside me, his knee shoved hard against mine. I moved away.
“You want to go up to Harlem with me tonight? I got a couple cute numbers there … oh, you like them fine.”
“I got enough where I am, Honey,” I said, falling into his way of talking.
“That’s too bad. We could have a swell time, you and me … up in Harlem.”
“Not my idea of a swell time.”
“What sort of boy are you? American boys all like …” and he made an obscene gesture. I glanced around nervously but nobody was watching us … the music covered our voices and Wilbur was giving the dancers hell.
“I guess I’m un-American,” I said.
“Maybe you like real young boys … maybe I’m too old for you.”
“Louis, you’re my idea of heaven … honest to God you are, but I’d feel selfish having you all to myself when the fellows in the company need you so much more than I do. Why I wouldn’t even know how to begin to appreciate you.”
“I teach you in one plenty fast lesson.” And I moved away as that sinewy leg slammed against mine. Then Wilbur saw his love and with a look of real alarm said, “Louis! That’s your cue.” And our hero bounded to his feet and joined Wilbur and Jane in the center of the room. “Adagio!” shouted Wilbur to the pianist; the boys and girls relaxed, wilted in decorative attitudes against the bar, talking to each other in low voices while Louis and Jane did their pas de deux.
I got up and stretched my legs. Magda came into the hall and smiled wanly at me.
“How is it going?” she asked.
“Damned if I can tell. Looks like a riot from where I’m sitting.”
“It usually works out,” she said vaguely, sitting down.
“How does Jane look?”
“Worried,” I said, flatly; I was angry with Miss Garden.
“Such a responsibility, having a new ballet being made for you.”
“And a few other people.”
Eglanova and Alyosha entered the room, like an old king and queen come to watch the heirs-apparent at play. They nodded regally to Wilbur and the company and then they sat down on the bench, very straight. I joined them.
I chatted with Alyosha while Eglanova and Magda watched Wilbur at work.
“Such great confusion,” said Alyosha. “No one can tell what it is. I hope he is nearly done, though.”
“Why?”
“He must go to Washington on Wednesday.” Alyosha did not bother to disguise his pleasure. “To be investigated?”
“Exactly … very secret hearing, but I found out … now it is not so secret!” Alyosha laughed. “Does Wilbur know?”
“I’m sure he does. So I hope the ballet will be ready in case he doesn’t come back from Washington for a few days.” Or years, I could hear our regisseur say to himself. Old Alyosha was, I knew, afraid that he would be retired one of these days, be replaced by one of the bright young men, like Jed Wilbur.
“Looks like the veterans have carried the day,” I said.
“Pretty girl!” said Eglanova as Jane did some glittering chené turns into Louis’ arms.
“In ten years she will be ready to take your place,” said Alyosha gallantly.
“Dear friend!” said our star, her eyes black slits as she watched Jane do her stuff.
Then the door to the hall opened and Mr. Washburn peered in at us; he gestured for me to join him. I slipped out of the hall and joined him in the reception room.
“More trouble,” he said with a sigh.
“About the hearings in Washington?”
“Exactly. I think it’ll be in all the papers tomorrow. I was trying to hush it up but now it’s too late. The F.B.I. is mixed up in the case.”
“He’s not guilty, is he?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think that they have anything important. They only want to question him … but that’s enough to get all the witch-hunters in this town against us. Not to mention Chicago.”
“What can we do?”
“Make it appear that he’s testifying of his own free will … which I suppose he is, in a way. We’ll try and make a big thing of his turning informer … you know what I mean: ex-liberal telling what he knows about Communism in the theater.”
“Seems kind of sick-making.”
“So what? We’ve got a long tour ahead of us and I’ve tied up a good deal of money in Wilbur.” You and Alma Edderdale and twenty other patrons, I thought.
“Have you talked it over with Wilbur?”
“Oh yes … just before rehearsal this afternoon. He’s going to follow the same line. He doesn’t want trouble … especially if he’s innocent, and signed to do the new Hayes and Marks musical in the fall …” he added irrelevantly.
“What do you want me to do then? Get in touch with the papers directly? Or work through the columnists?”
“Get to the papers directly; but first you’ll have to handle Elmer Bush. He’s on his way over to look around, he says, but of course’s he’s going to try and get some kind of exclusive out of Jed or me. Now I’m going to keep out of sight and I’m going to keep Jed away from Bush, if possible. Your job is to head him off … even if you have to hint t
hat Jed has got some wild revelations for the committee in Washington.”
“I’ll do what I can,” I said, like the Spartan youth with the fox at his vitals.
“Good fellow,” said Mr. Washburn, hurrying down the hall to the classroom of tiny tots where he intended, obviously, to hide out until Elmer Bush, a symphony in blue: shirt, suit, socks and tie, appeared in our reception hall, causing a bit of a stir among the dancers who were sitting on the benches waiting to go into class … it was five minutes to the hour.
“Why hello there,” said Mr. Bush, flashing that television smile of his, the dentures superbly wrought and fitted. “Washburn or Wilbur around? … old friend of mine, Ivan Washburn.” In spite of his fame and power he still had the reporter’s nervous habit of trying a little too hard to establish friendship with persons in high and interesting places, for the moment interesting, for the moment news.
“They aren’t here right now, Mr. Bush … is there anything I can do for you?”
“Call me Elmer,” said the great man mechanically, taking in the room with a reporter’s eye, a lecher’s eye too, for his gaze paused longer than necessary over one of the girls, a slim brown-haired number with a T-shirt. “Nice place you people have here. Terrible neighborhood, though. Been fighting for years now to get it cleaned up. Made absolutely no headway. When do you expect Wilbur?”
It took me a moment to separate the question from what had promised to be a thoughtful Elmer Bush report of city-planning. “Well, you know he’s pretty busy with that new ballet.”
“They’re rehearsing it here.”
Since this wasn’t a question, but a statement, I had to agree. “But nobody’s allowed in the studio while he’s working. He’s very difficult.”
“We’ll see how difficult he is when that committee gets through with him in Washington.”
“How did you know about that … Elmer?” I asked, very folksy, my eyes round with admiration.
“Never ask an old reporter to tell his sources,” chuckled Bush, pleased with the effect he thought he was making.
“Why, I only heard about it an hour ago.”
“That so? Then tell me this … how do you people plan to get your big wheel off the spot?”
