The Lonely Hearts Hotel(83)

She hit Broadway, and the different marquees distracted her from looking way, way up into the sky. There were neon lights and paintings of showgirls, and lightbulbs that spelled out words. And it was noisy. Nothing had prepared her for all that noise. It sounded like children. If all the children stood on their balconies and banged pots and pans at once. Or if all the babies in the world took their rattles out and shook them. It always sounded as if there were a parade just around the corner. There was something so joyous about all the noise in New York City.

The ground shook because there was so much activity, and you could feel a pulsation. She realized that it was all the hearts beating. Everybody was so excited that their hearts beat louder and stronger than anywhere else. Her own heart was practically smashing against her rib cage. It was a good feeling. Surely the blood racing through your body made you braver.

Because Rose was out of her context, she was able to think clearly. How marvelous this world was. She was amazed by it. Humans were always more capable of evil than you could imagine. And they were also capable of more wonderment than you could ever fathom. People had come up with this city. And what was different between them and her? They had hands and eyes. They had imaginations. They went to bed at night, and they had funny adventures in their heads. Anything was possible.

But the effects of the Depression were everywhere here too. This was the heart of the Great Depression. So much of Montreal’s economy hinged on its exports to the United States—its economy mirrored theirs. If the Americans were unhappy and miserable, Montreal was too. She passed a breadline, and she had never seen anything quite like it. It went all the way around the block. She couldn’t see the beginning or the end.

It was made up of men whose furtive eyes peeked out from the collars of the coats they huddled in. Their hostile eyes were vicious with shame, because anyone could look down on them. Trying not to make eye contact, Rose hurried by. Men were taught to have so much pride, to go out into the world and make something of themselves. This Depression was deeply humiliating. Since women were taught that they were worthless, they took poverty and hardship less personally.

Rose passed a thirteen-year-old girl with grubby cheeks, wearing a light blue dress. She was leaning against a wall with her foot under her ass and her knee up, smoking a cigarette. She had scabs on her knees that looked like strawberries. Her beige hat looked like a cake that hadn’t risen. She exhaled smoke rings, unconcerned.

? ? ?

ROSE HAD AN APPOINTMENT at the New Amsterdam Theatre. It was stately on the outside, but breathtaking once you stepped across the threshold. She took a peek into the theater itself. The rounded ceiling was covered in star-shaped pockmarks, and inside each one was a tiny painting. There were small arches around the proscenium that made it look like the edges of a tea biscuit. The curtain was green velvet with enormous golden tassels at the bottom that looked like manes shaved off lions on the African plains.

It was the type of theater that gave you the excuse to wear your most fancy clothes, and all your best jewelry too. You could even wear a tiara to a place like this. In fact, it would be impossible to be considered overdressed at such an establishment. At night the coat check would be filled with every type of fur coat, like a line of bears waiting to get into a soup kitchen.

She went down a narrow white hall and up a flight of wooden stairs to get to the manager’s office. The manager was an enormous fat man, crammed into a wooden chair behind his desk. He didn’t bother to put his jacket on. He just leaned over, sticking his pudgy hand out for Rose to shake. He was wearing a white blouse with a purple silk vest that was very tight. It was as though his great belly were an Easter egg and his clothes had been painted on. Rose found his appearance delightful. It was comforting to see a fat man during the Depression. He leaned back in the chair behind his desk, listening to the pretty girl’s pitch.

“Well, good-looking,” he said, “make it quick.”

“I intend to bring to your city the greatest sad clowns that the world has ever seen.”

“What do you call yourselves, did you say?”

“The Snowflake Icicle Extravaganza.”

“I generally only book world-renowned acts, my darling. And I’ve never heard of this.”

“These performers have no shallow inclination to travel around exposing their talents so that they can receive accolades. Whether they are at Carnegie Hall or performing in front of four children at a park, they do not see the distinction. They are not interested in glory. They are not interested in immortality. They’ve a duty to create beauty. And it is my duty to allow the whole world to see it. They understand that every gesture is a work of art. A girl cracking an egg on the side of a bowl is exquisite to them. For a clown, there is no difference between a singer onstage at the Paris Opera and a woman singing in the bathtub.”

“I like the way you put it. So I’m going to give you a chance. But only because I just had a cancelation from some Russian ballet dancers. Now there’s a country that never lets you down when they send performers on tour. They were supposed to use the theater in six weeks’ time. Does that work? It’s the only spot I can give you.”

“Six weeks is perfect. Plenty of time.”

“Although a bunch of Canadian clowns might not bring in the crowds on its own. You’ll have some chorus girls too, I hope?”

“Only the best.”

He put seven stars on his calendar: days that the Snowflake Icicle Extravaganza would be staged at the New Amsterdam Theatre in New York City.