The Lonely Hearts Hotel(88)
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WITH ONLY FOUR WEEKS LEFT to get the show together, there were still a hundred little things Rose had to attend to. She looked at the costumes pinned onto the mannequin torsos. She counted the order of twenty Napoleon hats, trying one on herself. She described the set to the carpenters. She raised her arms above her head, clenching and unclenching her hands, illustrating how she wanted scintillating stars hanging from the sky. Part of the show was to take place under a huge blizzard, so the whole troupe furiously cut snowflakes out of the newspapers that described scandals and mob killings and trouble in Europe.
They had also collectively made a giant moon out of papier maché. Every now and then the moon would get loose and roll across the hangar. There was a joke in the company that the moon was possessed. They said that it wanted to be up in the sky and resented being pulled down to earth. They were afraid it would roll down the boulevard, women and children and dogs jumping out of its way, until it plopped happily into the river. And then what would happen? It would lie under the water every night, glowing. The moon up in the sky would be the reflection, and not the other way around.
Some of McMahon’s men came late at night and filled the moon with heroin. The drugs were in tiny little bottles, themselves inside a huge trunk. Rose helped the gangsters hide the trunk deep inside a crater she had kept open in the moon, then sealed the crack with buckets of plaster.
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THE PRESSURE OF getting the show done on time was getting to Rose. She threw temper tantrums in front of the performers. Everyone knew these were just passing moods, but they were still alarming. Rose could listen to a children’s choir for ten seconds and then point out the future opera singer with her finger. But she wasn’t especially good at managing and encouraging the talent. She threatened to bury a clown and his dog alive if they showed up tardily for rehearsal again.
Later that day, Rose passed a couple of girls sitting half-dressed and cross-legged in front of each other. She was shocked to see them doing nothing. She stopped for a second to overhear their conversation.
“It’s violent in New York. I’m a little bit worried about walking around on the streets alone. Can we make sure that we don’t lose sight of one another when we’re there?”
“Voyons! How can it be worse than here?”
“Because Jimmy Bonaventura runs the streets down there, as a matter of fact. He’s a psychopath. If you look at him the wrong way, you might get shot in the back of the head.”
“Oui, mais . . . I wouldn’t mind if he asked me out for filet mignon. Have you seen photographs of him?”
“Yes, I saw his arrest photograph.”
“He is so handsome. He has a reputation as a ladies’ man, you know.”
“And then what would happen if you got on his nerves?”
She pointed her index finger, as though it were a gun, at the other girl’s head. She pulled the trigger with her index finger. She said, “Pow.” The other girl toppled over to the ground.
“Knock it off, will you?” Rose said. “Get back to work. Are you two out of your minds? Playing cops and robbers at a time like this? I’m paying you! Never mind Jimmy Bonaventura, I’ll murder the two of you myself!”
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AFTER THAT EXPLOSION she went to find Pierrot. He was sitting in the middle of a circle of crushed top hats.
“I’ve just finished with these hats,” Pierrot said.
“How did you get them to look like that?”
“Frankly, I jumped on them. It was a dirty business, but someone had to do it.”
“Pierrot, you’re going to have to be in charge of all the performers. Or else they’ll drive me nuts.”
“What if I lead them all astray?”
“Everything I know about performance you know too. I trust you implicitly.”
“Oh, thank you. And what are you up to today?”
“Gangsters. Drug dealers. Thugs.”
“The commonsensical ones!”
She smiled, not disagreeing, and hurried off, leaving Pierrot to take care of the rehearsals. Pierrot was terrified for a second. He couldn’t believe he was in charge. It seemed like a funny dream—like realizing you are naked in a very public place. But Pierrot answered fifty questions over the course of that one afternoon.
“Which of the noises sounds closest to a rooster: Cockalooalooaloo or Cowarooraoooaroo?”
“The second.”
“Do you think that when I make a farting noise, I should have a look of pleasure on my face, or should I just completely ignore it and not acknowledge it?”
“Be surprised by it.”
“What do you think of me reciting a famous poem at the moment I am about to blow my head off?”
“I’m for it.”
“Do you think that I need to look at the heavens—the ceiling—when I sing, or out at the audience?”
“The audience.”
“Spongy nose or painted one?”
“Painted.”
“What color of carnation goes with this suit?”
“White.”
“What do you think about this?”
“No.”
“Do you like this?”
“Magnificent.”
“Can I have your opinion on this?”
“Oh no. That’s all wrong.”