up donations, and I finished readying the room. I was on a ladder adjusting a spotlight to shine on the orchestra, well aware that being up so high only increased my conspicuousness, when Paul appeared at the ballroom door. He stepped straight to the ladder.
“Roger told me I could find you here.”
The grand room suited Paul, the cream-colored walls with gold accents a fine contrast to his dark good looks. I felt a wave of la douleur, one of the many French words that do not translate into English well, which means “the pain of wanting someone you cannot have.”
“Delightful,” I said, climbing down the ladder steps, pearls swaying. Could he not at least suppress the smile?
“I’m on my way to the theater, but I need your signature for Rena’s visa application. If this is a bad time—”
“Of course not.”
Mother approached us, and the orchestra picked up their tempo.
“Mother, may I introduce Paul Rodierre?”
“Lovely to meet you,” Mother said. “You’re in The Streets of Paris, I hear.”
Paul gave Mother one of his best smiles. “Just one of a hundred.”
Mother seemed immune to him. To the untrained eye, she appeared perfectly cordial, but after years of watching her in society, I could detect the chill.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to see about refreshing the khachapuri. Someone seems to be eating it all.”
Paul turned to face Mother. “Khachapuri? My favorite.”
“It’s for the paying guests, I’m afraid,” Mother said. “Not that there will be many of those tonight.”
Paul bowed a little bow in Mother’s direction, so formal with her. “If you ladies will excuse me, I must be going.” He smiled at me and exited the way he came. So soon?
“Good job, Mother, alienating our one guest.”
“The French can be so sensitive.”
“You can’t expect people to stay here. New Yorkers would rather die than eat tvorog, and it does help to offer alcohol, you know.”
“Next time we’ll sell weenies and beans. If it were up to you, we’d all be out at a bump supper, a jug of corn whiskey on the table.”
I turned my attention to hanging Mother’s pine garlands above the doorways, assisted by a sulky Pia. As we worked I mentally addressed the long list of things I was behind on. Reports for Roger. My comfort packages. Why was Mother so stubborn? She had to adapt to the twentieth century. I felt someone’s gaze on me and turned to see one of the more elderly members of the orchestra, balalaika in hand, wink at me.
An hour later even Mother conceded defeat. Our only potential customers had been Plaza guests, a couple from Chicago who’d wandered in by mistake and left quickly, as if they’d happened upon a nudist colony.
“Well, this was a bust,” Mother said.
I pulled a garland down from the wall.
“I told you—”
I didn’t finish the sentence, for such a clatter grew in the hallway outside the ballroom we could scarcely hear each other. The doors were flung wide, and a crowd streamed in—every sort of person you can imagine, from up and down the social ladder, all heavily rouged and dressed in 1920s French attire. Women in low-belted sweater sets, their hair finger-waved. Some wore dropped waist dresses and Louise Brooks bobs. Gorgeous creatures in satin tea gowns embroidered with beads and rhinestones, their hair Eton cropped and slick à la Josephine Baker. The men wore vintage suits and bowler hats. A slew of black-tuxedoed musicians brought up the rear, violins and saxophones in hand. Mother looked ready to shoot through the roof with happiness as she waved the musicians over to join the orchestra.
“We have khachapuri, everyone,” she announced. “Leave your coats with dear Pia.”
In the wake of it all, Paul strode in.
“My goodness, what’s all this?” Paul said, squeezing past two women carrying a drum set, cloche hats pulled down over their eyes. I recognized them, of course.
“I think you know, Paul. How did you get the whole show here?”
“You know theater people. They were already dressed for a party. Carmen has a migraine, so no matinee today. We’re free until curtain call at six.”
The Streets of Paris pit band mixed well with Mother’s Russian orchestra friends and found “Love Is Here to Stay” their musical bridge across the nations. Once the dancers recognized the song, they took to the dance floor, women foxtrotting and swing dancing with women, men with men.
Mother rushed to us, straightening her headdress as she walked.
“It’s a nice-looking group, isn’t it? I knew we’d eventually draw a crowd.”