a glass of champagne and introduce myself to some of the local people of worth. Sometimes, if I lingered long enough, I had the occasion to meet a few actors who would go on to be silver screen stars, though I’ll not name them here. Stardom, like youth, is fleeting.
One evening, during a run of the popular play Sadie Love, which would be the stage debut of the beautiful actress Thalia Powers, after some artful positioning I caught the eye of a burly, unkempt man who was maneuvering through the crowd. He wore a bulky camera strapped around his neck and hoisted it to beckon me closer.
I was on the fringe of a conversation, not quite invited in. Still, I excused myself with a touch of my gloved hand to a tuxedo sleeve and worked my way over.
“Mind if I take your photo, ma’am?”
“My photo?” I held my glass aloft. “Why, I’m nobody special.”
“We can let the readers decide that, I think. I do freelance work for the San Antonio Express. They like pictures of the society people for the Sunday paper. Over here?” He indicated the wide staircase that led to the private viewing boxes. He walked backward, expertly, leading me. “The managers will only let me take one photograph—worried about the crowd and the flash, I suppose.”
“And you’ve chosen me?”
“You’re the only woman here alone. That’s interesting. All the men look alike, and the other women wouldn’t dare be photographed without them.”
Spying the empty tripod at the foot of the stairs, I instructed him to move it. “You’ll want me standing on the first step.” I already knew how I would position my arm on the curve of the bannister. He had his camera mounted in a thrice and instructed me to hold still—very still—until he told me it was safe for me to move.
I was wearing one of my most exquisite necklaces—an intricate design of a brass chain and beads with a heavy topaz pendant positioned perfectly above my neckline. Knowing better than to hold my face in a neutral expression, I tilted my head, thus elongating my neck, and set my lips in an enigmatic smile that would rival that of Mona Lisa. I followed the instruction to look at the camera but focused my eyes beyond it, to the crowd that stood watching, wondering—I supposed—just who this woman was to have garnered such attention. Someone shouted an offer to hold my drink, but I ignored him. Instead, I lifted it higher, careful not to obscure my face, as if offering a toast to whoever gazed upon the photo.
“Three…two…one.” A flash of light then the smell of the burning powder. I willed my eyes to remain open, my body rigid, until my vision cleared. Spots remained as I stepped down where the photographer waited with a small notebook and grubby pencil. “Can I get your name for the caption?”
“No,” I said, mindful of my need for some level of anonymity. “Refer to me as Mrs. K., a widow. Newly arrived to the city, currently residing at the Menger Hotel until a more permanent situation can be found.”
He looked up. “You want all that in there?”
“Of course. The titular character in the play is a widow, as am I. The detail will make the photograph more”—I paused for the impact of his own word—“interesting.”
My photograph appeared alongside a tepid review of Sadie Love. I don’t normally take the paper in my room, preferring to read one abandoned in the lobby. This morning it arrived courtesy of a sharp rap on my door at the ungodly hour of seven o’clock, folded open to the page, delivered by one of the messenger boys on a tray with my customary coffee and pastry.
“Why, thank you,” I said to the boy as both of us tried to ignore my haphazardly belted dressing gown. “What an unexpected surprise.”
“And there’s this, ma’am.” Avoiding my eyes, he handed me the small, familiar envelope. I say familiar because I knew immediately who’d sent it. Mr. Sylvan. He and I had taken to communicating through short missives. In fact, he had warned me about the state senator’s visiting wife in such a manner a full day before the state senator himself did. This too was how we settled my bill. Rather than a common transaction at the desk, he weekly sent up a note with a figure written in his crisp, neat hand. I delivered said amount in the same envelope. What a comfort to do