The seat I had was a good one, too, with a good view of the stage. Some of the choruses or secondary characters who peopled the back of the stage would be cut off from my line of vision as I looked down at them, but that was of little consequence. If those people amounted to anything they'd have been up front, and even if I wouldn't see some of the entrances at the back of the stage, I figured that stuff was always hammy posing —I'd just as soon miss it.
So I thought as I sat halfway up and about midcenter of the Teatro Colon and as I looked around it seemed I was the first of the audience to arrive to this performance. It wasn't lonesome in that brilliantly lighted, many-balconied auditorium.
There were ushers standing at the head of the aisles, and some women wearing black dresses and short white aprons would appear occasionally in the empty balconies above and below.
There was one standing at the back to one side of the balcony that I sat in. She might have been in charge of checking wraps or something—looked like a nice quiet person, about thirty, I guessed, and sort of pretty. Her eye caught mine, and she gave me a pleasant smile, and what might have been a wink —or was she blinking at the bright lights?
A midinette! Or did midinettes work only in dress shops to midday or was it midnight? I never could read that claptrap La Vie Boheme. There was a continental atmosphere to that theater. In fact, the whole city suggested it was an imitation of Paris. And if this pretty, dark-haired, check-room girl or powder-room maid, or whatever she was, was a midinette —with those worthy qualities which had been attributed to those little dears—maybe I could stay and see and hear the whole performance. Then, afterwards, I'd linger up at her end of the balcony, see her home, and take the train back to Rio Santiago tomorrow morning. I might even stay over Sunday and get back to my ship on Monday morning.
I'd tell her the truth—I'd let her know I was an artist with a touch of genius—didn't have to know the language to get that over. All I needed was a pencil and paper. I could make a drawing on the back of my program—perhaps show it to her as a starter. And then suggest I'd like to make a more careful study of her charming head. I planned to do an important piece of sculpture when I returned to the States which I would exhibit at the Salon. All midinettes knew about Art Salons.
That might sound like a lot of malarkey, but if I remember La Boheme, that's the sort of line that was fed to midinettes. And it was not all quatsh. I did plan to do a large showpiece when I got back to New York—if I could afford a studio. If I did, I might use her head on one of the figures. It was a good plastic shape. That piece would have to have many heads—Pd made a lot of promises. Though I wouldn't show it at the Salon —anyone could show with that gang if they paid five bucks entry fee, and they accepted all comers and everybody's bucks.
Joe's watch told me it was almost nine o'clock. The balcony I sat in had not filled up very much. It might have been the rain that kept the Buenos Aireans away—perhaps they didn't like Russian stuff. They'd rather listen to Humperdinck or Puccini than Stravinski. The minute hand on the watch ticked past the hour and there was no sign of anything stirring in the orchestra pit.
I didn't see that dark-haired dame much any more and I was getting a little fidgety. I hadn't decided yet whether I'd try to make her—or the train. If I didn't make either I'd surely sleep in the park, and that wasn't a very happy thought.
The house lights began to dim. Members of the orchestra hugging their instruments had begun to crawl out of the little door under the stage and were taking their places in the pit. They plinked at the strings of their fiddles and sounded a few blaring tests on their horns. The woodwinds were heard above the general chatter. It was getting too dark to see the face of that watch. When last I'd looked, the minute hand had almost reached 9:30.1 had checked again on that train schedule. That hadn't changed. It was still 10:30 for the last train. Well, I'd surely hear a half-hour of good music anyway if I finally decided to dash for the train. Couldn't see that dame any more.
That orchestra seemed to take an awful long time tuning up. Maybe they were waiting for more customers. It seemed they'd never get started.
Time moves slowly in darkness; sometimes it gallops. I was getting a little panicky—no use kidding myself. I'd never get anywhere with that check-room girl. I almost popped my eyes trying to see that watch again. The orchestra had begun to settle with the sound of a huge henhouse quieting down for the long night.
The little door under the stage opened, and the conductor bowed out into the wedge of light from its entrance and climbed to his little stand.
Christ, what the hell time was it? I was perspiring freely now. I had a date with that goddam train. I stumbled over legs getting out the aisle and climbed up the steps leading to the back of the balcony, in a sweaty panic. That possible midinette stood quietly in the corridor at the head of the balcony stairs. Maybe I could have done something with her, but it was too late now.
I got to the big stairs whirling down to the lobby. There was a trick I'd learned as a bellhop that came in handy then. By holding the rail and just letting yourself fall, tipping the corner of the steps with your heels and landing with a loud slap of both feet when you hit the landings, you could really make speed. It sounds good, too—like a machine gun with every tenth shell extra loud. At the balcony landings I could hear the orchestra had finally started to play.
At the bottom of that long staircase there was a tremendous double door leading to the main lobby. The upper half of these doors were glass and I grabbed and swung them open—Crash!
Gawd—I'd forgotten those goddam brakeless doors, with their hinges swimming in oil! That was the biggest door I'd tackled yet and it banged against the stone wall of the lobby with a deafening roar. I stood there watching it quiver, expecting those immense plates of glass to come shattering down about me. With one movement every door leading into that lobby was thrown open and a mob spearheaded by the white-tied ushers surrounded me, all jabbering and waving their arms at once.
I backed up against the wall and grabbed out the watch, railroad ticket, train schedule, and my seaman's passport and assorted papers, and tried to explain with sign language and futile gestures that I was just trying to make a train—and I was late.
Nobody seemed to understand, and I wasn't getting away so easy. A long, elegant-looking lady edged her way through the circle of ushers who fenced me in and stood looking me up and down a moment. Then, with a regal gesture of her raised hand, she silenced everybody, and with great care she spoke, pointing a gloved finger at me with each word.
"Are you Eengleesh?"
Phew! What a relief to hear a language you could understand under such circumstances.
"No—no, Fm not. You see, I'm an American, an American sailor from an American ship. We're docked down in Rio Santiago—" and I waved that train ticket, railroad schedule, watch, etc., at her. "You see—there's this last train. I gotta make my ship— We may be sailing—"
This dame, who stood facing me with (what might have been a nice) long leg thrust forward, drew herself up and folded her arms across her middle.
"You—min—Nord—"
I said, "Huh?"
"You are naught American. You min—you are Nord Americano!"