“You know who is really dumb, and in thick with the Four Hundred? Archibald Fraser, the son of that guy who does animal shows.” Aseel put the sheet music aside excitedly. “His dad owns performing seals and elephants and sells a million tickets. Sol knows Archy, and I bet he would introduce us. If we pull this off, it’s good for the business.”
Aseel and I debated where we could hold the event. The problem was that I hadn’t been in New York since hanging out with Emma Goldman’s crew over a decade ago. Aseel only knew about venues through Sol and the gossip pages.
Oddly, Morehshin turned out to have in-depth knowledge of Gilded Age New York. “Do you know Sherry’s Ballroom?” she asked. “That’s where the Four Hundred like to throw their parties.” Then she told us about Louis Sherry, whose catering was so sought-after among the city’s elite that he’d had to move his venue twice to accommodate bigger and bigger shindigs.
“Let’s aim for that, or something like it,” I said. Then, perplexed, I turned to Morehshin. “Why do you know so much about New York society in this period?”
“I learned Atomic Age English from historical romances. Nobody asks questions when a woman watches ancient love stories about heterosexuality.”
Over the next two weeks, a flurry of letters passed between Aseel, Sol, Archy, and the booker at Sherry’s. Archy was, as promised, a socialite playboy with way too much money to spend. When Aseel told him he could invite his bachelor friends to be “judges” at the contest, he was sold. She figured out the logistics around money, food, seating, and staging, while he sent telegrams with useless advice about ribbons and trophies. It was just like old times at the Algerian Theater.
We set the date for the contest in late April, five months from now, when the weather would be warming and the Four Hundred would be ready for debauchery after the staid “Lenten season” that followed their winter balls. That would also give us plenty of time to blanket the East Coast with Ind. Music Co.’s “special commemorative edition of the Midway Hit known as ‘Country Lad.’” On the last page, we included a full-page ad for the dance contest to be held at Sherry’s Ballroom, hosted by Archibald Fraser. All contestants were to line up at the servants’ entrance and, if admitted, would be allowed one chaperone and one musician to accompany them.
We made no mention of the hoochie coochie or danse du ventre, so it would slide past Comstock’s front line of censors. But any dancer familiar with the song would know exactly what we were talking about. If all went according to plan, Comstock wouldn’t figure it out until we were already in New York, where he would be forced into a humiliating face-to-face showdown with us at Sherry’s.
My headaches were getting worse, and I measured the days in willow bark and opium dabs. Morehshin and I worked in the music shop, and rented a bigger room above Soph’s old parlors. There were bad nights and not-so-bad ones, but I never felt like myself except on days when I received a letter from Anita. She’d gotten a few nineteenth-century students interested in the idea of collective action, despite the fact that Great Men currently ruled geoscience departments. I wished we were back at UCLA together, and then I wished I were back at the Temple of al-Lat with Soph. Anywhere but here, where the mornings froze me in ice and memories polluted my brain like soot.
We started our heaviest promotion for the show in late March, sending out freshly printed releases and posters, and I fell upon the project with the shaky, starving energy of a bear out of hibernation. The press was calling it “Lady Asenath’s Musical Revue,” and the Four Hundred dubbed it “Archy’s big bash.” We kept selling out of “Country Lad” at the store. By the time we decamped for a suite of rooms in New York City, the sheet music had gone into its tenth printing. Which was why Sol was footing the bill for our trip, and puffing delightedly on a cigar when we arrived at the venue.
Sherry’s looked like something the peasants would have trashed during the French Revolution. In the ballroom, copper laced the edges of a high arched ceiling encrusted with molded plaster protrusions that dribbled chandeliers. The floor was a polished dark wood spread with thick carpets beneath upholstered chairs. Dinner would be spread across this vast room and spill into the more formal dining room beyond.
The Carpenters Union sent out an apple-cheeked rep barely out of apprenticeship to explain excitedly how they would build the stage on Saturday and have it ready in time for staff to decorate. Sherry’s chef created a special twelve-course menu, including dozens of pheasants, hundreds of oysters, Jerusalem artichokes, carrot soup, and a bewildering array of after-dinner cakes and dessert cheeses. Of course, Archy had ordered two dozen barrels of liquor. Every time a new delicacy was added to our tab, the Sherry’s event manager jotted it down with a polite nod. His nonchalance made me realize this was an ordinary party for him. Everyone who rented Sherry’s expected cartloads of fancy meats and crates of imported champagne. Our show was an exotic dessert for the children of robber barons, and for a second I was revolted by what we were doing. Teaming up with these Gilded Age sleazeballs might not be collective action after all—maybe it was simply pandering.
Too late for second thoughts now. I needed to focus on why we were here. I was doing this for the women of the Midway, their daughters and mothers. Maybe some of them would be here this Saturday, showing off their hoochie coochie moves. I hoped so. I wanted to see all of them one more time before leaving this moment forever.
On Saturday, we dodged last-minute preparation disasters at Sherry’s and puddles of freezing water in the filthy gutters along Broadway. Cocktails began after sunset at 7 P.M., and that slid into dinner. People kept arriving and arriving; it seemed the entire Four Hundred had come with at least one or two friends, all wearing glittery ball gowns and plumes in their hair, or tuxes with rakish waistcoats.
Morehshin stood outside the servants’ entrance to check in the dancers and their escorts, while I played liaison with the staff. I saw the dinner from the sidelines, catching snatches of conversation and vague impressions of white skin gone florid with conspicuous consumption. My trepidation from yesterday returned. These people were here to consume us, not to join our struggle against reproductive moralism.
Upstairs, the dancers were oblivious to the stakes—they were here for the fabulously lucrative $25 prizes, or maybe for fame. They crowded into a dining hall repurposed as a dressing room. Costume racks jostled against a wall of full-length mirrors. Musicians waited in the hall outside, smoking and drinking from a crate of champagne I’d asked the staff to bring upstairs.
Gradually the composition of the party underwent a metamorphosis. Elderly men filtered out, along with a few dozen ladies. The women who stayed for the show were younger and dressed in French fashions. They ate rosewater ices while the men stood up to mingle, drinking cognac and smoking. It was starting to feel like the hipster gin bar.
Staff cleared tables from the ballroom. As promised, the Carpenters Union had built a low, sturdy stage piled with rugs, drums, and some wooden camel tchotchkes. Sherry’s also supplied us with a handy backdrop from storage with an “exotic orient” theme, including an oasis surrounded by veiled women and some pyramids looming in the distance. Apparently it was left over from a costume revue staged by a secret men’s society. It set the tone for our evening, where the entertainment would wobble between appropriation and authenticity.
Six ornate thrones for the judges dominated the front row. I looked at them, full of dread. Would there be an execution or a revolution?