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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 blacktuxedoed
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.”