The first week of October 1923 marked the opening of fall season, so the streets were especially crowded. Touring companies of
Elagabalo
and
Carmen
were in town, the Sells Brothers Circus was setting up in Golden Gate Park,
I’ll Say She Is,
featuring the Marx Brothers, would open for two weeks at the Tower, and a dozen film companies were rushing out product to compete with the new Chaplin, a drama set in Paris. Even the grand lady herself, the Orpheum, which had fallen into disuse, a victim
of the movies, had been booked for the first time in three years, though for what, no one was quite certain.
As it was the season, competition had a certain edge, for the police had raids nightly. The raids were inevitably scheduled for 4
A
.
M
., as the local bakeries opened their doors to the constabulary shortly thereafter. Woe to the slow boy who was still on the streets after 3:45
A
.
M
.
Thursday night’s performance of
Elagabalo
was the final one for the Italian company featuring the great tenor Cavelli, and though the performance ended at 11
P
.
M
., the audience demanded encores, and when the opera house shut down for the night, the stage door entrance was packed with admirers who forcibly whisked members of the company to their homes or to speakeasies to hear them sing more. The boys on the sidewalk pasting up eight sheets of lion-tamers shared the streets with women in gowns and men in evening wear surrounding confused but happy Italians who sang like canaries as they ambled from the Lamplighter to the Four Sins Café.
Shortly before four, the streets were emptied of boys and the last stragglers from the opera, throats sore, had fallen into beds or behind sofas, and for a few short minutes, the theatre district of downtown San Francisco was absolutely silent.
At four o’clock exactly, a dozen policemen, including the chief himself, piled into the department’s newest wagons, excited and talking among themselves. They raced past the construction site at Geary and Hyde, the tremendously inviting south side brick wall of the Edison building, the planks and boards around the main library—in short the most attractive sites for bills to be posted. And at every site, working diligently, were fresh trios of boys who waved at them.
There were no arrests made.
At ten minutes past four, the wagons pulled up in front of the Olympic Club’s Doric columns, and the police, all in black tie, ran together—or as “together” as they could, for they were quite snockered—into the club, where they were treated to a light French meal, a brief and humorous message of appreciation from their host, Mister James Carter, and then a private concert by the finest tenor in all of Europe, Cavelli.
He began with “Oh, Lola,” a deft tune from Caruso’s songbook, and from there launched the police into the realms of joy via “Lunge Da Lei . . . De’ Miei Bollenti Spiriti” before an impassioned “Celeste Aida” that caused several grown men to bring out their handkerchiefs.
Throwing back his shoulders, he rallied, getting them to clap in time as he sang “Evviva! Beviam! Beviam!” which he turned into a medley ending with the current Ziegfeld favorite, “I Love My Wife, But Oh You Kid!”
When the sun came up, the police spilled out of the club and onto the stairs, elated, in love with Cavelli, and Captain Morgan lit a cigar and said “It’s good to be alive.” They elected to visit a waffle house for breakfast and as they walked, the men noticed how their shoes made a kind of rhythm on the sidewalk, and two officers began to sing together, for they recognized exactly the time signature that echoed down the warming late-summer streets: the Anvil Chorus, from
Il Trovatore.
Soon, the rest caught the tune, and even if they didn’t know the words, they could shout along enthusiastically. It was a song sung by gypsies at work in the early morning, and the feeling of camaraderie was infectious. A lamppost made an excellent substitute for an anvil; one cop calmly removed the bullets from his revolver and used its butt as a hammer.
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella
Chi? Chi i giorni abbella?
By now, they were just outside the Edison building, with its great brick wall now completely covered not with Chaplin posters, nor the circus, nor the work of anyone who’d come out before 4
A
.
M
. Instead, every square inch of space was covered with three sheets and eight sheets and even one spectacular twenty-four sheet, all of them showing in various sizes exactly the same image: on a deep blue background, so blue it was almost black, a warmly colored man in turban and tails, his smile dazzlingly white, his right palm extended, and in it a box that displayed a futuristic-looking clear globe capped with a yellow and orange halo of flames. At the top of each poster, it said, “Carter the Great,” and at the bottom, “
EVERYWHERE
!”
The policemen were walking in several rows, with their arms around one another’s shoulder. When they passed the posters, they, to a man, stopped in their tracks, and they were dazzled. Immediately, they started addressing their song directly to the posters, gesturing to the giant figures of Carter, at once their benefactor and their best audience, some of them choking on laughter as they changed the lyrics to “Car-ter-is-ev’ry-where, Car-TER-the GREAT-is-ev’RY-where.”
Across the street, sipping from a paper cup of coffee, the real Charles Carter, who’d come to see the first public display of his posters for himself, went unrecognized. He watched the group of cops singing to his image and, as they disbanded, he felt a swell of pride. Such a good first reception felt like an omen and a blessing.
The cops noticed him and, using their billy clubs for emphasis, told him to move along. So Carter touched the brim of his hat and ambled down the street, humming the Anvil Chorus himself. There wasn’t much time left and there was a show to put on.
. . .
The posters were well noticed. Tickets sold with fair briskness for an act that had played the city but three months before. Also: more than one representative of the military (there was quite the permanent garrison at the Presidio) recognized in Carter’s hand something that looked peculiar, very much resembling a device they’d been told to look out for. Letters were written and cables sent, and soon after, Col. Edmund Starling had in his office a man he’d been keeping on call for several weeks, the way he once had kept the Spider on call. But this man was of more specialized talents, which he was happy to put to use in America after his extended journey through the African continent.
CARTER SHOW REQUIREMENTS
Mister Carter and his Company will provide all equipment, security, personnel, promotional materials, etc, as per requirements of contract. In response, the
ORPHEUM THEATRE
will provide the following:
SCENERY DEPARTMENT
Five spot lines, one over center of each trap, other two explained.
Fifteen battons, one with eye arms.
Use house traveler in one. Three men on scenery.
ELECTRIC DEPARTMENT
Reds and whites in foots and borders—Replaces
all
blues with whites.
No blues used. No side lights used.
Display City permit for new wiring. One man on electric.
PROP DEPARTMENT
Runway over pit—36 inches wide, steps to floor, steps painted white or covered with white cloth.
Platform under stage, 5 feet wide, 14 feet long, 7 feet below stage floor. This platform placed directly under center traps, reinforced for weight of elephant and equipment.
One bag sawdust.
For 500-gallon water tank: access to drain from stage to associated or main sewage line. Three mops and one mop wringer. One practical carpet sweeper.
Two men on props.
ORCHESTRA DEPARTMENT
Piano as near center of pit as possible with keyboard facing audience. It is essential we have drums and brass.
COMPANY COMFORTS
Three kitchen tables for props.
Changing room on each side of stage.
Seven hall trees and three chairs for change room.
One gallon springwater in Mr. Carter’s room.
(Pillow?)
James Carter
Company manager
The morning of November 4, standing in the wings of the Orpheum Theatre, James Carter stared at the “comforts” section, pen poised over the word
pillow,
which he had added not twenty seconds beforehand. Did Charlie want a pillow for his dressing room chair, and if so, what sort?
Though the sound was slightly muffled by the draperies, James could hear the opening monologue. He knew it by heart. He had memorized the act as it would actually occur, as it was written down, as it had been explained to the press, and as disseminated to certain members of the company who couldn’t quite be trusted—in short, it was a layer cake frosted with levels of truth and deception. It was a measure of his exhaustion that while he stared at the stage, witnessing the opening salvo of card tricks, he almost called out, “Are you sure you want a pillow?”
Rather than contribute to the nightmare this show was becoming, James walked quietly through the double side doors, past security, and
into the massive house. Two thousand seats in crushed velvet had been recently cleaned and the aisles vacuumed and scrubbed. Cinnamon-scented incense from Chinatown burned in urns scattered about the house. The expenses had only begun there: along with programs and posters, they’d printed decks of promotional playing cards. Carter had outdone himself in coming up with new effects on his limited budget—at least, James suspected he’d remained close to budget, but as soon as the final invoices rolled in, he was prepared to yell at his brother for going somewhat over. He prayed it was only “somewhat,” as every penny counted, and every seat for the next two weeks had to be sold to avert disaster. At the moment, with the magician onstage, exactly twelve seats were occupied.
This would have been catastrophic had it been showtime, but it was still early morning, a rehearsal, and the man onstage was not Carter, but Carlo, his stand-in, and his delivery of the patter sounded, as usual, awful. James grimaced as Carlo hammed up the end of a small bit, rhythm all wrong, “How do I
know
then that you are
not
my con-fed-er-ate?” All around Carlo, men performed eleventh-hour repairs, down to restitching the grand drapery, the velvet teaser at the top of the stage, and the tormentors at its sides.
By the time James found the third gallery, a sheen of perspiration had broken out on his forehead. “I’m beginning to understand,” he gasped, dropping into a seat next to his brother, “why you respect the paying audience that has to sit up here.”
Carter brought a finger to his lips. He squared his shoulders toward the stage, his arms crossed. He wore a mask of concentration. “Carlo isn’t projecting well.”
“That’s because Carlo is an idiot.”
Carter mused, “He’s probably memorizing the patter so he can sell it tomorrow morning to the highest bidder.”
“I’m glad you realize that, Charles.”
“You know, I’m imagining the man who will be sitting right here in seat 3C42 tonight, a paying man, disinterested but ready for entertainment,” he whispered, “and I hope that the five-foot-nine-inch idiot he’ll see onstage will be engrossing. More engrossing than the five-foot-nine-inch idiot I’m seeing right now.”
“We’re down to the absolute final preparations—”
“So we are.”
“Do you want a pillow for the chair in your dressing room?”
Carter looked away from the stage, where the monologue continued with strange Italian inflections. “A pillow?”
“Thurston’s rider requires a pillow.”
“Find out how big it is, and get me a larger one.”
“Excellent. Silk tassels?”
“Let’s not—
Hold!
” Onstage, Carlo froze in position. Carter walked from one end of the balcony to the other, patting the railing. Finally, he called out, “Lighting! Bring up the spot on the stage, and we’ll sweep the audience with it. Can you get the axis to rotate this high? The people back here should have a chance to raise their hands and be seen.”
When it was arranged that, yes, the spotlight could indeed swivel to the third gallery, Carter returned to sit next to James, who was writing that Carter wanted a large, tassel-less pillow in an attractive but not overwrought fabric, perhaps velvet, but not to bother with imported silk.
This took a great deal of time to write. He was aware that his brother was watching him.
“You’ve gone mad,” Carter said quietly.
“Why do you think Thurston needs a pillow so badly he puts it in his contract?”
“Are you suggesting a medical condition that requires the use of
unguents
?”
As Carlo droned on, James and Carter were reduced to holding back snickers like children during a sermon.
“I am so tired,” James said, wiping his eyes. “Unguents.”
Carter half-sang, “Un-guents,” imitating the awful Carlo.
“Well,” James took a cleansing breath, “now the pillow business is settled, I believe the show is ready.”
“Hmmm,” Carter said after a moment. “Well . . .”
Carlo had gone silent; the opening was over.