The American Lady (8 page)

Pandora nodded knowingly. “I know all about that, it’s the same with the garment workers here. They end up with cotton threads in their soup and needles in their bed. They say that there are more than a million Jews in New York City, and most of them come from Europe like my family,” she said.

When the waiter came and asked if they wanted more, Marie was ready for another plate of fish. But Pandora said no. “That was just the appetizer,” she said mysteriously, and paid up. Then she leapt to her feet and was out on the street in an instant.

Marie and Wanda looked at one another and laughed. Then they hurried out after Pandora.

“Just a woman out having fun . . .”
All at once Marie could hear Georgie’s words from back on the ship. Having fun was easy, she discovered.

They ate sticky rice from tiny bowls in Chinatown, spicy goulash in a Hungarian restaurant, and spaghetti with clams in Little Italy. One of them said that they might be up half the night with indigestion and worse—and the idea seemed so funny that all at once they were crying with laughter.

Pandora was recognized everywhere they went. Like a peacock displaying her tail, she was always the center of attention. The owner came to shake her hand in every restaurant, and she invariably got an extra glass of wine or a basket of rolls on the house. Everybody was happy to have her visit, and Marie wasn’t surprised; Pandora had a way of spreading good cheer wherever she went. Marie also liked the fact that she could say whatever she wanted to Pandora, since they could speak in German.

“I had no idea there were so many cozy little places in New York,” she said between two forkfuls of spaghetti. “This restaurant is hardly bigger than the village tavern back home. And everybody knows everybody else.”

As they laughed over their glasses of red wine, they didn’t see the men at the bar turn and look at them.

“Who are those three?” Franco de Lucca asked, gazing across the room at Marie, spellbound. Her hair had come loose from its knot during dance class, and now it fell down over her shoulders like a cape. With her high cheekbones, gray eyes gleaming with their own inner light, and trim figure, she looked more aristocratic than any of the Italian countesses his mother had ever arranged for him to meet or tried to marry him off to.

Somehow she reminded him of Serena. Her carefree, almost childlike laughter, utterly unaffected and bubbling over with happiness. Happines
s . . .
the very idea was almost strange. Franco felt a pang in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed that way.

The restaurant owner replied, “The one with the red shawl is Pandora, the dancer. She’s mad. The other two gals must be dancers as well, or painters or something like that. Shall I ask them to come over?” He was already halfway out from behind the counter, eager to get into Franco’s good books.

Franco shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Not now, I don’t have time. I have to be getting to my next meeting. She doesn’t look American,” he said thoughtfully, still staring at Marie.

The other man went back behind the bar, disappointed, and returned to washing glasses.

“If you ever change your mind, all you have to do is go to one of those artist cafés in Greenwich Village. You’ll find Pandora and her gang there anytime.”

Franco waved his hand dismissively, as if to say
what do I care for those three!
All the same he took careful note of what the other man said.

Every district Pandora led them through was like a little world unto itself. The faces on the street changed, the clothing, even the languages they heard. Uptown, where Ruth and Steven lived, the avenues were shaded by tall trees and fringed with flowerbeds, but here the streets were crowded with peddlers and their pushcarts. There were fewer motor cars but the subway could be heard underfoot, making an infernal racket. And there were people everywhere.

At first the crowds made Marie nervous or even afraid, but she soon realized that everyone around them considered it perfectly normal. She was fascinated. New York was a cocktail, a city like no other, and she was already a little drunk.

It was after seven in the evening when the three women sank onto a bench down by the harbor, exhausted. Marie knew Ruth must be worried about her and Wanda as well.

Marie’s feet ached so much that it was hard to resist the urge to take her shoes off. Her eyes were red, her throat was dry, and her muscles were sore. But none of that mattered compared to the fun she’d had.

“Do you know that I’ve seen more of the city today than I have in all the weeks I’ve been here?”

“Well, you just have to go out with the right people,” Wanda said, pleased with herself. “I think Pandora knows more about New York than all the guidebooks put together.”

“You’re right,” Marie agreed fervently. “But tell me—how do you know it so well?”

“New York is like a village—and if you’ve spent your whole life her
e . . .
” Pandora said offhandedly. She seemed pleased with the compliment nevertheless. “I have to say that I enjoyed our little outing as well. It was almost like seeing everything for the first time again. I say we do this again next week after class.”

Wanda’s face glowed when she heard that.

For a while they just sat and watched the bustle of the harbor. Two fishing boats and a ferry went past, then a string of barges. Farther out on the water, a gleaming silver ocean liner was making its stately way into port.

“How can one city have so many different faces?” Marie asked in amazement. “I’ve read in my guidebook that they call New York a melting pot, and it’s true, isn’t it? What is it—why are you laughing?” she asked Pandora.

“I just think it’s funny that the guidebooks have taken up that term. A friend of mine was the first to use it—Israel Zangwill,” she declared proudly. “He wrote a play two years ago about a Russian musician whose dearest wish is to write a symphony showing every facet of New York. Israel has the young Russian standing up on top of a high-rise and looking down at the city.”

Pandora stood up, climbed onto the bench, and struck a dramatic pose.

“There she lies, the great Melting Pot—listen! Can’t you hear the roaring and the bubbling? There gapes her mouth—the harbor where a thousand mammoth feeders come from the ends of the world to pour in their human freight.”

She climbed down from the bench, ignoring the startled looks from passersby.

“Israel has the young Russian hero say that,” she said, making a face. “It was just his bad luck that the
New York Times
gave the play a bad review, though. They thought it was a romantic potboiler. And it was my bad luck too: I was working for him as a stagehand at the time—I was very short of cash, as it happened.” She sighed. “When I think about i
t . . .
I’ve actually had quite a lot of different jobs. But all that was before I managed to get the money together for my dance studio,” she added.

“I was wondering how you managed to learn whole speeches from a play by heart!” Marie said. “All the same—you’re beginning to scare me, just a little.”

The three of them got up from the bench, laughing, and Pandora linked arms with Wanda and Marie.

“If it’s any consolation: I have my weak spots too. One of them is that I don’t know how to handle money, meaning that I can’t even pay the rent this month, and I’m always having to scrimp and save. Which is why I suggest that we stop somewhere for a glass of white wine on our way home, and
you
can pay!”

8

It was early July. Marie could hardly believe that she had arrived in New York only a few weeks ago. She had settled so easily into her New York routine that it was as though she had never lived anywhere else.

Most days she and Ruth breakfasted late and then went shopping. They didn’t always buy something significant like a dress or a hat. Ruth was quite capable of spending hours choosing one of ten different hatbands. Or trying on dozens of silk flower corsages, and then settling for a simple rose of pale-gray tulle. Marie simply couldn’t understand how anyone could spend so much time on things they didn’t really need, but then she remembered that even when they were girls Ruth could spend hours on end in front of the big shard of mirror that hung in the laundry shed at the back of the house. Even back when she had had little more than a couple of lace collars, some bead necklaces she had strung herself, and a few hairbands, she had spent ages making herself look nice. It had made Marie and Johanna furious!

Once a week Ruth had a morning appointment at the hairdresser, and she insisted that Marie come along and have her hair styled too. At first Marie dug her heels in and protested. She would never have considered going to the hairdresser back in Lauscha, even if the village had had a hairdresser—which it didn’t—so she would have had to walk to Sonneberg. But in the end she gave in and even had to admit that all the salves and lotions they used at the salon really worked, and smelled wonderful to boot. Her hair had never shone so brightly in her life. It was usually a rather faded brown, but now it had a warm glow, like coffee with a drop of cream. And then there was the powder they put on at the end, so that she carried the scent around with her all day like a breath of spring.

Ruth usually spent her afternoons planning the menu and table decorations for her dinner parties. Most of the time the dinner guests were important clients for Miles Enterprises who were passing through town. Steven was firmly convinced that there was no better way to network than to sit down to an elegant dinner. Ruth was a born hostess and eagerly embraced the idea. Whether it was a small gathering or a banquet for twenty guests, she tackled every task with the same enthusiasm.

So in the afternoons Marie had time to do as she pleased. Ruth undoubtedly would have been shocked to learn that her sister sometimes did nothing more than wander the streets and breathe in the city scents. Or that she could spend hours sitting on a bench in Central Park, watching the world go by, enjoying the sunshine and the shimmering haze on the black asphalt paths, listening to the birdsong echo down from the tops of the shady chestnut trees.

For the first time in her life, Marie did not have to spend her days following the strict timetable of a glassblower’s workshop: mornings at the bench and lamp, afternoons designing new baubles or drawing pictures for the samples catalog. Now that she didn’t have to concentrate on working the glass in front of her, she found her thoughts wandering all over the place like paper boats drifting on a pond. It was a strange feeling, and she didn’t quite know whether she even liked it. But she let it happen, just as she let all the other experiences wash over her, and welcomed the new impressions. She still hoped in vain that all these new sights and sounds would reawaken her imagination and bring it back to life.

But so fa
r . . .
nothing.

Sometimes she found herself remembering the terrible nightmare that had led, as much as anything, to her trip to America: how she had been trapped inside a bauble like a glass prison.
Did I bring my prison here with me?
she wondered.

Whenever another day had passed without her picking up a pencil to sketch, she was happy when Wanda suggested some outing for the next afternoon. Or announced that it was time for them to go to Pandora’s dance class. On days like those she could forget for a while her feeling of imprisonment.

After their first successful outing, Marie, Wanda, and Pandora had decided to go out for coffee after every class.

One of their favorite cafés was in Central Park, where Pandora knew one of the waiters. If his boss wasn’t watching, he always slipped them an extra scoop of ice cream or refilled their coffee cups for free. On top of which, the café had a fine terrace with sunshades and cast-iron furniture and a view over half the park. What could be better than sitting there on a summer’s day, enjoying a treat in the open air?

One day, as they were sitting there under a striped umbrella, Wanda proudly announced, “Starting next week I’m afraid you’ll have to do without my company. I’ve found a job!”

She beamed as the other two congratulated her and then explained what the new job was.

“Supervisor in an overcoat factory?” Pandora frowned and put down her sundae spoon. “But darling—you can’t be serious!”

“Oh but I am!” Wanda said, laughing. “I know it’s not the most exciting work, but I’m glad to have found anything really. And don’t we always say you have to make the best of what you’ve got?” She put a hand to her head and tucked her hair behind her ear with a carefree gesture.

She had been expecting Pandora to turn up her nose at the news. “Why don’t you come and work for me?” her teacher had asked recently. “You could be my assistant.” Both of them knew, however, that it was utterly impractical, however kindly meant; Pandora barely had enough money to cover the rent, never mind to pay an assistant’s wages.

“Make the best of it?” Pandora said now excitably. “Make the best of a job as a slave driver? Don’t you know what it’s like in those factories? Those poor women have to work hundreds of hours a week, and they’re only paid a pittance. The sewing machines are deafeningly loud, and they have to sew the heavy cloth so fast that they’re always getting their fingers in the machines. Stitched right through. The windows and doors are barred so that they can’t even look outside or take their mind off their work for a moment.” She was counting off her points on the fingers of her left hand as she spoke.

“Not
all
factories can be so awful, can they?” Marie asked, disturbed by what she heard.

“That’s what I read last November in the newspapers. There was a special report. Fifteen thousand seamstresses went on strike over poor working conditions. It was the biggest women-only strike ever. The factory owners were so riled up they hired squads of bruisers to keep the strikers in line. But the women refused to back down. They spent three weeks picketing the factory gates, standing out in the snow and ice and slush. They didn’t do that just for fun, believe you me. You must have read about it.” Pandora shook her head and turned to Wanda.

“Well, yes,” Wanda said slowly, then leaned forward on the bench. “But they say that things have gotten better since then, in lots of ways. And if I’m a supervisor I can make sure that the improved working conditions really are observed.”

Pandora shook her head. “Well even if that’s the case—which I very much doubt!—I refuse to have anything to do with those slave drivers. If one of those factory owners offered me a hundred dollars to dance, I’d refuse!”

Wanda heaved a deep sigh. “All the same, I don’t see that I have any choice but to give it a try. Who knows? Perhaps I can even help the women who work there? In any case, I’ve made up my mind to do everything right this time.”

Everything would be all right; it
had
to be. Why had she let Pandora’s remarks get to her like that? Not that Harold’s reaction had been much better: he had asked her whether she had switched sides and joined the proletariat now. What a stupid thing to say!

As they were talking, the ice cream in the silver bowls in front of them had melted to a pink puddle. Wanda began to scoop it up with fresh enthusiasm.

“In all the jobs I’ve had so far, there’s always been some string of ghastly coincidences that ended up in me getting fired. But my bad luck can’t last forever, can it?”

She saw Marie nodding in agreement, which made her feel a little better. Pandora just frowned.

“This time it’ll all work out, I can feel it!”

Whereas Marie always felt that Wanda was keeping something back, she was convinced that she knew what Pandora was thinking. The dancer never bothered to conceal anything but lit up the whole world with her good cheer. Marie had never met anyone who took life so lightly. Wanda had charm and could win over strangers whenever she chose, but Pandora was an absolute master of this art. She hardly ever had any money, but she never let that spoil her fun. She could always find someone—including Marie and Wanda—who was happy to pick up her share of the tab.

And so Marie thought it the most natural thing in the world that she should pay for their tickets to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, especially since she had to work hard to persuade Pandora to come along in the first place. The dancer had declared that she cared only for the works of the younger generation of artists, the wild and the free.

But as soon as they entered the hall where the Dutch Old Masters hung, she couldn’t pretend to be bored any longer. Rembrandt, Bruegel, Jan Steen, Vermeer—Pandora darted like a butterfly from one painting to the next, sipping, tasting, drinking them in. She dived into the sea of color, the golden glow of the sunbeams, the dark shadows and luminous outlines. Her eyes glazed over as if she had drunk too much red wine, and she gave little cries of joy.

Marie, by contrast, stood reverently in front of the pictures. She knew these paintings of course, but only as reproductions in her art books. She looked up, startled, as she realized that Pandora was beginning to sway back and forth before a portrait of a woman by Peter Paul Rubens. She wasn’t going to start dancing here, was she?

“Just look at that back! It’s just like she was drenched in gold. And the blonde hair! A bit thin, perhaps, given that she’s so young, but there’s so muc
h . . .
joy
in the brushwork! As if he loved every hair on her head. He painted everything just exactly as he saw it, every wrinkle, every fold. It’s incredible! It makes me want to reach out and touch i
t . . .
that soft, creamy skin. And look at the backside on her—now that’s erotic, don’t you agree?” She laughed. “She’s got quite a pair of hips as well! But then there are some men who like exactly that sort of thing.”

“I think the fuller figure was in fashion back then,” Marie said, smiling. So Rubens was a dirty old man? Whatever would Alois Sawatzky say if he could hear Pandora’s opinions? Marie stepped closer and looked at the bronze plate that hung under the painting. “It says here that he painted this after he had traveled to Spain and Italy, where he was influenced b
y—
”

“Oh, who cares about all that?” Pandora interrupted. “All that happened three hundred some years ago. All I care about is what I feel, here and now.” She spun around on her toes. “Don’t be so shocked!” she said, noticing the look on Marie’s face. “All right, I admit it, I never expected these old paintings to inspire me so. But that doesn’t mean I have to kneel down and pray here, does it?”

Marie was still skeptical. “Since you ask, I have to say that’s exactly what I want to do: kneel down and pray.”

Pandora patted her on the arm. “Too much respect is never a good thing. Look at me: whether it’s music, poetry, painting, I can only be as good as I am when I take my inspiration from the real masters of every art,” she said happily. “If I didn’t have that, I’d still be dancing pointe, doing
Swan Lake
for the umpteenth time, and torturing young girls with old-fashioned ballet. Inspiration and an open mind are sisters in art—you need both to create anything really new.”

They made their way arm in arm toward the museum café. When the waiter had brought them each a glass of white wine, Marie suddenly leaned forward. Before she could stop to think about what she was doing, she told Pandora everything. She had clutched these terrible thoughts to herself for too long. She had to talk about it—about how helpless she felt, useless, as empty as a drained pond.

Pandora listened, her face expressionless, sipping now and then at her wine.

“Ever since I got here I’ve been waiting for the touch of the muse’s wings! The city, all these people, so many new impressions—damn it all, it has to have some effect on me, sometime!” Marie threw her hands in the air. “But no! I don’t even want to think of my workshop back home. It’s gotten so bad that even any talk of home makes me see red. I panic whenever I think that once the trip is over I have to go back to my bench and lamp and pick up where I left off.” Pandora still said nothing, so Marie went on talking, and even told her about her nightmare. Finally, exhausted and downcast, she leaned back in her chair. “What is it? Have I disappointed you so much you can’t think of anything to say?”

“Nonsense! You don’t need to say another word!” Pandora replied. “I know exactly how you feel. Or rather, I don’t actually know since I’ve been lucky enough never to experience a mental block like that. I would die if I couldn’t dance!” She was talking so loud by now that the other guests in the café turned their heads to look at her, and she beamed back at them. “But I know too many artists who have had to go through the same valley of tears: poets, painters, musicians, actors—you name it!” As always when she spoke, she gestured excitably with her hands. “I’ll tell you one thing, though: it won’t help if you try to hold your nose to the grindstone and concentrate on nothing but work. You have to go out, have fun, meet interesting people. And above al
l . . .
”—she raised a finger—“above all, you have to talk to people who have sacrificed everything for their art. Good God, those blowhards who strut the boards in the Times Square theaters don’t count as artists no matter what your dear sister thinks! Same goes for the painters in the Fifth Avenue galleries. That’s commerce, and nothing more.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You’re lucky, you know that? This afternoon my best friend Sherlain is giving a reading. She’s one of the greatest poets this country has ever seen. I’ve used some of her poems in a dance piece already. Although I have to admit that her work is a little to
o . . .
dark for my tastes. But the poems are heartfelt; there’s no doubt about that. The best thing we could do is go and listen.” She leapt to her feet. “Sitting about moping has never helped anyone. So what are you waiting for?”