In Theda Bara's Tent (as Reviewed by Publisher's Weekly)

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel was a world-famous palace of luxury, a massive granite wedding cake at Fifth Avenue and Thirty-fourth Street. Host to celebrities, pashas, kings and rajas, the Waldorf-Astoria, with its thousand guest rooms and opulent restaurants, was designed to prove that New York could be a world capital. The hotel was proof that Americans were not hicks compared with Europeans, that we understood luxury, comfort, service and magnificence. A cuckoo clock, a caliphs palace, a Bavarian castle—it challenged the brownstone monotony of the surrounding neighborhoods. The concierge had the reputation of Cerberus and was known to turn away visitors who did not enhance the image of the place. I assumed this meant me, so I had a problem.

A messenger had delivered a note to me one day at work written on Waldorf-Astoria Hotel stationery. Im in town. Mums the word. Come see us. Anita.

There was a young woman in the fashion department at Fox named Etta, a mighty twig with a boyish body. Her black hair was cut short with severe straight bangs down over her eyebrows, like an upside-down bowl. Instead of being ashamed of having weak eyes, she emphasized her spectacles and wore owlish, round black frames that dominated her little face. Her clothes were so fashion forward that even I noticed them. Did you see Ettas ugly shoes? I heard the women in the lunchroom whisper. Did you see how short her skirt is? Six months later, the whispers changed to, I never thought Id be wearing these shoes. Or My mother said I cant go out in a skirt this short, and I said but all the girls are wearing them. Like so many tiny women, Etta was afraid of being treated like a child, so she made her voice deep and forceful, and her posture was sternly erect.

She was responsible for setting up fashion shoots and was always lugging around armfuls of garments. I visited her on the first floor and explained my dilemma. What are you saying? she asked, frowning up at me. You want me to dress you? I tried very hard to keep my expression blank because my face wanted to go all tender looking down at her littleness. Why dont you just buy yourself some nice clothes?

Thats what Kenny says.

So why dont you?

Makes me uncomfortable to spend money on clothes. They used to give them to me free when I was kid.”

“What else is new? Every child gets clothes free.”

I was in fifth grade again, and John Hale, at the desk next to mine, was screaming with delight:  “Hey! He’s wearing my old shirt!” I wished I had the kind of face that no one could read, but I didn’t and whatever washed over me while I was remembering that humiliation, Etta must have seen because her tone softened. As what?

As someone who could get by the concierge at the Waldorf-Astoria.

As what? A prince? Businessman? Yachtsman? Be specific.

Man about town.

She pursed her lips then swung the pucker over to the side and looked up at me with her eyebrows raised. No, she said. You dont have the face for man about town. Too sensitive. Youre a wealthy Yale post doc in town to see your financial people.

 The next day, after everyone else in the fashion department had gone home, Etta rummaged around and came up with some gray flannel trousers. She didn’t have an office but claimed territory of her own by erecting a Japanese screen across one corner of the floor. When I tried to duck behind the screen to try on the trousers, she said, Dont go back there. Put them on here. I have to see. Think of me as a doctor. I see men in their drawers all the time.

Etta, I said, Im very shy. I always have been. Let me go behind the screen.

No. You cant.

Why?