From Time to Time (21 page)

Continuing to dance, the professor said, "The Turkey Trot as it can be danced, should be danced; who could object? But right here on Fifth Avenue I have seen the change of which I spoke. At the start the participants would be dancing with the hop and the arms held out. Four hours later, with the room more crowded and the dancers more weary and more in the spell of the music . . ." This seemed to be a cue, the trio now speeding up the tempo and-is this the word?-slurring it a bit, and to my ears it really did sound a little lewder. "The man and his partner would dance closer and closer. And now so did the Duryeas. "And as they circle the floor, the hop becomes more of a glide. Their two raised arms had gradually lowered as the Professor talked, and now their other arms lowered to each other's waist. "Thus the Turkey Trot becomes almost indistinguishable -both of them crouched a little, unclasping their upraised arms to bring them, too, down to the other's waist- from The Shiver! They began shuddering their shoulders to You great big beautiful doll, and the audience murmured; just behind me a woman gasped, a little theatrically, I thought; and I saw a woman in our row sit bolt upright to frown dramatically. But I heard a good part of the audience behind us snicker.

Above the nice rhythmic piano, swooning violin, and tootling clarinet-I had the feeling the musicians liked this-Mrs. Israel called out, "how many have seen this very thing done in the dance hall! The Jotta Girl's hand flew up, and as I glanced around, dozens of younger women were raising their hands, and an indulgent laughter moved through the room. This was an audience more young than not, looking beautiful in their cloches and wide- brimmed hats, and I understood that the young ladies weren't taking this too seriously.

And realized an instant later that they'd come for more reason than the Duryeas, because the room stirred, murmuring. I turned and now a young man and woman stood at the back of the hall. In a way I couldn't quite figure out, they looked and were different from the rest of us. They stood quietly, polite and attentive to the dancing Duryeas, but they held the eye, and for a moment or two I forgot to turn front again. She was beautiful in a very young, innocent-faced way. Wore a long pink dress to just above her white-stockinged ankles, and a wide-brimmed pink hat set way back to frame her face and light brown hair with a pink wheel of brim. His hair, shiny black, was combed straight back, his face a thin cheerful triangle, and his suit-well, his suit was checked and sharp. She smiling, he grinning, they stood looking happy to be here, and I knew-how, I don't know, but it was easy to see-that these were stage people, onstage right now, somehow far more alive and interesting, just standing there, than anyone else in this room: you wanted to go back and join them. People made themselves face front again, smiling excitedly, heads ducking to murmur or listen to quick whispering. But these were courteous, well- bred people, and they quickly silenced themselves, attentively watching the Duryeas through the final moments of their dance. Not quite final. As the last notes-Oh . . . you . . . beautiful doll! -plinked and tootled, the Professor "signaled to the pianist, the Times said next morning, though I didn't see the signal, and "the Gaby Glide strains floated out across the room and away they went with the dance at its worst. A faintly suppressed ripple of laughter could be heard -that was true- and there were frank chuckles when cheek touched cheek, and the languor of the movement was intensified.

They finished the Gaby Glide, not looking much different to my ignorant eyes than they had before. Then Professor Duryea and his wife joined hands-she had a great smile; I liked her-to bow together, getting a fine hand, certainly including mine. They sat down, pleased, Mrs. Israel rising to) thank them, which she did very nicely. Then she smiled to) say, "I think the Professor and Mrs. Duryea have shown us-in the earlier portion of their splendid performance, she added, getting her laugh, "that an innocent version of the Turkey Trot mar well be preserved if rechristened, and the Jotta Girl winked at me.

Mrs. Israel beckoned to the new couple at the back of the ballroom, and up they came, walking around the edge of the room, smiling across it to acknowledge the polite tips-of-the-fingers preliminary applause, and suddenly I saw who he was. Of course I'd never seen him before, only in pictures, but unmistakably here, edging along the side of the room so that he continued to face us, came a very young version of him, grinning, cocky, having a great time.

"The morning was one of contrast, the Times reported next day, which I quote because it was true, "and the Duryeas, he in a frock coat and she in a simple evening dress of white, gave way to Al Jolson and Florence Cable of the Winter Garden, she with her hat on, young and gay . . . he in high jollity . .

Jolson stood facing us now, smiling and really looking at us, glad to see us, it seemed. We all grinned back, and he said, "I picked up the art of dancing as I saw it on the Barbary Coast where I used to sell papers as a San Francisco boy. His voice, I thought, had just barely a touch of raspiness, and seemed to fit the look on his face of a man absolutely confident in himself. Suddenly he did a fast little dance step of some kind, the patent leather of his shoes sparking light. Three seconds of that, no more; then he suddenly stopped, knees still bent, both hands thrusting downward to one side, fingers splayed, and he grinned, and had us: we loved him. He flicked a finger at the pianist who instantly began, clawed hands bouncing off the keys in rhythm with his shoulders, and even I knew we were hearing ragtime.

And then how they danced-together, then whirling apart, then together again, Florence Cable simply marvelous, Jolson with the kind of nimble effortless perfection that makes you suddenly sure, knowing better, that you could do it too. They danced close, then threw themselves apart, hands clasped at arms' length as they leaned far apart, bodies making a V. Iogether again, chins very nearly on each others shoulders, feet flying, hands-I don't know how their hands were or what they were doing, hut oh, they were great. They stopped, piano still going, and Jolso)n said. "It's all the same dance. Call it Turkey Trot, Bunny Hug, Lovers, Walk Back, Bird Hop, as you will. Strip off the variations-just watch us!- and they all come down to the same thing. Again they moved, the happy pianist bouncing from one tune to another, and I guess they moved into and out of various dances, because I heard people murmuring dance names. But-he was right-they were the same dance, and I was wishing I could do what Al Jolson was doing. They stopped again, the pianist continuing, Jolson sweating a little now. "Fifteen or twenty dance halls there on the Barbary Coast, he said, "doing most of their business on the half-drunk sailors in port. And-what do you expect!-all those ginks could do was half skate around the dance floor to begin with. There was a Negro cabaret there on the Barbary Coast, and they say it all started there; they called it the Texas Tommy. He grabbed Miss Cable, and they flashed around the floor in the Texas Tommy, Jolson looking comically drunk. They stopped. "And then the orchestra would hit up, and they'd rag it a bit -he grinned at the pianist, whose hands and shoulders took the cue- and then strike out on the minors that are more seductive, I guess. The pianist slowed, striking out on the minors, I'm sure, and Al Jolson and Florence Cable pulled closer and closer, tightly together now, very cheek to cheek, and I glanced up at Mrs. Israel, who looked fascinated. "And get closer and closer, Jolson said, then suddenly drew back to snap the fingers of both hands, "and . . . I guess I've said enough! Then they just flew, feet flicking, flashing, in a whirling miracle of dancing, and the audience went nuts. "He was thunderously applauded, the Times said next morning, "as he and Miss Cable showed how it was done.

Then it was over, the applause wild, the two of them bowing, happy, and I glanced up at the Duryeas. They were applauding too, smiling, and-he was a pro-his smile looked real. But hers, I thought, didn't quite make it. You can't really tell what people are thinking, but I had to wonder what the Professor up there in his frock coat and artistically long hair felt in this moment. His face wasn't old but you could see how it would look when it was. he'd had his way for years, I imagined as I applauded; he'd taught the waltz and the two-step to) generatio)n after generation on into this new century. Now', suddenly and out of nowhere as it may have seemed to him, there stood these bowing youngsters down on the floor, and the applause was for their kind of dancing. Finalbi the applause tapered off, and I sat wondering what was going to happen to the Duryeas now. Maybe they'd saved their money.

CHAPTER 16

OUT ON THE WALK with the Jotta Girl, I could see she expected me to ask her to lunch, but I didn't. Wouldn't. Stood smiling, nodding, bowing, tap dancing, and howling at the moon, but not a word about lunch. Said goodbye, turned and headed west, across on Forty-fourth Street, toward Broadway-I was on my way to hunt for Tessie and Ted, and that had to be alone.

I hadn't found them listed in any of the vaudeville ads of the Times or Herald at breakfast. And yet I knew, knew, knew, didn't I, that this had been the famous week, the never-to-be-forgotten, endlessly talked-about week that Tessie and Ted played Broadway?

On past the Algonquin Hotel, looking about the same I guess, except for its sign: blue and white enamel with clear-glass light bulbs picking out its name. What were Robert Benchley and Dorothy Parker right now, teenagers maybe?

Here at the Hippodrome-look ~across the roof between the towers: that's the Algonquin-I walked into the lobby and read the

posters. Plenty going on in here, but no Tessie and Ted.

At Broadway, beside a brand-new Astor Hotel, a little theater with a cupola: Marie Dressler in Tillie's Nightmare. Then I wandered

all the way down Broadway, the Times building on Times Square up ahead there. And walked into every theater lobby I saw,

not quite sure which was legit and which vaudeville. Stood just inside one, listening through the closed lobby doors to the young voice of a Douglas Fairbanks (in A Gentleman of Leisure) who hadn't yet heard of a teenaged Mary Pickford.

I reached Times Square here; that's Seventh Avenue where the horse is trotting out, Hammerstein's Victoria Theatre over on the