CITY_OF_GIRLS_by_Elizabeth_Gilbert

“You girls wanna come home with me?” he asked, dispensing with the preliminaries. “I gotta friend with a car.”

I studied him more closely. He looked like a piece of very bad business. A wolf with an agenda. This was not somebody a nice girl should tangle with.

“We might,” I said, which was true. “But first we have a meeting to conclude, with our associates.”

“Your associates?” he scoffed, taking in our table with its odd and animated assortment of humanity: a coronary-inducingly gorgeous showgirl, a slovenly white-haired man in his shirtsleeves, a tall and dowdy middle-aged woman, a short and stodgy middle-aged woman, a stylishly dressed lady of means, a strikingly handsome man with a dramatic profile, and an elegant young black man in a perfectly tailored pinstripe suit. “What line of business yous in, doll?”

“We’re theater people,” I said.

As if we could have been anything else.

—

The following morning I woke up early as usual, suffering from my typical summer-of-1940 hangover. My hair stank of sweat and cigarettes, and my limbs were all tangled up in Celia’s limbs. (We had gone out with the wolf and his friend, after all—as I’m sure you’ll be flabbergasted beyond all reason to hear—and it had been a strenuous

night. I felt like I’d just been fished out of the Gowanus Canal.)

I made my way to the kitchen where I found Mr. Herbert sitting with his forehead on the table and his hands folded politely in his lap. This was a new posture for him—a new low in dejectedness, I would say.

“Good morning, Mr. Herbert,” I said.

“I stand ready to review any evidence of it,” he replied, without lifting his forehead from the table.

“How are you feeling today?” I asked.

“Blithesome. Glorious. Exalted. I’m a sultan in his palace.”

He still hadn’t lifted his head.

“How’s the script coming along?”

“Be a humanitarian, Vivian, and stop asking questions.”

—

The next morning, I found Mr. Herbert in the same position—and several of the following mornings, too. I didn’t know how

somebody could sit for so long with their forehead on a table without suffering an aneurysm. His mood never lifted, and neither—at least not that I saw—did his skull. Meanwhile, his notebook sat untouched beside him.

“Is he going to be all right?” I asked Peg.

“It’s not easy to write a play, Vivian,” she said. “The problem is, I’m asking him to write something good, and I’ve never asked that of him before. It’s got his head all screwy. But I think of it this way. During the war, the British army engineers always used to say: ‘We can do it, whether it can be done or not.’ That’s how the theater works, too, Vivian. Just like a war! I often ask people to do more than they are capable of—or I used to do, anyway, before I got old and soft. So, yes, I have full confidence in Mr. Herbert.”

I didn’t.

Celia and I came in late one night, drunk as usual, and we tripped over a body that was lying on the living room floor. Celia shrieked. I switched on a light and identified Mr. Herbert, lying there in the middle of the carpet on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with his hands folded over his chest. For an awful moment, I thought he was dead. Then he blinked.

“Mr. Herbert!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

“Prophesizing,” he said, without moving.

“Prophesizing what?” I slurred.

“Doom,” he said.

“Well, then. Have a good night.” I turned off the light.

“Splendid,” he said quietly, as Celia and I stumbled to our room. “I will be certain to do just that.”

—

Meanwhile, as Mr. Herbert suffered, the rest of us went about the business of creating a play that did not yet have a script.

Peg and Benjamin had already gotten to work on the songs, sitting at the grand piano all afternoon, running through melodies and ideas for lyrics.

“I want Edna’s character to be called Mrs. Alabaster,” said Peg. “It sounds ostentatious, and a lot of words can rhyme with it.”

“Plaster, caster, master, bastard, Alabaster,” said Benjamin. “I can work with that.”

“Olive won’t let you say bastard. But go bigger. In the first number, when Mrs. Alabaster has lost all her money, make the song feel overly wordy, to show how fancy she is. Use longer words, to rhyme.

Taskmaster. Toastmaster. Oleaster.”

“Or we can have the chorus run through a series of questions about her,” Benjamin suggested. “Like: Who asked her? Who passed her? Who grasped her?”

“Disaster! It attacked her!”

“The Depression, it smacked her—that poor Alabaster.”

“It gassed her. It smashed her. She’s poor as a pastor.”

“Hey there, Peg,” Benjamin suddenly stopping what he was playing. “My father’s a pastor and he’s not poor.”

“I don’t pay you to lift your hands off those piano keys, Benjamin. Keep noodling about. We were just getting somewhere.”

“You don’t pay me at all,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “You haven’t paid me in three weeks! You haven’t paid anyone, I heard.”

“Is that true?” Peg asked. “What are you living on?”

“Prayers. And your leftover dinner.”

“Sorry, kiddo! I’ll talk to Olive about it. But not right now. Go back and start over, but add that thing you were doing that time when I walked in on you playing the piano, and I liked what I heard. You remember? That Sunday, when the Giants game was playing on the radio?”

“I can’t begin to know what you’re talking about, Peg.”

“Play, Benjamin. Just keep playing. That’s how we’ll find it. After this, I want you to write a song for Celia called ‘I’ll Be a Good Girl Later.’ Do you think you could write a song like that?”

“I can write anything, if you feed me and pay me.”

—

As for me, I was designing costumes for the cast—but mostly for Edna.

Edna was concerned about being “swallowed” by the waistless 1920s dresses that she saw me sketching.

“That style didn’t look good on me back then when I was young and pretty,” she said, “and I can’t see it looking good on me now that I’m old and stale. You have to give me a waistline of some sort. I know it wasn’t the fashion back then, but you’ll have to fake it. Also, my waist is more stoutish right now than I would like it to be. Work around it, please.”

“I don’t think you’re stoutish at all,” I said, and I meant it.

“Oh, but I am. Don’t worry, though—in the week before the show, I’ll live on a diet of rice water, toast, mineral oil, and laxatives, like always. I’ll slim down. But for now, use gussets, so you can tighten my waistline later. If there’s to be a lot of dancing, I’ll need you to create purposeful seams—you understand, don’t you, darling? Nothing can fly loose when I’m in the spotlight. My legs are still good, thank heavens, so don’t be afraid to show them. What else? Oh, yes—my shoulders are narrower than they seem. And my neck is awfully short, so proceed with caution, especially if you’re going to put me in some sort of a large hat. If you make me look like a stubby little French bulldog, Vivian, I’ll never forgive you.”

I had such respect for how well this woman knew the vagaries of her own figure. Most women have no idea what works for them and what doesn’t. But Edna was precision incarnate. Sewing for her, I could see, was going to be its own apprenticeship in costuming.

“You are designing for the stage, Vivian,” she instructed. “Rely upon shape more than detail. Remember that the nearest viewer to me will be ten strides away. You have to think on a large scale. Big colors, clean lines. A costume is a landscape, not a portrait. And I want brilliant dresses, my dear, but I don’t want the dress to be the star of the show. Don’t outshine me, darling. You understand?”

I did. And oh, how I loved the shape of this conversation. I loved being with Edna. I was becoming quite infatuated with her, if I’m being honest. She had nearly replaced Celia as the central object of my devoted awe. Celia was still exciting, of course, and we still went out on the town, but I didn’t need her so much anymore. Edna had depths of glamour and sophistication that excited me far more than anything Celia could offer.

I would say that Edna was somebody who “spoke my own language” but that’s not quite it, because I was not yet as fluent in fashion as she was. It would be closer to the truth to say that Edna Parker Watson was the first native speaker I’d ever encountered of the language that I wanted to master—the language of outstanding apparel.

—

Afew days later, I took Edna to Lowtsky’s Used Emporium and Notions to look for fabrics and ideas. I was a bit nervous about

bringing someone of such refined taste to this overwhelming bazaar of noise, material, and color (to be honest, the smell alone would turn off most high-end shoppers), but Edna was instantly thrilled by Lowtsky’s —as only somebody who genuinely understood clothing and materials could be. She was also delighted by young Marjorie Lowtsky, who greeted us at the door with her standard demand: “Whaddaya need?”

Marjorie was the daughter of the owners, and I had come to know her well over my past few months of shopping excursions. She was a bright, energetic, pie-faced fourteen-year-old, who always dressed in the most outlandish costumes. On this day, for instance, she was

wearing the craziest getup I’d ever seen—big buckled shoes (like a Pilgrim in a child’s Thanksgiving drawing), a gold brocade cape with a ten-foot train, and a French chef’s hat with a giant fake ruby brooch pinned to it. Underneath all that, her school uniform. She looked patently ridiculous, as always, but Marjorie Lowtsky was not one to be taken lightly. Mr. and Mrs. Lowtsky didn’t speak the best English, so Marjorie had been doing the talking for them since toddlerhood. At her young age, she already knew the rag trade as well as anyone, and could take orders and deliver threats in four languages—Russian, French, Yiddish, and English. She was an odd kid, but I had come to find Marjorie’s help essential.

“We need dresses from the 1920s, Marjorie,” I said. “Really good ones. Rich lady dresses.”

“You wanna start by looking upstairs? In the Collection?”

The archly named “Collection” was a small area on the third floor where the Lowtskys sold their rarest and most precious finds.

“We don’t have the budget just now to even be glancing at the Collection.”

“So you want rich lady dresses but at poor lady prices?”

Edna laughed: “You’ve identified our needs perfectly, my dear.”

“That’s right, Marjorie,” I said. “We’re here to dig, not to spend.”

“Start over there,” Marjorie said, pointing to the back of the building. “The stuff by the loading dock just came in over the last few days. Mama hasn’t even had a chance to look through it yet. You could get lucky.”

—

The bins at Lowtsky’s were not for the faint of heart. These were large industrial laundry bins, crammed with textiles that the Lowtskys bought and sold by the pound—everything from workers’

battered old overalls to tragically stained undergarments, to upholstery remnants, to parachute material, to faded blouses of pongee silk, to French lace serviettes, to heavy old drapes, to your great-grandfather’s precious satin christening gown. Digging through the bins was hard

and sweaty work, an act of faith. You had to believe that there was treasure to be found in all this garbage, and you had to hunt for it with conviction.

Edna, much to my admiration, dove right in. I got the sense she’d done this sort of thing before. Side by side, bin by bin, the two of us dug in silence, searching for what we did not know.

About an hour in, I suddenly heard Edna shout “a-ha!” and looked over to see her waving something triumphantly above her head. And triumphant she should have been, for her find turned out to be a 1920s crimson silk-chiffon and velvet-trimmed robe de style evening dress, embellished with glass beading and gold thread.

“Oh, my!” I exclaimed. “It’s perfect for Mrs. Alabaster!”

“Indeed,” said Edna. “And feast your eyes upon this.” She turned over the back collar of the garment to reveal the original label: Lanvin, Paris. “Somebody très riche bought this dress in France twenty years ago, I’ll wager, and barely wore it, by the looks of it. Delicious. How it will glint on stage!”

In a flash, Marjorie Lowtsky was at our side.

“Say, what’d you kids find in there?” asked the only actual kid in the room.

“Don’t you start with me, Marjorie,” I warned. I was only half teasing—suddenly afraid she was going to snatch the dress away from us to sell in the Collection upstairs. “Play by the rules. Edna found this dress in the bins, fair and square.”

Marjorie shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war,” she said. “But it’s a good one. Just make sure you bury it under a heap of trash when mama rings it up. She’d murder me if she knew I let that one get away from us. Lemme get you a sack and some rags, to hide it.”

“Aw, Marjorie, thanks,” I said. “You’re my top-notch girl.”

“You and me, we’re always in cahoots,” she said, rewarding me with a crooked grin. “Just keep your mouth shut. You wouldn’t want me getting fired.”

As Marjorie wandered off, Edna stared at her in wonder. “Did that child just say, ‘All’s fair in love and war’?”

“I told you that you’d like Lowtsky’s,” I said.

“Well, I do like Lowtsky’s! And I adore this dress. And what have you found, my dear?”

I handed her a flimsy negligee, in a vivid, eye-injuring shade of fuchsia. She took it, held it up against her body, and winced.

“Oh, no, darling. You cannot put me in that. The audience will suffer from it even more than I will.”

“No, Edna, it’s not for you. It’s for Celia,” I said. “For the seduction scene.”

“Dear me. Oh, yes. That makes more sense.” Edna took a more careful look at the negligee and shook her head. “Goodness, Vivian, if you parade that girl around stage in this tiny getup, we are going to have a hit. Men will be lined up for miles. I’d best get started on my rice-water diet soon, or else nobody will be paying attention to my poor little figure at all!”

ELEVEN

Iturned twenty years old on October 7, 1940.

I celebrated my first birthday in New York City exactly as you might imagine I would: I went out with the showgirls; we gave the jump to some playboys; we drank rank after rank of cocktails on other people’s dime; we had tumults of fun; and the next thing you know we were trying to get home before the sun came up, feeling as if we were

swimming upstream through bilgewater.

I slept for about eight minutes, it seemed, and then woke to the oddest sensation in my room. Something felt off. I was hungover, of course—quite possibly still even officially drunk—but still, something was strange. I reached for Celia, to see if she was there with me. My hand brushed against her familiar flesh. So all was normal on that front.

Except that I smelled smoke.

Pipe smoke.

I sat up, and my head instantly regretted the decision. I lay back down on the pillow, took a few brave breaths, apologized to my skull for the assault, and tried again, more slowly and respectfully this time.

As my eyes focused in the dim morning light, I could see a figure sitting in a chair across the room. A male figure. Smoking a pipe, and looking at us.

Had Celia brought someone home with her? Had I?

I felt a heave of panic. Celia and I were libertines, as I’ve well established, but I’d always had just enough respect for Peg (or fear of Olive, more like it) not to allow men to visit our bedroom upstairs at the Lily. How had this happened?

“Imagine my delight,” said the stranger, lighting his pipe again, “to come home and find two girls in my bed! And both of you so stunning.

It’s as though I went to my icebox to get milk and discovered a bottle of champagne, instead. Two bottles of champagne, to be exact.”

My mind still couldn’t register.

Until then, suddenly, it could.

“Uncle Billy?” I asked.

“Oh, are you my niece?” the man said, and he started laughing. “Damn it. That limits our possibilities considerably. What’s your name, love?”

“I’m Vivian Morris.”

“Ohhhh . . .” he said. “Now this makes sense. You are my niece. How disheartening. I suppose the family wouldn’t approve if I ravaged you. I might not even approve of myself if I ravaged you—I’ve become so moral in my old age. Alas, alas. Is the other one my niece, too? I hope not. She doesn’t look like she could be anyone’s niece.”

“This one is Celia,” I said, gesturing to Celia’s beautiful, unconscious form. “She’s my friend.”

“Your very particular friend,” Billy said, in an amused tone, “if one is to judge from the sleeping arrangements. How modern of you, Vivian! I approve heartily. Don’t worry, I won’t tell your parents. Though I’m sure they’d find a way to blame me for it, if they ever found out.”

I stammered, “I’m sorry about . . .”

I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence. I’m sorry about taking over your apartment? I’m sorry about commandeering your bed? I’m sorry about the still-wet stockings that we’ve hung from your fireplace mantel to dry? I’m sorry for the orange makeup stains that we’ve smeared into your white carpet?

“Oh, it’s quite all right. I don’t live here. The Lily is Peg’s baby, not mine. I always stay at the Knickerbocker Club. I’ve never let my dues lapse, though God knows it’s expensive. It’s quieter there, and I don’t have to report to Olive.”

“But these are your rooms.”

“In name only, thanks to the kindness of your Aunt Peg. I just came by this morning to get my typewriter, which, now that I mention it, appears to be missing.”