BioShock Rapture

“Admittedly, a trivial number,” said Ryan, leaning over to whisper behind his hand to Bill, “but the public needs that sort of thing, you know, something light from time to time. Sander would like to be more serious. Artists should have their chance to work without interference. So long as it’s profitable, of course…”

Bill nodded, hoping that this blighter did have some better numbers than this rubbish. He wouldn’t have pictured Ryan listening to this prancing chap—would have thought him more the Wagner type, or maybe Tchaikovsky. But then, you never knew what kind of music a man might relax with. He’d once known a bare-fisted bruiser of a longshoreman who thought nothing of taking on three men in a bar fight—but burst into sentimental tears when he saw Shirley Temple singing “The Good Ship Lollipop.” Wiping his eyes, sniffing, “Ain’t she a pip?”

The curtain rang down to a rather puny spatter of applause and went back up almost immediately so that Cohen could take several bows that no one was asking for. The dancers hurried offstage.

A gesture from Ryan, and one of the dancers lingered: a corn-fed chorus girl in a bathing suit trimmed in white fur; a great flowing spill of blond hair fell over her pink shoulders; golden bangs stuck to her forehead in a light sheen of perspiration. She was a big girl, in an Amazonian, voluptuous way, and seemed several inches taller than Ryan—but almost shrank in his presence, while her china-blue eyes grew large.

“Mr. Ryan!” Her voice was not melodious. It was rather squeakily grating, to Bill—he hoped she was a good dancer.

Ryan gazed at her benevolently—but with a hungry light in his hard eyes. Then the hunger was somehow folded away, and he seemed almost paternal—carefully reserved. “You positively glowed with talent tonight, Jasmine,” Ryan said. “Ah—allow me to present my business associate, Mr. Bill McDonagh.”

She barely glanced at Bill. “Did you really think I was good, Mr. Ryan? You could see me out there?”

“Of course, my dear. I’ve watched you dance many times. You’re always stimulating.”

“Enough for a lead? I can’t seem to get anywhere in this business, Mr. Ryan. I mean—I got here, but I can’t get any farther than the chorus. I’ve tried to talk to Sander, but he doesn’t seem interested in me. He’s so involved with his, what does he call them, his protégés…”

“A big talent like yours will pop out in good time, Jasmine, don’t you worry,” Ryan said as the curtain closed on another uncalled-for bow by Sander Cohen.

“Do you really think so, Mr. Ryan? I mean, if you wanted to—”

“In fact—” Ryan interrupted—with such authority that her voice cut off in midsqueak. “I’m going to help you—I’m going to pay for you to take elocution lessons. Your only weakness as an artist is … shall we call it vocal presentation. I took such lessons myself, once. You’ll sound differently—and people will look at you differently.”

“El-o-quew-shun! Sure, I know what that is!” She seemed a bit frustrated, though. Seemed improving her elocution wasn’t what she’d had in mind.

“I am founding … a new community,” he said, glancing about them. “In another place, some distance away. You might call it a resort—in a sense. It will take a while to complete. But, given the right dedication, you could work there—in show business. It would definitely be a new start.”

“Where will it be exactly?”

“Oh—foreign places. You know.”

“Like Bermuda?”

“Well—um, more or less. Ah, Sander!”

“Ooh, a resort, that’d be swell!” she said, walking away but looking at him as she went—so that she almost collided with Sander Cohen.

“Do excuse me, my dear,” Cohen muttered, with a forced smile. Cohen brightened when he saw Ryan, putting on a completely different aspect, beaming, one eyebrow arched. “Andrew! My dear fellow! You caught the show after all!”

“We have been standing here entranced. Allow me to introduce you to Bill McDonagh.”

“Bill, eh?” Cohen scrutinized him with sleepy eyes. “Mm—earthy!”

“Right you are,” Bill said. “Keep the ol’ feet on the ground, me.”

“And British! How charming. You know, just the other day I was saying to Noël Coward…” He went into a lengthy anecdote, much of which was lost in the buzz of the backstage bustle, but it seemed to be something about Coward’s rather embarrassing admiration for Cohen. “… one wishes he wouldn’t fawn so.”

Bill noticed that Cohen’s left eyebrow seemed permanently cocked, stuck higher than the other, never going down—as if he’d been paralyzed in a condition of irony.

“You’re a real artist, not just a cocktail wit like Noël Coward,” Ryan said, “it’s only natural the man should be overwhelmed.”

“You are too good, Andrew!”

It bothered Bill, hearing this man call Mr. Ryan by his first name. Didn’t seem right, somehow. He took a step back, feeling that Cohen was standing rather too near him.

“Andrew—can I expect you at my little opening in the Village?”

Ryan frowned. “Opening?”