Fo'castle Waltz

It was rather quiet there. A few men wearing white tie and tails who turned out to be ushers stood around talking. When they saw I held a ticket, one approached me and studied my precious pasteboard and indicated I was to climb the stairs. It was a long climb up, but after an usher led me to my seat I realized it could have been a lot longer. There were a lot of balconies above the one I sat in and there seemed to be quite a few below—I must have been seated midway. I felt like a fly in the center of that huge web of seats.

The seat I had was a good one, too, with a good view of the stage. Some of the choruses or secondary characters who peopled the back of the stage would be cut off from my line of vision as I looked down at them, but that was of little consequence. If those people amounted to anything they'd have been up front, and even if I wouldn't see some of the entrances at the back of the stage, I figured that stuff was always hammy posing —I'd just as soon miss it.

So I thought as I sat halfway up and about midcenter of the Teatro Colon and as I looked around it seemed I was the first of the audience to arrive to this performance. It wasn't lonesome in that brilliantly lighted, many-balconied auditorium.

There were ushers standing at the head of the aisles, and some women wearing black dresses and short white aprons would appear occasionally in the empty balconies above and below.

There was one standing at the back to one side of the balcony that I sat in. She might have been in charge of checking wraps or something—looked like a nice quiet person, about thirty, I guessed, and sort of pretty. Her eye caught mine, and she gave me a pleasant smile, and what might have been a wink —or was she blinking at the bright lights?

A midinette! Or did midinettes work only in dress shops to midday or was it midnight? I never could read that claptrap La Vie Boheme. There was a continental atmosphere to that theater. In fact, the whole city suggested it was an imitation of Paris. And if this pretty, dark-haired, check-room girl or powder-room maid, or whatever she was, was a midinette —with those worthy qualities which had been attributed to those little dears—maybe I could stay and see and hear the whole performance. Then, afterwards, I'd linger up at her end of the balcony, see her home, and take the train back to Rio Santiago tomorrow morning. I might even stay over Sunday and get back to my ship on Monday morning.

I'd tell her the truth—I'd let her know I was an artist with a touch of genius—didn't have to know the language to get that over. All I needed was a pencil and paper. I could make a drawing on the back of my program—perhaps show it to her as a starter. And then suggest I'd like to make a more careful study of her charming head. I planned to do an important piece of sculpture when I returned to the States which I would exhibit at the Salon. All midinettes knew about Art Salons.

That might sound like a lot of malarkey, but if I remember La Boheme, that's the sort of line that was fed to midinettes. And it was not all quatsh. I did plan to do a large showpiece when I got back to New York—if I could afford a studio. If I did, I might use her head on one of the figures. It was a good plastic shape. That piece would have to have many heads—Pd made a lot of promises. Though I wouldn't show it at the Salon —anyone could show with that gang if they paid five bucks entry fee, and they accepted all comers and everybody's bucks.

Joe's watch told me it was almost nine o'clock. The balcony I sat in had not filled up very much. It might have been the rain that kept the Buenos Aireans away—perhaps they didn't like Russian stuff. They'd rather listen to Humperdinck or Puccini than Stravinski. The minute hand on the watch ticked past the hour and there was no sign of anything stirring in the orchestra pit.

I didn't see that dark-haired dame much any more and I was getting a little fidgety. I hadn't decided yet whether I'd try to make her—or the train. If I didn't make either I'd surely sleep in the park, and that wasn't a very happy thought.

The house lights began to dim. Members of the orchestra hugging their instruments had begun to crawl out of the little door under the stage and were taking their places in the pit. They plinked at the strings of their fiddles and sounded a few blaring tests on their horns. The woodwinds were heard above the general chatter. It was getting too dark to see the face of that watch. When last I'd looked, the minute hand had almost reached 9:30.1 had checked again on that train schedule. That hadn't changed. It was still 10:30 for the last train. Well, I'd surely hear a half-hour of good music anyway if I finally decided to dash for the train. Couldn't see that dame any more.

That orchestra seemed to take an awful long time tuning up. Maybe they were waiting for more customers. It seemed they'd never get started.