At just that moment, the man who’d revised the book joined them. He was tall and ungainly, in his late fifties, Carella supposed, wearing jeans, a blue shirt open at the throat, and a green shawl-collared cardigan sweater over it. “Clarence Hull,” he said, and shook hands with both of them. He immediately told Palmer-almost by way of apology, it seemed to Carellathat his grandfather’s libretto had been “quite artful for its day,” his exact words, but that the new millennium required something more immediately engaging, which was why he’d chosen to place the show’s opening not on a farm in the East Midlands, where the original had started, but instead in London, “so that the heroine isn’t a simple farm girl coming to America but is instead someone rather more sophisticated moving from one big city to another, do you see?” Palmer told him that his grandfather had once written a straight play as well, “A comedy, actually,” he said, “about soccer,” which he thought might make a good musical, given the current American obsession with the sport. Hull told him flatly that the only sports musical that had ever made it was Damn Yankees, and then excused himself to go refill his champagne glass.
Palmer told Carella that for the past fifteen years he’d been working in the “post room,” as he called it, of a publishing house called Martins and Grenville, “the last publisher in Bedford Square, d’you know it? A highly prestigious firm.” He said he was thrilled they were doing his granddad’s show again. “I hope it’ll come to London one day,” he said.
“When did you get here?” Carella asked.
“Flew over on Wednesday.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Piccadilly. Sounded a lot like home,” he said, and grinned. He’d shaved too close. There were razor nicks on his chin.
“When will you be going back?”
“Not till next Sunday. I’m taking a little time here, enjoying the city.
Plenty of time for work later on, eh?” he said.
Cynthia Keating was wearing a simple black cocktail dress. Her husband Robert was another of the men wearing a suit. Brown figured anyone not intimately connected with show business had dolled up for the occasion. He was beginning to feel somewhat like a horse’s ass. The suit Keating had on was a severe pinstripe. He looked as if he might be trying a case for IBM. Cynthia was telling Rowland Chapp, the show’s director, that the original play Jessica Miles had written was “perfectly wonderful,” something Chapp accepted with a distracted nod that indicated he knew precisely how dreadful the play was. Brown wanted to go home.
Champagne and canapes were coming around on trays, served by a pair of wannabe actors who were dressed in black and white tonight, earnestly playing witty waiter and flirtatious waitress. Snow swirled past the penthouse windows, the flakes illuminated by corner floodlights that made them appear as sharp and as swift as tiny daggers.
Connie Lindstrom tapped on her champagne glass.
“I have a treat,” she said. “Randy?”
There was applause, and then a hush as Randy Flynn went to the grand piano in one corner of the room, sat, and lifted the lid over the keys.
Behind him, snowflakes rushed the night.
“I’m going to play the show for you,” he said. “Including the three new songs I wrote. We’ve kept the original conceit, the entire musical takes place in Jenny’s room. The window in her room is a window on the city. We see the city, we see everything happening in the city through her eyes, from her point of view.”
He began playing.
Carella could not determine where any new songs had been added; to him, the music flooding the air in Connie Lindstrom’s penthouse apartment sounded seamless. As Flynn sang in his raspy smoker’s voice, Carella floated back to another time and place, this city in the year 1928, when everything seemed fresh and innocent to a young girl named Jenny, fantasizing in her room all the way downtown, in an immigrant area then called-as it still was-The Lower Platform.
But, oh, the differences between then and now.
Flynn sang of a young girl’s yearnings and awakenings in a wondrous island bordered by confluent rivers and spanned by magical bridges. He sang of golden towers rising into the clouds, interlaced with immaculate streets, humming belowground with subways not yet sullied by time or wear. He sang of promise and hope for a population of immigrants that had brought with them customs to treasure and to nourish. As he sang, his voice became a choir of voices, the voices of a hundred tribes with as many different backgrounds, joining together in this shining new land, to become at last a single strong united tribe.
Here beyond the windows in Jenny’s room…
Ah, what a wonderland there had been.
Flynn struck the last chord of the last dance.
It was still snowing.
