The July city was sunset wine with effervescent electric-light bubbles and backstage was a dazzle.
Lucy with mascaraed and blue-shaded eyes and in tantalizing flesh tarlatan and tights, her hair gilt dusted, became transformed before her eyes into an apotheosis of such seductive beauty that Vida could not restrain a twinge of jealousy as she saw herself in the merciless makeup mirror. She felt envy too—Lucy unexcited, taking the star-attention for granted, what a perfect satisfying life.
"I really envy you all you learned. You're going to have to help me study and catch up. You don't use makeup, do you?"
"I do too," said Vida defensively, "I just haven't had time today." As she sat in the seat down in front among all the people in evening dress she could hardly breathe waiting for the effect of Lucy on the audience. To her astonishment, across the footlights Lucy was not the exotic dressing room stranger but the friend she knew in Congress. Beautiful, of course, but more like a child dressed up to be a ravishing woman. I'm just jealous, she told herself as the audience applauded during the final turns which seemed to have to go on and on for more applause.
After this night it became routine to be backstage.
One evening she arrived, after an afternoon at the Metropolitan Museum and a long bus ride, to find Cleo in the stage door alley talking to a boy friend. It was too early to hook up Lucy. As she approached the dressing room the door opened and Veme, one of the chorus boys, shot out wild-eyed with only a bath towel around his loins.
"Jesus Christ," he shrieked, counterpointed by Lucy's high trill.
Chapter 22
OLYMPIA AND SHIVA
One sweltering August midafternoon a month later a perspiring Vida returned from her daily exploration of the city to discover Lucy naked, a black ribbon around her throat, lying on a chaise longue having her hair brushed by Cleo. A black cat, cousin of the theatre's mouser and gift of the stage-door man, lay at her feet.
