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Europe while she traveled." What need had she for parents? She was Terpsichore's child as surely as if she'd sprung fullblown from a glass of champagne, God's child with dancing feet, running lightly at this moment down the steps to the Sans Souci.
What could be more New York than a fashionable cabaret at twilight, unlit, half -awake, but stirring? She took a deep breath of it, of fresh starched linen and winy corks, the lingering scent of liquor and tobacco. The dance floor shone, there was a tinkle of silverware and glass, one man in motion on the bandstand, the wail of a clarinet. They'd play two sets and out she'd come, twirling her red skirts. She waved to band leader Perri Con, whisked past Maurice the headwaiter, and down the corridor to her small dressing room, kicking off her shoes.
"No need to fluster," Jenny said, entering with arms full of fresh-pressed taffeta. A big angular woman, coal black, with quick strokes she swept back the curtain, hung the costumes, swept up a pair of ruby satin shoes, red panties, velvet hat.
"Ah brought you a sangwich from home," she said calmly. "It's in the ahce box. My, those feet are cold." She warmed a towel on the radiator and rubbed them while the girl studied herself in the mirror, eyes wide and straight ahead, carefully painting her mouth the color of red taffeta. Not too much makeup, just enough to look a little older, more soignee, like the girls in Paris.
She'd been to Paris. She was smart enough to know that if you were going to dance you'd have to set a pace, introduce new dances that could be the rage. In the home where she had boarded, old Aunt Theresa had arranged to take the children to France for a year and she had induced Aunt Theresa to let her come too. It took every cent she'd ever earned but she had twelve days in Paris, long enough to learn the Pericon, the Maxixe and Tango, to cheer for Marshal Joffre and the victory at the Marne and dash back to America safely through waters rumored to be submarine-infested. They hadn't seen a sub