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There was a packed house on her opening night, and an air of keen anticipation. The act opened with a tango, and the audience gasped when the curtain swung open — the backdrop was of black velvet, and she stood center stage, brilliant in her dress of white ruffles, a rose-coloured gaucho hat, and rose-pink gloves. She told them first about the tango, how it was always done in a small space around a campfire. They listened, rapt. She'd sought out Madrano, who'd taught Rudy Valentino the true gaucho dance. Then she whirled with her partner, stamped to the insistent rhythm; they couldn't seem to get enough of it. She'd been booked for four shows a day. The management upped it to five, opened early, closed late, cut the newsreel in half, cut the travelogue altogether. Over the week end there were six shows a day. At the end of each performance, she'd come out before the curtain and make a little speech. "Feel that I'm reaching out to you, feel that I'm shaking your hand, be happy!" she told them.
Stepping back inside the curtain she'd hear the thunder of their applause. It was something to hold on to. She put David's strange conduct out of mind. Every night she phoned him and Koran, told them good night, she loved them, and God bless them. There must be no more discord between them. Poor David did not understand. He loved her and couldn't bear to have her out of his sight. He felt it was a disgrace for his wife to work. But dancing was part of her life, and to appear before a live audience made her feel closer to people, gave her an intimate sense of their warmth and affection. She came home from San Francisco glowing with pride. She'd been gone two years but the public hadn't forgotten.
Koran was crying, she heard him the moment she came into the house.
"He wants the light on, Madame, and of course I can't permit that," the nurse said.
Mae flew upstairs, flung the door open and took the child in her arms.
"You are never to be frightened, there is nothing to fear,
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