Аннали Ньюиц - The Future of Another Timeline

We started our heaviest promotion for the show in late March, sending out freshly printed releases and posters, and I fell upon the project with the shaky, starving energy of a bear out of hibernation. The press was calling it “Lady Asenath’s Musical Revue,” and the Four Hundred dubbed it “Archy’s big bash.” We kept selling out of “Country Lad” at the store. By the time we decamped for a suite of rooms in New York City, the sheet music had gone into its tenth printing. Which was why Sol was footing the bill for our trip, and puffing delightedly on a cigar when we arrived at the venue.

Sherry’s looked like something the peasants would have trashed during the French Revolution. In the ballroom, copper laced the edges of a high arched ceiling encrusted with molded plaster protrusions that dribbled chandeliers. The floor was a polished dark wood spread with thick carpets beneath upholstered chairs. Dinner would be spread across this vast room and spill into the more formal dining room beyond.

The Carpenters Union sent out an apple-cheeked rep barely out of apprenticeship to explain excitedly how they would build the stage on Saturday and have it ready in time for staff to decorate. Sherry’s chef created a special twelve-course menu, including dozens of pheasants, hundreds of oysters, Jerusalem artichokes, carrot soup, and a bewildering array of after-dinner cakes and dessert cheeses. Of course, Archy had ordered two dozen barrels of liquor. Every time a new delicacy was added to our tab, the Sherry’s event manager jotted it down with a polite nod. His nonchalance made me realize this was an ordinary party for him. Everyone who rented Sherry’s expected cartloads of fancy meats and crates of imported champagne. Our show was an exotic dessert for the children of robber barons, and for a second I was revolted by what we were doing. Teaming up with these Gilded Age sleazeballs might not be collective action after all—maybe it was simply pandering.

Too late for second thoughts now. I needed to focus on why we were here. I was doing this for the women of the Midway, their daughters and mothers. Maybe some of them would be here this Saturday, showing off their hoochie coochie moves. I hoped so. I wanted to see all of them one more time before leaving this moment forever.

On Saturday, we dodged last-minute preparation disasters at Sherry’s and puddles of freezing water in the filthy gutters along Broadway. Cocktails began after sunset at 7 P.M., and that slid into dinner. People kept arriving and arriving; it seemed the entire Four Hundred had come with at least one or two friends, all wearing glittery ball gowns and plumes in their hair, or tuxes with rakish waistcoats.

Morehshin stood outside the servants’ entrance to check in the dancers and their escorts, while I played liaison with the staff. I saw the dinner from the sidelines, catching snatches of conversation and vague impressions of white skin gone florid with conspicuous consumption. My trepidation from yesterday returned. These people were here to consume us, not to join our struggle against reproductive moralism.

Upstairs, the dancers were oblivious to the stakes—they were here for the fabulously lucrative $25 prizes, or maybe for fame. They crowded into a dining hall repurposed as a dressing room. Costume racks jostled against a wall of full-length mirrors. Musicians waited in the hall outside, smoking and drinking from a crate of champagne I’d asked the staff to bring upstairs.

Gradually the composition of the party underwent a metamorphosis. Elderly men filtered out, along with a few dozen ladies. The women who stayed for the show were younger and dressed in French fashions. They ate rosewater ices while the men stood up to mingle, drinking cognac and smoking. It was starting to feel like the hipster gin bar.

Staff cleared tables from the ballroom. As promised, the Carpenters Union had built a low, sturdy stage piled with rugs, drums, and some wooden camel tchotchkes. Sherry’s also supplied us with a handy backdrop from storage with an “exotic orient” theme, including an oasis surrounded by veiled women and some pyramids looming in the distance. Apparently it was left over from a costume revue staged by a secret men’s society. It set the tone for our evening, where the entertainment would wobble between appropriation and authenticity.

Six ornate thrones for the judges dominated the front row. I looked at them, full of dread. Would there be an execution or a revolution?

Upstairs, the dressing room was perfumed insanity. Women crushed against each other at the mirrors, coins and beads on their outfits jingling, applying makeup or veils or sparkles or elaborate headdresses. Some were like the white dancers from the Persian Palace, adding a few fake Bedouin touches to their burlesque flounces. Others had costumes that were very close to indigenous North African styles. Dancers practiced their moves, undulating and humming bars of Aseel’s song. It was impossible to say who was inhabiting an identity they’d lived, and who was simulating a culture they’d never known. The many shades of brown skin revealed beneath bodices suggested these women might be from the Maghreb. Or India. Or Mexico. Or the Bronx. Maybe all of those places.

We handed out a number to each woman, noting their stage names so that Archy could introduce them. Many used monikers that were variations on Lady Asenath, which made sense given her international renown. I counted two Lady Asenaths, two Mademoiselle Asenaths, a Dusky Asenath, and one particularly saucy Asenath the Temptress. After witnessing Aseel’s rage at the Persian Palace, it worried me. Were these acts ripping her off, or paying homage? Only she could decide.

I found Aseel across the room, helping a woman with her signup sheet. “A lot of these women are using your name. Do you want me to make a rule that they have to pick an original stage name?”

Aseel rolled her eyes and laughed. “I’m not surprised. I’ve heard through the grapevine that lots of people have been performing as Lady Asenath.”

“Are you okay with it?”

“On another night, I’d likely say no. But tonight, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

I leaned over and whispered in her ear. “You will always be the best Lady Asenath.”

She winked. “I know.” Then she turned back to the line. “Okay, ladies, let’s get started! Where is number one?”

Aseel deputized me as an escort, which meant my job was to bring acts downstairs and guide them to the stage. At first, I watched the crowd nervously. Archy sat on the biggest throne, with five other tuxedoed and mustachioed young men flanking him. They scored each dancer by holding up cards with carefully handwritten numbers on them. When I arrived with act number three in tow, none of the dancers had gotten higher than a 7. But that was about to change.

Act three gamboled around the stage, veils revealing nothing but blue eyes in a white face. Then she began to toss aside gossamer layers of fabric and a roar of appreciation hovered over the room like cigar smoke. When she dipped into a particularly vigorous shake, one of her breasts popped out of her top. I barely caught the sleight-of-hand move she’d made to release it; this was part of her act, and she was good at it. As she made a big show of fluttering her scarves and blushing, the judges held up their votes: 8, 8, 9, 10, 7, 8. And thus it became clear what was required to get a high score. This was what we’d wanted; this would draw out the Comstockers. But it didn’t feel righteous like our protest at the Expo, where we’d linked arms and shouted the truth. What we were doing here might be more powerful, but it was more ambiguous, too.

By the time I arrived with dancer twelve, Mademoiselle Asenath, the ballroom had come undone like a man’s tie after a night of bar hopping. People yelled and demanded lap dances. Staff cracked open another whiskey cask. Archy invited Mademoiselle Asenath to sit in his lap as part of the contest. “It’s to be your weigh-in!” he yelped. “Like at the racetrack! You’re a beautiful racehorse, honey, aren’t you?” His friends roared with laughter.