The Last Illusion

“What did she do?” I asked.

“You know Sid. Always pushes everything to the limit. First she was most annoyed because they insisted on giving her a sidesaddle. Then she asked if she could ride bareback instead and of course they refused. So no sooner were we out of the stable than she urged the poor animal into a gallop, throwing up the dust along the drive and terrifying children. Then she decided she wanted to see if she could leap into the saddle while the beast was moving, the way they do it in Mongolia.”

“Jesus, Mary, and—” I started to say before I caught myself. These Irish expressions tended to come out in moments of crisis. I was trying to eliminate them if I was ever to become the sophisticated New Yorker. “So what happened?” I asked.

“I talked her out of it, of course. She’s come home quite miffed. And the outcome is that we are personae non gratae at that particular stable in the future after we returned her horse exhausted.”

As she was saying this Sid appeared, dressed in men’s riding breeches and tall boots, a crimson scarf tied over her black hair. She gave a marvelous impression of a bandit, if not a Mongolian.

“Gus has told you, I suppose,” she said, frowning. “I was forced to ride sidesaddle on a tired old nag. I kept telling them I was a superb horse woman and I’d rather go bareback, but they simply wouldn’t listen. I don’t know where we’re going to get in our Mongolian practice.”

“Go and have a lie down, dearest,” Gus said, “and I’ll make us some iced tea. My, but it’s warm today, isn’t it.”

She opened the door of what used to be the drawing room and was now draped, from the central chandelier downward, with fabric to resemble a Mongolian tent. “It’s cooler in here,” she said. “Do sit, Molly, and I’ll be back with the tea.”

I sat, on a leather cushion on the floor. I don’t know what they had done with the sofas. Perhaps they were still behind all that drapery. Gus reappeared with a tray with glasses of iced tea and some chocolate biscuits. “So is this just a friendly call or was there something particular you wanted?” she asked.

“I know you two love your playacting, so I wondered if you had any sort of costume that would make me look as if I was a theater performer,” I said.

“Oh, what fun. Is it for a costume party?”

“No, an assignment. I have to meet some people at a theater tonight and convince them that I am one of their fraternity. Then I’m rather afraid I may have to appear onstage, so I just wondered . . .”

“Appear onstage? As what?”

“I can’t really tell you too much,” I said.

“What a hoot,” Gus said. “Molly onstage again. We can’t wait to see you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said. “It’s bound to be highly embarrassing. In fact I am not at all sure about this whole assignment. But on the off chance that I’m expected to play a part, I will need a costume.”

“Let’s go upstairs and see, shall we?” Gus led the way up two flights of stairs and opened a large trunk. It was full of what we at home would have called “dress up” clothing.

“What kind of role are you expected to play?”

“Glamorous,” I said. “Spangles.”

“This we have to see.” Gus was chuckling now. “You’ll not keep us away, Molly.”

She produced one piece after another, carrying on a constant commentary. “Lion tamer? Harem dancer? French maid? Japanese geisha? Oh, how about this—French cancan dancer?”

She held up what amounted to a black corset with fishnet stockings attached by large suspenders.

“Gus, I could never wear that. It’s not burlesque and anyway I wouldn’t have the nerve,” I said. “I’d be arrested!”

“I believe Sid was, when she wore it.” Gus laughed. “Then it appears I don’t have anything suitable in here for your costume. And as to your outfit for tonight—you’re welcome to check out our wardrobe, but you know that we don’t dress to appease fashionable society any longer. Sid has some divine silk trousers and mens’ smoking jackets, but I suppose they might give the wrong impression.”

“Yes, they might,” I agreed.

So I left empty-handed. Whom did I know in the theater who might have something suitable for me? Oona Sheehan came to mind, of course, because she did still owe me a favor and she was my size. So I caught the Sixth Avenue El up to Madison Square and went to the Hoffman House, where Oona had rooms.