Lair of Dreams

The woman stopped crying. Through the netting, her eyes were dark and hard.

“All my dreams are dead,” she growled. “You killed them!” Serpent-quick, she plunged a dagger into Henry’s chest.

Henry woke with a start, breathing heavily, one hand over his heart.

“I’m okay. Everything’s jake,” he said, letting out a long exhale. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was nearly three, and yelped.

“Applesauce!” Henry hissed, reaching for his music and his coat, pulling up his suspenders as he went. “Theta’s gonna murder me.”





Theta was standing in the wings pacing when Henry blew into the theater so fast he nearly toppled over.

“Sorry, sorry!” he said, kissing her cheek.

Theta’s dark eyes flashed. “Cutting it a little close, weren’t ya, Hen?”

“But I made it,” Henry said. “You look like a million bucks.”

“Yeah, but do I look like Russian nobility?”

“I’d buy it.”

“Only if I can sell it.”

“You’ll be the berries, Theta. You always are.”

Theta parted the curtain, looking out at the assorted members of the press and the photographer setting up his camera in the aisle, and spied Herbert Allen glad-handing the reporters. His voice drifted up and backstage: “Yes, I’ve written a swell new song for Miss Knight to sing today.…”

Henry peeked over Theta’s shoulder and scowled. “That talentless bastard. Shouldn’t he be off having another bad suit made?”

“He’s not gonna be too happy about what we’re doing.”

“Huh. Suddenly I’m filled with pep!” Henry joked, but Theta still looked nervous. He held her hand. “Don’t worry. We’re on our way.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Come on. Now, let us to go and razzle-dazzle ze press-ski.”

Theta’s eyebrows shot up. “Good thing you’re not trying to pass yourself off as Russian royalty.”

“As we say in my country, I am wounded.”

Theta squeezed Henry’s hands for luck. “Here goes nothin’.”

The reporters quieted as Theta swept onto the stage looking every bit the star in a borrowed chinchilla coat, a long strand of knotted pearls swaying against her green silk dress as she sauntered toward the footlights.

“Holy mackerel,” one of the men muttered, captivated.

Florenz Ziegfeld beamed. “Gentlemen, may I present the Ziegfeld Follies’ newest star, Miss Theta Knight!” Mr. Ziegfeld said, taking Theta’s hand and helping her down the steps and into a front-row seat.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to wait for my stockings to dry,” Theta purred and glanced over at Henry.

Don’t worry, he mouthed from his seat at the piano.

A reporter tipped his hat. “Miss Knight?”

“That’s my name,” Theta said, and even that was a lie.

“What do you remember about your life in Russia?”

“It was cold,” Theta answered. She dangled her unlit cigarette until a reporter offered a match, and Theta looked up at him with her bedroom eyes. “Even our sables wore sables.”

The reporters laughed, and Theta relaxed a little. If you kept them entertained, they didn’t get too personal. They asked their questions, and Theta answered each one, making it up as she went along. It seemed to Theta that her entire life had been improvised and reinvented to fit whatever story she needed in order to survive. She knew about lying by omission—how you could leave out parts of yourself to be filled in by other people who only saw in you what worked for their own reinvented lives. Theta rarely corrected them. What was the point? Most of the stars in Hollywood had phony names given to them by agents and studio heads, and backgrounds invented out of thin air and a desire to sell movie tickets. That was part of the dream factory.

Theta stole another glance at Henry. At the piano, he yawned, barely awake. Shadows showed under his eyes, and his face was much paler than usual. Maybe he didn’t see it, but Theta did.

“Miss Knight?” a reporter prompted her.

“Huh?” Theta said. “I mean”—she put the husky purr back into her voice, a woman of mystery—“yes?”

“Say something in Russian,” a reporter cajoled.

“Twenty-three skidoo-ski,” Theta deadpanned.

“What part of Russia is that from?”

“The swell part.”

“Now, boys, go easy. Miss Knight was only a little girl when they smuggled her out of a war-torn country in the dead of night, to be delivered to this great country by loyal servants and raised in an orphanage by kindly nuns,” Mr. Ziegfeld said. “It was quite traumatic! The poor girl has amnesia and doesn’t remember much at all. The doctors don’t expect that she ever will.”

“That true, Miss Knight?”

Theta blew a plume of smoke in the reporter’s direction, enjoying his cough. “If Mr. Ziegfeld says it’s true, then it’s true.” She couldn’t wait for this dog and pony show to be over so she could sing and dance. That’s the act she was good at, not this one.