Baker Block, built in the 1870’s, a major tourist attraction, was hit hard by fire.
And Fred in elegant tie and tails, arms floating to the music like a magician, said, “The hell with it. Hum ‘The Picolino,’ dance ‘The Carioca’ and ‘The Continental.’ ”
When I got to the gate at R.K.O., a guy in a gray uniform, complete with black-leather strap over his shoulder and matching cap fixed evenly down to his eyebrows, walked out of the guard booth and motioned for me to roll down the window. The look on his well-shaved face made it clear that he didn’t like leaning down so far and he didn’t much understand who would be trying to get through the R.K.O. gate in a battered refrigerator on wheels.
“Yes, sir?” he said, but I somehow felt that the “sir” had a professional tinge of contempt.
“Name’s Peters, Toby Peters. I have an appointment with Fred Astaire.”
The guard nodded. His body and head squared, face flat and gray, the smell of retired cop on his Sen-Sen breath.
“Astaire’s gonna teach me to dance,” I explained.
The guard looked at me and nodded. A pro. No expression, just a brief blink of the eyes.
“I’ll check,” he said. “Meanwhile, please just sit where you are.”
Since my only option, now that there was another car behind me, was to crash through the gate, I sat. The clink under the hood had grown worse. The seat next to me smelled like cat and I sat inside wearing some reasonably clean trousers, a tieless white shirt that I had tried, with some success, to flatten out with Gunther’s iron.
The guard lumbered to the gate house and made a call as he watched me through the window. In my rearview mirror I could see Butterfly McQueen in a blue Buick, watching me with impatience. I shrugged. The guard came back.
“Stage Two,” he said. “You just. .”
“I know how to get there,” I said. “I did a few security jobs. That was a while ago, but I think I can find my way.”
“You were in the agency business and now you’re a dancer?” the guard said, brow furrowed.
“Life can be strange and wondrous,” I said.
“It can also be shit,” he whispered.
Butterfly McQueen hit her horn, and the guard pulled his head out of my window and waved me on.
I parked right next to the entrance to Stage Two between two piles of light stands and thick coiled wires. The on-stage light was out so I went in. I went through a bank of floor-to-ceiling dark curtains and came out on a black polished floor covered with footprints and scuff marks. Fred Astaire sat alone at a table in one corner. There was no furniture on the stage except for the large table on which sat a phonograph, a stack of records, and lunch. Astaire had a soup spoon in his hand. Another place was set across the table.
“Toby, I’m glad you came,” he said, rising and taking my hand. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind. Arthur Forbes. .”
Astaire was dressed in white slacks, a dark-blue, long-sleeved billowy shirt, and a small white scarf tied around his neck.
“Shall we dance?” I said.
He smiled and waved toward the table.
“Shall we eat first? I took the liberty of ordering. I don’t like eating in the commissary. I hope you haven’t had an early lunch?”
“Nope,” I said as he took his seat and I joined him.
“Chicken noodle soup,” Astaire said as I picked up my spoon. “The trick is in the noodles. The noodles must be wide and flat. I’m afraid the ice cream is starting to melt a little.”
“Looks fine,” I said, reaching for a bottle of Ruppert Beer near my soup. I opened it with a shining church key conveniently placed in front of my bowl and poured the beer into a tall glass. I drank the beer and tasted the soup.
“How do you like it?” Astaire said with a real interest.
“Flat noodles,” I said, holding up a spoonful.
“That’s the secret,” he confirmed solemnly.
I gave him the very short version of my background as we finished eating. He nodded, listened, asked a question about my brother, Phil, and what I thought of various people I’d worked with, for, and, once in a while, against.
“You ever run into Preston Stewart?” I asked.
“Preston. .” he nibbled his lower lip, looked down at the table, and then snapped his fingers. “Right. Tall, tennis-player tan. B pictures.”
“That’s the one.”
“Ran into him a few times,” said Astaire. “Not much conversation, but he seemed likable enough and, as I remember, he was remarkably informed about dance.”
“I’m ready,” I said, getting up.
Astaire rose, turned a knob to warm up the phonograph, and stepped out onto the scuffed, massive floor.
“I’m going to walk you through some basic steps,” he said. “I’ll keep it simple. Stop me if you don’t understand. When you give Luna Martin the lesson, just do what I’m doing.”
I nodded.
“Good,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Very good. Now I’ll just put on a record.”
The record he put on was ancient and scratched, but I recognized “Hindustan” and would have bet that it was Isham Jones.
“Now,” said Astaire, “do this. Two sliding steps forward and one short one to your left.”
He demonstrated. I mimicked.
“Not bad,” he said. “Now do the same thing to the music. Pick up the beat and you’ll be doing the fox- trot.”
“We have a problem,” I said.
“You have a wooden leg,” Astaire said over the steady sound of the music.
“No,” I said.
“You are going blind. You suffer from horrible vertigo when you dance. You are massively embarrassed and have what you hope is a temporary insane feeling that you can’t move.”
“None of the above,” I said. “I can’t hear a beat.”
“Even the deaf can hear the beat, feel its vibration,” said Astaire. “Try it.”
I tried.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ll say ‘beat, beat, beat, beat,’ and you put your left foot out on the beat.”
“Right,” I said.
When that didn’t work, he tried counting one-two-three-four.
Ten minutes and three records later I still hadn’t found the beat. I hadn’t heard it. I decided it was some mysterious thing that other people heard and I was cursed to never experience.
Astaire was rubbing his chin and watching my feet. “You are a challenge,” he said.
I shrugged.
“We’ll search for the beat until you find it,” he said. “This time, forget the music. Just listen for the beat. The music will take care of itself.”
We searched for ten minutes more when Astaire finally said, “Stop.”
I stopped. We had been trying to find the beat in a waltz. I had been given to understand that there were three.
“I suggest that if Miss Martin asks you to show her a step, turn off the music, claim a case of dancer’s arthritis, and walk through the step. There will be a mercifully small number of steps to go through.”
He showed me steps. Tango, swing, fox-trot, waltz. I drew little pictures in my notebook with comments like, “Hesitation step, follow the flow of dance, keep your arms up, don’t dance on your heels, and don’t look at your partner when you’re waltzing or doing the fox-trot.”
