American photographer John Wise walked into a West End cabaret in London. He checked his camera was working, and awaited the arrival of the American actress who would be performing in tonight’s show. He had travelled from New York to profile a number of artists from the cabaret scene for Life Magazine, but had been given only twenty minutes to interview Frances Victoria Schenk. “Don’t forget to interview that floozy from New Jersey! I want to know everything there is to know,” the paper’s editor had yelled as Wise left his office back in New York.
The actress entered in her cabaret costume, and sat down in front of a piece of scenery with two parrots painted on it. The photographer looked her up and down; he had been expecting a more formal interview. “I guess you don’t like my outfit!” she said teasingly. John Wise took out his pen and notepad. “Let me start by thanking you for accepting my invitation. Life Magazine will be publishing this interview in its next issue,” he began. She sat with sensual poise, and he found himself dumbstruck as she crossed her legs revealingly. Then she tapped her diamond-studded shoes on the floor once to start the interview.
“Why did you leave New York?” asked the reporter.
“I wasn’t happy there, even though I was born in Jersey. We often went into the city when I was growing up. I started my career dancing in bars in the Big Apple, when I was only sixteen. Then I became a cabaret singer, and it started to feel like New York clubs were lacking a little...spice.”
“What do you mean by ‘spice’?”
“I couldn’t win over the audiences. New Yorkers are a demanding bunch.”
“I’m not sure I understand your answer. What do you mean by demanding? Is that what ‘spice’ is?”
“Well, allow me to explain. New Yorkers are too serious. On weekdays they show up to the cabaret exhausted from work. They’re too busy to appreciate the ambiance and the music. Most of them have droopy eyes, and all they’re thinking about is going home to bed with their wives. Londoners treat me like a queen. They chant my name every time I come on stage. I’m so happy here, far away from the New York scene. I’ve found my place with the audience. I’ve won the hearts of the English through my shows.”
“And you changed your name?”
“Yes, over here they call me Frances Day. I’m proud of it.”
“Rumour has it that you…enjoy the company of women.”
“Boys or girls, honey, I don’t mind. Princes, Prime Ministers – I don’t hold back,” Frances Day smiled.
“Thank you very much for all these details. Your lovers, men and women, all rave about you.”
“Well you know, Mr. Wise, I’m not the type to be mean.”
“But you like to provoke?”
“What makes you say that? If the Prime Minister wants to invite me to his home in Mayfair, that’s not my fault. My role is to give the audience what they want. After that I’m just a polite, courteous American. You know, women are complicated. That’s why I prefer them to men.”
“Thank you for…clarifying,” John Wise exclaimed. “What would you say to all the young women out there who dream of conquering the stage?”
“You have to take things slow. Have a head for business, and draw your passion from the crowds. You have to feed the crowd, respect the establishment you’re performing for, and give it your heart and soul.”
“Thank you, Miss Day. One last question: Will you ever come back to New York?”
“Never. I’m here now. I don’t want to compete with some skyscraper to be the biggest thing in town. I prefer the English. They’re chic, classy, and diplomatic. I hope I’ve given you everything you need.”
John Wise took up his camera and asked Frances Day for one last smile. He captured the moment. The editor of Life Magazine would be furious when he read the reporter’s notes. Their home-grown jezebel had betrayed New York, and now preferred the charm of Londoners. There was something devastating in her beauty, and its loss was not easily dismissed.
Alan Alfredo Geday