Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Of all the moments she'll remember about this night, Fran wonders if the most vivid will be the crush of reporters crowding the red carpet outside the Lunt-Fontanne. It's chaos, with journalists shouting out questions to the stars amid the pop of photographers' flashbulbs every few seconds.

"Madness, isn't it?" a woman asks from behind.

It's Mrs. Hammerstein, dressed in an exquisite black gown topped with an equally exquisite mink stole. She looks like an older version of Sophia Loren, with cheekbones that could cut, and heavily lidded eyes. Oscar Hammerstein is with her, besieged from all sides by reporters with their scribbling pencils and notebooks. He smiles at Fran, but she can read the nervousness in his face.

"It all comes down to this, doesn't it?" he says to her quietly.

Every celebrity in New York has turned out for this night. Marlene Dietrich, Gypsy Rose Lee, Ethel Merman. More than two million dollars in advance tickets have been sold, but none of that will matter if the critics—and Maria von Trapp—are unimpressed. "Is she here?" Fran asks.

Hammerstein uses his chin to indicate a woman in a green satin gown coming out of a white car. Fran gasps when she sees who she's with.

"Are those her sons?" Peter asks.

Dorothy smiles a little. "And two of her daughters. Oscar called each of her children and gave them the same pitch he gave to Maria."

It's such a gamble. Now, if any one of them dislikes the play…

"However many changes have been made, this story is still based on her life," Hammerstein explains. "She should be with her family."

Fran looks back at Maria and sees that the smile on her face is one of deep joy. How did Hammerstein do it? Reuniting her family for this!

The play, of course, is spectacular. The theater rings with laughter as Maria tears down her curtains to make playclothes for the children, then falls silent as Liesl's boyfriend Rolf betrays her family. And the entire audience seems to fall in love with the Captain at the same time as Maria herself. It's one of Hammerstein's most inspirational stories, and Mary Martin is absolutely luminescent as Maria.

But it's the real Maria the front row is concerned about. Fran catches Hammerstein turning to glance at Maria's expression throughout the play, studying her reaction to every song. She's smiling when the nuns are singing about their frustrations with her. But Fran thinks she catches a frown on Maria's face during Rolf's performance of "Sixteen Going on Seventeen."

When the play is finished, the applause inside the Lunt-Fontanne is thunderous. But Maria doesn't move. Then suddenly the curtains swing closed and she rises.

Oh, God, she wants to be the first to leave, Fran thinks. This is disastrous. But that's not what she's doing. While the audience is still clapping, Maria turns to them and takes her own bow.

No one applauds louder for her than Hammerstein.

In the glittering lobby outside, Fran overhears Maria's first interview with the Post.

"And what did you think, Mrs. von Trapp?" A young man in a suit takes out a notepad and pen, poised to write.

Fran holds her breath.

"Well, it's not exactly our life story," Maria says. There's silence for several moments as she gathers her thoughts. "But our love for God and family was there, and this is what has always been most important." Beside her, all five of her children nod, even Rupert, in spite of being transformed into a girl named Liesl.

Fran exhales and Peter squeezes her hand. Maria has given the musical her approval. Whatever happens after this is in the hands of the ticketholders.

At the after party on the roof of the St. Regis, Maria finds Fran.

"I want you to meet my children," she says. The green of her satin gown—a gift from the Hallidays, with a matching handbag—brings out the color of her eyes. "Rupert, Werner, Johannes, this is Fran." The three men smile. They all have their mother's rosy cheeks. "My wonderful daughter, Agathe. And, of course, you know Lorli."

"I'm sure you've heard this throughout your lives, but it's truly a pleasure," Fran says. "Your mother has told me so many wonderful things about all of you."

"Fran is a writer." Maria beams. She's almost unrecognizable without her trademark dirndl. "And this here is her good friend, Peter."

Lorli grins at the expression "good friend." "It was a wonderful play," Lorli tells him. "If I try to forget that it is supposed to be about our lives, I would say it was one of the best musicals I've ever seen."

"The music was fantastic," Rupert agrees. "Even if I did get turned into a swooning sixteen-year-old girl."

"Well, at least you were in it," Johannes jokes.

Everyone laughs, and it's a relief that none of them seem to hold a grudge. Perhaps the shock of the German film has taken the edge off seeing their father portrayed as some strict disciplinarian. Fran knows how she would feel if a musical turned her mother into its star and her father was made the dynamic character, there to transform into a more open and loving person throughout the play. At first she would be hurt, then she would be outraged.

"Do you think Papa would have liked it?" Lorli asks.

The family falls silent. An orchestra is playing music on the far side of the roof, and Fran imagines that the von Trapps can probably identify the song. They've had an extraordinary musical education.

"He would have loved the music," Rupert admits, and everyone agrees.

"Especially ‘Edelweiss,'?" Werner says quietly.

Maria glances across the rooftop at Hammerstein, who's surrounded by a circle of friends. He catches her eye and leads the group over. The night is surprisingly temperate for November. Most of the men are dressed in only tuxedos. But Hammerstein is wearing a peacoat over his.

"Congratulations, Mr. Hammerstein," Rupert says.

Hammerstein actually looks bashful. "Well, this wouldn't exist without your family. Your mother was adamant that your father be shown in a gentler light. So please don't hold any of the Captain's personality against her. She told us what a wonderful man he was."

"I suspect he would have enjoyed the show," Rupert says.

Dorothy sounds genuinely surprised. "Really?"

"Well, the music anyway."

Dorothy smiles wryly. Then a man approaches their group and immediately Hammerstein stiffens.

"The reviews are in," he guesses.

The man nods. He appears to be about Hammerstein's age, with dark hair, round glasses, and a cleft in his chin. He looks at home in this crowd. "Herbert Mayes," he introduces himself.

Peter and Fran both shake his hand. The von Trapps smile.

"Herbert's my neighbor," Hammerstein explains. "Also, the editor of McCall's. " He looks anxious. "Well?"

"The Times thought it was absolutely wonderful." Next to Herbert, Dorothy exhales. "And the Post called it your best work yet."

But Hammerstein's not impressed. "I have friends at those papers. What about the Tribune ?"

Herbert hesitates. "Not as glowing."

"Just read it."

The editor takes a piece of paper from his coat pocket, and it looks to be an early copy of a review that must now be going to press. He nervously adjusts his glasses, then hesitates.

"Well, go on," Hammerstein says.

The man clears his throat. "?‘A show not only too sweet for words, but almost too sweet for music.'?"

Dorothy inhales sharply and Hammerstein clenches his jaw. "What about Kenneth Tynan?"

Herbert's voice grows quiet. "From the Observer ?" He hands Hammerstein a paper, and Hammerstein reads it aloud. "?‘A show for children of all ages, from six to about eleven and a half.'?"

There's silence in the small circle around Hammerstein.

"Don't listen to them." Maria takes Hammerstein's arm. "They're only reviews."

"Yes," Hammerstein agrees, and for the first time since his operation, Fran thinks he looks as unwell as the doctors say he is. "But they're the reviews of my last play."

Maria glances at the faces around her, and while Dorothy steps away, too devastated to listen, Hammerstein explains.

For a brief moment, Maria looks deeply distressed. Then her resolve returns and her grip tightens. "Do you know what our manager said after we performed for him here in New York? He told us we'd be sure to sell out every nunnery from Manhattan to Chicago." She smiles at the memory. "He thought only priests or nuns would want to come and hear us. But you know who convinced him otherwise? The people. Agents, critics, managers…None of them buy tickets." She dismisses them with her hand. "Only the people do. You wait."