Chapter Two Fran

Chapter Two

Fran

Manhattan, New York

1959

"You say you come from Hammerstein's office?" Maria asks. Up close, her eyes are more gray than blue.

"Yes." Fran nods. "He heard you had suggestions and thought we could discuss them over lunch."

"I've already had lunch."

"Well, that's no problem," Halliday says. Behind him, the nuns are taking their places and rehearsal is about to continue. "Just order yourself a drink and Fran here will take notes on everything."

Maria stiffens. "I want to be clear." Her Austrian accent is strong, but there's no mistaking her words. "There is almost nothing I like about this script."

A knot begins to form in Fran's stomach. It's possible she won't be able to smooth this over. "Well, perhaps we can focus on your biggest concerns," she suggests.

"There are too many of them. But I can tell you this," Maria says, clutching the pendant in her fist. "There is no scene with the Captain that's acceptable. Those German writers turned him into some strict Prussian officer and I see you've simply gone and copied them. He wasn't the disciplinarian. He never was. That was all the Baroness."

"Make sure to write this all down," Halliday says. "Word for word."

Maria looks shocked. "You're not coming?"

He gives a helpless shrug. "Rehearsals. But I leave you in capable hands."

Conflicting emotions cross Maria's face and Fran squares her shoulders, trying to look capable.

There's a moment of silence, and when neither Fran nor Halliday fills it, Maria sets her jaw. "I will visit the powder room first."

The second Maria is gone, Halliday turns to Fran. "You know, I can still remember Maria's face when she got off that boat from New Guinea. Took me months to track her down, and when I finally found her, you want to know what she said? ‘Mary Martin? Who's Mary Martin? And why should I give a fig about her wanting to play me?'?" Halliday laughs, as if nothing could be crazier than someone not recognizing his wife's celebrity.

The story has practically become lore throughout the business. After searching for Maria von Trapp for the better part of a year, Halliday and Mary arrived to discover that she'd already sold her rights to a German company for a paltry nine thousand dollars. In perpetuity. It took months of negotiating with the Germans, but eventually they got what they wanted: the rights to produce a play based on Maria's life with Mary Martin as the lead.

As soon as the play debuts on Broadway, 20th Century-Fox will be allowed to film a movie using the same script. Apparently, Hollywood wants someone younger than Mary for the lead, and the last Fran heard the most likely candidate was Audrey Hepburn. She thinks it says a lot about Mary that she doesn't mind that. It was also Mary and Halliday who decided to give Maria three-eighths of a percent of the profits, simply as a gesture of goodwill. It's not a sizable figure, but if the play does as well as Rodgers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma!, then it should turn out to be quite a tidy sum.

This all transpired over two years ago, and now Fran fixes her gaze on Halliday.

"Oh, don't look so cross," he says. His breath is already sour with alcohol and it's not even ten o'clock. "You'll take her to the St. Regis, enjoy a Bloody Mary—"

"With all due respect, I don't believe she's come here to enjoy a Bloody Mary. This is her life story and she's upset. "

"Which is why we'll get her a nice dress for the premiere and a matching handbag. Then she'll be right as rain."

Fran stares at Halliday. "You knew she'd hate the script."

Halliday leans so close that his breath is hot on her cheek. "Of course," he whispers. "What do you think the three-eighths of a percent was for?"

—

Fran's not sure when she became one of those despicable Broadway types who smiles too much and talks too fast. But as she and Maria step, blinking, into the perfect weather outside, it occurs to her that she's no different from Halliday.

"I don't know how much your lawyer's told you about the production," she begins, "but the Lunt-Fontanne is one of the best theaters on Broadway."

Maria looks down at Fran and ignores her olive branch. "How long have they been working on the script?"

Fran leads them along the street past the Radio City Music Hall marquee. "Six months?" she guesses.

Maria's voice tightens. "And they're hoping to open in November?"

"Yes."

"Then we'd better hurry," Maria says, quickening her pace. "I have quite a few suggestions."

Fran practically has to run in her heels to keep up with Maria in her loafers. She figures if she can just get her to talk—about the city, about her singing, about anything really—she'll have to slow down. But Maria is on a mission. They race up Fifth Avenue past Rockefeller Center and Saint Patrick's Cathedral. And it's only when a group of four women exiting the cathedral stop and begin pointing excitedly at Maria that she finally slows down.

"Maria!" one of the women calls out. "Maria von Trapp of the Trapp Family Singers!"

Maria stops and the women immediately react. "It's her!" they squeal, and Fran can actually see Maria's sharp edges beginning to soften. The group rushes over and surrounds her, peppering her with questions and compliments. One of them likes her dress and another is running her hands over the frills of Maria's apron. All of them have been to one of her concerts and several want to know when she'll be singing again.

"Oh, I'm afraid we retired three years ago," Maria says sadly. "But we run a lodge in Vermont. And we now have a music camp."

Within moments, the women are reaching for their pocketbooks to write down the address of the Trapp Family Lodge.

The same scene is repeated on Fifty-Third Street. And Maria is happy to answer questions about everything: Austria's mountains, its church bells, the best sausages in the city. She's glowing by the time a tuxedoed waiter escorts them across the dining room of the St. Regis and holds out a chair for her.

"It must be wonderful to have so many fans," Fran says, settling her napkin across her lap. "I can't remember ever reading a story about someone who's led such a charmed life."

Maria's lips thin into a very straight line. "It does come across as charmed in the script, doesn't it?"

Fran recognizes immediately that this was the wrong thing to say. "Well, yes. Your love story—"

"With Georg? My dear, that wasn't a love story."

Fran can feel herself gaping.

"Oh, it's all in my book." Fran doesn't want to admit she hasn't read it. "But no, my life wasn't charmed." Maria swats away this idea like a gnat. "I was an orphan," she says. Then she lowers her voice. "When I ran away to the State Teachers' Progressive Education College, I didn't even have five groschen to my name."

"You were a teacher?"

She nods. "That's why the nuns sent me to Captain von Trapp."

Fran is flooded with relief. "So you really were a nun." At least this part of the script is correct.

"I was a postulant," Maria corrects, instinctively reaching for her pendant. "And not a terribly good one at that."