gleaming mahogany grand piano in the living room of his suite in the Chatsworth Apartments on Seventy-second Street, just short of Riverside Drive. Six-thirty, the workday finished for most people, but this young man wasn’t most people. He was Irving Berlin, Composer of A Hundred Hits, The Boy Who Revived Ragtime. When Irvy first saw light, twenty-eight years earlier, in Russia, he was Israel Baline. Six years later, the boy came with his family through Ellis Island, then grew up on the teeming streets of New York’s lower east side, where he was known as Izzy. No one in the Great Land of Opportunity had a sharper eye for the main chance than Izzy Baline, but what the skinny little guy had in push, he lacked in polish, and so, when the newly-designed-and-labeled Irving Berlin moved uptown, he was determined to leave Izzy behind on Cherry Street. But a little thing like a court document changing his name was not nearly sufficient to convince the tenacious, rough-spoken Izzy he no longer existed. Where Irvy went, Izzy went, and he spoke his mind freely whenever he thought Irvy was in any way falling short.
Berlin eyeballed the magazine reporter, smoothing her skirt on the couch to his right. One of those women, flirting with forty, eats like a bird and smiles to herself when her friends call her Slim. Creamy silk blouse under a perfectly-tailored smart gray suit, blonde hair curling every which way from under the matching gray cloche hat. That sparkler on her left ring finger was a whole year’s-worth of royalties from “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and then some. She’s gotta be a sharp dame, not enough going on around the house to keep her busy and interested, so she writes articles for magazines. Respectable articles, respectable magazines. Kinda magazines where Irving Berlin’s name needs to be.
The composer cleared his throat. “Sorry to be a little late, Mrs. Allred, but I had some pressing business. I’m writing a musical with Victor Herbert for Flo Ziegfeld, and the time’s getting to be pretty short.” He lowered his jaw just enough to part his lips, then opened his eyes wide and dropped his gaze. He chuckled, just the right bit of self-deprecation.
It worked. It always did with woman-reporters. Mrs. Allred smiled openly. “That’s all right, Mr. Berlin. Your butler made me very comfortable. And considering how busy you are, it was good of you to fit me in at all.”
“Well, you said your deadline was in the morning.” Berlin extended his hands in an extravagant shrug. “So what could we do, huh?” Big smile. Pain in the ass, but it’d be crazy to kiss off a feature piece in
Green Book
.
Mrs. Allred pulled a notebook from her purse, flipped it open, said, “I do appreciate that, and I’ll try not to keep you too long. My piece will be titled, ‘How The Ragtime King Writes His Songs.’”
“I guess I can help you with that, all right.” Berlin gestured at the lustrous grand. People think I just sit down at the piano, hit maybe a couple of keys, half an hour, and boom, there’s my next hit song.” Quick finger-snap. “But that’s not how it goes. A song’s kinda like a kid, you know, bashful, but maybe a little bit of a wisenheimer, it stands there sticking out its tongue at me, and it goes, ‘Nyah, nyah. Betcha can’t catch me.’ But I sit at the piano and play and play, because I know the song’s there, all right, and if I don’t let the kid get my goat, sooner or later, I
am
gonna nail it.”
He ratcheted the corners of his lips for the lady. Sweet, endearing little Irving Berlin, just a tiny bit embarrassed.
“I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Mr. Berlin.”
“Quick flash of panic. ‘I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Mr. Berlin’. Sarcastic? And that smile on her face—was she mocking him? He rushed to speak. “No, it ain’t…that is, it
isn’t
frustrating, not really. Just part of the game. That’s why a good songwriter can’t be on any kind of a
Berlin eyeballed the magazine reporter, smoothing her skirt on the couch to his right. One of those women, flirting with forty, eats like a bird and smiles to herself when her friends call her Slim. Creamy silk blouse under a perfectly-tailored smart gray suit, blonde hair curling every which way from under the matching gray cloche hat. That sparkler on her left ring finger was a whole year’s-worth of royalties from “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” and then some. She’s gotta be a sharp dame, not enough going on around the house to keep her busy and interested, so she writes articles for magazines. Respectable articles, respectable magazines. Kinda magazines where Irving Berlin’s name needs to be.
The composer cleared his throat. “Sorry to be a little late, Mrs. Allred, but I had some pressing business. I’m writing a musical with Victor Herbert for Flo Ziegfeld, and the time’s getting to be pretty short.” He lowered his jaw just enough to part his lips, then opened his eyes wide and dropped his gaze. He chuckled, just the right bit of self-deprecation.
It worked. It always did with woman-reporters. Mrs. Allred smiled openly. “That’s all right, Mr. Berlin. Your butler made me very comfortable. And considering how busy you are, it was good of you to fit me in at all.”
“Well, you said your deadline was in the morning.” Berlin extended his hands in an extravagant shrug. “So what could we do, huh?” Big smile. Pain in the ass, but it’d be crazy to kiss off a feature piece in
Green Book
.
Mrs. Allred pulled a notebook from her purse, flipped it open, said, “I do appreciate that, and I’ll try not to keep you too long. My piece will be titled, ‘How The Ragtime King Writes His Songs.’”
“I guess I can help you with that, all right.” Berlin gestured at the lustrous grand. People think I just sit down at the piano, hit maybe a couple of keys, half an hour, and boom, there’s my next hit song.” Quick finger-snap. “But that’s not how it goes. A song’s kinda like a kid, you know, bashful, but maybe a little bit of a wisenheimer, it stands there sticking out its tongue at me, and it goes, ‘Nyah, nyah. Betcha can’t catch me.’ But I sit at the piano and play and play, because I know the song’s there, all right, and if I don’t let the kid get my goat, sooner or later, I
am
gonna nail it.”
He ratcheted the corners of his lips for the lady. Sweet, endearing little Irving Berlin, just a tiny bit embarrassed.
“I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Mr. Berlin.”
“Quick flash of panic. ‘I’m sure that must be very frustrating, Mr. Berlin’. Sarcastic? And that smile on her face—was she mocking him? He rushed to speak. “No, it ain’t…that is, it
isn’t
frustrating, not really. Just part of the game. That’s why a good songwriter can’t be on any kind of a
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