The Blue Room, 1400 North Wells: We had wandered in for some champagne when we saw Coral. She was wearing her cat suit with the rhinestone whiskers and having a martini at the bar. She had just dined on the lightly brushed pompano in the restaurant below after flying in from Paris that afternoon. She seemed satisfied by the fish but we thought she looked older than the last time. The skin on her neck was creased and worn by exposure to the wind from sitting for hours at the cafes on the Rue de Rivoli. We asked her to join us for some Petrossian but she had to run because her agent was calling her about a booking at the Club Chatsoir.

“We didn’t know you sang, too, on top of the writing, the flute solos, and the interpretive dance,” we said.

Coral waved her hand. “I am very busy with my art.” She turned to watch the couple in evening clothes kissing on the gold settee, at which point she started to sob uncontrollably and we had to carry her out.

Two weeks hence: the boys at Berlin

Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): illusration/Tom Bachtell.