Montreal and the queen of the desert

Marta (born Martha) Becket, 84, has become something of an underground celebrity in the past half-century, after establishing her unlikely, anachronistic "opera house" in the middle of the desert.

 A classically-trained ballet showgirl who was making a name for herself on the nightclub circuit just as the genre nosedived, she was guided by some sort of providence in the 1950s to rent this abandoned hall in a Death Valley, California, ghost town. With barely a penny to her name, she established the Amargosa Opera House just a few miles west of the Nevada state line, in a place that had once prospered on the production of borax.

For decades, Becket had staged her poorly-attended performances and concocted a world of her imagination, where unseen, 16th-century ladies and gentlemen applauded her every step from their seats in the gilded terraces. So few people actually turned up to watch her shows -- sometimes as few as zero, she even painted a crowd on the walls, lovingly, by hand, and gave her full performances to the empty hall. After years and years of this kind of thing, Becket was of course discovered. She became something of a local, and then national, underground sensation -- but one who could now afford to eat.

Now pushing 90 years, she is still performing -- only now to packed houses, even if she can't kick as high as she used to. So what's the Montreal angle? We're getting to that.

A few years back, her memoirs came out, To Dance on Sands, in which Becket tells of a short but decisive stay in this city. In fact it was in Montreal, where she performed at the Samovar club for a month in 1944, that she settled on her stage name. As she explains, a French-language nightclub reviewer wrote glowingly of her performance here while mangling her given name as Marta, instead of Martha.

The Samovar club was on Peel Street. It was owned and operated by Carl Grauer, a controversial, gay nightclub impressario who was tough, but he had the heart to advance some cash to Marta when she needed it most.
 
Her account is a fascinating slice of wartime life in this city. One can forgive her few mistakes. For example, she gets the name of a church wrong (it was probably St. Paul's -- now the Mary Queen of the World -- and not St. Peter's), and that of the Royal Victoria, and she remembers Peel Street as Queen.

We pick up her story about 99 pages in, as a U.S. booker informs her of a Montreal gig.

Frank Lewis was glad to see me, and said he had heard I was quite a hit at Bouche's Villa Venice. He told me he had a booking for me at a Russian restaurant in Montreal called The Samovar, for a whole month, and then another after that called The Old Romanian down on the lower east side. To fill in the next few blank weeks with smaller bookings, I went to visit Harry Stone and Frank Byron.
I was shocked to see that Frank Byron was no longer in business, and Harry Stone was in the process of closing for good. When I walked into his office, he looked surprised to see me. "Thought you were caught up in the 'big time,'" he said. "I was. I still am," I replied. "Good for you," he quipped. "You'd better get what you can, young lady. Vaudeville died twenty years ago, and now the nightclubs are closing. The ones that aren't closing are cutting out floor shows. Singers and bands, that's what they want now. I'm closing up and moving out." "Where are you going?" I asked.
"I'm quit'n show business, been in it too long. I'm going to join my brother and his wife on their farm in New Jersey." Upon returning home, Mother announced that we were going to have to move. "They're raising our rent, and we have to stay within our budget," she said. Mother and I agreed on one thing, we should look for a loft that could be lived in and used for a studio. The next week was spend hunting for a loft and preparing for the month's engagement in Montreal. "You know," said Frank Lewis when I was signing the contract, "your meals and room are provided as part of your salary, but not for your mother. She will have to pay for her own room and meals. You know that you can't have your mother tagging along aftre you forever, don't you?"
Bouche would like you back at the Villa Venice next summer, without your mother," he added.
"Think about it." Bouche would like you back at the Villa Venice next summer, without your mother," he added. "Think about it." My contract was ninety dollars a week. There would be plenty of money for Mother's room and meals. Mother didn't seem as upset as I had expected. As long as my loyalty was ever present, she was satisfied. Arrangements were made to stay at a rooming house within a short distance from the Samovar on Queen Street. Our rooming house looked something like an illustration from Charles Adams, with high ceilings inside, a huge square staircase and dark wood paneling everywhere. Dim, electrified gas lights illuminated the dark brown hallways.
 I was dismayed to see that there was only one bed. "This job doesn't pay for two beds, dear. We'll save the money by sleeping together," Mother said sternly. I was anxious to get to the Samovar, hang up my costumes and look at myself in the dressing room mirror. I hoped that I would see my reflection, not Mother's. We got to the Samovar in time for dinner. The Samovar was exquisite, a remnant of old Russia. Paintings lined the walls and pillars surrounding the dance floor. There was a show orchestra and a balalaika orchestra.
 A man came forward and introduced himself as Mr. Carl Grauer. It certinly wasn't a Russian name, but he was the owner and manager of the establishment. We were ushered to the dressing room where I was surprised to see Litia Namora, the East Indian dancer from Bouche's. Dinner was being served to us out in the dining room. When Litia and I walked in, a male tap dancer with red hair and a beard sat at the table already dining. His name was Eric Victor. Mother was talking to Mr. Grauer, and then came over to me. "I'm going down the street to the cafeteria for dinner," Mother said. "The meals are too expensive for me here. Don't worry about me. I'll be back in a little while and then we can go to our room." Like a whisk, she was gone. Litia broke the spell Mother left me in. "Here's the food. My, doesn't it smell good?" I turned, and in front of me were a hot bowl of borscht and a large plate of purutchki, a small pastry filled with meat.
This was certainly some of the best food I had ever had. For a moment, I wished Mother was there to enjoy it too. And then the conversation and the exotic food broke my train of thought, and for one full hour I did not think of Mother at all. A few doors from the Samovar was a ballet school and rehearsal hall. I was there the next morning to practice my barre. After that, Mother and I went for a short lunch at the cafeteria and took a look-in at her office.
Mother wanted to take in some early afternoon sightseeing before going to the Samovar for band rehearsal. I was not too enthusiastic about the idea. Mother insisted, so we went. We decided to take in St. Peter's Cathedral. While wandering about gazing up at the great central dome, marveling at the light which filtered from the tiny openings, I heard a scream and turned. There was Mother, flat on the marble floor by a stone step she must have missed.
 "Help me, help me!" she cried. The few tourists ran to help her up. I felt it must have been my fault. If I had been beside her, holding her hand instead of gaping at the dome, she would not have fallen. We took a cab to Victoria hospital. I was shocked to learn that I had to put down a deposit before Mother could be admitted. Mother had broken her wrist. It cost ninety dollars for my deposit, my first week's salary at the Samovar. The whole thing! I wondered if Mr. Grauer would give me an advance. I hurried down the hill on Queen Street by foot, all the way to the Samovar. I had no money left for a cab and I was embarrassed at having to request an advance on my salary from Mr. Grauer. I had made a good impression, and now I feared that this favor I was asking was not going to be good for my opening night. When I reached Mr. Grauer, he smiled, until I made my request. He had already had words with my mother concerning her meals. I could see that Mother was a bigger factor in my presence here than I was."
 I left the hospital feeling as if I had been through a steamroller. I got back to the Samovar in time to rehearse with the orchestra before supper.
Somehow, the anticipation of being without Mother for a full twenty-four hours in itself was comforting. Because of an unexpected accident that whisked her out of my life for a short time, I was given space to think for myself.
Opening night came and went. I could tell by the reaction of the audience that my act went over well. Later I had a chance to sleep in a room by myself in a strange city. The exhiliration of that first opening night without Mother was a time I savored. When I arrived at the Samovar the next day, Mr. Grauer was all smiles. He held up a French newspaper and said, "You did well. You made a fine impression. I'll read it to you and then translate it." There was one line that said, "Marta Becket personifies the dance itself." This stuck in my memory for years. Also, I kind of liked the way they misspelled my name. I stored this in my memory.
The review in English had a line about my "performing able toe work indeed." Perhaps my performance and the good review would make up for the request I'd made the day before. When I went to pick Mother up, she was sitting in a stuffed chair waiting for me. She greeted me with a forlorn smile and muttered something about my being late. She had a cast on her left arm which hung in a sling around her neck.
"Take me to the board room dear. I've already missed the opening prices," Mother said. I took Mother down to her office and left her there in the front row. Her eyes immediately glued themselves to the tape.
For the rest of the month I made up my mind to enjoy my engagement. It was particularly difficult at night, in that one small bed, trying to sleep, and Mother's cast hitting me as she turned.

How much do they require at the hospital?" he asked.

"Exactly ninety dollars. My whole' week's salary will go toward Mother's deposit. They said they'd wait for the rest." I stood paralyzed with embarrassment. "It's strange that they want exactly ninety dollars," Mr. Grauer said. "I'll give it do you. But you'd better live up to the praise I've been hearing about you. The critics will be here tonight, you know." I paid the full ninety dollars to the cashier at hospital. I was told to return next morning when Mother would be released.

After orchestra rehearsal, I sat down at my dressing table and, staring back at me, was my own face. I put on my makeup and, for the first time, Mother was not reflected in the background of the dressing room mirror.