Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk Page A

a bitter night, you’ve got to warm your bones. Two, Mi Fong—He’s a
     marvelous person,” Marsha said as they hung up their coats. “His wife paints beautifully.
     They live in back. I have a screen she did. Gorgeous, and she practically gave it
     to me. The food is sublime, I tell you, and it costs next to nothing. If you have
     forty cents on you, you can have a feast. If you haven’t I’ll lend it to you—”
    “Oh no, no, thanks anyway.”
    With the drinks the Chinaman brought a plate full of fat brown curved things. Marjorie
     asked what they were, and Marsha exclaimed, “Darling, don’t tell me you’ve never eaten
     fried shrimps. I’ll die.”
    “I’ve never eaten any kind of shrimps.”
    “Bless my soul, haven’t you?” Marsha looked at her with a tinge of amusement. “Well—here’s
     to your glorious debut as the Mikado.”
    Marjorie raised the tall glass, which looked black in the red light. The Singapore
     sling tasted cool, slightly sweet, not at all strong. She smiled and nodded.
    “Nectar,” said Marsha. “Don’t have more than one, though. Once an evil old man who
     was trying to make me got me to drink three. Wow.”
    “Did he make you?” said Marjorie, trying to be as devilish as her companion.
    “What do you think?” said Marsha, with an arch air of being offended. She heaved a
     sigh. “Ah, well. He wasn’t really so old, but he sure was evil. Of course that was
     his chief charm. I’m still mad about him, to tell you the truth.” She picked up a
     plump shrimp and bit it in half with long white teeth. Her face lit up, the dark eyes
     gleaming. “Ah, Lord, they say it’s a vale of tears, Marjorie, and yet there are such
     things as fried shrimps. Do have one.”
    “No, thanks.”
    “Well, you’re missing a bit of heaven on earth. But to business. Do you know how much
     talent you have?”
    “Who, me? I’m not sure I have any.” Marjorie took a long pull at the Singapore sling.
     It went flickering down into her stomach and out along her nerves, it seemed, like
     little cool flames.
    Marsha ate another shrimp, blinking luxuriously. “Well, modesty is becoming. But you’re
     an actress, dear. And I mean an actress. For you to do anything else with your life
     will be a crime.”
    “Ko-Ko is ten times as good as I am—”
    “My dear, Ko-Ko is a piece of wood. They’re all sticks, sticks, I tell you, absolute
     dummies, except you. Of course they should have given Ko-Ko to you, but Helen had
     you down for the Mikado. Poor Helen meant well. She likes you in her fashion. I’m
     afraid she doesn’t know her Gilbert and Sullivan. She thought the Mikado part must
     be the lead.”
    “Marsha, Miss Kimble did the casting—”
    “Dora Kimble, dear, is only the director. Helen Johannsen is business manager of the
     show, and what’s more she’ll write the review in the paper. If Miss Kimble wants a
     show next year she’s not going to do anything to offend Helen. The dramatic society
     is Miss Kimble’s one reason for living. She’s substituted it for having a man. So
     she damn well jigs to Helen’s tune.”
    It astounded Marjorie to hear that political influence could touch so sacred a process
     as the casting of a play. “Is that really how I got the part? I can hardly believe
     it—”
    “Dear, listen, in this school Helen Johannsen can do
anything
.” She began to talk about Hunter politics, amazing Marjorie with revelations of the
     interlocking agreements between the Christian and Jewish sororities, the rigid apportioning
     of the plums of honor and money.
    “Why, it’s crooked, it’s like Tammany,” Marjorie exclaimed.
    “Marjorie, really! That’s just the way things are, everywhere in the world. School’s
     no different. The girls who do the work are entitled to a little gravy.”
    “How do you know all this? You make me feel like a blind fool.”
    “You’re just not interested, dear, and I am. I’m ambitious. I tried to buck the