The Waldorf lobby was as extravagantly ornate as its exterior: Mosaic floors, marble columns, oak-paneled ceilings, velvet drapes, potted palms and polished brass everywhere, plus a prominently displayed oil portrait of President Theodore Roosevelt.
I checked a map of the city on the wall to be sure of my geography, then I went to a standing desk, took a note card and a pen and scribbled a few lines, and folded it. I presented it to the desk clerk.
“I have a note for one of your guests. At least, I think he’s staying here. Eugen Sandow?”
The clerk looked blank. “I’m afraid not, sir.” If you know old movie actors at all, this guy could have been Franklin Pangborn’s father. Well, his uncle anyway.
“How about Yew-jen Sand-ow?” I tried.
“Oh, Mr. Sand-ow!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “Why, yes, he’s an honored guest here. That is, he was. I’m afraid he just checked out.”
Oh, no. The air went out of me. What now?
“Your pronunciation is vonderful, young man,” said a voice behind me, which would have struck me as British if not for the Teutonic habit of turning w’s to v’s.
Eugen Sandow, in his mid-thirties, without a line in his face or a touch of gray in his blond curls, was standing behind me. He looked much as he had in the Mutoscope film, only with clothes on. His muscles strained at the shoulders and sleeves of a natty summer suit. I had no doubt he could pop chains off that massive chest, but unlike Philippe Brumbach, he was of normal height, perfectly barbered, and he had an unmistakable air of culture and elegance.
“I presume you speak German,” he said.
“I can get by, Mr. Sandow, but I can tell your English is better than my German. May I introduce myself? My name’s David Preston.”
What am I doing? Didn’t Ariyl Moro tell me not to talk to anyone till she gets here? But damn it, we’re twelve hours late. The show will be over before she even shows up!
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, putting out his hand. I let him shake mine, and regretted that decision right away. He and Philippe had something in common after all.
“May I have a word with you?” I said, subtly feeling my digits for suspected fractures. “I have a business proposition for you.”
“What sort of business?”
“I’m, uh, I’m a theatrical promoter.”
I figured I’d better take this opening, and hope that Ariyl Moro would get here in time to take over.
Sandow consulted an impressive gold pocket watch.
“I am sorry, but I must have my dinner at precisely seven, and it is now ten past. But perhaps you will join me as my guest?”
“Thank you, sir, I will,” I said. He strode into the restaurant like he owned it, and I followed.
The thirtyish maître d’hôtel halted me at the doorway. “I’m sorry, sir, but we require gentlemen to wear a jacket and tie,” he said with a Mitteleuropean accent that might have been Swiss.
Sandow put a hand on his shoulder: “Oscar, Mr. Preston is my guest. Could you please supply him with something?”
“Certainly, Herr Sandow,” he said. I turned up my collar and fastened my top button; in a trice, Oscar had me in a roomy dark suit coat and red paisley cravat that clashed nicely with my flannel shirt. All I needed was a cloth cap to look like Chico Marx at a funeral.
I followed Oscar and Sandow to a table in the preposterously posh restaurant. The strongman impressed upon Oscar that he was in a hurry.
“I am expecting a boy with my steamship ticket.”
“I’ll send him right over. Will you have your usual, then, Herr Sandow?”
“If you please, Oscar. And for you, Mr. Preston?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having. I’m sure it’s healthy.”
In retrospect, I bet Oscar rolled his eyes, but he was too professional for me to have caught him at it.
“Indeed, Mr. Preston,” said Sandow. “Simple, but nourishing. But perhaps you’ve read some of my writings on nutrition?”
“I’ve just started that part,” I lied.
“Ah, splendid. Which book? Or one of my magazines, perhaps?”
“Uh...” I vamped, “You know, the book on bodybuilding.”
He set down his water glass, suspicious.
“I have not written such a book. Not with that title.” He mulled it over. “But actually, I am working on my next one. And that is not a bad term for what I’m describing. Yes. Body-building.”
I noticed a clock, which now read twelve past seven.
“Did I hear you say you’re taking a ship back to England tonight?”
“Yes, my tour is over and I decided to go home a day early. I miss my wife and children. Now, how can I be of assistance?”
“I’m representing a performer you may have heard of.”
The efficient Oscar was already back at our table, accompanied by a waiter bearing two plates: each with half a pound of uncooked steak and two raw egg yolks.
I watched the blood encircle the yolks on my plate. Stay strong, I told myself, you’ve already hurled once today.
Sandow smiled at my reaction.
“The best way to consume protein is with the least amount of human interference. One does not need it burned, or drowned in rich sauces.”
Then he chuckled and turned to Oscar.
“I think Mr. Preston will prefer one of your special salads, Oscar.”
Oscar snapped his fingers and the waiter scurried off.
Sandow turned back to me. “I do not recommend any rigid diet. If your body is telling you it prefers fruit or vegetables, you must listen to it.”
“Please don’t wait on my account,” I told him. “Your food will get...well, I guess it won’t get cold, will it?”
“No, indeed. But thank you, I will begin.” Sandow cut himself a slice of meat. I politely waited for him to swallow his first mouthful. But despite his impending departure, he seemed in no hurry, chewing that first bite endlessly, as if he were giving his jaw a workout. And since the steak was raw, no doubt he was.
Oscar led a waiter over to us, who set a salad plate before me. On a bed of lettuce were grapes and apple slices in a mayonnaise dressing.
“Oh, a Waldorf salad,” I realized. I peeked under the lettuce, but found nothing else. “No walnuts?”
The maître d’ and the bodybuilder exchanged a surprised look. I realized I’d uttered another anachronism.
“You know,” chewed Sandow, gesturing with his fork, “that would not be a bad addition to your salad, Oscar. Walnuts are full of protein.”
Another waiter brought each of us a glass of beer.
“This is my kind of diet,” I quipped.
“Beer is far better for you than tea or coffee—in moderation, of course,” commented Sandow. “Zum Wohl.”
“Prost!” I replied. We clinked glasses and drank. Now I had to strike.
“Mr. Sandow, if I may...”
“Oh, yes. Tell me about this performer you mentioned.”
“She’s a strongwoman. From Germany, like you. She’s just eighteen, and her strength is unbelievable.”
Sandow winced, and shook his head. “I will save you some time, my friend. A woman performing feats of strength is like a horse doing arithmetic. One is impressed not by how well she does it, only that she can do it at all.”
“Trust me, if you saw her...”
“I have seen such acts before.”
“Not like her. She’s appearing right this hour at a theater just a mile from here, and she’s a big fan of yours.”
“Fan?” he looked up at the rotating blades overhead.
“I mean an admirer. If we took a hansom cab, we could be there in five minutes. You showing up would give her the kind of publicity money can’t buy. You could make her career.”
I knew I shouldn’t be tipping my hand about future events, but I was getting desperate.
He kept on methodically masticating, and shook his head.
“My ship departs at nine tonight. It is impossible.”
I sat back, dejected. For the second time today, I had let her down. She would never become Katie Sandwina. And I’d also managed to delay women’s suffrage for a third of a century. And the world would still end in ice.
Sandow sensed my gloom.
“I am truly sorry, Mr. Preston. If I’d known about her yesterday, I would have let her appear with me, at my athletic club.”
“One day can make that big a difference,” I muttered to myself.
“Well,” he relented, “perhaps I will see her another time. What is this amazon’s name, anyway?”
“Katie Sandwina,” I sighed, distracted.
BANG! He slammed his fork down. Heads turned throughout the cafe.
“Sandwina? What kind of joke is this? She names herself after me?”
“Oh, no, no, I meant –”
The next thing I knew, Sandow seized my collar and with one hand, lifted me in the air.
“Sandow is not a woman’s name! Twenty years I have spent making a name for myself—you will not feminize it!”
“Mr. Sandow, I misspoke,” I rasped around the fist at my throat. “I don’t know why I said ‘Sandwina.’ Her name is Katharina Brumbach, I swear! You can see for yourself, it’s on the theater marquee!”
I glimpsed Oscar, who was clearly appalled but reluctant to confront such an important guest about the impropriety of using another man as his own personal dumbbell.
At this point, a messenger boy with a uniform cap entered the restaurant. Thinking fast, Oscar sent the kid over to interrupt Sandow.
“Mr. Sand-ow? I-I got your boat ticket,” he stammered, his eyes darting between me and the angry muscleman.
“Thank you, boy. You may leave it on the table,” said Sandow, his rage abating. He let me down rather suddenly, and I fell on my ass.
A smattering of applause broke out from the other diners, impressed by his impromptu feat. He fished a silver quarter from his vest pocket and tipped the lad, whose eyes went wide at such largesse.
“Gosh, thanks!” the boy said, tipping his cap and hurrying out.
“I’ll have your luggage sent straight to the dock,” volunteered Oscar.
I got to my feet, brushing myself off.
“You may count yourself fortunate that I shall never meet this Brumbach girl,” Sandow told me with withering scorn. “Because if I did, I would advise her to find competent representation. Good evening to you, sir.”
Now it was my turn to get mad. I wasn’t about to take a sock at the strongest man in the world, but I had another notion just about as hare-brained.
I grabbed his steamship ticket, and lit out the side door.