Excerpt of The Belly Dancer by DeAnna Cameron

Dora Chambers entered the Egyptian Theatre behind the crowd
of gritty laborers and pale office clerks, the older
gentlemen and boys barely of an age to shave. The masculine
scents of their hair pomade and Ivory- soaped skin mingled
with the fragrance of the tendrils of smoke curling from
brass burners set along the stage. She raised her
handkerchief to her nose.

“Are you sure you’re up to this, dear?” Agnes Richmond
placed a grandmotherly hand on Dora’s shoulder and leaned
closer to be heard over the high- pitched whine of a horn.

“Of course, she’s up to it,” muttered Geraldine Forrest as
the three settled along the back of the standing room
gallery behind the rows of filled seats. She brushed at the
sleeves of her tailored wool jacket and, for the third time
since they’d arrived, adjusted the wide- brimmed hat sitting
atop her sweep of golden hair. “I’m sure she’d do anything
to keep her new husband happy.”

“Yes, of course,” the older woman said. “You must have felt
exactly the same about Mr. Forrest, God rest his soul.” She
took Dora’s gloved hands in her own. “It doesn’t appear
those women intend to follow through with their threat after
all. It’s quite a relief, really. I understand their
concern, but frankly, the Columbian Exposition hardly needs
the trouble.”

A commotion at the entrance interrupted her, and the
shoulder-to-shoulder crowd in the cavernous hall pressed
back, nearly sweeping Dora off her feet. When she righted
herself, a stream of women in black wool frocks and simple
hats had cleaved its way down the main aisle and toward the
stage. Each held a sign in her grip with letters still
dripping with wet paint: “Send the foreign filth home,”
“Propriety before profits,” and “Close the belly dance
theater now.” Their shouting drowned out the music until it
stopped altogether.

“Move back, dear, out of the way now.” Mrs. Richmond urged
Dora toward the rear of the gallery, though everyone around
them pushed toward the door.

Dora followed instructions, and huddled with Mrs. Richmond
and Mrs. Forrest at the back of the emptying theater.
Perspiration dampened Dora’s forehead and two droplets slid
down the crevice of her back where the corset was pulled the
tightest. She dabbed at the trickle but couldn’t reach it
through the layers of linen and whalebone, cotton and wool.

On the stage, she saw several dancers huddled together as well.

“That’s enough, that’s enough now. Clear out.” A uniformed
man pushed his way inside and was waving his hands over his
head in a call for order. Behind him stood another dozen
uniformed men, poised to act.

“We won’t leave until this den of vice is closed down,”
cried a dour, elderly woman who emerged from the pack to
stare down the officer. “We will not allow it to defile our
city any longer!”

“You’ve been warned, madam. We’ll arrest anyone who disrupts
this theater’s lawful operation.”
“Is it lawful for these women to fl aunt themselves in this
vulgar manner? Is it lawful for these men to witness this
obscene display?”

The woman adjusted the glasses on her nose in a way that
made her look down on the officer though he towered over her.

“Not for me to say, ma’am. Grievances should be taken up
with the Fair directors. Now you and your sisters here have
two minutes to disperse.” He made a show of pulling out his
pocket watch and checking its face.

The grim- faced woman turned to the stage, where the dancers
still stood against the back wall. “You have not heard the
last of this,” she hollered. “We will rid this Fair of your
filth.” Then she turned and with a swipe of her hand
signaled her fellow protesters to follow her out.

The officers followed behind, leaving only the performers,
Dora, Mrs. Richmond, and Mrs. Forrest.

“That was the Society for the Suppression of Vice?” Dora
asked, tucking a stray strand of her black hair behind her
ear beneath her straw boater and gripping her parasol more
tightly, still unaccustomed to its constant presence. “It’s
just a group of ladies. What harm could they possibly do?”

“Never underestimate a group of ladies, my dear,” Mrs.
Richmond admonished. “Take our Board of Lady Managers. The
directors themselves put their trust in us to sort out this
mess, and I for one am proud to say it is our Lady Managers’
privilege to contribute to the Fair’s success. Remember, if
this World’s Fair succeeds, Chicago succeeds. The
opportunities will be endless.”

“Chicago is full of opportunities, isn’t it?” Dora liked the
sound of it. It’s what Charles had said on their wedding day
two months ago in New Orleans, when she’d packed her dresses
and twenty years of memories into a steamer trunk, ready to
start a new life eight hundred miles away. “The past is
irrelevant in Chicago,” he’d whispered in her ear as they
stood at the steamship bow, waving to strangers and feeling
the rumble of the engine choke smoke into the sky as it
prepared to leave the only home she’d ever known.