Or it could flop.

Elliott would either be gone for a very long time, or he would soon be right back here with her.

Either way, for the time being, Barbra, the toast of the town, was alone as she slipped into her little twin bed and turned off the light-except for maybe Oscar the rat scuttling under the kitchen stove.

6.

As a kid, Barbra had dreamed of seeing places beyond the grimy tenements of Brooklyn. In the last couple of years, she had fulfilled that dream. In the last few months alone, she had been to Miami, San Francisco, and London. Now it was Washington, D.C., the nation's capital. On a brief drive through the city, she and Peter Daniels gazed out at the gleaming white marble of the Washington Monument and the shining dome of the Capitol.

Their destination, however, was a bit removed from downtown. They were heading to the fir-and-oak-shaded Woodley Park neighborhood in the northwest part of the city, where the stately Sheraton Park Hotel rose above the trees. Here was where Barbra would sing for the president of the United States.

Before she'd left New York, she'd called her mother to tell her where she was going. These days, such calls were rare. Diana told friends that she didn't often hear from her daughter because she was "very busy with her singing career." She no longer pestered Barbra about getting out of s...o...b..z and finding a steady job. But Barbra knew better than to ask her mother's opinion on any performances. To her friends, Diana might express a degree of pride, however reserved ("she didn't want to appear to be bragging," said one), but she still seemed to hold firm to that old belief that too much praise would go to Barbra's head. Her mother's lack of enthusiasm was never going to change, Barbra knew. So they kept a certain, safe distance. It was better for everyone that way.

But when she was invited to sing for the president, Barbra couldn't hold back. She'd picked up the phone and called her mother. She knew how much Diana loved the young, handsome, energetic president. To Barbra's great surprise, her mother had, for the first time, bubbled over with excitement about something Barbra was involved in. Of course, there were no "congratulations," no "you deserve this, Barbra." That would be too much to hope for. But the enthusiasm was there nonetheless, and Barbra was happy for that.

Stepping out of the car, she headed into the horseshoe-shaped hotel. After rehearsals, Barbra hurried upstairs to change into her dress-short-sleeved white satin, scoop-necked, with b.u.t.tons down the front-then grabbed her boa and made her way to the ballroom. There she took her seat with the other entertainers. Edie Adams had flown in from Los Angeles, and cabaret impresario Julius Monk had winged in from Chicago. Basin Street East had agreed to give Barbra the night off, but only if she dug "down in her own purse to pay for her one-night replacement." Shrewd enough not to replace herself with another singer, Barbra had chosen comedian Jack E. Leonard instead.

The president, in a well-fitting tuxedo, sat at the head table. Barbra could hardly take her eyes off him. Celebrities didn't impress her, but John F. Kennedy did. Merriman Smith, president of the White House Correspondents' a.s.sociation, presented the commander in chief with an electric bread slicer, a wry comment on the fact that Kennedy had recently shown up at a press conference with a bandaged finger, a wound he blamed on slicing bread. Then master of ceremonies Merv Griffin took the podium. Speaking about the new home being built by President and Mrs. Kennedy near Rattlesnake Mountain, Virginia, a place that would be leased out for the summer, Griffin said, "I wouldn't want the president of the United States to be my landlord. I'd be a little reluctant in the middle of the night to call the White House to complain that there's no hot water."

Laughter followed each speaker's remarks, but when Barbra came on stage, she played it mostly straight. Peter Daniels took his seat at the piano as Barbra stood at the mike. If she was nervous-and with her history of opening-night jitters, she probably was-it wasn't detectable. She sang five numbers, but it was the last one that carried the most relevance. "Happy Days Are Here Again" had been used in Franklin Roosevelt's successful 1932 presidential campaign, and since then it had become an unofficial anthem of the Democratic Party. Singing the song for Kennedy wasn't just entertainment; it was Barbra's way of saying she was on board with his leadership of America. When she was done, Kennedy applauded heartily. Barbra dropped a curtsy, exposing a flash of cleavage.

Afterward, the entertainers stood in line waiting to meet the president. The protocol had been explained to them: Kennedy was not to be detained. He'd shake hands and exchange a few pleasantries, but that was all. Barbra, of course, never cared much for protocol, so when the president reached her, she told him that her mother was a great fan of his and asked him to sign her program. He smiled and complied.

"How long have you been singing?" he asked her.

"Just as long as you've been president," she said. When he handed her the program, she said, "You're a doll."

She had just called the president of the United States a "doll."

Meanwhile, a battery of newspaper photographers was snapping away. Merv Griffin, observing the moment, knew whose photo would make the papers the next day: the girl who'd dared to ask the president for his autograph. "Smart girl, that one," Griffin thought. He was right on that score.

7.

The woman just wouldn't stop talking. Barbra was at the point in her act when she introduced her band, and this woman, seated near the front of the audience and quite possibly drunk, kept interrupting her, trying to make jokes of her own. So when Barbra introduced Peter Daniels, she mentioned that he was English and then turned to the obnoxious heckler. "He knows you well, madam," Barbra said. "He's an excabinet minister."

The audience broke up in laughter. After being effectively called a prost.i.tute-Barbra was referencing the Profumo Affair, which was currently dominating British politics-the woman shut up for the rest of the show.

This month-June-it was Chicago's turn to meet Barbra Streisand, and her chance to get to know the Windy City. She was performing a three-week run at Mister Kelly's, a popular jazz-and-comedy club in the city's North Rush Street cafe belt. Its name was spelled outside in giant neon letters. She'd been doing bang-up business. The reviewer for Chicago's American thought that, based on the size of the crowds that had packed the club on her first few nights, Barbra's "three-week showing [would be] a hefty winner." Of course, television was critical. She'd arrived in Chicago after another Ed Sullivan Show, in which she'd sung "When the Sun Comes Out" wearing a raincoat and pearls. Then, a few days after her gig at Mister Kelly's started, she'd appeared on The Irv Kupcinet Show, the Chicago-based program of the popular local columnist. Now the marquee out front under her name carried the tagline: "FANTASTIC"-KUP. A recommendation from Kup was all it took for many Chicagoans to take in a show.

After the bigness of Basin Street East, Mister Kelly's offered Barbra a return to the intimate feel of her earlier clubs. About four tables deep and twenty tables wide, the club was like playing in "somebody's living room," thought the comedian Bob Newhart. Named after its first manager, Pat Kelly, the venue was run by the brothers Oscar and George Marienthal, who'd practically cornered the market on Chicago entertainment. In addition to Mister Kelly's, they also ran the London House, a jazz joint on North Michigan, and the Happy Medium, a showplace at Rush and Delaware. But it was Mister Kelly's that was, according to one observer, "the place to see and be seen on Chicago's hippest strip."

The one being seen now was Barbra-and Chicagoans seemed to like what they saw. "A cross between a sweet-voiced canary and a whooping crane, but she's sparkling and fresh," columnist Sam Lesner quipped in the Chicago Daily News. Before Barbra had arrived, Will Leonard in the Chicago Tribune had been leery of the advance praise from the likes of Truman Capote and David Merrick in her publicity material: "That's almost enough to unsell a man who likes to wait and see," Leonard wrote. But in the end, he agreed they were right. Charlie Dawn in Chicago's American answered all of Barbra's critics by saying her unorthodox versions of songs like "Happy Days" and "Cry Me a River" had made them "alive and thrilling all over again." Plus-and this was a milestone-he'd actually called her "comely." It wasn't a typo for "homely." A major critic had just called Barbra "comely"-as in attractive. Pretty, even.

Silencing that heckler showed that Barbra was in top form. She was confident, even a little c.o.c.ky. Good news kept flowing in every week regarding her alb.u.m. She'd held on to the t.i.tle of best-selling female solo artist for three weeks. The Barbra Streisand Alb.u.m had reached number 14 on Billboard's chart on June 1. When, the following week, the alb.u.m's sales suddenly plummeted to number 31, allowing Joan Baez to retake the t.i.tle, Columbia had responded by taking out a full-page ad in Billboard with a photo of Barbra's alb.u.m and the tagline: A fantastic first! They needn't have worried. Barbra's appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show had ensured that her drop would be no free fall, and by June 15, she was back to number 17 on the chart. As icing on the cake, the stereo version of her alb.u.m, which had just been released, quickly made Billboard's "breakout" column.

To a record company once dubious of her widespread commercial appeal, Barbra had proven herself. She'd done so by trekking around the country, by showing up on practically every television show and singing her heart out. So successfully had she proven herself that Columbia had given the green light for a second alb.u.m to be released later that year. Before she'd left New York, Barbra had recorded more than a dozen tracks, including, for the first time, a new song written just for her by Peter Matz, "Gotta Move." He'd composed the jazzy number with her speech patterns-and some autobiography-in mind: "Gotta move! Gotta get out! Gotta leave this place! Gotta find some place ... where each face I see won't be staring back at me, telling me what to be and how to be it." It was the most modern song Barbra had sung yet.

Also recorded were some other favorites from the nightclub act that hadn't made the first cut: "Any Place I Hang My Hat Is Home," "Right as the Rain," "I Stayed Too Long at the Fair." This time, barging into Studio A, Barbra had been much more aggressive, sticking her fingers into every aspect of the session. Having soaked up the process the first time, she now acted as if she were an expert, suggesting that engineer Frank Laico "do this [and] do that." It was her record, after all.

Surprised by her change in manner, Laico had leveled with her: "You didn't know anything with that first alb.u.m, and look how successful it's become ... I have the same ears. I'm not going to let you down." But Barbra couldn't be put off her ideas. Not only had she decided what to sing, but she would decide how to sing it, where to sing it, and how to record it. Laico and the others thought her ego had gotten puffed up by her success, but Barbra didn't buy that argument. "If I have ideas about sets and the orchestrations and production, is that ego?" she asked. No, it was the pursuit of excellence. Barbra insisted that the "range of [her] talent" extended into all areas of record production. "To have ego means to believe in your own strengths," she insisted.

But that didn't make it any easier on the engineers. At one point, both Barbra and Marty latched on to Laico in the control booth, one talking into his left ear, the other into his right. The engineer threatened to quit, though he stuck around, and somehow-no doubt because of the calm precision and artistry of Peter Matz, again serving as arranger-the alb.u.m got finished.

The success of Barbra's first disk had empowered her to behave in such a way. Once reluctant to sign her, now Columbia was desperate not to lose her. When Laico had taken his complaints about Barbra's controlling behavior to Mike Berniker, the alb.u.m producer had told him to be careful. "We don't want to upset them," he said, meaning Barbra and Marty. There were other record labels that would be very happy to sign Barbra if she tried backing out of her contract, and Columbia knew this.

The success of The Barbra Streisand Alb.u.m was a turning point in Barbra's career. Marty felt it had given her "a national reputation." It was a turning point for Marty as well. In the spring of 1963, it was clear that Barbra really was going to be as big as his publicity about her had always predicted. So that meant some changes were in order. Whether Barbra had given him an ultimatum like the one she'd given Ted Rozar or whether Marty had reached the decision on his own, he dropped the Clancy Brothers as clients so he could focus all his attention on Barbra. He broke the news to the brothers as they were riding in a car on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The story making the rounds had the Clancys pulling over, telling Marty to get out of the car, and then leaving him stranded somewhere outside Pittsburgh.

If the story was true, the hike home was undoubtedly worth it. Marty could see the future. The strategy for building Barbra up had worked like a charm so far. There was every reason to think it would continue working, all the way to the very top-wherever and whatever that might be.

So that spring the media machine kicked into high gear. Lee Solters had been handed a PR bonanza with Barbra's singing for the president. Suddenly Earl Wilson, bombarded with memos from the publicist, was writing that Kennedy had "demanded" a copy of "Happy Days Are Here Again" after Barbra had sung it to him. Another baloney story being spread by Wilson had Barbra-as ever in these tales, the unpredictable kook-taking one look at Kennedy when he started in "with the Bostonese" and saying, "Come on now, you can talk natural with me." Column inch by column inch, a legend was taking shape.

Yet if she had asked to see something at the sales counter at Bergdorf Goodman-her acid test for fame-would the clerk have known who she was? Barbra had reason to doubt it. Just a few weeks before, when she'd shown up for The Ed Sullivan Show, the security guard at the Studio 50 theater hadn't recognized her. He'd refused to let her in until he checked with his bosses. Barbra was no doubt abashed.

The only answer was to get a show of her own. Notices in gossip columns, appearances on variety shows, even record alb.u.ms could only do so much. More than ever, she needed Funny Girl. Barbra had started taking ballet lessons to learn poise and coordination in antic.i.p.ation of the dancing she would need to do as the star of a show. She was so close to grabbing it she could practically smell the greasepaint, but the part remained just out of reach. Jule Styne told Billboard that he was still working on the f.a.n.n.y Brice story-"which may star Barbra Streisand." May star. May wasn't good enough. Barbra wanted an answer.

And she wanted it even more now given that Elliott's success seemed a.s.sured. On the Town had opened on May 30 to an "ovation," according to the headline in the New York Times. Although reviews were mixed, even the negative ones were predicting long-lasting box-office success. The Daily Telegraph declared that the show's "mad speed, noise and violence" would keep patrons coming back "for months and months." Even though it would prolong the separation between them, Barbra wanted a show for herself with at least as much success as Elliott's.

8.

The sun was just beginning to rise over the eastern sh.o.r.e of Lake Michigan, sending ripples of pink and gold across the calm surface of the water. Barbra came skipping barefoot through the sand of Oak Street Beach, the morning sun reflecting off the majestic skysc.r.a.pers of downtown Chicago. She'd been up all night, having finished her last show at Mister Kelly's in the wee hours of the morning and then kicked back at an all-night eatery with some pals, including the one she was with now, the photographer Don Bronstein, who had his camera in tow.

They'd come to the beach to take photos-maybe for Barbra's alb.u.m, maybe for something else. Bronstein just wanted to photograph her, which was quite the compliment. After all, he'd been the first staff photographer for Playboy magazine, and had snapped some of the world's most beautiful women for covers and centerfolds over the last decade. Bronstein didn't expect that Barbra would disrobe the way those models had done, but he did plan on getting some shots that revealed a very different side of the singer. He had a way of getting women to relax and open up to the camera-a prerequisite for photographing models who took off their clothes. But as Bronstein encouraged Barbra to scamper out into the surf, it was clear he could elicit a similar au naturel quality from his subjects even when they kept their clothes on.

Barbra was glowing. Marty had at last received confirmation from Stark that she would star in Funny Girl. True, it wasn't absolutely official-no announcement had yet been made by Stark or Merrick-but Earl Wilson reported she was "practically at the contract-signing stage," and he would have definitely confirmed that kind of information before going to the printer with it. Mike Connolly also seemed to know the inside scoop. He was a bit premature in saying that Barbra had already been signed, but he was clearly writing with Stark's approval. Clearly, sometime in early June, a final decision had been made, and Barbra learned of it shortly thereafter. She would play f.a.n.n.y Brice. She would get that show of her own.

Running through the surf and sand, Barbra smiled and tossed her hair while Bronstein kept snapping away with his camera. As the sun rose higher in the sky, Barbra tied the ends of her red-and-white-checked shirt together, exposing a hint of skin. She was as free and natural with the camera as if she'd been modeling all her life-and in some ways, she had been, starting back in the days when she'd try out different poses in the photo booths of the penny arcades of Brooklyn. Now she turned and faced Bronstein's camera, her arms behind her head. She showed off her shapely legs in tight Capri pants. She turned and faced away from the camera, looking at the water. At one point she slipped a muumuu over herself and lifted her right leg behind her.

She was flirting with the camera, flirting with Bronstein. If he had a way with women, Barbra also had a way with men. At Mister Kelly's, one fan thought she was "a saucy little coquette" after her shows, batting her eyelashes at the men, young and old, who came up to her. Now prancing across the sand, she threw her head back and placed a hand on her hip, pouting s.e.xily. She was clearly having a ball.

Part of her good mood may also have come from some other recent news. On the phone with Elliott, she had learned that On the Town wasn't doing as well as that piece in the Times had led many Americans to believe. They were playing to whole sections of empty seats every night. That didn't bode well for a long run. So maybe Elliott would be coming home soon. Barbra probably didn't suggest such a thing, since Elliott was clearly upset about the show's prospects. But maybe things were working out just as she'd hoped. She'd gotten the show. Maybe now she'd get her boyfriend back, too.

It seemed like a good time to start looking for that penthouse.