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She’s right, of course. The fundraiser’s theme is A Night in Sin City. The event will be filled with glitz and glamour and a hint of debauchery based on the Las Vegas Strip. Even hosting it in a venue as timeless and classy as the Boston Public Library won’t take away from the fact that the hospital’s patrons expect a certain level of excitement from the night.
Our car pulls up outside the massive stone building that spans the entire city block. The library is designed to mirror the Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève in Paris. Red ropes herd guests from their cars up the shallow stairs toward the central doors that lead into a vestibule with warm pink marble walls. There, we’re momentarily locked in with a dozen other new arrivals, confused about the roadblocks in front of us. I’ve only been to the library during the day, when the lobby doors were opened, but now, the three pairs of bronze doors are shut and blocking our way forward. A waiting attendant dressed in a long, shimmery red dress that matches her hair steps forward and welcomes us to the fundraiser before briefly explaining that the relief sculptures on each of the heavy doors bear the allegorical female figures of Music, Poetry, Knowledge, Wisdom, Truth, and Romance.
Then she unveils a wicked smirk. “It’s up to you to choose which door you’ll open this evening.”
There are whispers and laughter. A few men walk straight for Wisdom, and the door is slowly pulled open from the inside, allowing them to stride into the lobby with confident steps. A petite woman laughs with her partner, tugging him toward Romance. Lindsey follows after them, looking back at me with a smile and a shrug.
“It can’t hurt, right?” she quips before disappearing through the door after it’s pulled open for them.
I’m the last guest to choose, standing there while the attendant watches me wrestle with indecision. It’s just a game. I shouldn’t take it so seriously, and yet I don’t want to start the night off on the wrong foot.
Each of the sculptures is beautiful and compelling, a relic of another time. The women on the doors are draped in flowing Grecian gowns with bands of laurel worn like halos around their heads. Each holds different objects that symbolize her attribute. Beneath their feet, embossed quotes stand out on the thick bronze. I step closer to read the quote printed under wisdom—By Knowledge Shall the Chambers Be Filled with All Precious and Pleasant Riches—and decide against it. It sounds too good to be true, too close to the promises chased by book characters with nefarious goals. Voldemort would go through that door, am I right?
Next, I step toward the pair of doors sculpted with images of Truth and Romance. Truth is bare down to her stomach, holding an orb in her left hand and a mirror in the other. Below her figure, the quote reads: Truth is The Strength and The Kingdom and The Power and the Majesty of all Ages. A Romance to Rede and Drive the Night.
Without another thought, I turn to the attendant and nod. The door is swept open for me.Red rope cuts a clear path from the vestibule through the main lobby of the library and up into Bates Hall. Attendants in black tuxedos holding silver trays laden with champagne frame the doorway, and Lindsey and I both reach for a glass as we pass by.
I’ve never been to one of these fundraisers before. I’d heard they were decadent, a sort of who’s who of Boston society. I’ve also heard the outrageously high sums the hospital raises here each year, well into the millions, which supports the scene laid out before me. I can’t imagine what it costs to put this sort of event together, but it’s clearly proven to be worthwhile.
The organizers have spared no expense for the evening. Bates Hall is the largest room in the library with high barrel-vaulted ceilings. The walls are adorned with bookcases, and green reading lanterns light up two parallel rows of oak tables that are usually filled with library-goers quietly reading and working. Now, after hours, the tables host different casino games. There are areas designated for craps, roulette, baccarat, blackjack, and poker—each marked by a tall sign in the center aisle.
I see four bars, one in each corner of the rectangular room. A stage has been erected at the far end, currently unmanned, and overhead, an image of a strewn deck of cards is projected on the ceiling.
On top of a silent auction, all the money spent and earned at the gambling tables will go to charity as well. Since I hate games of chance, I don’t really plan on playing, but we came to support the cause so Lindsey talks me into a few games of blackjack. I’m more conservative in how I play compared to Lindsey. She raps her knuckles against the table, asking for a third card, sometimes a fourth, almost always overshooting 21, while I opt for lower, more safe bets. We both end up losing every time, and once we’re a hundred bucks in the hole, we cut our losses and head toward the bar.
