Mi-mi-fa-so-la-fa-mi! ululated the notes both flat and sharp of Mr. Benchley’s mandolin.
Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom! insisted Chico.
And so it went on and on for an excruciating time as Harpo manipulated the screws of the harp and finally tuned his instrument. When they were all in accord, Chico said: “All right, boys, hit it!” There followed, after a flourish of introductory notes and chords, a rather gothic, down-on-the-farm, beer-garden rendition of what I recognized after sixteen bars to be “The Muskrat Ramble,” sans the horn of Louis Armstrong. Of course, this brought the boys some attention, and the displeasure and grumbling alerted Chico that a switch in the program was in order. A dragging, solemn dirge of the new hit song, “Bye, Bye, Blackbird,” was put forth.
“Ach, ja-wohl, ze Rumpelstiltskin!” said Groucho, swaying stupidly to the music. “Und gross goiter da gesundheit!”
Zeppo interpreted: “He likes it!”
The gathering grew larger, and I figured there must have been at least a hundred people milling around. The great chandelier that lit the room was dimmed, and the remaining light came from the flickering of hundreds of candles.
The boys ended their perverse little concert, and dispersed into the crowd on a mission. Chico and Harpo asked where they might freshen up, and off they disappeared into the far reaches of the apartment. Mr. Benchley walked over to a dais where Groucho sat on a throne chair, wrapped in his preposterous robes, hair wild with center-parted, steel-woolly wings rising above his ears. His similarly winged eyebrows set above the thick spectacles gave him a myopic, cross-eyed look. Beside Groucho stood a hooded Zeppo (a.k.a. Herr Himmelbaum), and standing on guard at his other side stood Ralph the Ravisher. “Och to labalib der gefiltefish, Herr Pendragon?” demanded Groucho.
Zeppo spoke over the seated imposter to ask Ralph, “He vants to know, vere ist Herr Pendragon?”
Ralph frowned: “The Grand Warlock will not appear until it is time to perform the great sacrifice.”
“Och, ya-ya-ya-ya,” said Groucho, nodding, “none showin’ ze fach undtil ze—” (he drew a throat-slitting gesture across his neck) “—chiszzliiit!” Of course, his finger got tangled in his beard, and from where I stood, I gasped, fearing he’d inadvertently tear it from his chin.
Mr. Benchley appeared before Groucho and leaned over to whisper in his ear. A nod from the Grand Master, and Zeppo called the crowd to attention so he could introduce the speaker, the “Ambassador from the Black Hood Society, Mr. Dumpty of Worcester, Mass.”
After a bit of foot shuffling, throat clearing, riffling through his notes, and adjusting his hood after numerous attempts to read through the eye holes, Mr. Benchley delivered the sort of oration that had made him famous among the alumni of Harvard, and earned him five hundred dollars a week in The Music Box Revue on Broadway: a club officer speech.
“It’s a pleasure to be here tonight, ladies and gentlemen, if that’s who you are under those attractive feedbags (chuckle, chuckle). But of course it’s possible we have with us tonight a satyr or two—I believe I can see a cloven hoof or two peeking from under the robes of the gentlemen in the first row! (Heh-heh-heh!) Just a little company humor.”
After no response, Mr. Benchley, with an attitude of getting down to business, smoothed down his hood, and trying to find his place, shuffled his note cards. After much pocket patting he found the monocle that hung from his waistcoat and fitted it to his eye. Wrong eye, he decided, and moved it to the other, taking great pains to keep it in place through the eyehole. Finally abandoning the glass, he spoke: “I’ve been asked to go over a few items of interest—of things . . . that might . . . be of . . . interest . . . to you. Be that as it may, it came to mind—that is—my mind—and when it did, I started thinking about the whole thing long and hard, if you have to know.
“Now, when you think about these things, it brings to mind the very important facts pertaining to the situation. The fact is, we are all too ready to drop the matter, but I say emphat—emphat—” he shifted his feet, “without reservation, that is, that it is not a matter to take lightly.
“Yes! Why, the other day, I was saying to Harold: ‘Harold’—that’s my friend—I said, ‘Harold, this is not a matter to be taken lightly’—you see, Harold has a tendency to look on the bright side, when we should be looking on the dark side, to make a little gallows humor (heh-heh-heh!) But, seriously, I thought he was just too cavalier about the whole thing.
“With that in mind—and as I reit—reiter—re—say again, I have thought long and hard on the matter—and am open to your suggestions.
“Be that as it may, and to get back to the report of the Society’s expedition to the recently discovered Pacific island of Kiwi Kiwi: Well, in spite of a few snags during the trip—the elephant stampede that flattened Mrs. Anderson, and the swarm of ants that took over the camp—be that as it may, most of my welts have subsided.” (He ran his hands over his behind.) “Most of the society’s explorers returned to their homes unscathed—except for Miss Hedwig Meriwether, who failed to recover completely from the python bite she received while foresting henbane in the Kiya-Kiya Jungle. Although she is not well enough to be present with us this evening, I am informed that the facial paralysis and eye ticks have subsided—somewhat—if not the memory loss. But her husband assures me she has finally stopped calling him ‘Winifred,’ and is no longer chasing the family Rottweiler around the yard quite so often these days . . . . And, although the whereabouts of Charlie Mahoney and Michael Harvey are still unknown, the strong belief is held that the tribe of the Cooie-Cooie people in the Tonga region of the Walli-Walli Forest will eventually release the men—at least that’s what is believed. According to the famous anthropologist, Sir Giles Soames of the British Anthropological Expeditionary Society, who was interviewed some years back—a newspaper clipping of that London Times interview was found in the archives of the British Museum—Sir Giles stated back in ought-one that the Cooie-Cooie people in the Tonga region of the Walli-Walli Forest no longer prefer white meat, since tasting Lucky Strikes.”
Mr. Benchley feigned recognition of an audience member in the back row.
“Yes? What was that? The person in the black hood. Oh, right!” he chuckled gaily at the sea of black hoods filling the room. “Back row, third from the left? What was that you say? The Island of Kiwi Kiwi wasn’t discovered until ought-nine? Hummm . . . . And Sir Giles made the observation in ought-one?—about the African Pigmy?” (A moment of nodding and finger mathematics.) “Ah, well, yes, well, that certainly puts a new light on the situation—for the Messrs. Harvey and Mahoney, anyway, doesn’t it?
“And so . . . .”
As Mr. Benchley droned on very humorously as a rather dense and dull reporting officer of the “Society,” I left Lord Wildly to his own devices, and slowly made my way toward the doors leading to the rest of the apartment. But I didn’t get far when Chico and Harpo stopped me.
“There’s a door down the hall guarded by two very big women,” said Chico, eyes wide with amazement.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you telling me they refused your invitation to a candlelight supper?”
“Can’t get past them!” said Chico.
“Chico, my darling Valentino! Don’t try to get past them. Romance them!”
“Oh, yeah, Dottie? Well you didn’t see these women. When I say ‘big,’ I mean Amazons!”
“What’s wrong with Harpo?” I asked. “Why’s he . . . twitching?”
“He tried to climb up one of them.”
“One of the women?”
He nodded.
“Like a rock face?”
“That’s what her face looks like all right!” said Chico. “Harpo tried to use her outcroppings for a hand-hold.”
“And what a hand-hold that was!” agreed Harpo, rolling his eyes.
“Do you think they’re keeping Dvoyra hostage in that room?”
“How do we know? They won’t talk to us, even, just slap us arou
nd.”
I’d no chance to reply, for coming toward us from down the hallway was Caroline Mead, pulling on her hood as she approached the salon.
I quickly drew my hood back over my head and told the boys to do the same in a hurry. The big problem was how to get Mr. Benchley off the dais, before Caroline spotted him and gave us all away! Not even a hood could disguise his distinctive voice. I told Chico to divert the attention of the woman walking toward us, sans mountain climbing, and then I pushed my way through the throngs of anonymous hoods toward Mr. Benchley.
Was Caroline part of this Society with her father, I wondered? How else could he have procured Madame Olenska’s chest, now displayed on the great altar, if she hadn’t taken it from Madame’s boudoir herself? Well, one of my questions was answered. She obviously knew that Pendragon was her father!
I reached the dais and tugged at Mr. Benchley’s cuff. He looked down at me and recognized my hissing voice: “Get the bleeping-bleep off now!”
“All in all, it was a very successful expedition!” he blurted out, as he leaped from the platform.
I told him I’d seen Caroline, and then all about the Brothers’ defeat in Monument Alley, and then tried to figure out where in the sea of black hoods swam Lord Wildly. If only he’d worn a red carnation pinned on his robe!
But there was no chance for us to look for him, for suddenly, a deep, soul-stirring gong shook the room and sent the chandeliers’ crystals ringing. The lights went out, leaving only the glow of candlelight.
In the entrance to the hallway there appeared a huge man dressed in a short black-leather tunic. His flowing red cape and train were held by two silver-robed and hooded maids. He wore a black masquerade mask over his face and a leather skullcap. I nearly let out a throaty hoot when, as the crowd parted and he came into full view, I saw that he wasn’t wearing trousers, rather the briefest of leather briefs; below his hairy legs, his ankles were encircled with spiked cuffs! Had I been still employed as a Vogue lingerie copywriter, I would have written: “From these foundations of the autumn wardrobe, one may learn that brevity is the soul of lingerie,” and I might have added, “co-ordinating belt and wrist spikes complete the fashion statement. Whip sold separately.”
The handlebar moustache identified the man as Pendragon.
I thought of Tallulah and Mae West, and of what they’d say at the sight of such a flagrantly sexual getup. After a few moments, even though the costume was hysterically funny, it also made me uneasy. I wasn’t exactly tipsy at the moment, so I couldn’t laugh it off. Nobody had offered us a drink; we’d had to go in search of one. When we had found what appeared at first to be a tray of Bloody Marys, the smell repelled us, in spite of the celery stick and the dash of Tabasco. Recalling Chaim’s tale of vats of pig’s blood being delivered to the house, I’d not even bothered to find out if there was any booze in the mix. There was also the possibility that the concoction was drugged. Anyway, I would have laughed up a storm at Pendragon’s ridiculous getup except that the whole effect was more than menacing.
Mr. Benchley burst out laughing.
The assemblage knelt down as Pendragon walked with great authority toward the dais (his paunchy, hairy body bringing to mind a pregnant gorilla) and held out his leather-gloved paw to Groucho in greeting.
Groucho wholeheartedly embraced his role as cult leader by mumbling an incoherent benediction over the bowed head of Pendragon. Then, turning toward the silent audience, he threw out his arms and rotated them in wide arching circles while spouting out a series of guttural noises.
Upon seeing that Mr. Benchley was the only one left standing, I tugged repeatedly at the hem of his robe and finally pulled him down to his knees.
“They always said you’d bring me to my knees, Mrs. Parker.”
“Eyes are on us!”
“All right, you’ve got the part; now repeat after me,” he whispered, “‘Me Nubi. Nubi good girl—’”
“Nubi punch Bobby in ribs,” I replied, with an elbow in that approximate location.
The gong sounded ominously once again, and all rose to their feet as Pendragon led a half-skipping Groucho to the altar. There were a few moments of back-and-forth dialogue between the men, Groucho in nonsensical fractured German, with stark replies in English from Pendragon. Zeppo raced to the altar to interpret. And then Groucho was handed a sword.
“Vat-en-zee vant I doin’ vit dish?” asked Groucho, holding the huge, unwieldy Excalibur. Zeppo listened to the Ravisher’s reply, and then, while babbling a lot of hooey, Groucho lifted the weighty sword. He lay the flat side of the weapon first on Pendragon’s right shoulder, and then on his left, like a ceremony for knighthood.
Pendragon rose to his feet and faced the worshipers, who began a monotone, multisyllabic chant, the volume becoming gradually louder and louder and louder for what seemed an interminable time, until the room buzzed with an entomological frenzy, the vibrations pounding my eardrums. Then, putting an end to it, the great gong sounded once more and all fell silent.
For a long moment the abrupt silence lingered, the ring of the aborted chant trapped in the caverns of my ears. The relief was at once welcome, if painful. But as the pain began to subside, the voices began all over again, this time in a different chant, to which the worshipers let loose with a contorted dance.
There was something primeval and very sinister about the whole thing. I thought how Victorian parents had viewed the Turkey Trot of a decade ago, or the Charleston of today—all wild, flinging, out-of-control limbs testing the mores of appropriate youthful behavior. But this was no ordinary display of wild youth gone awry; rather it was a disturbing and blatantly sexual agitation frought with an undercurrent of violent fervor. And although I believed in self-expression, this mania was beyond the pale even for free-thinkers. Mr. Benchley stood transfixed; I suspected that, under his hood, remnants of Victorian propriety had caused his jaw to drop.
When I thought it could get no worse, it did. Robes were suddenly discarded, although the hoods remained, and to our amazement, these people stood totally naked! As they thrashed about in lewd gyrations, bodies against bodies, the pungent smell of sweat and sex arose around us.
Up on the altar, Groucho was happily flapping his arms in a ridiculous dance that should have elicited screams of laughter in a theatrical production, while Pendragon swung a censer of burning cannabis; it certainly was not the familiar heavy smoke of frankincense.
Over the din I yelled at Mr. Benchley, “What fresh hell is this?!”
“Precisely, Mrs. Parker, you’ve hit it on the nose!” And grabbing my hand, he pulled me toward the doors to the reception room. We wove uncomfortably past various-sized and -shaped breasts (with slight hesitations as my escort stopped to gawk), and plump or rumpled rumps and hairy stomachs and other poking protrusions that, under these circumstances, I found were not very thrilling to encounter.
After being subjected to this many aesthetically displeasing offenses, I thanked Heaven for a God that drove Adam and Eve out of the Garden and to the dressmaker’s, concluding that most people should definitely keep their clothes on!
As we pushed through the naked crowd—and this was not easy, given the close quarters, grabbing hands, and obscene invitations—I searched for Lord Wildly—again a problem, for all remained hooded. We were pawed and molested, but Mr. Benchley’s grip on my hand was strong. Upon reaching the doorway, I spotted Tristan, only his hood discarded, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the pedestal on which stood a gilded figure of some wild-eyed, winged demon.
“Crickey! There you are!” said the startled Brit. “This scene is bang out of order, what?”
The gong sounded and pulsed over the jeering cries in the room, and slowly, all fell silent once more, the twitches and lewd contortions subsided and everyone’s attention focused on the altar where Pendragon was handing the cylindrical key to Groucho Marx.
Groucho did as instructed. He unlocked the chest. He lifted the lid slowly, as if expecting a batch
of serpents to spring forth. From within the chest, Pendragon lifted out the book, holding it up for the worshipers to see. They bowed their heads with reverence. Then he placed the book on the stand, opened it, and began to read an incantation in Latin.
“What is he saying?” I asked Mr. Benchley, who’d studied Latin at Harvard.
“A little ditty that goes, ‘There once was a man from Bangkok—’”
“You haven’t the foggiest, have you?”
“Just bits and pieces. Like a Catholic mass ritual. Oh! Wait a minute! Now it’s more like what’s said during the transubstantiation.”
“Blessing of the host?”
“Yes, but no host, just wine in the chalice.”
“I doubt that’s wine.”
“Lord knows.”
And it was like a Catholic mass, because the worshipers answered in monotone unison responses.
“He’s talking about sacrifice, now. Like the blessing of the host—yes, that’s it. Look, he’s drinking from the chalice!”
The God-forsaken gong sounded again, and all eyes went to the hallway where I’d met Chico and Harpo and spied Caroline Mead. A procession emerged from the darkened void with torch-bearing acolytes gowned in red, gold, and black—obviously the club colors. All in attendance began to utter the malevolent buzzing chant again.
“Seems they’ve got only one theme song they reprise over and over again. I’m not giving this show a very good review.”
“Ah, but Mrs. Parker, the drama of it all!”
Lord Wildly said, “Heigh-ho, they are on a razzle!”
“This is what happens when boys aren’t members of the YMCA,” said Mr. Benchley.
The procession moved forward to a drumbeat; four, six, then eight soldiers marching slowly, solemnly, two by two. And then appeared a stretcher bearing a naked woman draped at her midsection in red satin, carried by four big acolytes in black robes.
“Holy shit!” I screamed, upon seeing what I was seeing.
A gang of naked men turned to glare at me. Of course, I couldn’t see their expressions for the hoods, but I could tell they didn’t approve of my language.
[Dorothy Parker 03] - Mystic Mah Jong Page 23
