Harriet, encouraged by these words, goes on, “Rebbe briefed me on your discussions concerning the special relationship between the university and the world of secret intelligence. I just wanted to add a footnote. When hunting for spies, look no further than the psychology faculty. This faculty, more so than any other, is in bed with the spooks.
And make no mistake this is a formidable alliance. The most cosmopolitan, sophisticated and knowledgeable individual is vulnerable to the Black Magic, the psych ops of the professional spy. Never underestimate the raw cunning and the sheer shrewdness of a spook. He is always up to the task. His is always updating his bag of tricks.
Now back to Lady Banks. You are concerned that she lacks sophistication. But this is what makes her story so compelling. She is the new bud in the garden. She is filled with potential. She is the promise of youth. You fault her naivety. But the young are naturally naïve. She is optimistic again not a sin. She is open and trusting. See Lady Banks for what she is, young at heart. Of the crimes that are committed in this tale, perhaps the most heinous is the destruction of youth and innocence.”
Harriet pauses allowing Anna time to reframe her context for the story of Lady Banks. Anna holds her tongue. And Harriet continues to define the context of Lady Banks’ story.
“Remember your own youth, your hopes and dreams at twenty when you turned that mystical age of twenty-one.”
Anna suddenly slips. Harriet grabs her arm to keep her from falling. “The new blanket of snow covers the stumbling blocks of stone and twig. I’ll hold you up and you can hold me up.”
Anna clutches Harriet’s arm. Harriet gives Anna a moment to regain her balance. Anna knows that it was not a rock that tripped her up but rather Harriet’s request to be twenty-one again. It was a time of too much, too much drama, too much trauma.
Harriet returns to Lady Banks, “To see Lady Banks in her proper context you must harness the energies and visions of your earlier years and yes your naivety.”
Anna’s throat constricts. She can’t swallow. She struggles for air. She tries in vain to catch a breath through her mouth. Her conspiratorial mind is sure that she has entered into the fabled Christmas Carol.
Harriet sees that Anna struggles. “Take your glove off. Cover your nose with your warm hand. Breathe through your nose. The air is too cold. The passage way of your nose will warm the air for you.”
Anna follows Harriet’s directions. In seconds, the restriction in her throat eases. But the feeling of being trapped causes her teeth to chatter. She looks about her. There are no visible signs of escape. All is snow covered. Harriet begins to think that Anna perhaps is in shock.
“Anna let’s turn back?”
With a few breaths muffled by her warm hand, Anna is able to compose herself. Very embarrassed Anna says, “Just the ghost of Christmas past.”
Anna puts on her glove, slaps the snow off her parka and insists, “Forward!”
Harriet takes Anna’s arm and snuggles close to help keep her warm. Anna thinks that arm and arm walking must be a Holmes family thing. Harriet moves on.
“What I am about to tell you is a true story. I hope that it will provide you with the context that you seek. The time is the sixties. Lady Banks, a graduate of Cambridge is doing an advanced degree at LSE. You are familiar with the London School of Economics.”
Anna just nods.
Harry doesn’t stop for a breath. She continues, “One day in her second year, her tutor puts her onto a vacancy at a British publishing company. The tutor adds that this position could significantly advance her career. The diligent student that she is, Lady Banks makes inquiries post haste. The publisher seeks recruits to work at the New York World’s Fair. Like any young twenty year old, Lady Banks jumps at the chance to travel abroad for the first time.
She lands the position. Her family and friends are wildly happy for her. The job is ideal. She works the morning shift at the publisher’s display booth in the British pavilion. The rest of the time she is on her own. To be young and to be in America in the sixties is nothing less than kismet. Revolution is in the air. Lady Banks gets caught up in the swell of rising expectations. She begins to question her own visions. But she is far from being a revolutionary. She hangs back on the sidelines observing the drama, the antics and the spirit of those who dare to make a new world order.
One of the lesser-known tales of the Great Experiment of the Sixties is how well it played into the game of espionage. Experimental drugs and free love made their job of entrapment so much easier. But I digress.”
Harriet returns promptly to the story line. “Lady Banks spends every afternoon and evening in the reading room of the New York Public Library on Fifth Avenue. One late afternoon, the light fading fast outside, the green desk lamps turning on one after another, the shadow of night creping through the large windows, a man, tall, dark and of course, handsome, slips a blue library requisition slip in front of her. He disappears as mysteriously as he appeared.
Lady Banks half expects the note to be from the research desk telling her that the book she requested is at the binders. One out of three manuscript requests comes back ‘not available.’ She opens the slip and reads, “Drinks at the Algonquin - tonight- Say Sixish - I’ll be at the bar, third stool. EB”
Anna can’t hold her tongue. “Tell me that she didn’t go, did she?”
“Barely twenty one, in the big city, would you?”
Anna considers. Here she is sixty odd, walking in the first snow of the season in a foreign land with a woman whom she barely knows, wearing the long johns of an eccentric, slightly effete misfit. She has to confess, “Like a shot.”
Harriet goes on, “At Cambridge, Lady Banks took a first in American Literature. The setting, the magic and allure of the famous writers circle at the Algonquin club captures her fancy. She tries in vain to return to her studies. But her eyes dart every five minutes to the large ornate brass clock that hangs with great authority above the reading room’s entrance.
Come five-thirty, Lady Banks packs up her books and note cards. She returns her manuscripts to the front desk and deposits her requests for the next day. She steps out of her familiar, albeit small world, the reading room of the public library into the void that is New York City at night.
It never enters her mind that she is off to see a stranger in a foreign city. She is intent on being a part of the mystery and history of Dashiell Hammett and Dorothy Parker. She walks two blocks down Fifth Avenue to Forty-Fourth Street. The hotel is easy to find. From across the street, she spies the historic landmark. She counts each of the hotel’s twelve stories. She embraces its Italian Renaissance architectural design. Its sharp black awnings provided the proper classic detail and dimension to the hotel’s facade. At the entrance, a doorman stands ready to escort the patrons as they pass under the ornate wrought iron overhang. Lady Banks checks her pendant watch, a gift from her godmother on her graduation from Cambridge, six on the dot. She nods to the doorman as she walks awkwardly into the lobby.
Walking through the front door of the Algonquin changes her life forever. The trap is ever so clever. Inside the hotel, the main lobby is a formal English parlor complete with Victorian leather club chairs in burgundy and wine, French Renaissance love seats upholstered in reds and rose, even a gilded Rococo chaise covered in ornate silks. This could very well be her daddy’s parlor. The setting invokes a false sense of security in the young Lady Banks.
She steps gingerly but gracefully into the deep plush of the carpet, a tapestry in muted colors resembling a formal Italian garden. Her eyes are drawn upwards to the painted frescos that run along the top of the ornate dark paneled walls. It has the look and feel of home. EB knew what he was about when setting up the rendezvous.
Lady Banks sees a discreet neon blue sign off to the side indicating the entrance to the Blue Saloon. The bar, the stools and the booths are upholstered in thick, tufted royal blue leather. The walls are a rich pecan wood. ‘Satin Doll’ plays softly in the backgro
und. She strolls to the rhythm of the blues tune. She wants only to touch the ghost of Lillian Hellman. She walks right pass the tall, dark and handsome stranger on the third bar stool.”
Harriet stops walking and talking. Anna takes a breather too. She allows the silence of winter to fill her ears. The assortment of pines, short, tall, thick and thin, fills the air with fragrance. Snowflakes dance upon their long needles creating an intricate smocking of lace.
Harriet lifts some low laying branches, snow powder falls about them. She turns to Anna and says, “Viola!”
Harriet walks briskly through the entrance. Fiddling with its latch, she explains the snowy haven, “This is my Zen oasis.”
The two women scurry in, brushing snow off their heads, gloves, parkas and feet. The wooden boards have significant gaps that let in the wind and snow. Harriet explains, “This old shed is all that is left of the old estate. I keep it as a shelter for lost wanderers caught in a sudden squall.”
Harriet pulls up one of the four long church pews. She smiles, “I rescued the pews when they were refurbishing the old Cathedral in Lausanne.”
Anna arranges another of the long benches to face Harriet’s pew.
Harriet asks, “Shall I continue?”
Anna makes herself comfortable, takes off her head gear and gloves. She vigorously shakes her head yes. Harriet gladly picks up the story where she left off.
“Lady Banks’ mystery man allows her to wander about the bar. The walls are laden with memorabilia from the hotel’s illustrious literary past. She scans the collection while discreetly observing the guests about the place. She expects to see literati deep in heady conversation. Lady Banks’ man keeps his eyes peeled on her. She soon feels the heaviness of his gaze upon the nap of her neck. She shivers. She spins a hundred-eighty degree and sees him. She recognizes him from the Reading Room.
His baldhead is ringed in thick tight black curls. His black bear eyes maintain their fix on her. His curly black beard is speckled with traces of gray. Lady Banks thinks that she sees bits of daddy in him. He wears a black wool turtleneck and black slacks. Silently, Lady Banks imagines him to be right out of the Beat Generation. He raises his short glass tumbler of liquid amber to toast their auspicious encounter.
She approaches. He stands. She registers that he is six feet and more. He closes in,
“Shall we take a booth? Where would you like to sit?” he asks in tenor tones, much like her dad's.
Lady Banks surveys the room and decides on the nearest blue booth against a warm wood paneled wall. He begins with the introductions. ’I am Eamon Benjamin.’
Following his lead, Lady Banks responds, ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance. I am…’
Eamon interrupts her, establishing his all knowing prowess, ‘You are the lovely Lady Banks from…’
He pauses, turns his hard coal eyes towards the heavens in search of her country of origin, ‘from London, yes from London. I just love your accent. Am I right?’
Harriet pauses at this juncture. She tries to measure Anna’s reaction. Anna recognizes the inquiring look. She has seen it on Sherlock. The family resemblance spooks her. She just raises her eyebrows in a look of anticipation and says nothing. Harriet smiles and continues to weave her story of a young Brit, Lady Banks, in the badlands of New York. She goes on, “Obviously, Lady Banks is flattered and flabbergasted. She begins to ask, ‘How is it…’
Eamon cuts her off, again to affirm his alpha male position. ‘I’ve been watching you these last few weeks. I saw your name on a manuscript request that I requisitioned. I am dying to know what you brings you here. American academia is so very highly competitive. You might say we are cut throats. So whenever I get a hint that someone is snooping around in my field of interest I have to root it out.’
Lady Banks attempts to find out more, ‘What exactly are you working on?’
Eamon signals a waiter, who is dressed in a complimentary blue short coat. He orders, ‘A Dry Martini for the lady,’ he looks for Lady Banks’ approval. Now, Lady Banks is barely legal. She is certainly a virgin cocktail drinker. She is flattered. She nods consent. For himself, he orders two fingers of Johnny Walker Black.”
Anna twinges and adds an aside, “So dashing Dashiell of him.”
Harriet nods yes. She continues. “I know a prudent Lady Banks should begin to think ‘what cheek’ but ego exits on the wings of compliments. She flutters and is flattered by the older man’s attention. Eamon now flashes his credential, ‘I am chairman of the American Lit department at Hunter College.’
Harriet keeps a steady pace. “Lady Banks with a slight rush of blush upon her hot cheeks meekly responds,
‘I, sir, am but a degree candidate at LSE. I am researching the role of gender in the mystery genre in American Lit from 1900 to 1945.”
Eamon continues his effort to cement his bond with Lady Banks, “Is that a fact? I teach a course entitled, ‘Early Twentieth Century Genre Writers.’ I’d be most interested in your reading list. Maybe I can help you with your bibliography. Better yet, perhaps you would care to sit in on one of my seminars?’
Lady Banks’ ability to think clearly and wisely is once removed by the tincture of gin and vermouth. Alone in one of the world’s most sophisticated cities, she breathes in his sweet talk as a hummingbird to a bud. The juxtaposition of this new relationship seems perfectly natural to her. Not a hint of caution enters her mind. To Lady Banks, Eamon Benjamin is the wise don offering to advance the struggling student. Eamon invites her to join him for dinner.
‘I know a little joint near my place on West Fifty-Sixth Street. They do Fish and Chips.’
Masterfully, he continues to reel Lady Banks in with the trappings of familiarity. She accepts. Eamon maintains the lead in the conversation that is always about him. He looks into her star struck blue eyes and confides, ‘I’ll let you in on a secret but you must promise not to tell anyone!’
Lady Banks is eager to be a part of the inner sanctum of academia; with her thumb she makes a sign of the cross over her pouty lips.
Eamon bends in low, ’I am working on the role of homo-erotica in the works of Hammett.’
Lady Banks thinks this sounds ever so daring. Yet she has no idea what he means. She dare not ask him for an explanation lest she appear provincial.
Back outside in the night air, Lady Banks’ head swims from the sudden change in temperature. She sways. Eamon takes her arm and asks, ’Are you okay?’
Lady Banks, embarrassed at her apparent unsophisticated way, insists that she is fine. They make their way into the cold night air. Lady Banks can’t seem to get her feet in sync. Her head throbs. Her stomach threatens to rebel. She says, ‘I’m afraid I will have to forgo dinner. I’ll have to say good night. Where can I get a taxi?’
Eamon suggest, ‘My flat is just around the corner. I’ll fix you up with a nice cup of hot tea. And I’ll call a taxi for you.’
Lady Banks craves a cup of tea. She consents. Eamon leads the way to his den, a neat basement studio apartment. The focal point is a luxurious day bed done up in soft brown velour with lots of pillows which he arranges for Lady Banks’ comfort.
Anna asks in muffled tones of disbelief, “He beds her that night?”
Harriet simply nods. She decides that this is a good breaking point in the story.
She says, “We should head on back. The snow will only get deeper.”
Outside the tiny timbered hamlet, the air is thick with snowflakes. The two women move quickly. The wind is against them.
Anna does not want Harriet’s story to go cold. So she presses on. She asks Harriet, “So I assume that Lady Banks is compromised?”
Harriet hunkers down. She lowers her head into the wind. She picks up the story,
“Lady Banks wakes up the next morning on the couch. A warm wool blanket covers her. She checks her clothes. They seem intact. The fibers of her brain cells are as fuzzy and nappy as the blanket. Her whole body cries for more sleep. She looks about for Eamon. He is
nowhere to be found. She tries in vain to remember the preceding few hours. The only thing that she can recall is being sick outside the pub. She struggles to the bathroom. The sound of water hitting the basin, stings her. She hears the front door open. Eamon calls out softly,
‘How’s your head sleeping beauty? I’ve rustled us up some bagels and coffee.
Lady Banks confesses, ‘I have an awful head.’
Eamon takes command of the situation, ‘I have the perfect elixir to cure a hangover.’
He mixes tomato juice, a twist of lemon and a generous pinch of cayenne. ‘Here drink this in one gulp, guaranteed to have you right as rain in a jiff.’
Lady Banks at his mercy follows the order but asks, ‘What time is it, Eamon?’
Eamon announces ‘It is going on noon.’
She is mortified. She missed her shift at the fair. She proceeds to call in sick at work. Eamon invites her to shower and then a light lunch at the Russian Tea Room. Lady Banks longs for the rush of steam and water upon her addled brain.
Eamon spends the rest of the day and into the night touting his own horn. Lady Banks is impressed. She feels privileged to be walking upon his arm. She imagines that he is her introduction to New York society. He is quite the connoisseur. He moves about the best neighborhoods of the city as if he owned them. He takes her on a tour of the art galleries. At the Frick with Modigliani in residence, Eamon waxes eloquently on the nude as the expression of the divine in the woman. The art world provides the perfect platform for intimacy. Under the guise of high culture he seduces Lady Banks.
Eamon’s huffing and puffing works like a charm. Lady Banks’ sense of self diminishes in the largess of his sophistication. They talk nonstop about the mystery novel as the bastard child in literature. They talk of plots. Under the mantle of intellectual discourse, they talk about lovers, mistresses and secret assignations. All the while, Eamon measures Lady Banks’ intimacy boundaries with the singular purpose of trespass. He convinces her that a life worth living must have mystery. Intrigue is the life force.
The Christmas Pudding Lie Page 24
