“But maybe her objections to Lucia as a daughter-in-law are based on some sort of religious feeling that . . .”
“Not a bit of it, darling. It’s money and chichi. If Sari were one of those Jewish mothers who didn’t want her children to marry out of the faith that would be perfectly understandable. But she isn’t. She’d died if Sammy did marry a Jewess. Actually, she’s more anti-Semitic than Mrs. Cantwell, but in a different way. Probably because she’s trying so hard to run away from it. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I do know one thing. . . .”
“What’s that?”
“She adores me. She thinks that I’m high life on the hoof, just as Lucy Cantwell thinks I’m the head of the ladies’ aid society. They both trust me.”
“I wouldn’t trust you around a glass corner, you big ham.”
“Who cares about you? They’re the ones who matter and I’ve almost got them eating out of the palm of my hand.”
“Just be careful they don’t bite,” I said.
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, REVOLTED BUT FASCInated, I watched Auntie Mame seducing the two rival leaders of Shufti, keeping one occupied and the other out of sight while their children courted. Done up like something from a Mack Sennett comedy, she splashed in the club pool with Mrs. Cantwell while Mrs. Mont d’Or was safely off in Beirut being fitted into a turtle-neck tube. Dressed in my track pants, pleated evening shirt, tie, and her emeralds, she impressed Mrs. Mont d’Or and her fast friends at a picnic of absinthe and raw hamburger in the hills. In a grim middy blouse made of my pajama tops, she turned over her drawing room to a commotion which I discovered was a hymn sing for the Cantwell contingent. She was able to convince the Sari Mont d’Or set that jockey shorts and a T shirt, smartly wound with velvet and studded with star sapphires, were de rigueur for luncheon. Even though my wardrobe was going fast, Auntie Mame was making a terrific hit in both of Shufti’s warring circles. Whenever I ran into either Mrs. Cantwell or Mrs. Mont d’Or, they were loud in their praises.
“Sew nice to have a real lady in our community,” Mrs. Cantwell bellowed. “I had no idea that dear Mrs. Burnside was a direct descendant of George and Martha Washington.”
Sammy’s mother was even more effusive and just as hard to take in a burlap shift and a glittering tiara as she squealed, “Oo-la-la! Quel chic! La divine tante! A true Continental!”
Auntie Mame was feeling pretty tuckered out from all the quick changes and the constant social whirl, which kept her hopping twenty hours a day, but she was the toast of Shufti and no doubt about it. After a week of the steady society of Mrs. Cantwell and Mrs. Mont d’Or, she came to my room one morning dressed just about like anyone else. “Good morning, my little love. Do you happen to know what day this is?”
“Certainly. It’s Friday. Good morning.”
“Of course it’s Friday, but it’s more than that. It’s also Sammy Mont d’Or’s twenty-first birthday.”
“Isn’t that nice. What are you giving him, some more of your brilliant advice?”
“No, darling. I’m giving him three things: a party, the car, and Ito.”
“The car? Ito? Why would a boy of twenty-one want a big Rolls-Royce and what do you think Ito is, a slave?”
“Those are just temporary gifts, Patrick. A loan, so to speak. And as for the party, it’s going to be so big that I’m having it at the club and . . .”
“Exactly who’s coming to this brawl?”
“Oh, everybody—the Mont d’Ors and their friends, the Cantwells and their friends . . .”
“Is this to be a party or a free-for-all?”
“Well, Patrick,” Auntie Mame said blushingly, “it’s actually going to be three parties. For the sake of the Mont d’Ors, it’s to be a surprise birthday party for Sammy. As far as the Cantwells are concerned, it’s a debut for Lucia. And, my little love, for you and me, it is a farewell party. A sort of house cooling.”
“Are we going someplace?”
“Yes, dear, I think it’s going to be time for us to move on. So I suggest that you devote your day to packing. Who knows when we . . .”
“That should take me about two minutes. Thanks to you, I have almost no clothes left to pack.”
“Poor darling. Any time you want to borrow something of mine . . .”
“Gee, thanks.”
OWING TO AN UNFORESEEN COMPLICATION, MY packing took three minutes. After that I had a long day, the club, and practically the whole town of Shufti to myself. There was no one at the club except the usual army of servants, who were stringing up the Japanese lanterns and fairy lamps, indispensable to galas at the European Union, and waxing the ballroom floor. Otherwise the gentry were at home preparing for Auntie Mame’s big surprise party. Servants were the only people to be seen abroad. The Packards and Hispano-Suizas of the Fast Set kept a perpetual pall of dust over the main street racing down to the high-fashion-type dressmaker in Beirut, while the Dix Mille Articles in the village reported a serious run on rice powder and Quelques Fleurs toilet water brought on by the Conservative Group’s desire for utter glamour.
On my lonely way back home, I did see Mrs. Cantwell picking a corsage for herself in her garden. “Good afternoon,” I said. “Where’s Lucia?”
“Ah, dear Patrick,” she said with the old shark face, “absence does make the heart grow fonder. Hahaha! Well, you won’t see Lee-ew-sha today. Your sweet aunt has sent her into Beirut in her car for all those things sew important to a debutante. You know—hair, nails, a lovely white dress with a lace bertha. And dear Mame has arranged everything so that she won’t be back until after the party has begun. It’s going to be a real surprise.” She was hinting broadly at Auntie Mame’s giving Lucia a season in New York when I took leave of the old witch.
At dusk, “Achmed Maloof et son Orchestre ‘Swing’ du le Kit Kat Club” arrived in a chartered bus and announced that Auntie Mame’s party was about to commence. All packed, dressed, and waiting, I wondered just what sort of outfit Auntie Mame would wear that would satisfy both contingents of the European Union Club. But when she appeared, she looked very nice and just like her old self again. “Come, Patrick,” she said, “we’ve got to get there first and keep the guests separated as much as possible. I thought the Fast Set in the smoking room and the pokes in the lounge.”
From then on I felt a little like an usher at Radio City Music Hall, directing the Cantwell contingent to the right and the Mont d’Or crowd to the left. Even though I didn’t know all the guests, it was easy to spot who belonged where just by looking at the outfits. Tatty to start with, Mrs. Cantwell’s chums had done everything possible to tone down their toilettes to what they imagined the ultraconservative Mrs. Burnside would expect. Almost every woman had affected a lace bertha, and one or two elderly yellow fur tippets crackled into evidence. The Mont d’Or crowd, on the other hand, were bent on outdoing one another. Bodices could barely be said to exist, and there were some daring—and disastrous—experiments with straps and boning. None, however, was able to outdo the mother of the birthday boy. Mrs. Mont d’Or arrived encased in solid rhinestones so tight that she could hardly breathe, let alone sit down.
“Where’s Sammy—I mean Seymour?” I asked her.
“Ah, chère Mame! So clever. Diabolique! She sent him into Beirut early this morning in her car on some ridiculous errand that will keep him until the party begins. Ah, la belle Mame! Une ange!” She went glistering off to the dressing room saying, “I don’t know what magic Mame has with Seymour. I can never get him to do anything.”
The Cantwells were the last to arrive. Mrs. C. was a dream in purple, a bertha, a boa, and the lovely, lovely opals. “Dear Mame, can you forgive us for being so tardy? We waited and waited for Lee-ew-sha—didn’t we, Humphrey?—and she’s not back yet! I left instructions for her to come here directly. Good evening, dear boy. Are you going to have the first dance with Our Debutante?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Cantwell. The others are in the lounge.”
“I’ll just slip int
o the cloakroom to leave my boa.” It was too late to stop her.
One of the club’s servants handed Auntie Mame a sheaf of telegrams—three in all. She opened one, read it, and tucked the others into her bosom.
In a flash Mrs. Cantwell was out of the dressing room and breathing flames in front of us. “Mame. There must be some mistake. I went in to take off my boa and the first person I saw was that common Mrs. Mont d’Or.”
“And wasn’t that a striking outfit, Lucy? You should try something like that,” Auntie Mame said calmly.
“But Mame, why is she here—at Lee-ew-sha’s Coming Out?”
“Because I invited her, I suppose,” Auntie Mame said.
“Mame, I realize that you’re a newcomer in our little community, but Mrs. Mont d’Or—that’s not her name a-tall—is not the sort of person One Knows.”
“I think you’ll get to know her quite well quite soon, Lucy. And the experience will undoubtedly do wonders for both of you. Now, why don’t you go into the lounge and tell everyone to gather in the ballroom for the big surprise.”
“Well!” Mrs. Cantwell snorted as she stomped off, kicking her train.
“Zut, Mame! Quel horreur! Dieu me protège! Uh, uh. Dans le vestiaire . . .” Mrs. Mont d’Or squealed as she rushed up to Auntie Mame.
“It’s all right, Sadie. I speak English like a native. Probably better than you do. What’s on your mind?”
“Well, I was in the dressing room and who should I see but that awful Mrs. Cantwell. So . . . so mal fagotée . . . like someone’s charwoman. I mean she gives me one swift pain—her and that crowd of hers acting so superior to everybody else and absolutely no sense of style.”
“Cheer up,” Auntie Mame said calmly. “Goys will be goys. She hasn’t got much else to feel superior about. Besides, I think she dresses quite sensibly for her age. Which is just about the same as yours.”
“But, Mame! She’s impossible. We have nothing in common.”
“I think you’re going to have. Now why don’t you get your friends together and go into the ballroom? It’s time now for the big surprise. Oh, and Sadie. Just one thing. Do try to be a little nicer to poor Julius.”
“Zhuuuuul?”
“Yes, dear, Julius. He’s a darling and for some reason he still loves you. I’d try to hang onto him. You wouldn’t have all those furs and diamonds if it weren’t for Hyman Julius Goldberg.”
The noises that came from the ballroom were rather ominous. More murmurs than any definite sounds of shock or anger—well, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’ve heard parties that sounded better integrated.
“Well, now that you’ve spread sweetness and light all over the European Union Club, when does the big surprise take place?” I asked.
“Just as soon as we get out of here, my little love,” Auntie Mame said. “Oh, boy! Would you please give this telegram to Mrs. Cantwell and this one to Mrs. Mont d’Or? Thank you.”
“What in the hell are you up to?” I growled.
“Read this,” she said, handing me the third telegram.
MARRIED AT SIMPLE REFORM CEREMONY THIS
MORNING. LOVE AND THANKS.
LUCIA AND SAMUEL GOLDBERG.
“Jesus!” I said.
“A friend of both families, Patrick, and don’t you forget it. Come! We’ve already overstayed our welcome in Shufti.” As we reached the door I heard a shrill scream from the ballroom and then another.
TRUDGING DOWN THE MOUNTAIN ROAD HALF AN hour later, Auntie Mame was still talking about the triumph of True Love and Mrs. Burnside over all obstacles. “And to think, darling, that even now those handsome youngsters are spending their wedding night just because of a few sacrifices on my part. I do hope those bags aren’t too much for you. I sent the heavy things on ahead, but . . .”
“Not at all. I love being out in the mountains wearing pumps and toting three suitcases.”
“Don’t worry, my little love, it won’t be long. Ito’s going to meet us with the car now that dear Lucia and Sammy are as one.”
“Why didn’t you say so? We could just sit down and wait.”
“Oh, not up here in the hills, Patrick. At the Hotel Normandie in Beirut.”
“In Beirut?” My God, Auntie Mame, that’s twenty miles from here!”
“Perhaps, Patrick. But you mustn’t mind. It’s downhill—all the way.”
Auntie Mame and the Long Voyage Home
“AND SO AFTER YOUR AUNT SOLVED ALL THE PROBLEMS of the Middle East what did you do?”
“Why, we came home.”
“Which way?”
“Many ways.”
“I mean which direction?”
“Well, we’d gone so far that Auntie Mame thought we might just as well keep on going. You know, go around the whole world instead of retracing our steps. So we went from the Far East to San Francisco.”
“Oh, I can just see it now—Chinese war lords, opium dens, junks on the Yangtze, real Terry and the Pirates stuff.”
“Not a bit of it,” I said stuffily. “We had a very calm crossing. And one in which religion played an important part.”
“In that case maybe you’d better not tell me.”
I sighed with relief.
WELL, IF THIS ISN’T the bitter end,” Auntie Mame growled, storming into her hotel room. “Not one single ship headed for New York until the middle of next week. So now we’re stuck in a hole like Port Said for eleven endless days.”
“It’s not much of a town, is it?” I asked, looking at the street below. “Port Said always sounded so kind of sinister and romantic. You know, one of the Seven Cities of Sin.”
“Well, it takes a dump like this to show you how utterly boring sin can be.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but it’s kind of intriguing, too. Look at that fortuneteller in the cafe last night telling me that I’d soon meet a beautiful woman who would play an important part in my life.”
“Oh, Patrick, poor naïve child. Those mitt artists tell that to everyone. I hope you’re not going to be so stupid as to be taken in by some Bulgarian cow in brass curtain rings and Djer Kiss perfume.”
“But she said that you were going to meet a romantic adventurer.”
“I’ve met more than my share, thank you. Now I have all these divine Tauchnitz editions, I think I’ll just lie down and have a fresh go at Proust. Eleven days in this hole and I could polish off Gibbon and the complete works of Shakespeare as well. What are you planning to do, darling?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Snoop around the bazaar I guess. Want to come?”
“Thank you, no. You wouldn’t catch me in that stinking souk. But give me a call when you come back and we’ll go downstairs for tea.”
AS AUNTIE MAME HAD SAID, THE BAZAAR WAS NOT attractive. It smelled like a cesspool and had nothing for sale that anyone would conceivably want. Bored by the displays of plushy prayer rugs and hand-chased cuspidors, I was about to turn away and go back to the hotel when my eye was caught by a beautiful girl examining some silks. She had put her purse down on the counter and was holding up a length of material the color of moonstones, trying to visualize the effect in the speckled mirror. I could have told her that with her golden hair she looked even lovelier than Madeleine Carroll when I noticed that a street urchin had swept her purse off the pile of silks and was heading my way hell for leather.
“Hey!” I yelled.
The girl turned just in time to see me doing my stuff. “My stuff” was a magnificent flying tackle just like the one I had executed in the annual St. Boniface-Hotchkiss football game. It was the first and last time I’d ever been allowed off the bench, and my athletic feat had prevented Hotchkiss from winning 55–0. (Instead, they only won 49–0). The Arab kid went down like a ton of bricks. I grabbed the purse with one hand and the thief with the other. “Madame,” I said suavely, “your purse. And the wretch who stole it.”
“Oh, oh, thank you,” she said. She was even lovelier close up, with translucent alabaster skin and eyes like
violets. “Everything I own was . . .”
“And now, if you’ll just come with me, we’ll turn this thief over to the police.”
“The police? Oh, no. Please! I couldn’t. I don’t know what Daddy would ever say.”
“I think he’d say that I had done the only . . .”
“Oh, no. Never! My father is a man of God. He could never turn this poor sinner over to the law. No more could I. Please, please let him go and—and just forget the whole unfortunate incident.” Her big blue eyes looked beseechingly into mine; her dark lashes fluttered exquisitely.
The purse-snatcher was struggling so fiercely that it seemed to me he’d be likely to get away anyhow. “Very well,” I said, deepening my voice somewhat. “On one condition.”
“Oh, anything,” she said in her lilting English accent.
“You must allow me to see you safely back to—to wherever it is you’re staying.”
“Oh, gladly. I should be most grateful.”
With that, I let the Arab go. He gave me a kick on the shins and disappeared into the crowd. “You dirty son of a . . .” Then I checked my language and added gravely, “Poor misguided, Godless heathen. And now,” I said, offering my arm.
To my delight, the girl and her father were staying in the same hotel where Auntie Mame and I would be quartered for the next eleven days. “But how ripping,” I said, allowing my voice to become just a bit deeper, a bit more British. “Do please have tea with me.”
“Oh, thanks most awfully. I should adore to. But Daddy— my father, that is—is so frightfully strait-laced. I mean he just wouldn’t understand my taking tea with a young man I hadn’t been properly introduced to.”
Around the World With Auntie Mame Page 26
