Around the World With Auntie Mame

by Dennis, Patrick

  Nearly an hour went by. Not only was there no sign of Rosemary; nobody appeared. At one, Auntie Mame traipsed in.

  “Oh, Patrick, my little love,” she said. “There you are! Could you close an eye? I’ve never been so shaken up since Vera bought that reducing belt.”

  “It’s not much of a Greek yacht, is it?” I asked glumly.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, darling. No sacrifice is too great for your shipboard romance. La, will I ever forget the first time my father took me abroad. It was on the old Lusitania and it couldn’t have been more divine. I had three Rhodes scholars, the whole Yale Glee Club, the younger officers, and Wally Reid all to myself. Well, of course, I wasn’t the only girl aboard, but the others were this dreary trio from some utterly unheard-of denominational school out in—hell, I can’t remember—Migraine, Missouri or some place like that. Anyhow—oh, this is too mad—I happened to be spooning in a lifeboat with this dashing young . . .”

  “Um, excuse me, Auntie Mame, but there’s just one thing I would like to take up with you before you meet Rosemary and Dr. Shumway. Uh, well, they’re not like us—like you. They’re missionaries and very strict. So if you wouldn’t talk too much about drinking and if you’d kind of watch your language . . .”

  “Oh, darling, don’t give it a thought! As for drinking, I’ve searched high and low for a bar. There isn’t one. And when it comes to language, my dear, I promise you that even if I stepped in a pile of it, I wouldn’t say so much as . . . Heavens, Patrick! Can this be the Miss Shumway you’ve been telling me about. She’s lovely!”

  I looked up, and there was Rosemary, the picture of British reserve in virginal white. I made the introductions and then watched Auntie Mame and Rosemary sizing up one another as only two females can. Somehow, though, they made me think of two prize fighters in opposing corners.

  “Well!” Auntie Mame said after a rather long silence. “This is going to be fun—a long, long voyage on this utterly unspoiled little ship. We’ll all get to know one another ever so well, won’t we? Now tell me, Rosamund de-ar, Patrick says you’ve been at boarding school in England. Which one? I want to hear all about it.”

  Rosemary seemed even more reticent with Auntie Mame than she had been with me, all lowered eyes and whispered responses. For once in my life, I wished that her windy old father would show up to carry the conversational ball.

  I hadn’t long to wait. With a loud “Harrrumph,” Dr. Shumway was upon us, his strawberry mousse face glistening. Again I was all suave worldliness with the introductions.

  “Ah, dear lady,” Dr. Shumway said, puckering his sewery little mouth into a citric smile, “I have so looked forward to having the honor of making the acquaintance of, harrrrumph, this splendid young man’s aunt.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Auntie Mame said, all but kissing his ring. I couldn’t help noticing that her nostrils quivered. “The study of comparative religions has always fascinated me so that I know we’ll have splendid chats aboard this sweet little ship.”

  Dr. Shumway looked rather startled and backed away a pace or two, launching into a ferocious attack of catarrh. Even Rosemary looked aghast, her pale hands fluttering to the front of her dress. Having seen Joan Crawford in a remake of Rain, I wondered if Auntie Mame had struck the Reverend as a second Sadie Thompson. But a surreptitious glance at her reassured me. She was wearing natty navy blue with white piping, sensible shoes, and one strand of pearls. While Auntie Mame didn’t look exactly like a churchmouse, she did have about her an air of Episcopalian chicté that could have offended only the most masochistic of sects.

  Undaunted, she continued. “Ah yes, Dr. Shumway, the Bible as literature is a subject that has always interested me. Some of it a little farfetched in this day of the realistic novel, but withal . . .”

  “Harrrrrumph!” Dr. Shumway said.

  I gave Auntie Mame a beseeching glance and said, “Lunch seems to be a little late.”

  “Ah, which reminds me,” Dr. Shumway said, “the captain has invited us all to sit at his table.”

  “Oh, isn’t that lovely,” Auntie Mame said. “I always say I don’t mind how squalid—I mean, how simple—a ship is as long as the food and the company are good. And do let me tell you that authentic Greek cooking is sheer heaven. If that doesn’t offend you, Father.”

  “Harrumph, not at all.”

  “My dear Greek friend Madame Adam is a superb cook. Ah, for her divine Greek caviar. It’s made with pike roe and . . .”

  Auntie Mame’s dissertation was interrupted by an unshaven little monkey of a man in a spotted mess jacket. He poked his head in the door and said, «φα.» Then he gestured toward the dining saloon.

  Of course we sat at the captain’s table, because there wasn’t any other. Its tablecloth was covered with wine spots, encrusted with old bits of gravy, ketchup, and rancid olive oil. There was a smart centerpiece of salt, pepper, oil, vinegar, ketchup, A-1 Sauce, and toothpicks. Everything jiggled and jingled to the vibrations of the engine. A vase of dusty artificial carnations and a large, tinted photograph of Pola Negri completed the décor of the officers’ mess.

  The captain was fat and furry. He wore an undershirt, trousers, the first two or three buttons open to accommodate his belly, carpet slippers, and—peering out shyly through the thick undergrowth of hair on his arms and chest—some tattoos of scantily clad ladies. All of his teeth were bright gold and he managed to eat, talk, smoke, and drink with a toothpick in his mouth.

  The first mate, the chief engineer, and the second mate were the only officers who ever graced the captain’s table—for all I know, the only other officers there were. They came and went, glum and never speaking except to quarrel loudly among themselves in Greek until the captain, slamming his ham of a hand down on the table violently said, Otherwise, the conversational ball was carried pretty much by Auntie Mame.

  At that first meal Auntie Mame said, “Ooooh! Doesn’t all this look fascinating.” But when the mess steward handed her a grubby menu, she said, “Oy, it’s the Rosetta Stone!” Since no one who could read Greek could—or would—speak English, Auntie Mame said, “ This looks good.” I watched her point a long red nail to an item called

  “I’ll have that, too,” I said.

  It was a sinewy stew. I left mine untouched.

  I don’t know what Lucullan goodies Auntie Mame’s dear old friend Madame Adam had cooked up, but nothing even edible was being served aboard the Lesbos that day. The dining room was stifling and smelled of stale grease. Flies settled on everything and then disdainfully stalked away. The food didn’t even tempt them.

  “Strange,” Auntie Mame said, “but I just don’t feel very hungry this noon. All the Greek cooking I’ve ever had was delicious, but this . . .”

  “Ah, dear lady, don’t worry,” Dr. Shumway said piously. “I expect that the cooking arrangements are not all they will be. This is, after all, the first meal out of port. Harrrumph!”

  “Perhaps,” Auntie Mame said. “Well, I’ll just sample some of that table wine—if no one objects.”

  “Well, dear lady, my daughter and I do not partake of the grape or the grain. However . . .”

  “Oh, come now, Dr. Shumway, as the Bible says, ‘. . . drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.’ Ecclesiastes Seven.”

  Auntie Mame poured out a glass of wine for herself. I prudently refused. “Ugh!” she said, putting down the glass. “That’s not wine, it’s vinegar! And now, Dr. Shumway, perhaps you’ll tell us something about your interesting missionary work.”

  “Well, ah, dear lady, harrrumph . . . I, um, scarcely know where to begin.” Perspiration poured off Alfred Shumway.

  “Begin at the beginning. This is going to be a long journey and so there’ll be plenty of time for you to tell me all. I should like to brush up on my Latin and what better opportunity to learn Greek—especially with a mentor such as you, carefully coached in the classical languages. Now which school of divinity did you attend?”


  “Why, ur, harrrrumph, I . . .” Before Dr. Shumway could commence his liturgical reminiscences, the Lesbos’s engines came to a grinding, screeching stop. “Ah,” Dr. Shumway said, going to the prothole, “here we are at the end of the Suez and already at the mouth of the fabled Red Sea. Why don’t we all go out on deck and watch?”

  “Why don’t we indeed!” Auntie Mame said.

  We all went to the rear of the deck and sat on some splintery old chairs, watching a very proper British officer in white shorts come aboard. “Excuse me, madam, padre,” he said, “but can you tell me where to find the captain. Um, let’s see. This is the Lesbos, a Greek-owned ship under Nicaraguan registry. Odd.”

  “The, uh, captain, harrrrumph, is somewhere about, sir,” Dr. Shumway said, “but unfortunately for you, he speaks no English.”

  “I have orders to inquire about the cargo. It’s irregular, I know, but with the Chinese-Japanese dust-up . . .”

  “Ah,” Auntie Mame said, “you have come to the right person, sir. This gentleman owns the cargo, and precious cargo it is, for it consists entirely of Chinese Bibles through which Dr. Shumway, here, plans to spread His word to the heathens of the Orient. Is that not correct, Father?”

  “Harrrrumphh. Well, um, yes.”

  “And there is also a mighty Wurlitzer pipe organ so that our yellow brethren may lift their voices in worshipful song,” Auntie Mame continued. “La, Dr. Shumway, perhaps some evening we may all gather round the piano in the lounge and sing some of those grand, old-time hymns together. Ah, yes. It is cargo precious beyond pearls to Dr. Shumway and I am certain that he will display it to you with pride.”

  “Harrrrrumph. Well, um, this is unregular and, ah, harrrrumph . . .”

  “Well, actually it does seem a waste of time. In this case I shan’t bother to detain you,” the officer said.

  “Ah,” Auntie Mame went on, holding up a pious hand, “but I should like to detain you. Let us all kneel down on this burning deck—if you don’t mind the filth—and have Dr. Shumway lead us in a prayer for a safe journey and a peaceful settlement of this cruel war. Come, Patrick, Mary Rose, down on your knees . . .”

  “Oh, but . . .” Dr. Shumway began, wiping his dripping brow.

  “Forgive me,” the officer said, looking most undone, “but with so many ships to check I simply . . . Good afternoon.” With that he hotfooted it off the ship before the Diety could be consulted by Dr. Shumway.

  “Ah, now,” Dr. Shumway said, wiping his crimson brow, “Rosemary, dear girl, why don’t you entertain this charming young man while we complete the formalities of getting out of the canal? It’s so terribly warm that, for myself, I believe I shall go to my simple cell and, harrumph, meditate. If you all will excuse me.”

  “And I might just go down to my simple cell and try to sleep,” Auntie Mame said.

  That left Rosemary and me just the way I’d wanted to be since I first met her twenty-four hours earlier—alone together. I’ll never forget that afternoon. Rosemary was too perfect for words; sweet and shy, yet yielding and warm. Well, warm is hardly the word. With the Lesbos standing stark still, waiting to get out of the Suez Canal, the temperature soared to well over a hundred. But I didn’t notice. We sat on the squeaking wicker sofa in the lounge in the vapid, stagnant breeze of the fan. Trying to make inane social chitchat with Rosemary, I inched closer and closer to her. While I’d done a little heavy necking at Junior Holiday dances, my amorous experiments had always been conducted with rather fast young New York girls—oh, that one brunette from Miss Walker’s! Love had always been a quick kiss in the cloakroom, a tussel in the taxi. Never before had I been all alone with a beautiful, carefully reared English clergyman’s daughter. I was nervous. But Rosemary was poise personified, speaking softly and tenderly in her lovely English accent—an accent far more cultivated than her father’s. And then she lunged. The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back, with Rosemary crawling over me and smothering me with kisses. I was just barely conscious of two canal officials standing in the doorway and totally unaware of their tiptoeing away.

  When they were gone, however, Rosemary got to her feet, blushing furiously and straightening her frock. “Do forgive me, Patrick. I don’t know what can have come over me,” she said.

  “That’s all right,” I panted. “I just hope it comes over you again.”

  And it did. Rosemary was talking about her mission work when I heard footsteps out on the deck. Again she threw herself upon me and again some startled English port-authority men slunk away. I wondered if there wasn’t a touch of the exhibitionist in Rosemary. However, it was the most stimulating two hours I’d ever spent in female company.

  I was just about to plan a frontal attack of my own when there was a great lurching and roaring. The ship’s motors started up once again, and Rosemary dashed to the porthole.

  “Look,” she said. “We’re underweigh again. We’ve finally got through the canal and now we’re out in the Red Sea!” Sure enough, we were, and the Lesbos, its rusty throttle open, was puffing away at all seven or eight knots top speed.

  “That’s just fine. And now let’s have another kiss. Oh, Rosemary! Your eyes, your lips, your hair!” Closing my eyes I moved forward to embrace her again. When I opened my eyes again Rosemary was halfway out of the door.

  “Do forgive me,” she said, “but it’s so impossibly warm that I believe I’ll go to my cabin. It’s time for my meditations.”

  “Hey. Wait a . . .”

  She blew a kiss in my direction and departed.

  OVERCOME, I WAS JUST ABLE TO MAKE MY WAY DOWN to my hot little cabin, bathe again, and get into my white dinner jacket. Auntie Mame had also made some attempt at dressing for dinner, but the Lesbos had none of the affectations of the Normandie. Dr. Shumway was still in his tropical clericals, wet black stains deep beneath the arms. The captain and his officers, somewhat dirtier and sweatier than they had been at noon, were otherwise unchanged. Rosemary did not appear at all. When I asked about her, Dr. Shumway said, “Ah, dear boy, my poor daughter has found the heat too oppressive. She will most likely come up in the cool of the evening.”

  At dinner Auntie Mame pointed to a succulent item called Γιαν saying, “This looks good. It’ll be such fun to learn Greek here with Dr. Shumway to help me. I do know Sigma Chi and Phi Beta Kappa and the Omega watch but . . .” She was interrupted by a greasy plate slapped down in front of her. It was the same stew we had been served for lunch.

  It took us no time to finish the meal. Dr. Shumway escorted Auntie Mame to the lounge and, excusing myself, I dashed off an impassioned note to Rosemary telling her that I would be waiting on the aft deck. I slipped it under her door and went back to join Auntie Mame and the Reverend Alfred Shumway. But when I returned to the lounge, Auntie Mame was alone. “I can’t understand it, darling,” she said. “Just to make a little shop talk for him I got onto Deuteronomy and he was out of here like a shot. Well, no matter. I’m going to get out of this suffocating dress and back into Sodom and Gomorrah. Don’t be up too late, Lochinvar.” She kissed me and was gone.

  Even out on the sea with the sun down, it was no cooler. Making sure that every hair was in place, I went out to the rear deck to wait for Rosemary. It was some wait. Midnight came and there was still no sign of my inamorata. Then I must have fallen asleep because it was dawn when I awoke—still quite alone—but with a stiff neck and my white dinner jacket black with soot.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS STILL HOTTER. ROSEMARY DID not appear for breakfast or for lunch. I slid another note under her door and waited all afternoon in the sweltering lounge. Auntie Mame read all day, and by dinnertime I had read all the copies of The Modern Priscilla. Dinner came and went. I ate it—or, rather, didn’t eat it—alone with Auntie Mame. Dr. Shumway claimed to be too overheated to dine. “If that’s the case,” Auntie Mame said, “it’s just as well, probably. I’m not sure I could stand it. I mean wouldn’t you think that with all those efficacious deodorants and antiperspirants
on the market even a man of God would do something about his everlasting . . .”

  “Now, Auntie Mame,” I said, “just don’t bring up anything like that with him.”

  “Oh, certainly not, darling. I can never bring anything up with him without his running like a rabbit. They both seem to treat me like a she-devil. Especially the girl. But I thought that as another man, dear, you could just give poor Dr. Shumway a few pointers about masculine daintiness. I mean the idea is to win converts, not repel them and . . .”

  “Have you gone crazy with the heat?” I demanded.

  “Practically. I think I’ll go below, have a cool bath, and read a bit. Don’t be up too late with your lady friend. Good night.”

  There was no need to worry. Rosemary never came out. Ito was cooking for Auntie Mame and taking trays to her cabin. Her palate was such that no amount of money could have lured her to the officers’ mess. And it was so hot that the captain took his meals clad only in a bath towel—a sight that would have put you off your feed at Laperouse, not to mention the dining saloon of the Lesbos. Another note under Rosemary’s door still brought no results.

  On the fourth day—hotter still—I was down to bathing trunks, like the rest of the ship’s crew. None of the passengers appeared at all. A homemade “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on Auntie Mame’s door. In desperation, I went up to the hurricane deck, hoping for a breath of wind. There was none, but, passing the radio shack, I was attracted by the fulsome strains of Carroll Gibbons and His Boyfriends coming—with a lot of static—over the BBC. I looked in at the open door and there was a young Greek swilling wine. He was seated at some outmoded radio equipment and had made his quarters quite homey in a hideous sort of way with a terrible Turkish rug on the floor, pink curtains at the windows, souvenir pillows on his bunk, a lead reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, and pictures pinned up everywhere. There must have been two hundred of them in the tiny cabin—“toots” shots of Jean Harlow, Toby Wing, Mary Carlisle, Ginger Rogers, Mae West, Anita Louise, Alice Faye; almost any blonde you care to mention.