by AnonYMous
The Vice-Chancellor, Professor Alfred Flanagan, and other officers of the university cordially invite you to let Mixed Blessings at St Sebastian’s give you the best possible start to a lifetime of commitment and happiness.
At the bottom of this were a series of photographs. There was a picture of the Great Hall; another of a bride and groom standing in the quadrangle; a third of a lesbian couple both wearing massive white wedding dresses; and a close-up of two handsome young men holding hands. I shook my head and laughed. It was clear that the Vice-Chancellor had taken no notice at all of the petition. What, I wondered, would Pilkington and the department of Theology do now?
The three of us had a very happy Christmas at Emma’s parents. They were no longer young, but they still loved having Emma, her two brothers and all the grandchildren to stay. Emma took charge of the cooking. After we had recovered from all the cheer and over-eating, it was time for our trip to Las Vegas.
It was an extraordinary interlude, wholly different from our usual life. There was no nonsense about catching a train to the airport. A massive limousine drew up at our front door and took us directly to Heathrow. We were shown to a plush first-class lounge where everything was, as they said, ‘complimentary’. We helped ourselves to excellent orange juice, coffee and rolls. Then we read all the daily newspapers as we waited for our flight to be announced. Our suitcases had been whisked away, but we were assured that they would turn up like a couple of obedient dogs when we arrived at our destination.
At half past ten precisely our flight was called and we made our way to the gate. First-class passengers were invited to enter before everyone else; I was curious to see who would be seated near us. Ahead of us in the queue was an elegant woman wearing a headscarf and sunglasses, accompanied by a huge black man who looked like a bodyguard. Neither of us knew who she was, but Emma was convinced she had seen her on television in a BBC drama where she had played a sinister murderess.
We took our seats and, even before we cruised down the runway, we were served very good champagne and canapes. As Emma observed, it was a far cry from the Pilkingtons’ party. It was also somewhat different from my last trip across the Atlantic Ocean when I was crammed in the back between a young mother and baby and a very large gentleman who overflowed his seat. An attentive hostess hovered about refilling our glasses. Once air-born, orders were taken for lunch. We both chose wild mushroom soup followed by seared salmon with a rocket salad. For pudding I had cherry tart and cream with a spoonful of ripe stilton to follow; Emma chose fresh mango trifle. The meal was served on real china plates and we ate with silver knives and forks. I felt very sorry for the hoardes behind us with their plastic portions wrapped in cellophane.
Afterwards, I adjusted my seat so it was completely flat and I fell into a dreamless sleep. Meanwhile Emma worked on a programme she was preparing. I awoke a couple of hours later and found I had a choice of entertainment. Among the many films on offer was Jacques Bousset’s En Bon Point. It was as funny and clever as I remembered. I tried to imagine the director being married to a woman who was content to spend her time devising expensive meals for the cadaverous Crispin Chantry-Pigg. It seemed impossible.
It was a very long flight, but we both managed to sleep for part of the time and we felt refreshed when we finally arrived in Las Vegas. It was still light outside and there was a spectacular desert sunset. As promised our luggage appeared as if by magic; we were eased through immigration and customs and Wolfie Goldberg was there waiting to meet us. He had been described to us as the Mancini accountant and he turned out to be a middle-sized, hook-nosed figure wearing a red sports shirt and tartan linen trousers. We shook hands, and he led us outside to an enormous black Cadillac with darkened windows. The driver, who was introduced to us as ‘Leftie’, wore dark glasses and had a strong Italian-American accent.
Emma and I sat in the back as we drove through the city while Wolfie treated us to a running commentary on the beauties of Las Vegas. He was obviously proud of his home-town. We peered out of the windows at the gaudy hotels, restaurants, and shopping centres that lined the Strip. Everything was lit with unremitting neon light. Emma, who, as a small child, had experienced the kind of Sunday School education which would have delighted John Pilkington, said that it reminded her of Heaven – ‘The darkness is no darkness with Thee and the night is as clear as the day,’ she quoted. This remark pleased Wolfie very much.
When we arrived at our hotel, the Ziggurat, two attendants dressed as Eastern potentates in robes and turbans opened the door for us. They took possession of our luggage and led us with much ceremony into the hotel foyer. Wolfie accompanied us to the reception desk where we were signed in and were given a golden key for our room. One of the attendants carried our bags across the hotel lobby to the tower where we shot up to the twentieth floor in a gilded glass elevator.
Then we followed Wolfie down a long corridor to our suite. It had an incredible view towards Cleopatra’s Palace, the hotel where Sir William Dormouse had had his blackjack difficulties. The room itself was vast. There was a golden fountain playing in one corner surrounded by a positive jungle of green plants. At the other end was a gigantic bed with four Babylonian golden lions on both sides guarding it. The walls were decorated with Assyrian bas-reliefs depicting hunting scenes. In the corner were two large white sofas and a marble table with a vase holding at least two dozen tiger-spotted orchids. There was a huge bowl of fresh fruit and a couple of boxes of chocolates. ‘This is our best room’, Wolfie smiled. ‘Luigi and Sylvester allocate it only to their most honoured guests.’
‘Golly,’ I exclaimed.
‘Gosh,’ Emma added.
‘Our pleasure,’ Wolfie said as he walked towards the door. ‘After such a long flight you’ll need a rest and a shower. I’ll be back at half past eight to take you to dinner. Unfortunately Luigi’s away on business until tomorrow evening so we’ll be going to Sylvester’s house. He and his wife are sure looking forward to knowing you. Now everyone wants you to enjoy yourselves. They’ve put down a thousand dollars worth of credit so you can try your luck at the tables downstairs. And Sylvester asked me to present this to your lovely wife.’ He bowed and handed Emma a plain white envelope. Inside was a thousand-dollar token for Saks Fifth Avenue. They’ll be expecting you in the shopping mall. Just tell them you’re Luigi’s guests.’ Emma and I looked at each other as he closed the door. What, I wondered, was going on?
After a brief nap, Emma and I dressed and explored the hotel. It was unbelievably flossy. We examined the casinos, the lounges, the artificial lake surrounded by golden fluted columns and the gigantic sailing ship modelled on an Assyrian dhow which transported guests to various parts of the hotel. It was hard to imagine how money could have been spent more lavishly and, by English standards, more tastelessly. There was even a show starring no less a celebrity than Sir Louie Loon. He was billed as playing a mauve piano sitting atop a lighted moon. Later we sat in a black marble bar where we were served colourful cocktails by a waitress in a sequinned gold toga and matching turban. The turban was considerably bigger than the toga.
‘You realise we can’t accept the casino credit or that shopping token, don’t you Emma?’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I was afraid you’d say that. Why do I have to be married to Mr Integrity? I know … it looks too much like bribery. How are you going to return them without offending the Mancinis?’
‘I thought I’d say that the English tax authorities were ferocious about that sort of thing and I hoped he’d understand.’
Emma nodded. ‘Yes. That sounds all right …’
We were waiting at the appointed time in the lobby. The black Cadillac appeared from nowhere and we climbed back inside. Leftie told us that Wolfie would meet us at Sylvester Mancini’s house with his date. Emma was instantly curious. ‘Who is Wolfie’s date?’ Leftie grinned. Her name apparently was Divine de la Rue and she was a student at the casino training school.
We left the city behind and dr
ove into the magnificent desert mountain landscape. Beside a large lake, Sylvester’s neo-Italianate house was surrounded by palm trees; the entrance was lined with marble statues of Roman gods and goddesses. As we pulled up the drive, an attendant opened the car door and led us into a black and white marbled hall where Sylvester and his wife Gina were waiting for us. Both were rotund and olive-skinned. Sylvester was wearing a shiny grey suit with an open-neck shirt; his ambitiously blonde wife was splendid in a tight silvery trouser suit.
They led us into a large sitting room with a double-height vaulted ceiling. The carpets were white, the upholstery black and there were long velvet curtains in a leopard-skin pattern. The walls were covered in large rococo gold frames. It was a little overwhelming to discover that they all contained oil reproductions of well-known Italian Old Masters.
The four of us sat on two matching sofas while another servant served yet more champagne in tall fluted glasses. Sylvester caught me looking around. He laughed. ‘Not bad for an orphanage brat!’ he said. I remembered that the Vice-Chancellor had said exactly the same thing when we went to visit Sir William in Shropshire. I wondered what those two had suffered as children. Sylvester then went on to tell us that he had just spoken to his old friend Flanagan who hoped we were having a good time.
He was interrupted by the entrance of Wolfie and Miss de la Rue. They were quite a pair. She was a least ten inches taller than he, but this was partially accounted for by the red high heels she was wearing. Her appearance could only be described as spectacular. She wore, for want of a better term, a red glittering top and a matching skirt. The top barely covered her enormous breasts and the skirt would have been a reasonable-sized belt. Emma, in her elegant black frock looked as covered up as a pious Muslim wife beside her.
Sylvester was an excellent host. He introduced everyone and explained that he thought we would like to meet Divine de la Rue because she had just started her course as a trainee croupier at the King Midas Casino College.
‘Is that the name of your training school?’ I asked.
‘Sure is! You’re learning a lot aren’t you, sweetie?’
‘Yes, Mr Mancini,’ said Divine de la Rue.
Dinner was served in the adjacent dining room. The black and white theme continued, but this time the velvet curtains were tiger-striped. The glass table was supported by four golden reproductions of Botticelli’s Venus rising from the waves. I could see that Gina Mancini was interested in art. We ate the largest, thickest, tenderest steaks I had ever encountered. ‘Luigi has them specially flown in from Kansas,’ Sylvester informed us. They were accompanied by baked potatoes overflowing with sour cream and a green salad. I wasn’t sure what Emma would think of this menu.
I was placed between Divine and Gina. Both ladies were wearing pungent scents which fought a rearguard battle with each other in the air around me. ‘So,’ I turned to Divine and tried not to look down her cleavage, ‘you’re studying to be a croupier, is that right?’
‘I started last month,’ she infomed me in her soft little voice.
‘And do you like the college?’ I said rather desperately.
She looked puzzled, but answered readily enough, ‘Oh yes … I love everything in Las Vegas, don’t you?’
‘And where do you come from originally?’
‘Well … we moved around a lot. I was born in Smoke City, Arkansas.’ She batted her eyelashes at me.
‘That’s a long way away.’ I said. She was unlike any student I had ever met; more like a ten-year-old playing at being an adult. Mary and Rosalind were far better company.
‘And you take courses?’ I persisted.
‘Well I’ve only just started … what we try to do is please the customers,’ she said.
Sylvester leaned over and winked. ‘That’s the Mancini motto. No one ever went broke pleasing the customers!’
I wondered how intellectual curiosity and academic freedom fitted in to this philosophy. While I was pondering this, dessert was served. It consisted of three gigantic scoops of ice cream, peach, chocolate chip and coffee crackle. While tackling this, I asked Wolfie about the modes of assessment used in the King Midas Casino College.
‘The course is very practical,’ he replied, ‘We don’t want to bother the girls with too many papers and things.’
‘Are there equal numbers of male and female students?’ asked Emma. Divine looked bewildered and glanced at Wolfie for guidance.
‘We plan to show you around the training school tomorrow,’ he said, and with that we had to be satisfied.
The next day was New Year’s Eve. In the morning, Emma and I had a delicious breakfast in our room. Then we set off at ten o’clock to meet Wolfie at the front desk. He was to conduct us round the Mancini college of casino management, also known as the King Midas Club.
When the black Cadillac drew up outside the hotel, Wolfie was disconcerted to find Emma with me. ‘Gee,’ he said, ‘I kind of figured that a lady like you would prefer the shopping mall. Don’t you like Saks Fifth Avenue? I can always change your shopping voucher for another store.’
I explained that although we were very grateful indeed to the Mancinis, the British tax authorities would not allow us to accept such a gift. It sounded lame even to me, but Wolfie had no trouble with the explanation. ‘Those bastards,’ he said. ‘I know … nothing but trouble.’
The college was located about half a mile from the hotel. Leftie drove us down the neon-lit Strip in complete air-conditioned comfort while Wolfie commented on the buildings that we passed. All the hotels appeared to be owned by the Mancini organisation, as well as most of the buildings in between. Beside me, under her breath, Emma started humming the theme of the Godfather films.
The training school was down a side street. It was a square whitewashed building of three storeys. There was an enormous canopy in front of the entrance and a huge black man, dressed as an African tribesman, opened the door to us. Wolfie addressed him as ‘Brutus’. The tribesman called him ‘Mr Goldberg’.
We were ushered into what looked like a plush London gentlemen’s club. There was a thick red carpet on the floor. The walls were of rich oak panelling. There were clusters of marble pillars at every corner and the moulding on the ceiling was picked out in gold. Directly in front of us, in a custom-made niche was a life-size reproduction of the Venus de Milo; the sculptor had replaced her missing arms and they were held out as if she were about to embrace the incoming clients. Emma began to giggle. I wondered if we could possibly match such splendour in the old squash courts at St Sebastian’s. I thought it improbable.
We went through large gold-ornamented doors into a casino filled with roulette wheels, blackjack tables and slot machines. There was a constant clatter of coins and canned Muzak. As it was early in the day, there were few customers and several of the students were sitting around with little to do. I am used to undergraduates, but I had never seen anything like them. They were wearing what was presumably a Mancini uniform – brief gold costumes which might have been suitable for exhibition ice-skating if their tights had been thicker and their blouses less skimpy. I felt I was in a room of young women, all of whom had been given their younger sisters’ clothes.
Divine de la Rue extricated herself from a conversation with another huge African tribesman and came forward. She smiled at Wolfie extravagantly and shook hands with Emma and me. We were invited to sit at a blackjack table and Divine nimbly dealt us a hand of cards. She had clearly learned a lot in the time she had been training. She demonstrated how she managed the pack and what she said to encourage the punters to bet. Emma was fascinated and asked her if she had always had the ambition to be a croupier. I was not sure if she understood the question or if she had not heard it properly. She looked at Wolfie rather than Emma when she made her reply. ‘I just want to please the customers,’ she said.
When she finished her demonstration, she rose from her seat to fetch us drinks. Wolfie patted her on her bottom as she passed. I was astonished. I would ce
rtainly have been accused of sexual harrassment if I had done such a thing to my students.
While we waited for our drinks, Wolfie led us to the casino office. The gentlemen’s club theme continued. There were capacious red leather armchairs, oak panelling and a huge partners’ desk. On the wall were a series of photographs. They all showed a large man of Italian appearance shaking hands with one recent president of the United States after another. ‘That’s Luigi,’ said Wolfie. ‘He’s a big contributor to all the presidential campaigns.’
Emma was puzzled. ‘He seems to support both the Republicans and the Democrats,’ she observed. ‘Which side is he on?’
‘He’s on the Mancini side,’ said Wolfie, giving me a big wink. ‘As long as they don’t stand in the way of the business, he’s happy with anyone! All those big-shots have fund-raising dinners in Vegas and Luigi makes sure he’s the biggest contributor. Every time … He says it’s an investment. He’s right! We’ve never had any trouble from any of them … It’s the same thing with the stars. We’ve got that Englishman here at the moment, Sir Louie Loon …’
‘I noticed,’ I said.
‘You wanna hear him?’ he asked, ‘I can easily get you tickets.’
‘I don’t think so … we don’t really care for his sort of music …’
‘I agree,’ said Wolfie, ‘but you’ve got to give it to him. He’s made a lot of money and he’s even met all the royals at Buckingham Palace … He’s quite a guy …’
Divine returned with our drinks. She was as adept at serving as she was at dealing cards. Emma and I had both asked for orange juice, but Wolfie had bourbon. The beverages were served in tall glasses full of ice and decorated with mint, lemon and a small parasol. I noticed that Divine had brought no drink for herself; quite unselfconsciously she had become a waitress, melting into the background.
