by ILIL ARBEL
“Now, now, behave yourself,” said Mr. Goldwasser, laughing. “You must learn to act like a married woman…” And to the captain he said, “She will vamp them when she is ninety, you know. What a woman, I always say.”
“We won’t have her any other way,” said the captain loyally. “We love our Miss Tudor. I am so glad to take you all back to America.”
To an inexperienced traveller, the inside of the flying palace was even more amazing than the outside, and Emma stared at the elegant compartments, each seating up to eight passengers. The comfortable seats were placed next to picture windows through which Emma hoped to observe every second of the take-off, and the travellers put their overnight bags under them in the ample storage space, since these seats would convert, at night, to the perfect Pullman-style berths, each wider than a twin bed, and extremely comfortable. Each seat had its own window, a ventilator, a reading light, and a small removable table. The stewardesses hovered around them, ready to help; one pointed out a substantial table whose purpose was playing cards or other games, and told the passengers that should they require it, a portable typewriter was always at their disposal. Mrs. Rivers brightened as she heard that, thinking that perhaps she could catch up with her Work before retiring.
The travellers settled themselves in their seats and awaited take-off with various degrees of apprehension. The veterans, like Mr. Goldwasser and Glamora, and to some extent, Mrs. Rivers, gave it no thought at all. On the other side of the spectrum, Mr. Alcott seemed very uneasy. Emma was so excited that she forgot to be afraid, and Edmond, who was rarely shaken by anything, hoped privately that they would soon be served something good to eat or drink. Maisie, sitting next to Mr. Alcott, said quietly, “Don’t fret, Nes. You have done it before on your way to England; you can do it again.”
“I know, Maise. What can I say, flying frightens me a bit,” said Mr. Alcott, who was extremely pale. “But really, it’s only the take-off. I am okay after that.”
“We’ll soon get you some orange juice, and all will be well,” said Maisie.
The aeroplane roared like a demented elephant, and started its run. Mr. Alcott held on to his seat with both hands, whose knuckles were white with the pressure. Maisie put her hand on his reassuringly, and he looked at her gratefully. No one else noticed. Mrs. Rivers, whose love of travel included flying, was chatting with Miss Tudor, and Mr. Goldwasser, completely oblivious to his surroundings, read an American newspaper. Emma was almost glued to the windowpane, trying not to miss anything. With a shrill scream the aeroplane went up on the diagonal, and after a while straightened up and went on its journey to New York.
“If Palmer could see me now,” said Emma to Edmond.
“Palmer? Do you mean Lydia’s Palmer? Why on earth?”
“She is expecting Old Nick is the pilot, and we are heading toward Sodom and Gomorrah,” said Emma, laughing, and told him Palmer’s dire views of journeys of any kind. Edmond laughed. “I am rather enjoying it,” he said and turned to see how Mr. Alcott and Maisie were doing. “I am fine now,” Mr. Alcott said. “I can wait for my orange juice until they serve lunch.” Maisie patted his hand and stopped worrying about him, allowing her mind to return to the annoying problem of naming the sequel to Send Me No Lilies. The Dance of Hearts? No, so boring. Tango, My Love? Too awful. I can’t understand it, she thought irritably. I always find these names so easily, why am I having so much trouble here? She closed her eyes and tried to make a mental list of all the romantic titles she liked best, as an inspiration.
A half-hour or so after take-off, Emma managed to unglue herself from the window and concentrate on her favourite pursuit, looking at clothes. There was much to look at, but naturally she started with Glamora, who had taken off her light coat and appeared in a magnificent dress of chequered black and white pattern with a cinched waist encircled by a black patent-leather belt, three-quarter sleeves with turned-up large cuffs, and a bow at the neck. On her lapel she wore the latest style brooch of bright red wooden cherries with dark green stems and leaves made from a substance that defied identification but looked lovely. As she removed her straw hat which had a black, short chiffon scarf tied around the brim, her hair glowed softly. It was no longer the bright red she needed as Lady Aurora Fitz-Gardner, but her own natural dark auburn which made her white skin and violet eyes simply gleam. After acknowledging and appreciating such beauty, Emma turned to see the other passengers. While no one could match Glamora, the other passengers were nevertheless beautifully dressed. She suddenly noticed the two little girls whom she had seen at the airport. They were standing up, whispering to each other and giggling very quietly. Their mother, looking extremely beautiful in a well-fitting navy blue suit that showed her perfect figure to advantage, got up and moved toward the group.
“Please excuse me,” she said politely, “I am Mrs. Wayne. My little girls are in awe of the fact that they are wearing the same jewellery as the lovely lady, as they refer to you, Miss Tudor. They want so much to meet you. They have not yet seen your movies, of course, they are much too young, but they know you from the magazines they sometimes like to look at.”
Miss Tudor looked up, smiling, at the pretty mother. “Of course!” She said. “Let me see, I must have some pictures here I could sign for them… Come over, little girls!” She rummaged in her large black leather bag and fished out two pictures of herself in Egyptian outfits, not necessarily historically correct, but very suitable for the little girls’ lively imagination.
The girls came over shyly, and indeed, each wore a bunch of red cherries on the white collars of their pink dresses.
“What pretty girls,” said Miss Tudor. “Indeed, we are wearing the same brooches! Are we not fashionable, all three of us? And you look as if you could be one of the stewardesses, Mrs. Wayne, in this lovely navy blue suit which I must say I admire.”
“Thank you! What an honour to hear this from Miss Tudor!” said the young mother, smiling. “And to tell the truth, indeed I was a stewardess years ago, on American Airlines. And then I went and married one of the pilots!” Maisie and Emma laughed, and Mrs. Wayne looked at them, surprised. “On boarding the aeroplane, I told this young lady how many of you married pilots,” said Maisie by way of explanation. “Not to mention rich passengers… It is a glamorous profession.”
“Quite demanding, though,” said the young mother thoughtfully. “What with the nursing school, and cooking school, and having to be the exact height and weight specified by the airlines, and having our pictures taken endlessly for promotions, and the elaborate make-up every day to hide my freckles, done by Twentieth Century-Fox, believe it or not. Running our farm in Arkansas, which is what I do now, seems an easy life by comparison… but all the same I enjoyed it. It paid well and you met such nice people.”
“Are all pilots as handsome as ours?” asked Maisie.
“Yes indeed,” said Mrs. Wayne. “I don’t remember ever seeing a pilot who was not attractive.” And from her purse she pulled out the picture of her husband in full uniform, an incredibly handsome man and very like their own pilot. “That’s Daddy!” said the two little girls proudly, in unison.
“What a life,” said Maisie and sighed. “I am in the wrong profession. I should have tried to be a stewardess.”
“In my time they would not have accepted you, despite your being so attractive,” said Mrs. Wayne, laughing. “Would you believe you would have been considered too tall? You had to be under five feet four inches, and never weigh over a hundred and five pounds; I believe you must be around five-seven or -eight. I am not sure what the regulations are today, though.” Maisie laughed and admitted to her elegant height.
“And what are your names, little girls?” asked Glamora. “I want to write them on the pictures.”
“I am Patricia,” said the nine-year-old.
“And I am Mim,” said the six-year-old.
“I call her –“ Patricia started to say but was firmly interrupted by her mother. “No one needs to know how impert
inent you can be, Patricia,” said the mother. “You are not allowed to call names or to tease.” Little Mim seemed gratified but Patricia did not appear to be too upset by the rebuke. She flashed a big smile at Emma, whom she immediately recognized as the not-quite-grown-up-yet and therefore a fellow conspirator. “I’ll tell you later,” she whispered. Her mother gave her a stern look and she subsided.
The travellers settled comfortably to their occupations, looking for their books, or scripts, or needlework, as their tastes commanded, none of them wishing to play cards at the moment. Glamora produced a piece of knitting from an ornate bag. “Look, Emma,” she said, leaning forward to show the handiwork to her young friend. “Merry taught me how to knit. Isn’t it fun? We can design some beautiful sweaters together…”
“I adore knitting,” said Emma. “Let me see. My goodness, Miss Tudor, you are good! This stitch is spectacular. Are you sure you are just a beginner?”
“Oh, yes, Merry taught me just a few weeks ago, and I made a scarf. Then, she bought this gorgeous soft violet wool as my going-away gift and said it would match my eyes. The knitting is simple, though. I mastered the stitch, which is truly beautiful, I thought, but I haven’t learned how to increase or decrease, so I am making a straight shawl, but if you will show me how to increase and decrease, the next piece will be a gorgeous sweater.”
“Of course I will,” said Emma. “I wish I had brought some knitting with me, too. Such a good idea for our long flight.”
“Plenty more,” said Glamora, and produced a second bag with more soft wool, apple green this time, and the appropriate knitting needles. “All yours, love.”
“How nice!” said Emma, delighted. “I will make a little stole, such a nice colour for it, and then we will move into the sweater designs.” She started casting on with such speed and expertise that Glamora smiled with appreciation.
Lunch was served in style. The group stepped into a dining room, worthy of the Orient Express with its beautifully laid tables. The linen was thin and sparkling white, with a delicate coloured frame and the initials of Pan American printed on it. The china was white, also edged in colour, and with the logo of the airline on top of it. The cutlery was real silver, beautifully polished. The light and elegant lunch was as good as any meal served by a Continental restaurant, cooked to perfection and beautifully presented. Mr. Alcott, of course, had his orange juice, but the selection of wines was quite varied. They had a very pleasant meal, and then returned to a restful afternoon, for more gazing out of the picture windows at the blue sky with fluffy white clouds, reading, knitting, and relaxing, until it was time to freshen up for dinner. The ladies’ well-appointed dressing room offered all the necessary amenities, and everyone felt ready for dinner even though they were not required to change into an evening dress. The tables were even more elaborate than lunch, and the food just as marvellous.
“I simply cannot believe the luxury these airlines supply,” said Emma.
“It won’t last,” said Mr. Goldwasser, and drank some water.
“Why?” asked Mrs. Rivers. “What do you mean, Mr. Goldwasser? Surely more and more people fly every day, and this business will grow.”
“That’s just it, Mrs. Rivers,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “More and more people are to be accommodated. I predict that in a few years there will be a first-class and a second-class flying arrangements, and slowly the service will erode. The demand will grow nonetheless, so the airlines will stop being so generous. And those unlucky second-class travellers will not have silver and linen and crystal wine glasses... Nor will they sleep in Pullman style, but sit on some narrow benches or seats so more and more people could be fitted, something like a bus, I imagine. Mark my word, Mrs. Rivers. By the time the fifties close and the sixties start, quite a lot of elegance is going to disappear from this world, just as the changes took over after the War. But let’s not think about such depressing things! For the moment, life is still a lot of fun.” He refilled the wine glasses all around and smiled benevolently at the company, but his intelligent eyes were troubled. “Sometimes I think Jake knows a bit too much for his own good,” said Glamora rather seriously. “Being a genius is not always pleasant.” Everyone laughed and thought no more about the unpleasant future.
Since the flight from London to New York would take twenty-three hours, they expected to have a normal night’s sleep. The ladies arranged themselves in one compartment, the gentlemen in another. Glamora and Mr. Goldwasser, who originally planned to stay in the deluxe suite, graciously gave way when they were told earlier that a honeymooning couple related to the royal house of a small principality in Europe was going to be on the plane, and so the group remained together. One by one the little reading lights were turned off, and everyone slept well, lulled by the movement and soft sounds produced by the plane. The night passed peacefully.
They woke up to bright sunshine and coffee was brought in on silver trays by the cheerful stewardess. Vanity tables were attached to each berth, to help as the ladies prepared for the day. When dressed, ready, and having had their breakfast, the passengers expected to reach New York in a couple of hours, perfectly on time. The aeroplane was to land in the water of the “Marine Terminal,” and there they would change to American Airlines that would take them to California. And since the flight from New York to California was achieved in the same luxurious and pleasant style on American Airlines, which was just as accommodating and helpful as Pan American, we will not weary our readers with more descriptions, since this modest work does not presume to be a learned treatise about aviation, a most serious subject on which we know nothing at all.
Chapter Three
“I have invited a few people to join us,” said Miss Tudor, pouring drinks for Mrs. Rivers, Emma, and Edmond; the three of them were staying in Mr. Goldwasser’s house for the duration of their visit. They sat in the magnificent glassed winter garden which could have been the pride of any European royal castle, the afternoon had the glow of a Los Angeles fall, and Emma could not shake the feeling that it was all a fairy tale. “I just love the clover-shaped pool,” she said pensively and completely out of context.
Mr. Goldwasser laughed. “Would you believe, this is the second ugliest house in Hollywood,” he said proudly. “The winner in the ugliness contest belongs to a great lady; she won because she had the courage to paint it pink. She also created a heart-shaped pink swimming pool to go with it, and planted pink roses all around it. Ghastly.”
“But Jake’s house is so comfortable,” said Miss Tudor. “We were debating which house to live in, Jake’s or mine, which is rather pretty and is much smaller. But it’s not half as comfortable as this one, so we are planning to sell my house at some point, but we don’t have time for that now; we will just keep it for a while, maybe get a tenant... I rather like living in this monster. But here are Maisie and Nes!” and she gave each a hug and a drink. Mr. Alcott seemed extremely gratified by the attention, but it was clear that he was no longer in love, a fact that gave Glamora great pleasure.
“And here is another guest,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “Come right in, Rush. Everyone, in case you don’t recognize this Adonis-like face, please meet Mr. Rushmore Yukon, Rush to his friends.” Emma stared at the newcomer. She had never seen anyone as handsome as this tall, dark young man with his magnificent physique and classical features. His black hair was flawless, his suit impeccable, his unbelievable face slightly tanned. Not a Greek god, since she had always imagined they were blond, but certainly something superhuman. Even Edmond and Mr. Alcott, two very handsome men, paled in his presence. But Mr. Yukon did not seem to be in the least self-conscious and carried his extreme beauty with ease. He shook hands all around, accepted a tall drink, and sank gratefully into a comfortable chair, stretching his long legs in front of him – which took quite a lot of space.
“I have heard a lot about you, Mr. Yukon,” said Mr. Alcott. “And I saw your latest movie. You know, he is fresh out of a tremendous success with Worldwide Studios, a movie c
alled The Resplendent Fascination. It was wonderful, and you really gave quite a performance.”
“Indeed,” said Maisie. “I saw it too. Not only did you act very well, but you looked like a dreamboat in this movie, Mr. Yukon. Not that you ever look less than that, come to think of it.”
“It had a great script, a wonderful director, a magnificent leading lady, and a superb supporting cast,” said Mr. Yukon modestly. “What are looks? Big deal. When actors are good-looking, it gets them their bread and butter for a while, and then the looks vanish. In a few short years I will look like my father – and he is no beauty; skinny, bald and wrinkled… And anyway, these two here are at least as good-looking as I will ever be.” And he gave Edmond and Mr. Alcott an appreciative look which surprised Emma but no one else, and for some reason she remembered her dear friend Gaston from France, the one she ran around the fashion houses with, and who did not look like Mr. Yukon at all but something brought him to mind.
“You have a very interesting name,” said Mrs. Rivers. “I would have dearly loved to give it to one of my heroes.”
“It’s not my name, it’s a fabrication,” said Mr. Yukon. “They rarely allow us to keep our own, normal names. I wish they left me alone. Rush Yukon, honestly. Embarrassing. Humiliating. Horribly affected.”
“Not half as bad as Hank Granite,” said Edmond with feeling, looking malevolently at his host who had given him the name before casting him in Fever in Peru.
“There is a strong similarity between these two names,” said Mr. Yukon thoughtfully. “A strange coincidence, don’t you think?”
“No coincidence at all,” said Mr. Goldwasser. “It’s all about masculinity and strength. Granite, a stone. Mount Rushmore, full of boulders. Yukon, a powerful river. Hank, one syllable, brings to mind the strong and silent type. It’s all deliberate and thought-out, creating an image in the female mind.”
