“So sorry to be late,” said another new arrival to our table. He was impeccably suited in evening clothes. I was blinded by the flash of brilliance that bounced off his sizable diamond studs when I looked up at the fellow. Early thirties, auburn-colored hair thinning at the crown, he stood there with one hand in his trouser pocket and the other leaning on the shoulder of Lady Twinton in the familiar gesture that spoke of casual intimacy. He pulled out from his coat an expensive-looking gold cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, and lit up by means of an equally extravagant gold lighter. “How are you, darling?” he said in the dulcet tones and fine elocution of a British thespian, as he leaned in to kiss the Lady’s cheek.
“Dry, not a lick of it anywhere, and I’m damn thirsty.”
“Baby wanz ha bot-tle,” I said in an aside to Mr. Benchley. We women had him book-ended at table.
“Ronald,” said Lady Twinton, “meet the gang; the gang, meet Ronald.”
Ronald shook hands with the men, reached for my hand, leaned over it and said, “Mrs. Parker, isn’t it? It is such a pleasure to meet you, you can’t know!”
“Oh, don’t I?” I replied, drawling haughtily, sounding more like a Southern Belle than the English aristocrat I had intended to mimic. I felt my scotch was still threatened, thanks to Mr. Benchley’s cavalier offer to share. I was like a kid with the key to a candy store, and I wasn’t about to share my loot with the riffraff whose runny noses were pressed against the shop window. I don’t know why, but I took an instant dislike to Lady Twit and her handsome beau.
“We serve an especially nice drink made with tea and fruit juices and a dash of bitters,” suggested our captain. “We also serve carbonated beverages, coffee, tea—”
“Oh, I so wanted to have a good time,” whined Lady Twit. “I suppose I’ll have to make do with sarsaparilla.”
“Never fear, dear lady,” said Mr. Benchley, patting his hip flask.
She turned on him an arched brow and a dazzling smile, and with a gesture of conspiracy, squeezed his arm.
“I believe we will be great friends,” she cooed.
Mr. Benchley blushed, the rat! But before he could reply, her attention was drawn to the entrance of the dining room, and whatever she was looking at turned her flirtatious manner into a look of sheer annoyance. I followed her gaze, to find the object of her contempt none other than the fellow Woodrow and I had encountered out on deck earlier. “I wish he’d just go away,” she said.
“That nice fellow over there?” asked Soledad Soleil.
“Yeah, him . . . .”
“We met on deck this afternoon, but I never got his name.”
“Gold,” said Ronald, taking a seat. “Goldblatt,” he elaborated, pulling his pant-legs at the knees as he sat and displaying impeccably white, pressed wrist-cuffs as he settled in. “But he goes by Saul Gold.”
I knew that name, but I just couldn’t place it. “Journalist?”
“Saul Gold,” said Hem, attention drawn away from his discussion with the captain. “Poet, isn’t he?”
“So he claims,” said Ronald.
“Saul teaches at Columbia, and is a friend of Harold Ross’s and Heywood Broun’s. He’s a fine writer,” said Mr. Benchley, turning to look toward the entrance.
“Yes,” said Hem, “I’ve read some of his poetry, now that I think of it. And he has a book that’s come out. His work is dark.”
“I’ll say,” said Lady Twinton, a comment laden with some sort of secret knowledge.
Hem’s eyes settled on her, and he seemed to study her. I could see the details of his evaluation as his face changed expressions in rapid succession: A spoiled, rich girl, everything about her raised contempt in him. She was too skinny, brittle, and boney-chested, and all that was natural and genuine in her face was obscured with paint. Her clothes were expensive, but the simple cut and expert tailoring of the excellent cloth mocked the current trends in fashion with classic style. She was just too finished, too smooth, and she smelled of exotic, forbidden places where men secretly long to linger. She embodied everything he detested about the rich, and about the seductive, modern woman hell-bent on flaunting her sex. This tore at him. This challenged him. That he was nearly penniless, aside from the small advance he’d received from Scribner’s against royalties for the publication of his novel, was embraced by him as some kind of virtue. Hem wore the smug moral superiority of the artistically inclined toward bourgeois lifestyles, having proudly endured the sufferings of icy garrets, worn shoe-leather, and the abject poverty of salad days. Gertrude Stein, his friend and mentor, fed this outlook when she told him, “You can buy clothes or buy art.” Hem had one decent suit of clothes, purchased for the trip to New York, and the rest were little better than sorry rags, but he had yet to collect any art. No Picassos, no Miros—not even a sketch by his friend Léger. No, and he didn’t like the rich, although it was the rich, the kind, wealthy people who befriended him and helped him through the hard times, paid for his fare, and provided help to his wife and his son, Bumby. He didn’t like the rich. And he didn’t like Lady Daphne Twinton. But that didn’t make him apathetic. It made him interested.
“You know the man? Gold?” Hem asked her.
The Lady shrugged, “And I regret it, I suppose.”
She didn’t much like Gold.
“Well, we must ask Saul Gold to join us for a drink,” I said to everybody at table, because I didn’t much like the way things were headed. I saw more than dislike for the man in the Lady’s and Ronald’s response. It was an old, familiar look of disdain. Mr. Benchley appeared oblivious to the subtext of their remarks.
So, Hemingway didn’t like Lady Daphne and her friend Ronald because they were tactlessly rich, and the rich couple didn’t like Saul Gold because he was a Jew.
“Sounds like a smart plan, Mrs. Parker, everybody,” agreed Soledad Soleil. “You, too, Captain Fried, so we can personally toast your gallant rescue! My stateroom after dinner.” And then, directed conspiratorially at me and Mr. Benchley: “How else are we to get through the night on this tub?”
Shrimp-cocktail glasses were replaced with soup and then plates of rack of lamb and the conversation split along several lines. Ronald and the Lady conspired with Mr. Benchley; Soledad Soleil, Mathew, and Hemingway listened with rapt attention to the adventures of Captain Fried at sea. I watched Saul Gold, standing near the entryway across the room, shifting his weight, smoking a cigarette, and appearing at a loss for what to do next. It was painful to watch, because he seemed so isolated. When he caught my eye, he nodded. I smiled back and with a raised eyebrow beckoned him to our table. But, he turned when the maître d’ arrived to lead him to a table obscured from our view by a column. And as the orchestral strains of Mendelssohn wafted through the air, I left off wondering if there was something other than the fact that Gold was a Jew that had brought sneers of contempt to the faces of some of our dinner mates, because I was being drawn into the story of heroism at sea. I began to envision the great storm, two weeks before, a storm that followed a hurricane that had wracked the North Atlantic Ocean for twenty-two days. I was now, along with the men, completely entranced with the elements of the great sea rescue.
“From the Azores, as far north as Iceland, and west to the shores of Maine,” said Captain Fried, “day and night, without reprieve, the gale raged on. We heard the SOS, and for a time we were uncertain from whence it came.”
“I heard it was hours before your crew was able to effect a rescue,” said Hem, his brown eyes catching the light and sparked with interest. He is a handsome devil, I thought, especially when passionately engaged.
“The storm was unrelenting, the sea, a churning caldron!” replied the captain. “We were a hundred miles distant, and had to guide the ship by radio compass. Still, it was not easy to find her with a drift of five knots as the day went on.”
Mr. Benchley was as drawn in by the tale of adventure as was I. Hearing of the terror firsthand, I must have displayed a frightened stare, for Mr. Ben
chley said, “You see, my dear, you are quite safe, now.”
“How is that?”
“Lightning never strikes twice, or something like that.”
The captain continued, “—and it appeared the Antinoe was not alone in its troubles: The oil tanker, Vacuum, collided with and sunk the Norwegian freighter, Solvang, carrying a four-hundred-thousand-dollar cargo of sugar. Two disasters, back to back!”
“Never strikes twice, hmmm?” I said, throwing a face at Mr. Benchley.
“That crew, save one soul, was rescued by the efforts of the Vacuum’s crew.
“I should revise my statement,” said Mr. Benchley, “Third time’s a charm.”
“You mean, three strikes, you’re out!”
“Dance, Daff?”
I looked up to see Saul Gold, standing over Lady Twinton’s chair.
“Thanks, no, I’m spent. Going to finish up my just desserts and off to bed.”
“It’s early, yet.”
“So nice to see you,” I said when Gold caught my eye.
“Mrs. Parker.”
Mr. Benchley stood to shake hands, as did Captain Fried, Hem, and Mathew. Ronald and Lady Twinton just looked sheepish.
The steward appeared at the captain’s side with a note, and after it was read the captain nodded at his crewman and then addressed Mr. Benchley. “We’ve accommodations for you, Mr. Benchley.”
“Out of the cargo hold and into a cot in the infirmary?”
“A First-Class suite. Mr. Robins will have your luggage brought up as soon as the cabin is cleared.”
“A kind soul has offered to let me sleep on his sofa? I’ll be put out in the middle of the night, I fear, even though my snoring is no worse than a freight train barreling through the room.”
The captain smiled winsomely. “No, no; It’s your very own cabin.”
“Excuse me, my dear,” said Mr. Benchley, rising and touching my shoulder. “I shall return.” He followed the purser out of the dining room.
I turned to Saul Gold, who hovered uncomfortably over the table, and bade him sit down at Mr. Benchley’s vacated place. “I read a piece you wrote some time ago in The Bookman, about the synergy between Darwin’s theories in On the Origin of Species and H.G. Wells’s Lost World.”
“Hummm,” he nodded gravely, and then met my eyes and smiled wistfully, “I wish you’d forget it.”
“Why?”
“It was tripe. Can’t guess why they’d bothered to publish it. Wrote it after a nightmare where I was being mauled and then swallowed whole by a talking serpent.”
“Some dreams are best forgotten, you mean?”
“Something like that, yes,” he chuckled. He had a plain but pleasant face that was seen at best advantage when he smiled. But there was melancholy, too, which was only accentuated by the pitted scarring along his cheek—I’d seen this so many times over the past ten years, the results of shrapnel—and the scar etched into his hairline. His look was haunted; most men who’d known the travesties of the Front wore that expression. It hung about his eyes, earnest eyes, sad eyes. I recognized something else in his face, and I wondered if the elusive quality that I saw was the same that had caught the attention of Hemingway and Mathew when Captain Fried was called away from the table in the middle of his retelling of his adventures.
“Gold is a good poet, Dorothy,” said Hemingway, with magnanimity, “rest assured. His images are true.”
Gold flushed red, the lizard-shaped scar drained white, and I could see his embarrassment. He knew that he wasn’t liked by several of the people at the table, and Hemingway’s outright commentary brought to mind Hem’s own discomfort with such obsequiousness. As much as Hem craved flattery, and he believed every flattering remark tossed his way, it only brought a strange sort of contempt for the flatterer. He thought it bad form to compliment, to acknowledge an artist’s success or ability so overtly, telling me, when I had gushed about his short stories and his distinctive style, that our mutual friend, Scott Fitzgerald, in constantly voicing his admiration of Hem’s talents, embarrassed him no end and made him feel cheapened somehow, his work less relevant. I got the point, of course, after he shot me down with complaints of Scott, so I don’t tell him I admire his work anymore. With me, if I were told how wonderful I was, how marvelous my poems and stories were, I’d think the flatterer drunk or lacking artistic standards, that they probably liked A.A. Milne and thought him crafty. I would feel contempt for their shallow words and my own shallow attempts at reaching for “literature.” Call me a malcontent, but most writers feel this way, shunning the praise for fear of ultimately being revealed a fake. But the paradox is, all creative people crave acceptance. On the other hand, a favorable review read in the privacy of one’s home or an overheard remark of praise always suits me best.
Hemingway knew this, and could’ve guessed at Gold’s reaction when he made his unsolicited assessment. Why did he say of Gold that he was good and his images true as if his critique was expected, if not to embarrass the fellow? Was there some professional jealousy here? I sensed no genuine admiration in the delivery of his flattery. This disturbed me, because Hemingway never struck me as anything other than a kind man.
“Why are you on this ship, Gold?” asked a rather tight Ronald. This was a frontal attack, and I tried to sort out the dynamics of the relationships among the people at the table, but I was at a loss in figuring it out. The remark had caused a rising tension that was almost palpable among the three—Ronald, Lady Twinton, and Saul Gold. Mathew appeared as perplexed as I, so he filled the dead air with nervous chatter, asking Hem about the Paris life. Hem ignored him for the drama unfolding right in front of him. So did Soledad Soleil. I got the impression that the two authors had taken out mental dictation pads and were poised with pencils to put down word-for-word what was being said. I know I had.
I interjected, “I’ve been asking myself that same question! Why am I on this ship?” I said, in an attempt to diffuse the bomb. I could see a fight about to start. But, who was going to throw the first punch? “There’s not a decent bootlegger on board, and my little doggie has to stand guard over my stash.”
“You’ve got nerve, you know,” continued Ronald, ignoring me and pointing at Gold. “Nobody wants you here.”
“Cut it out, Ronnie,” growled Lady Twinton. “Just forget it, for God’s sake!” There was no real conviction behind her words, just the lethargy of a drunk who couldn’t care less.
“Ronald,” I said, “tell me, are you going on to Paris after we arrive in Cherbourg?”
“Well, I’ve decided to avoid going home. England is cold and wet and unwelcoming, like my Daphne, here. Have to show my Daphne the sights, you know. Can’t leave her for too long; she gets lonely without me.”
“Shut up, Ronnie, you’re boring when you’re tight.”
“But you do get lonely when I’m gone.”
“Sure, sure, I’m lonely when you’re gone.” She threw a glance at Hem, and ran her tongue over her lips. Then she turned her gaze on Mathew, who looked entranced. “Give us a smoke, would you, Ronnie?” she said, keeping her eyes on Mathew as Ronald took out his flashy cigarette case and lit her up.
I was uncomfortable, to say the least, watching this obvious seduction of the men at the table. If I were to wash my lips with my tongue, I’d be handed a dinner napkin. “See you around,” I stated and rose from my chair. It was a long moment before the men woke from hypnosis and rose from their seats to see me out.
Soledad Soleil gathered her purse and wrap. “I’m off, too. Have to think of six ways to murder a man.”
“Wait, I’ll take out my list.” I said.
She giggled, “Whoever said writing mysteries wasn’t fun?”
I waited for her to join me in exit from the room. The orchestra was now playing peppy dance music, tunes written by my Algonquin friends, Irving Berlin and George Gershwin, and if the company had been more pleasant rather than rabid, and had Mr. Benchley been around, I’d’ve enjoyed trippin
g the light fantastic for a little while. But, I was not so very abandoned and left to my own devices. Soledad Soleil confided that she had brought aboard two cases of Irish whiskey and had an excellent bottle of Tequila as well, several limes in her fruit basket, and a pilfered salt shaker from the dinner table in her purse. I was liking the woman more and more as we glided out of the room to the upbeat strains of “Let’s Misbehave.” To my surprise, Saul Gold was on our heels.
“Come on, my stateroom is just around the bend, and there is room for all,” said Soledad, moving forward to lead the way, and I liked that she had included Gold without a direct invitation.
As we entered the long block of staterooms and approached Mr. Benchley’s, from a door beyond his room a little redhead of a man peeked out, saw us coming, and then retreated.
I heard the familiar voice of Mr. Benchley talking with a steward. He was getting settled in his new and quite lovely suite. I popped my head in to look at the spacious room. He returned a big grin when he saw me, and exclaimed, “Well, didn’t I hit the jackpot?”
“I’ll say! Who’d you have to kill to get this swanky flat?”
“I am innocent! It was a last-minute cancellation, and I don’t have to pay a penny more than the ninety-dollar fare I paid for Third Class for this one-hundred-and-ninety-dollar First-Class stateroom with the extras you see here!”
“Well, well!” I said, nodding and pointing out the various accoutrements the room had to offer. “Complete with full-size bed, a fabulous view of the pitch-black night (it will be nice to see the sunrise at noon when you wake up), superior luxury furnishings—the sofa is covered in Dupioni silk, if you’ve noticed, and, of course, a complimentary fruit basket, I see.”
“Gold,” said Mr. Benchley, glimpsing the man peeking in at the doorway. “Come in, old sport! Now, where in heavens is my briefcase?”
“Well, set out your pajamas and toothbrush and join us for a drink, will ya?”
[Dorothy Parker 05] - A Moveable Feast of Murder Page 3