[Dorothy Parker 05] - A Moveable Feast of Murder

by Agata Stanford

  Mr. Benchley poured a couple of scotches and handed them to Hemingway and Mathew. His hand shook.

  Mathew asked, “You mean he was killed in your cabin? Oh, Christ!”

  “Have they arrested anybody?” asked Hem.

  “Why do you think that—that somebody killed Saul?”

  “Yes, Mathew. How’d you know that?”

  “Well, why else would they be—”

  “Yes, right, taking out the bedding . . . .”

  “Well, let’s face it: He wasn’t much liked,” said Hem.

  “I liked him,” I said, dangling my feet off the side of the bed.

  “No one killed him,” said Mr. Benchley, before I could tear out Hem’s throat. “He just died. A heart attack.”

  Hem just stood there, a little dumbfounded, a great big buck, hands in coat pockets, looking like an adolescent. Somebody, one of my friends, had once asked me how old he was. I didn’t know, “but then again, all writers are twenty-nine or Thomas Hardy,” I said.

  Mathew remained close to the door and dwarfed by his newfound hero. “Why don’t you sit down?” I finally said.

  My mood shifted. For some reason Hemingway’s assumption that Saul had been murdered really irritated me and set me on the defensive. Whether it was because of the “Jewish” thing that had, in an unguarded moment, revealed his unsympathetic view of Jews, or the condescending comments made about Saul’s work and his obsession with Lady Twinton, I couldn’t quite say. But, I just cringed when he said:

  “I’m not surprised, really.”

  “Why is that?” asked Mr. Benchley. “Did you know he had heart trouble?”

  “Well, he was gassed during the war, you know . . . . Hell, he was behaving like a sick calf over that woman.”

  Ernest Hemingway is a young writer who struggles with the construction of every sentence he writes. Now I wondered why he didn’t choose the words he spoke with equal care. Because with every remark he made, whether intentionally patronizing or not (I could not be certain), I was growing more determined not to allow Saul Gold’s legacy to be that of the man who died of a broken heart because of the rebuff of a posh floozy. Even if what Hem said about Saul held a fundamental truth—that he was morbidly obsessed with Daphne—the word behaving was belittling. There was censure in the sentiment. And referring to Daphne as that woman was an obvious pretense: I refrained from pointing out that Hemingway himself had been falling over his own feet chasing that woman. If he weren’t careful, he’d be the next sick calf to succumb. But instead I said nothing.

  Mathew was savvy enough to see that Hem had struck a nerve with me, and, despite his rigidly polite demeanor, with Mr. Benchley as well. Mathew offered Hemingway a cigarette, and lit them both up, providing a moment for Hem to redeem himself.

  “That’s a damn shame,” said Hem, blowing out a cloud of smoke, “a damn shame.” And then he said with a concerned frown, “His wife will be—”

  “She left him soon after he returned home from the War,” I said, repeating what Saul had told me the night before.

  Only a few hours before he died.

  I didn’t want to share the confidences he’d shared with me. I wanted to protect them. All Hem and Mathew needed to know was that he no longer had a wife.

  It was obvious that my “cocktail party” was not going to be the gin-swilling laugh-fest the young men were hoping for. So when Rodney knocked at my door a few minutes later to tell Mr. Benchley that his room was ready, and he followed the steward out to go change into his dinner suit, the boys naturally made their exit, too.

  “It was during my time on the S.S. Grant, just after the Spanish War . . . .” Captain Fried was holding forth.

  It was to be another gather-’round-the-campfire dinner, with roast beef and gratin potatoes instead of franks and beans, I thought, proving Emerson right, that all heroes become bores. But the captain’s narrative was a distraction from the events of the day, so I didn’t mind listening to his 1906 adventure, or the account of the rescue of 1911.

  People glancing over at our table could see what appeared to be the members of a boxing club: Mathew, Hemingway, and Richard all bore testimony to their afternoon brawl in the card room. Their facial bruises had risen with red and purple distinction; the left side of Hemingway’s upper lip bulged out as if he’d been stung by a bee. There was a bruise on his cheekbone. He wore his battle scars proudly and had enhanced the effect by slapping on a large plaster over his eyebrow since he’d been for a drink in my room. Mr. Benchley had acquired a lump on his crown, which appeared as a vicious blue carbuncle at his hairline. Occasionally, he would wince and groan at the slightest twist of his torso; Mathew favored his shoulder, Richard his bruised fist. Our Captain Fried must have thought their conditions punishment enough not to cluck or shake his head or in any way acknowledge the afternoon’s melee. And I liked him for that.

  The Duchess and the Major were having dinner in their staterooms, I was told. Thankfully, Lady Twinton and Marquis Ronald had not appeared at the dinner table by the time the soup was served. Even I had had enough of their kind of excitement for one day.

  Hemingway, who was ordinarily enraptured with the captain’s tales of sea rescue, was glancing over at the dining room’s entryway every minute or two. And when the Lady appeared during the fish course, the captain could have been talking about his treacherous rescue of the rocket-ship Cosmos stranded on Mars, for all Hem seemed to care.

  The waiter pushed in her chair next to Hemingway’s, and the captain droned on with his recollections.

  But Captain Fried was not insensitive to the guests at his table, and when the meat course had been served, he brought out a book that was tucked in his coat and turned to Soledad Soleil.

  “Miss Soleil, I have long admired your clever mysteries—”

  “You are so kind.”

  “They have accompanied me on many a voyage—”

  “I’m so pleased!”

  “Your little shop-girl, Harriet Morgan, is delightful and has the heart of a warrior. And Jonas McGill, the Duke’s valet, an otherwise stuffy sort, is happily untwisted by her antics. Won’t you sign your latest novel for me, Miss Soleil?”

  “Soledad, please. I’d be delighted, Captain.”

  “George.”

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice husky and full of promise. “Yes, George.” Her smile dazzled.

  She opened the front cover and turned to the flyleaf while the captain pulled out a pen from his coat and uncapped the nib. As Soledad inscribed the book, he took the opportunity of watching with evident admiration. She ended with a sweeping flourish, capped the pen, and handed it back to him. I could swear sparks flew when their hands met for an instant.

  “Tell me, what is your next book, Miss—Soledad?”

  “Oh!” she said, excitement trilling her voice, “It’s about a murder aboard a steamship, entitled, Death Sails the High Seas.”

  As soon as she spoke the title her smile dropped, as did the pitch of her voice. “Oh, dear. Oh, my . . . .”

  To dispel his obvious attraction and, more immediately, Soledad’s discomfort at having hit a nerve, Captain Fried turned to Hemingway and asked if he had read Soledad’s mystery stories.

  “Uhhhh,” said Hemingway, taken by surprise, before recovering and flashing his brilliant smile. “I’ve not had the pleasure.”

  “You’ll find them very amusing—very amusing, indeed,” said Captain Fried.

  “I’ve read Miss Soleil’s books,” said Mathew. “I like them. They reflect our society at the moment.”

  “Oh, yes, very,” I said, looking over at Hem. “Soledad’s Harriet is the new flapper type, and her valet partner is so ingrained with Victorian stuffiness that it makes for lots of fun to watch her un-stuff him. Once you’ve read one, you’ll be hooked.”

  “They are really wonderful, Hem,” said Mr. Benchley.

  “Well,” said Hem, “I like good books. I haven’t read many mysteries . . . Dostoevsky’s Crime and Pu
nishment . . . and, oh, yes, I read The Lodger—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Soledad. “Marie Belloc Lowndes. She is a fine writer.”

  “Miss Stein let me borrow it,” said Hemingway. “It was a good book—real horror, true and good. And the Simenon stories—”

  “He’s a crime reporter,” said Mathew.

  “That young man is a marvel,” replied Soledad. “Why, he can put out forty, fifty, sixty pages a day. When I met Georges at the Café de Flores, not so long ago, he told me about a book he was commissioned to write. His character was to be a detective, and he was trying to decide what name to give him. I suggested Maigret—Commissionaire Maigret. I thought it humorous that such a prolific writer would struggle for so long over a character’s name.”

  When the last drops of coffee were drained from Soledad’s cup, Captain Fried asked if he could have the pleasure of a dance. That cued Richard Hartley to ask me for a twirl around the dance floor. Hemingway wasted no time in asking Daphne, who had not been participating during the dinner conversation, before Mathew or Mr. Benchley could beat him to it. But he needn’t have worried. Neither competitor would be doing more than a two-step tonight.

  “Are you all right, Dorothy?” asked Richard as the orchestra shifted from “The Sheik of Araby” to a perky rendition of the new Rogers and Hart song, “Mountain Greenery.”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, a little too listlessly. Richard met my gaze, and I realized he wasn’t talking about how tired I was. “Oh, you mean about what’s happened.”

  “Well, it is disconcerting, certainly.” He smiled sympathetically. “I know you liked Saul. I did, too. He seemed to carry the world on his shoulders. A big weight on frail shoulders, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yes. Exactly,” I said, “and he bore that weight alone. You always bear the weight of life alone when you are not loved.”

  I regretted it the moment I had said it. When you are not loved. It sounded so corny, so pathetic, so Louisa May Alcott. The truth is that this insight was a little too personal for comfort because it was pretty much the condition of Dorothy Parker.

  I decided to deflect Richard’s response with: “Tell me about the paper you will deliver.”

  “It’s a report of my findings on the treatment of infantile paralysis.”

  “How exciting. No, I really mean it! How wonderful to do work that can change the lives of so many people.”

  “It is rewarding when one finds a cure, certainly. Often one only stumbles upon one through a series of missteps. And it is frustrating, too, when all you can offer is treatment—a way for patients to cope with their misery.”

  Richard had been married once, before the War, but the marriage was quickly annulled. He didn’t tell me why it ended when he’d mentioned it last night while we were laughing and playing and drinking in Mr. Benchley’s cabin during the last hours of Saul Gold’s life. I liked Richard. I liked his soft, cognac-colored eyes that looked upon the world and its many creatures with gentle compassion. He was quick to see the paradoxes around him, and where the absurdity and futility of life could make me suicidal it would merely make him smile.

  Yes, I liked Richard Hartley. A doctor. My long-dead mother would approve.

  Before I could consider the idea forming in my head, I saw Ronnie making his way through the tight hive of dancers. Hemingway and Daphne were only a few feet away from us. When he got to the couple, he cut in, in the rather rude fashion of a stumbling drunk. From the unguarded flash of disgust on Hem’s face, I thought he was going to deck Ronnie, but a touch of Daphne’s hand on his fighting arm brought him back from the edge. He nodded to his partner and, with jaw set, walked off the dance floor.

  “I feel a rising tension,” I said to Richard, watching Hem disappear into the crowd.

  “Me, too,” he replied. “But not how you think.”

  “My girdle must be too tight.”

  “No,” said Mr. Benchley, like a phantom in my ear. “He’s holding you too tight.”

  I turned to look at my friend, who was ridiculously keeping in step behind me. He pulled me around to face him. “I am cutting in, Hartley; go find some other darling girl to charm.”

  “Shall I knock him down?” joked Richard.

  “Better not; he’s got a glass skull.”

  “Phrenologically speaking, he’s got the head of a criminal.”

  There was a commotion rippling along the dance floor, and couples were bumping into each other. “The many ahhs and ouffs and I-beg-your-pardons and watch-where-you’re-steppings increased in volume, and then above the voices I heard Daphne let out a little yell and Ronnie’s upper-crust voice ringing out with some slurred English, before Daphne cut through the crush and out past where we stood on the outer edge of the dance circle. She made for the doors with Ronnie in slogging pursuit. Richard, who was still on the dance floor, intercepted him and received a glancing blow to his face before Ronnie continued on his way.

  “One fistfight a day is enough for me,” said Richard with a hand to his forehead. “Let’s get some fresh air,” I said.

  “Yes, I could use a cigar right now,” said Mr. Benchley.

  I gave him a knowing look.

  “All right, then; I’ll see you two kids later.”

  Richard fetched my wrap and we walked out onto the deck. A short distance away we saw Daphne, with Ronnie’s arm around her shoulders. They were cheek to cheek and staring out over the silver streak of moonlight cutting through the dark expanse. We turned to walk in the opposite direction. It was cold, but the air was exhilarating, and in blue velvet and silver fox, with my hand in Richard’s, I was cozy. Other passengers had the same idea, and we strolled along in silence; the swoosh of the ship slicing through the great black ocean and the steady hum of the engines were soothing. The great funnels sent out puffy white clouds that rolled away like forgotten memories dispersed among a vast universe of stars.

  For the sky was emblazoned with them. I’m a city girl, and of course the best places in Manhattan to see stars are in Central Park, or down at the Battery, facing south into the bay. But, on this first clear night at sea, I was enraptured by the astronomical wonders to behold! The moon was full, and it was gently shedding its beneficent blessing upon us. I now understood the power of its brilliance—how, under its soft light, a dullard could turn into a poet or a sane man into a mad one, and, just for its own amusement, it could lift and lower the great oceans of the Earth.

  “Look at all those stars!” I said, sounding like a schoolgirl. I thought “wonder” had long ago left my heart and been replaced with wary cynicism. “Look at those two, just below the moon! They are so bright!”

  “Venus and Jupiter. The brighter one is Venus. And there is Orion, see? Over there, those three stars all in a row,” Richard said, his arm around me, pointing up in the direction in front of my face for my eyes to follow. “See those? That’s Orion’s Belt.”

  “Oh, I know! That’s from where the great Egyptian God, Osiris, watches over his earthly kingdom! And his wife, Isis—”

  I didn’t get to finish the sentence, which was fine with me, for I had no more knowledge of the Pharaohs to continue on anyway, when Richard moved me into a shelter from the wind and pulled me into a full embrace. His mouth was soft, and as he pressed against me he warmed the cold fox fur between us.

  He smiled, and his eyes, dark with shadow, caught a moonbeam. And then, seeing it was all right, he pulled me closer and kissed me again.

  I’d hit the jackpot! Smart, funny, classy, a doctor, and one hell of kisser! What did I do right?

  “Are you wooing me?”

  “You’re wowing me,” he said, before moving in for another kiss.

  I was a little breathless. All right, I couldn’t breathe. When he released me, his eyes searched my face, a finger lifting my chin toward the moonlight to better read my thoughts. His smile of amusement, of shy inquiry, remained. I just had to turn away. I was juggling conflicting emotions in my heart. I wanted nothi
ng more than for him to make love to me, right there, right now, on the cold, shellacked wood of the deck—although a soft mattress would’ve been better—but as much as I wanted, yes! so much wanted to fall into his arms, onto the deck, onto a bed, and into love, I just knew that such an affair would be fleeting, and in the end . . . .

  “Let’s have a cigarette, shall we?”

  “Yes, let’s,” I said, pulling the fox cape tighter around me, as if it could shield my thoughts and muffle the sound of my beating heart.

  He pulled out his gold cigarette case from the inside pocket of his evening suit. I was about to say, “But we’re supposed to wait until after the sex,” but the words would have sounded fresh and common, like all the snappy retorts tossed about by my generation for the purpose of appearing modern and outrageous and, therefore, interesting. Not that; not now.

  Instead of offering me a cigarette, he placed two of them between his lips.

  We had the stars . . . . We had the moon . . . . We had . . . Mr. Benchley?

  A disembodied voice sounded at my ear. “I’ll have one, if you don’t mind.”

  Damn! It was Mr. Benchley!

  “Light it for me, would you, Rich? War’s over; three on a match won’t get us shot.”

  Richard looked at my friend like he’d encountered a lunatic, then chuckled and popped a third cigarette between his lips, lit them all afire, and handed ours over.

  Very romantic.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, while giving Mr. Benchley the Evil Eye.

  “I knew I’d find you out here.”

  “Did you have to?” I said, and then, resigned, “What’s up, Joe?”

  Instead of answering, he lifted his head toward the sky and exhaled a stream of smoke. “My God! What a sky! Look at that moon!”

  We’d been trying to! I wanted to say.

  “Yeah, yeah, the moon,” I said. “It’s full.”

  “Well, ninety-two percent full,” he corrected. “Won’t be full until Saturday night, and then the tides will rise and the Dow will tumble.”

  “Thank you, Farmer Gray. Whaddayawant?”

  “Oh, yes, well, I was about to tell you: There’s something funny going on.”