Around the World With Auntie Mame

by Dennis, Patrick

  “L’Imperatrice!” two flunkies bawled.

  Then Auntie Mame began descending the stairs and, aided by all those Russian wolfhounds, she got down a lot faster than she had got up, her hat and wig rocking violently. She managed to keep her footing— just—and the house roared with admiration.

  “Oh, mon amour,” she sobbed.

  “Take it off, Queenie!” that voice called up from the audience.

  “This is where she condemns him to death,” Vera whispered to me.

  I was feeling so relieved to think that this was almost over that I began to take a little more interest in the mise en scène. “I don’t quite follow the plot, Vera,” I said. “It’s a little like Elizabethand Essex except that . . .”

  “The French don’t care about plots, de-ah,” Vera said, “as long as they’ve got enough costumes and scenery and biggish effects.”

  Well, they certainly had plenty.

  Some way—don’t ask me how—the Empress indicated that she wanted her innocent admirer broken on the rack, then flayed alive, then drawn and quartered by shouting, “Oh, mon amour.” A trap door opened, flames licked out of it, and the hapless young man was thrown in with a hideous scream and a chillingly realistic thud. Then the massed offstage chorus sang the old Russian anthem (in French), Auntie Mame shrieked, “Oh, mon amour!” and slumped to the floor as the curtain fell.

  The house was in an uproar with cries of “Brava” and “Bis! Bis!”

  Fortunately, the Folies-Bergère never grants encores, but the curtain was raised and lowered four times and still Auntie Mame stayed on the floor, struggling weakly to rise while the dogs wagged their tails feverishly and sniffed at her wig.

  “Vera! Patrick!” she called piteously. “I can’t get up. This damned dress has me weighed down.” The orchestra was playing hell-for-leather as Vera and I with two stagehands got Auntie Mame out of the pearl dress and disentangled from the wolfhounds, but even over the sound of the music and the rumble of the shifting scenery I could hear the audience cheering and calling the name of Vera Charles. I could also hear the voice shouting “Take it off!”

  There wasn’t a dry eye backstage. As I led Auntie Mame to her dressing room, performers and stagehands alike stopped whatever they were doing to cheer for Vera Charles. “Oh, mes amours!” Auntie Mame cried, quite carried away with her triumph, and the company cheered again.

  UP IN THE DRESSING ROOM AUNTIE MAME AND VERA collapsed into each other’s arms while the dogs fell to scratching and licking themselves. “Mame,” Vera cried emotionally, “you were magnificent. Only I could have done it any better. What I need now is a drink.”

  “What I need,” Auntie Mame said, “is a general anesthetic. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Oh, but Mame de-ah,” Vera said, “you’ve forgotten the grand finale.”

  “What grand finale?” Auntie Mame asked blankly.

  “Why, there’s always a grand finale, Mame.”

  “I didn’t see one last week,” Auntie Mame said.

  “That’s because you didn’t stay until the end, de-ah. Now, your costume for that is . . .”

  “Vera Charles, you didn’t say one mumbling word about any grand finale. I’ve gone through hell for you and now I . . .”

  “Perhaps it did slip my mind, Mame dulling,” Vera said. “But you’d better make your change right away. It comes on right after the Arabian Nights number.”

  “Now see here, Vera,” Auntie Mame said crossly, lighting a cigarette, “if I have to wear another one of those public monuments that I can hardly breathe in . . .”

  “Not at all, dulling,” Vera said, lifting the wig off Auntie Mame’s head and substituting a towering headdress of jet beads and black monkey fur, “this outfit is coolness itself.”

  “That’s good,” Auntie Mame said. “Now just what do I have to do?”

  “First of all,” Vera said absently, “take off that brassière and put this one on. Same with your pants. Well, you simply wait until you hear the master of ceremonies call Vera Charles and . . .”

  “I don’t need fresh underwear, Vera,” Auntie Mame began, “I put this on just before we . . .”

  “Do stop chattering, Mame, and hurry,” Vera said, unhooking Auntie Mame’s brassière. “Turn your back, Patrick. Then you and the wolfhounds come down this long flight of stairs. . . . Now the pants, de-ah. Put these on. That’s right. . . . Oh, there’s also a page boy—this very nice unemployed juggler from Lyons—to carry your train. There! You look divine. Now for the train. Then you simply walk along the promenade that encircles the orchestra pit, go back onto the stage, smile, bow, and that’s that.”

  Vera knelt down behind Auntie Mame and snapped a long train made of black monkey fur to the seat of her pants, if indeed that garment could be dignified by the term pants. It was flesh-colored net with a scattering of jet beads where jets were needed most. The brassière followed along the same general lines.

  “And,” Vera said, getting up, “you get to wear the longest train of anybody in the company. Not even the mannequins or the danseuse nue have anything that comes within two yards of yours.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  “Entrez,” Vera called.

  The door opened and a morose young man came in. He was wearing gold pantaloons and a big gold turban trimmed with monkey fur. “Ah good,” Vera said. “Here’s your page boy. Good luck, dulling.”

  “But where’s the rest of my costume?” Auntie Mame looked down at the considerable expanse of herself relieved only by the scattering of jet beads.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you reminded me,” Vera said. “Here are your gloves and here’s your fan.” Vera handed Auntie Mame a pair of long black gloves and a big fan made of monkey fur.

  “And?” Auntie Mame said.

  “And what, dulling?”

  “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that this is all you expect me to wear? Well, Vera Charles, if you think I’m going out there in . . .”

  “But, Mame,” Vera said, “it’s the most expensive costume in the whole finale. Real jets and genuine monkey fur. It’s . . .”

  “I don’t care if it’s made of the Missing Link. I’m not going out there practically naked with a totally strange unemployed juggler holding up my . . .”

  “Oh,” Vera said airily, “if that’s all you’re worried about, Patrick can do the train bit for you. Here you,” she said to the page boy, “dis-robez. Strip. Shuck. Peel.”

  “Hey, listen,” I began. But Vera had my shirt off and was plucking at my belt and the callboy was rapping at the door.

  I CAN’T TO THIS DAY RECALL EXACTLY HOW EVERYthing happened, but the next thing I knew, the six wolfhounds were pulling Auntie Mame, cursing and protesting, down the dressing-room stairs. I followed blindly behind in gold pantaloons, clutching at Auntie Mame’s monkey-fur train with one hand and trying to get the gold turban out of my eyes with the other hand. The dogs dragged us up to the top of another flight of stairs. I heard Auntie Mame cry, “I won’t go on. I’m damned if I . . .” A Romanian tenor was squealing something about Paree, les belles de nuit, something-something cher ami.

  I got the turban out of my eyes just as the master of ceremonies called, “Mees Verah Sharl.” The orchestra struck up “My Miss American Beauty.” The dogs leaped forward. So did Auntie Mame. So did I.

  As I say, the exact details elude me. I was blinded by the light and deafened by the applause. It was said that not since Josephine Baker appeared there ten years before had such an ovation been accorded any American star. But I wasn’t thinking about ovations. I was thinking about sucking in my bare stomach and thrusting out my bare chest and not falling ass over elbow down those steps. They seemed longer than the stairs from the top of the Eiffel Tower but eventually my feet touched ground. The lesser stars had taken their bows and there was nothing now but for the counterfeit Vera Charles to make her circuit of the orchestra and call it a night.

  The six wolfhounds—seasoned trou
pers, it seems—capered off across the footlights in smart single file and blazed a trail along the yard-wide runway that surrounded the orchestra pit. Auntie Mame followed, clutching their six leashes in one hand while with the other she flapped her big monkey-fur fan, trying ineffectually to cover as much of her torso as possible. I followed in the caboose, so to speak, the monkey-fur train leaving a gap of some fifteen feet between us.

  The crowd rose to its feet, stamping and cheering and roaring its adoration. The air was thick with cries of “Brava” and “Vera.” And from the first row I heard a voice shout, “Yo, Queenie! Take it off!”

  And just then I saw a shooting stick thrust out onto the runway in front of Auntie Mame. “Look out, Auntie Mame!” I called.

  It was too late.

  The shooting stick caught Auntie Mame around the ankle. She paused. She faltered. She swayed. And then she plummeted down into the first row, dragging the wolfhounds with her, snarling and yelping at the ends of their leashes as her mask flew into the air. I followed, having been too stunned by the whole thing to let go of her train. In a second we were all struggling and thrashing there in the first row, Auntie Mame, Sascha, Jascha, Vanya, Pavel, Boris, Morris, and I in a hopeless tangle of dog hair and monkey fur. I heard Auntie Mame cry, “My God! It’s Dwight Babcock !” Then she fainted.

  That seemed like a splendid idea, so I pretended to faint, too. The crowd did the rest, for the French are fiercely loyal to their stars. With cries of “Cochon!” “Brigand!” “ Voleur!” they fell upon Mr. Babcock and dragged him bodily from the theater. Opening one eye, I saw him being buffeted and pummeled all the way up the aisle. I hated Mr. Babcock like poison, but I didn’t like to think of his being lynched.

  BACK AT THE HOTEL VERA POLISHED OFF A TUMbler of cognac, yawned, and said she thought she’d turn in. It had, Vera allowed, been one hell of a day.

  “Just a moment, Vera,” Auntie Mame said, rubbing her bruised thigh, “there is a little favor I would like to have you do for me.”

  “Well, not tonight, de-ah,” Vera said. “Openings take so much out of a star.”

  “Sit down, Vera,” Auntie Mame said. “Before any of us goes to bed we are going to find out just which jail Mr. Babcock is in and then you and I are going to see him.”

  “Are you out of your mind, dulling?” Vera asked haughtily. “Just give me one good reason why I, a Great Star, should go to see some old masher who is, after all, your problem and not mine.”

  “I can give you an excellent reason, Vera,” Auntie Mame said. “It is this: Mr. Babcock may or may not know that it was I who went on for you tonight. He can still take Patrick from me. I want you to go to him and assure him that it was you he pulled down into his nasty lap this evening.”

  “And if I refuse?” Vera asked haughtily, but not with her old confidence.

  “If you refuse, Vera,” Auntie Mame said calmly, “then Mr. Babcock will not be the only one to know just who was the Great Star tonight. I’ll talk, Vera. I’ll talk plenty. I’ll talk to Time, Life, Paris Soir, Reuters, A.P., U.P., I.N.S.—I’ll talk to anyone who’ll listen and you’ll be not only out of work, but also the laughingstock of . . .”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “I prefer to call it quid pro quo—a Latin term meaning that I did a big favor for you and now you’re coming around to the lockup with me, Vera. Or else!”

  HOUSED IN A SETTING NOT UNLIKE THE DUNGEON portrayed in the Folies-Bergère, Mr. Babcock was a piteous sight. He had been badly beaten up, his clothes all but torn off his back. He hurried eagerly to the wicket, but he recoiled when he found that his visitor was Auntie Mame, demure in black organdy without any pizazz whatever.

  “Oh, it’s you, you Jezebel,” Mr. Babcock moaned.

  “Jezebel indeed, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said. “I have come on a mission of mercy after prevailing upon my dear friend Vera Charles to forgive you for your shocking lapse of this evening. And speaking of Miss Charles, Mr. Babcock,” she added cattily, “I’d always understood that it was Mrs. Babcock who had the great crush on Vera. Not you.”

  “You know damned well that it was you up there on that stage tonight cavorting around without enough on to . . . You and that delinquent orphan brat of yours.” He seemed a bit uncertain. Woozy, you might say.

  “He’s drunk,” Vera snapped, “obviously drunk. Just who else do you think could replace me, you dirty old man?”

  “Ohhhh,” Mr. Babcock groaned. “If I was . . . if I was not myself this evening, it’s because you, Mame Dennis Burnside, put something in my grape juice.”

  “Nonsense,” Vera said harshly. “He was stinking. I smelled his breath myself when he dragged me off . . .”

  “Drugged,” Mr. Babcock said weakly, any conviction he may ever have had deserting him.

  “La, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said, waggling a coquettish finger through the wicket, “the days of the Borgias are long since dead. But, alas, the days of rapine, lust, and bestiality, I fear, are still with us—and in some very surprising circles. Can you think that I, a poor, lone widow, would have taken an innocent youth to a carnal display such as the one you attended—and all too conspicuously—this evening?”

  “Gee, Mr. Babcock,” I piped up, “Auntie Mame and I were even thinking of driving out to Neuilly for some real home-style peanut butter and those keen lantern slides.”

  “Indeed we were,” Auntie Mame added, “and I have been heartsick at the prospect of having to tell poor Eunice of the disgrace brought upon her and her son—yes, and that peach of a couple, the Gilbreaths—by your conduct . . .”

  Mr. Babcock’s hysterical gibbering drowned out the rest of her message. Auntie Mame waited sadistically for his sobs to be stilled before she went on.

  “But if you are not grateful, Mr. Babcock, for my willingness to stand staunchly behind your poor, deluded wife, you should at least thank me for begging Miss Charles to forgive you. And also, not to press charges .”

  “B-but . . .” Mr. Babcock stammered.

  “Happily,” Auntie Mame charged on, “Vera Charles is a true trouper with a heart of pure gold. What other woman would forgive you for mauling her, for disgracing her in public and for doing this”—dramatically Auntie Mame ripped the veil from Vera’s hat and pointed to her swollen, discolored jaw. Mr. Babcock choked. “For doing this, Mr. Babcock, to a face that has been dear to drama lovers for the last half-century.”

  Vera bridled, but there wasn’t much she could do.

  “I—I left you at the American Express this afternoon,” he said brokenly, “and I had this—this odd feeling. I stopped off in a—in some low saloon and ordered a drink of liquor and then—then . . . Well, everything went black. I . . .”

  “That is indeed a sad story, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said, holding up a pious hand, “but a squalid tale and one which I should not like you to relate before my innocent young ward. It is bad enough that a man of your Jekyll and Hyde character completely controls this poor orphan’s inheritance, probably squandering his pitiable income on voices too vile to contemplate. So I will thank you to bear in mind that Patrick’s spiritual welfare remains in my hands and I should not like his young mind polluted by any accounting of your disgusting fall from . . .”

  “Please, please,” Mr. Babcock said, a broken man. “I’ll do anything you say.”

  “Ah, but there you are wrong, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said. “It is not you who are here to help me, but I who have come to this sinkhole of drunks and criminals to help you. Now tell me,” she said with honeyed venom, “wouldn’t you like me to telephone Mrs. Babcock? Eunice must be wondering what can have hap . . .”

  “Oh, no! Please no!”

  “Very well then,” Auntie Mame said. “Vera is not only willing to forgive you, but also to pay your fine. Aren’t you, Vera?”

  Vera looked as though she’d been struck by lightning at the very suggestion of parting with so much as a centime, but she said, “Yais,” with icy grandeur.

&nb
sp; “You will be released almost immediately, with no police record to blight your holiday among your friends the French. I have arranged for a limousine to take you out to the American Hospital at Neuilly. In an hour’s time I shall call poor Eunice and tell her that you met with a motor accident while borrowing my car and that you can be found in the hospital. That will account for your deplorable physical appearance. Patrick and I are leaving Paris tomorrow and no one need ever be the wiser.”

  “I—I can never th-thank you,” Mr. Babcock blubbered. I snickered. The sight of that self-righteous old bantam cock groveling before Auntie Mame was too much for me.

  “Please don’t be too affected by this simple show of loving kindness, Patrick,” Auntie Mame said, patting my shoulder and giving me a sharp jab in the nape of the neck. “Life teaches us many lessons. Many! Ah, here comes the turnkey now to give you back your ill-earned freedom. Come, Mr. Babcock!”

  THE CROWD AT THE FOLIES-BERGÈRE HAD BEEN A good deal rougher on Mr. Babcock than I had suspected. His shoes and socks and a bit of underwear remained to him, but not much else. He made a ludicrous spectacle out on the street. The night had turned cool and he shivered helplessly.

  “You may see me to my car, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said grandly. “Remember, this is the automobile you allegedly cracked up. A silver Panhard sedan. That’s how the car was traced to me and how I was the first to be notified. Get in, Vera, Patrick. And would you just hand me that lap robe, my little love? Thank you.”

  She turned to Mr. Babcock and hung the robe around him. “Here, Mr. Babcock,” she said, “this will help you cover your, um, shame. Your hired limousine is just behind.” She got into the car and started the motor. Mr. Babcock looked like a very small Sitting Bull draped as he was in Auntie Mame’s motor rug. I snickered again.