The radioman saw me and smiled. “Hhhell-oh,” he said in heavily accented English. “Come in. You spik Eenglees?”
“A little,” I said. “I’m an American.”
“Oh!” he said, effusively offering me a chair. “Verry guud, Amerrrica. Nize. Then you know my cozins in Edie.”
“Who?”
“In Edie, Pencil-vonya, near Bofa-lo, New Yorrrk. Is nize Edie, Pencil-vonya. I have uncle in Edie, also cozins. Wait.” He fled to a closet almost the size of my cabin and returned with sheaths of photographs and also a fresh bottle. “Hhhhere is Rrrretsina. Grik wine. Verrry guud.” He poured me out a large tumbler of Retsina, a wine so resinous that it was more like licking a violin bow than drinking. “Is guuuud?”
“Very tasty,” I lied.
“Hhhere is my cozins of Edie, Pencil-vonya. Eleni, Caliope, Achilles, Pythagoras, Socrates, Plato, Terpsichore, Ophelia, Athena, Hermaphrodite, Miltiades, Medusa, Pachysandra, and George. Nize?”
“Very nice,” I said, gazing at a series of beetle-browed faces with eyes like plums.
“This is my last trip. I go to Amerrrica; to Edie, Pencil-vonya. I lairn rrrradio here on ship. In Amerrrica I will be deesk jockey on rrradio station WLEW in Edie. I spik Eenglees guud, no?”
“No,” I said. “I mean you speak very well. I guess you’re the only person on the ship who speaks English.”
Turning up the BBC broadcast to an earsplitting volume, El Greco launched into an endless monologue about himself, about his cousins in Erie, about jazz, about being a disc jockey. After I’d bravely got down the first dose of Retsina, I was given an even larger glassful. I was staggering when I finally left. El Greco was worse.
I went down to the little kiln I called my cabin. There was a note there from Auntie Mame. It read:
Darling Boy—
Don’t worry about my protracted absence. I sense that Rosemarie is shy in my presence. For that reason I’m remaining in my cabin to give you every chance to carry on your first affaire . No sacrifice, as I said, is too great. And missing meals with the captain is no sacrifice whatsoever. If you’d like some decent food, come to my cabin. But I suppose you’d rather be with her. Do, however, be cautious. I’m not ready to manage another generation yet.
Love, love, love,
Auntie Mame
Glad that Auntie Mame didn’t know how badly my romance was going, I stripped and bathed again. It was so hot that just wallowing in that tepid salt water seemed refreshing. When I came out, I found Dr. Shumway in a most unclerical dressing gown—scarlet sateen—heading for the can. I was still so lovelorn for the sight of Rosemary that even Dr. Shumway seemed an adequate substitute. “Dr. Shumway!” I said, grasping him. I could sense what Auntie Mame meant. “It’s so good to see you again. I’ve been worried. You haven’t been to a meal since . . . Well, a long time. And Rosemary . . .”
“Harrumph, uh, she’s, uh, fasting, dear boy. Fasting,” he said. Then he brushed past me, went into the bathroom, and locked the door.
I went to my cabin and wrote Rosemary yet another note. It read:
My darling—
Why haven’t you seen me or at least answered my notes? I shall be waiting for you tonight as always.
Your devoted,
Patrick
Then I got into my lightest-weight shirt and trousers and went up to the mess for stew. As I went along our companionway, I saw Ito carrying a tray to Auntie Mame’s room. Not far behind him was the Greek steward, now clad in a suit of old B.V.D.’s, taking a much larger tray to Rosemary’s room. In the dim light I could hardly see what was on it, but I thought I recognized a roast chicken.
Sick with love and boredom, I stayed out on deck that night waiting for Rosemary. Around eleven I knew it was useless. I was just about to turn in when El Greco came down the rickety ladder leading to the hurricane deck. “Guud eveneeng. You like Ben-nee Guudman? Come up. We have some Rrrretsina.”
Even my cabin seemed better than El Greco’s accounts of Sparta, Erie, and his cousins. I begged off and went to bed. When I awoke, the ship was pitching terribly, and great sprays of water were leaking through my porthole. It was also cold. Shivering, I gathered up my shaving things and headed for the bathroom. I got there just in time to see Auntie Mame sway out, pale and shaken.
“Auntie Mame,” I said, “what’s the matter. Where have you . . .”
“Oh, Patrick, my little love,” she moaned, “don’t even ask me to speak. I couldn’t be more miserable. Thrown from my bed at four this morning and then buried alive under suitcases. Ohhhhhh.”
The ship gave another heave and we toppled against the bulkhead. “Ohhhhh,” Auntie Mame moaned again, and looked as though she might be terribly sick.
“You should get some air. You haven’t stuck your nose out of your cabin for days.”
Again the ship rolled violently, and she clung to me for support. “I was only trying to keep out of your way, my little love. I had my books and Ito to prepare my meals. Oh! Food! How could I even mention such a filthy four-letter word. Find out when we’re docking at Aden, darling. You can stay aboard if you like, but I’ll have to get off.” With that she tottered back to her room.
No one—not even the officers—showed up for breakfast. The sea around us was gray and fierce. There were winds of gale velocity and waves that towered over the deck. Luckily I’m a good sailor, and, since I couldn’t eat any of the food anyhow, there was nothing in me to disgorge.
Concerned about Auntie Mame, I went down to her cabin. On the way I passed Rosemary, looking pale and disheveled. “Rosemary,” I cried. “Darling, how . . .”
“Please,” she wailed and staggered into the bathroom. Dr. Shumway was not far behind.
“Gee, Auntie Mame,” I said, tiptoeing into the tiny room where she was tossing and pitching in her bunk. “What can I do for you?” Then I dodged as two or three trunks came sliding across the bare floor toward me.
“Nothing, darling. Nothing but euthanasia. I’ve always tried to be a good guardian to you, remember that. Ohhhhhhh.”
“It’ll be over soon,” I said, trying to stack up her luggage in one corner. It was a hopeless task.
“Don’t bother with the bags, Patrick. Just find out when we get to Aden. Dry land and a drink will be enough. You can get off with Ito and me—he’s even sicker than I am, if such a thing is possible—or you can stay on this miserable tub if your love affair seems worth it. I’ve made all the sacrifices to Eros possible. But do find out about Aden.”
The only person I could communicate with was El Greco up in the radio shack. Taking my life in my hands, I made it to the hurricane deck. El Greco was lying on his bunk singing along with Tommy Dorsey as his band came crackling over the short wave. He seemed awfully bleary-eyed, and I noticed two empty bottles of Retsina at his side.
“Guud morning,” he said sloppily.
“Good morning,” I said, not bothering much with formalities. “Tell me. Is the Red Sea always this rough?”
“Ssiss not Rrred Sea.”
Realizing that he was drunk, I tried another tack. “But when are we going to land at Aden?”
“Odden? We arrrre not going to Odden. Pass Odden two, ssree days. Boat stop fairrst at Singapore in pairrheps two weeks.”
“Two weeks? But what about Aden, Bombay, Columbo?”
“Oh, no. Never. Always go from Piraeus to Port Said to Singapore.” With that the wireless started sending all sorts of messages, and El Greco passed out.
I put off telling Auntie Mame the news for several hours. The scene that took place when she learned that she had two more weeks aboard the Lesbos is too painful to relate.
The next day was worse and the day after that still worse. I saw no one save Auntie Mame on her numerous trips across the corridor. But she hadn’t spoken one word to me since I told her that Singapore would be the first stop. Ito, the color of chartreuse, only pitched in his bunk babbling prayers that I was sure Dr. Shumway would never approve. I realized that
we were in the midst of the equinoctial storms and, bored as I was with El Greco, I took to spending all my waking hours in the radio shack. I did this for three reasons: First, El Greco was the only person who could speak English and who had any contact with the world beyond the rickety railings of the Lesbos; second, because the radio shack was more comfortable than any place else; and third, because storms made El Greco so nervous that he always got drunk and stayed drunk until they were over. Considering the condition of the Lesbos and El Greco, I felt that it would be nice if someone else knew how to send an SOS. So I made El Greco teach me and even looked it up in one of his books to make certain—three dots, three dashes, three dots. And I don’t think that on the fourth and worst day of the storm I wasn’t sorely tempted to send out that very message when the Lesbos was pitched entirely out of the water and El Greco opened his sixth bottle of Retsina.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm stopped. I had slept in my life jacket after deciding that a night spent lashed to the mast would be just too uncomfortable and awoke to find the sea as calm as a lagoon, the sun shining, and cool breezes flapping the shredded tarpaulins of the Lesbos. Looking out of my porthole, I half expected to see a dove flying overhead with an olive branch in its beak. What I did see, however, was an American naval ship, the U.S.S. Hoboken, bobbing on the calm water, its personnel in hastily improvised bathing suits diving cheerfully into the water, laughing and splashing.
The sight of the U.S. Navy at play did a lot to bolster my spirits. It meant not only that the storms were over, that we were in calm water, free from shark and shipwreck, but that I was getting closer and closer to home. I dressed and went above with a song in my heart.
The captain and his men were bickering amiably, and even El Greco, fearfully hungover, offered me a wan smile and announced that Ambrose and his orchestra could be heard over the BBC.
Just before noon, Auntie Mame came up on deck in a fetching sun dress. Having been told most definitely that I was never to speak to her again, I tried to get out of her sight, but she was sunshine itself. “Good morning, my little love! Isn’t it a lovely, lovely day!”
“Auntie Mame,” I said. “Are you all right? Did you suffer much?”
“Hideously, my little love. Ah, the sacrifices we make for our young! But look at me. I’m a size ten again. This little Vionnet model simply hangs on me! No diet would ever do this. Yes, I forgive you, Patrick. Now tell me, how’s the grand amour coming? I hope you haven’t gone too far.”
I was saved from telling Auntie Mame the shameful truth by the appearance of Dr. Shumway. He, too, was thinner, but sweating just as much, even in the cool weather.
“Dr. Shumway. Good morning! Just the man I wanted most to see,” Auntie Mame said. “I’ve spent days in my cabin just reading my Bible so that I can discuss things intelligently with you. And I have another bit of good news: My man, Ito, also speaks Chinese, so that you can help him with his Bible study. But first there is a great favor I want to ask of you.”
“Uh, what is that? Harrrumph.”
“A prayer of thanks for our deliverance from this ghastly storm that might have finished us both off. I think it would be fun to call Ito and the whole ship’s crew and your daughter, then you could do it in Chinese, Greek, and English. Please. Just for me.”
“Well, dear lady, harrumph, I don’t know if there is such a . . .”
“Nonsense, dear Dr. Shumway, I know that if you’d simply browse through your Book of Common Prayer, you’d find something most appropriate.”
“My what?” With that Dr. Shumway went into such a barrage of throat clearing that no voice could be heard. Perspiration poured off him again.
“Excuse me, Dr. Shumway,” I said, “but isn’t Rosemary coming out now that it’s cool and calm?”
“Uh, harrumph, um, no. No, Rosie—my daughter is unwell. She is still, harrrrumph, fasting.”
“With all those trays I see carried to her room?” Auntie Mame said. “For all her religious fervor she certainly seems to eat better than . . .”
“Excuse me,” Dr. Shumway said and he went harrrumphing below.
“Auntie Mame!” I said. “You shouldn’t have said that.”
“Why not? It was true. ‘Great is Truth, and mighty above all things.’ Apochrypha Four, Forty-one. Oh, Patrick, I’ve been boning up on all this down in my cabin just hoping for a cosy little chat with our spiritual guide, Alfred Shumway— once the weather got cooler and he stopped oozing like a pig on a spit.”
“Auntie Mame!”
“Well, that’s true, too, and I’ll also tell you something else that’s the plain truth. Dr. Shumway doesn’t know as much about religion as I do, which is precious little. He’s a shabby, shoddy little fraud and so is his daughter; if she’s his daughter, which I sincerely doubt. My cabin is next to hers and the things I’ve overheard from those two weren’t the Lord’s Prayer. I don’t know what that bogus old skunk is up to, but whatever it is he’s using us as a front for those embarrassing moments when officials . . .”
“Damn it,” I said hotly, “that’s a lie. Rosemary is a fine, upstanding girl. I love her and she loves me and . . .”
“Then go to her, Patrick. Go to her this instant. I insist.”
“I will!” With that I stamped down the stinking stairs. My emotions are difficult to describe. I was furious with Auntie Mame; not so much for what she had said, but because, deep down, I was afraid that she was right. Dr. Shumway was a vulgar, stinking old grease ball who didn’t know the Begats from the Beguine. I also knew that I wasn’t having any love affair with Rosemary. But what really hurt was knowing that Auntie Mame knew it, too. It’s one thing to be a sucker, but it’s even worse to have other people find out about it. I decided to go straight to Rosemary for an explanation, and I was about to pound on the door when I heard the two of them quarreling inside.
“A fine pair you picked, Rosie, my girl,” Shumway was saying in the least churchly of tones. “Here you go an’ tell me you’ve got the ideal couple—rich Yanks an’ her without a brain in her head. An’ wotta yuh turn up with but a blasted Christer an’ her kid.”
“Oh, bugger off, Alf,” Rosemary said, her voice thick and slurred. Gone was the delicate speech; if it wasn’t quite Cockney, neither was it exactly Mount Street. “I seen her in the hotel, the travel agent’s, the bar—her an’ the kid an’ the servant an’ that big posh car—she didn’t look like she knew her arse from . . .”
“Well, she does, Rosie. She knows a lot more than you do, my girl. An’ small wonder, you sittin’ down here on your bloody bum with your nose in a gin bottle till it looks like a cork . . .”
“Oh, come off it, Alfie.”
“No, I won’t come off of it. Just eighteen,” Shumway mimicked shrilly. “My little daughter. Well your years for pullin’ that are over, Rosie. Eighteen! There’s a laugh. You look forty.”
“Shut your bloody mouth. I’m not yet thirty and Christ knows I oughta look old. A fine life you lead me, Alf—a bloomin’ bed of roses. Sellin’ guns to whoever’ll pay for ’em. Mixed up with the Spanish, the Eyetalians, and now a pack of bloody Chinks. Oh, a fine life. Who’d blame me for takin’ a drop now and again? Floatin’ from place to place in some bloody bucket of a boat like this here one. Lookin’ like Shirley Temple. No decent hair treatments. Lovin’ it up with any greasy gangster you say to—an’ now this kid not dry behind the . . .”
“Since when did you ever mind a little tussle, Rosie? I recall . . .”
“Well, I liked it better with the kid than with you. At least he’s clean . . .”
I grasped the doorknob just as a loud report was heard. I ran up to the open deck in time to see a large, Japanese destroyer sending a second shot across the bow of the Lesbos.
“My God, now what?” Auntie Mame said, grasping my hand.
“Auntie Mame, the Reverend isn’t holy at all. He’s a gun-runner and that organ and all those Chinese Bibles . . . they’re contraband.”
&nbs
p; “But, darling, it’s a neutral ship.”
“It’s still contraband. The Chinese-Japanese war.”
The Lesbos came to a halt, and the Japanese destroyer, not a hundred feet away, prepared to send over a boarding party.
“What can we do, darling? They’ll probably draft Ito.”
“Stall them,” I said. “Stall them as long as you can.”
Then I dashed up to the radio shack. El Greco was lying on his bunk listening to Hal Kemp and easing his hangover with the dregs of a bottle of Retsina.
“Hhhhello,” he said furrily.
“Hi!” I said. “How about cracking out another bottle of that delicious resin wine?”
“Ah, guud,” he said getting unsteadily to his feet.
I followed him to his closet, waited until he opened the door, then shoved him in and locked it. Then I sat down and started sending out the SOS message El Greco had taught me.
I sent and sent and sent until I thought my arm would fall off. Then I picked up El Greco’s empty wine bottle and went down on deck, prepared to defend Auntie Mame against the gunrunners of the world and the Imperial Japanese Fleet.
I’d halfway expected to find Auntie Mame walking the plank, but when I got down from the radio shack, I found Auntie Mame seated on the deck surrounded by admiring Japanese officers. She was going through the somewhat formal ritual of the tea ceremony and—with Ito interpreting— seemed to have them all in stitches.
“Do kick off your shoes, Patrick, and join us,” she said. “This attractive gentleman with all those stripes on his sleeve has been so understanding of a poor widow’s plight. He also seems to be suffering under the delusion that Ito is some sort of cousin of his and I see no reason to contradict. One lump or two?”
Around the World With Auntie Mame Page 29