Which Way to Mecca, Jack?
Page 23
We left NBC a more royal place than we had found it.
Meanwhile, the word about the “Prince” was getting around, and the erroneous word was also getting around that Frank was still with the FBI and assigned to guard me. And maybe this was because Frank always wore his hat indoors, but what I really want to tell you is that the rumor was a useful tool.
Frank was useful in other ways. He had once made the acquaintance of Regis Toomey, a top character actor. The inevitable happened and Regis was introduced to me.
“Well, Prince,” Toomey told me, “is there anything I can do to make your visit to our country more interesting? Do you have movies in your country? I mean, would you like me to introduce you to some of your favorite movie stars? Who’s your favorite actress?”
“Cla-ra Bow,” I responded. There was a pause.
“Well, she’s not around right now,” said Regis. “How about actors, who’s your favorite?”
I pondered for a while. “Rudolph Valentino,” I answered finally.
“Ah. Well, he’s not around either.” And to Frank he murmured, “Are those pictures just now getting out there?”
iv
Regis finally decided to introduce me to Dick Powell and his wife, June Allyson. The Powells, in turn, invited me to their home and to dinner, where our conversation was as memorable as a Madison Square Garden handball match between Kim Novak and Konrad Adenauer.
DICK:
Did you accompany your father to Washington when he was visiting here a while back, Your Highness?
ME:
No. Ziss my bruzzer Masshur.
DICK:
Oh. How many brothers do you have, Your Highness?
ME:
(waving a dinner olive absently) I—do not know. Ah—forty, I sink—purhops.
DICK:
Perhaps?
ME:
Purhops. I do not count.
DICK:
Ulp!
JUNE:
Ulp!
DICK:
Ah, that’s quite a family you’ve got there, Your Highness. I like a big family myself.
JUNE:
(uneasily): Ah—me too.
DICK:
How—many sisters do you have, sir?
ME:
In my country we do not count girl shildren, only boy shildren.
JUNE:
I see. My but your mother must be awfully busy keeping up with your family.
ME:
I have four muzzer.
JUNE:
What? I mean—excuse me—what was that you said, Your Highness?
ME:
My fazzer have four wife.
JUNE:
Oh. (Bites into celery)
There was a brief session of throat clearing and coughing by the Powells as the main course was served. I, for my part, contributed to the general merriment in my own inimitable princely way. I sliced a delicious looking sirloin into large but neat pieces, put down my knife and fork, and then ceremoniously picked up a morsel in each hand and chomped on them desert style, showing special favor to neither. Dick watched me, wide-eyed. Then I finger-snagged a sour-cream-covered baked potato for a good slobbering munch, and I think June was watching me. When I took a dripping handful of tossed salad with Thousand Island dressing to my mouth, I don’t know who was watching me, because I didn’t dare look or I’d have broken up.
An excruciating silence ensued, punctuated only by my chomping and noisy finger licking. But as I sneaked a look through my dark glasses, both Dick and June put down their forks and, without a word, dipped into the salad with their fingers!
“Now, about your family,” said Dick, licking his fingers. I couldn’t help feeling right then that there was something of a prince and princess in the Powells.
v
I saw Regis Toomey again, and he wanted to work an invitation for me to Danny Thomas’ home and hearth, but I avoided that one as I would a camel’s breath. Danny speaks Arabic too, and would immediately have been able to spot the fact that I use a Lebanese and not a Saudi Arabian dialect. I also turned down an indirect invitation to a dinner for ex-FBI gents in the Los Angeles area. I mean, what the hell!
But there was one dinner I didn’t miss. That was the night a noted Hollywood publicist invited me along to an evening at “Prince” Mike Romanoff’s. And thus it was that in the cool of the evening “prince” met “prince”—ingenious impostor met up-and-coming challenger.
For the whole world smiles at the fact that “Prince” Mike Romanoff is really Harry Gerguson, an ex-tailor from Brooklyn, but if you think I was going to tell him that I was Bill Blatty from Brooklyn—well, you’re crazy.
The publicist and I were seated at our table no longer than the life span of an icicle in hell when “Prince” Romanoff hovered into view.
“Well, hello there,” he smiled genially, coming up to us.
“Hi, Mike … Uh—Your Highness, Prince Kheer, may I present His Highness, ‘Prince’ Romanoff?”
“How arr you?” I murmured.
“A pleasure,” said Romanoff.
“His Highness,” said the publicist, “is from Saudi Arabia. You know, King Saud’s son.”
“Oh, of course—of course.” For one memorable, tremendous moment, Romanoff’s gaze locked with mine. It was toe-to-toe and there was silence in the arena. Then the moment passed.
“I hope you’re enjoying your visit to our country,” said the Russian “prince.” The Arab “prince” smiled. “Charmed,” said the Russian “prince,” and he excused himself and was gone. It was over.
“Uh—by the way, Your Highness,” said the publicist, “there’s something I think you ought to know. I mean, I think I ought to tell you.”
“Iss what?”
“Well, ‘Prince’ Romanoff—he isn’t really a prince.”
Our shrimp cocktail had arrived, and “Iss what?” I demanded.
“I say, he’s not a prince. Everyone knows it, but we like him so much we go long with the gag. No harm done.”
I put down my shrimp fork. “But iss not prince!”
“Yess, but—”
“Sorry! I am insult!” And rising majestically, I strode out of the dining room, out of Romanoff’s and out of my life as a Hollywood prince. The mission was accomplished: the papers were full of it two days later, and a casting agent named Destiny was even then preparing to assign me a slashing role in “England Made Me,” a war movie concerning a heroic barmaid seduced during the blitz by a draft dodger named Clyde England.
Now Eastward and homeward to Mama!
Epilogue
“MAMA!” I shouted.
“Will-yam!” she roared.
We embraced each other with joy. It was good to be roared at again.
My mother brewed some black, strong coffee, and “How you like Lebanon?” she quizzed as I sipped.
“Mama,” I bellowed, “it was great! My God, what a country! Those mountains? Those beautiful mountains, and the lush, green valleys. Fabulous, Mama, fabulous!” My mother sipped at her coffee and watched me.
“And the people!” I continued heatedly. “My God, they’re wise! Time? Time is nothing to them. Don’t waste life rushing around—enjoy it, that’s the philosophy! And what a sense of humor they’ve got!” I roared. “My God, do they live!”
My mother was staring at me now through narrowed eyelids, but after another sip of coffee I blathered on excitedly. “And the food! The food! Just fantastic! Mama,” I shouted joyously. “You’ve got to get back there for a visit!”
She raised a scornful eyebrow. “What the hell I want with Lebanon?” she growled. “I’m American!”
You can never tell about mothers.
WHICH WAY TO MECCA, JACK?
A LANCER BOOK published by arrangement with Bernard Geis Associates.
Copyright 1960 by William Peter Blatty.
All rights reserved.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purch
ases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
eISBN 9781466834736
First eBook edition: February 2015
LANCER BOOKS, INC. • 26 W. 47th St. • N. Y. 36, N. Y.