Hardly anyone there spoke English and when I innocently asked which berth had been reserved for me, the whole ship shook with harsh, ribald laughter. In steerage it was a question of “first come, first served” and because, like any civilized lady of fashion, I had lingered over an apéritif in the bar, I had been allotted a squalid upper “bunk” in the most central, most public section of the “room.” The trunks, suitcases, hatboxes and shoe trunks into which I had crammed my few poor possessions had already become “public property.” I gasped as I saw unwashed peasant women pawing over the lovely creations I had ordered from such august establishments as Worth, Chapel, Poiret and the Boué Soeurs and my heart fair stopped beating when I saw two disgusting babies crawling over the exquisite chinchilla coat which I had ordered from Revillon Frères as Cedric’s farewell gift to me.
Nor could I make my protestations understood. My fellow steerage passengers were foreigners of all sorts—Italians, Russians, Turks, Poles, Hungarians, Roumanians, Germans, Arabs—with little or no command of English. The only thing that lured them away from my beautiful Vuitton luggage—each piece marked with the Baughdie arms—was the announcement of luncheon.
Luncheon! How can I dignify it by that term? Instead of the spotless china, crystal, silver and napery I had come to expect as the due of any ocean traveller, proffered by smiling, servile waiters, this dreadful “meal” consisted of an undecipherable ragoût dished out of common enamel buckets! I had not the heart to eat.
Intolerable conditions in steerage!
Ever since Cedric’s caddish intrusion on my privacy in that grim hotel room, I had felt “queer” and out of sorts. Never strong (in fact poor Momma despaired of ever being delivered of me), I had suffered dizzy spells, nausea and general lack of appetite, although my weight had increased alarmingly. Howsomever, I had reasoned with myself, could anyone undergo the severe emotional strain of my sensational divorce without showing marked physical symptoms? I had more than once arranged appointments with Sir Julian Catheter-Cowper, the great Harley Street diagnostician, only to cancel them because of the desperate pressure I was under in trying to assemble the few precious mementos of my loveless marriage to that brute, Lord Baughdie. (Try as I will to forgive and forget the terrible injustices done me, I must state that Cedric—under the pernicious influence of his mother—acted as no gentleman would over the most picayune personal effects such as jewelry, secondhand furniture, automobiles and real estate! I mean, some men are just plain small! ) But today, surrounded by the noise, the odors, the congestion, I was in no mood to partake of the midday repast.
While the odious rabble swarmed around the serving table like swine at a swill trough, I quickly consolidated my poor possessions and locked my luggage. It was at this moment that I elected to move my trunks and valises to a corner of this revolting room where I could “keep an eye” on them. By exerting all of my frail strength I managed the smaller pieces but, alas, how was a weak female, unused to hard physical labor, to move heavy trunks? In desperation I tugged and pulled at the smallest of them to no avail. It was then that I first became aware of the Sofa Brothers, a Turkish knife-throwing team on their way to fulfill a carnival engagement in the United States.
The Sofa Brothers—Nadir and Faik—were splendid physical specimens in their middle forties (or so I should judge). Like me, they spoke English—of a sort—and they leapt to my aid with what I took to be a splendid show of chivalry. They were exceptionally tall and muscular with bristling mustaches and a notable array of artistic tattoos. Talkative in the extreme, they explained to me that they had travelled the wide world over in such variegated capacities as sailors, wrestlers, boxers, stevedores and acrobats. They “walloped” my trunks to the safe corner I had selected. I thanked them kindly for their willing assistance and made to dismiss them, but the Sofa Brothers did not understand. When I went to the ladies’ restroom (a place sordid beyond my meager powers of description) to freshen my make-up, I found them waiting for me outside the door. When I stepped out onto the mean little bit of deck space reserved for steerage passengers for a welcome breath of fresh air, the Sofa Brothers were at my side. And when I tried to improve my troubled mind by perusing the pages of a new Michael Arlen novel, I discovered both Nadir and Faik leering over my shoulders and whispering indecent suggestions in their guttural, broken English.
With each unrepeatable word my heart contracted in terror! They had done a trivial favor for me and now, it seemed, they expected, as their repayment, a woman’s most priceless gift! Against two brutes such as the Sofa Brothers, where could I, a lone, frail female, turn for protection?
I glanced nervously around me and realized, at once, how wise I had been in forgoing luncheon. In the angry seas of the North Atlantic the Euremichad begun to pitch and toss like a tiny cork. My shipmates in steerage, many of whom were sailing for the first time, now had ample reason to regret the noxious meal of which they had partaken—not to mention the assorted fruits, wines, breads, cheeses, cakes, sausages and other indigestibles which they had brought along. Such moaning and retching and praying and babble of heathen tongues I have never heard, and, as the sanitary facilities were primitive at best, I was close to illness myself in the very proximity of these piteous cases of mal de mer. Hopefully I looked for some sign of nausea in the lascivious countenances of the Sofa Brothers. But there was none! Au contraire, Nadir was munching on a vile concoction of vine leaves and sesame seeds, while Faik was attempting to ply me with his evil-smelling bottle of Arak. And these predatory lechers were the only two able-bodied men in the whole of steerage! I realized then that something must be done, and, making a flimsy excuse to my two pursuers, I took a long, circuitous route to the purser’s office.
Accustomed as I had become to the courtesy and subservience of the British working classes, I expected a short, civil interchange with the purser, after which I, and my belongings, would be transferred to more suitable quarters. What a shock! This young officer was a curly-haired cockney of about my age, rather good-looking, in a common way, and with a definite “gleam” in his eye. Feeling that I could deal with him, I said, “Good afternoon, sir. I am Lady Baughdie.”
“The ex–Lady Baughdie, I believe,” he said with a horrid leer. “The photos don’t ’alf do you justice, they don’t.”
“Photos?” I asked, not comprehending what he was getting at.
“That’s right, Belle old girl,” he sneered, extracting a tattered newspaper cutting. “Like this one of you in bed with that Yank.”
The insolence! Cutting him short I said, “Thank you. But I am not here to discuss photography, merely a change of quarters.”
“Oh, I’m afraid that will be impossible,” he said, eyeing my décolletage.
“And why, my good man?” I inquired icily.
“Good is right, dearie,” he said. “One of the best you’ll ever know. Why not give me a try?”
“I have no time for your badinage, sir. I am prepared to purchase a berth in first class.”
“ ’Fraid not. First is sold out. So’s second. But ’ow about bunkin’ in with me?”
Realizing that the hauteur of a lady to the manner born was wasted on this churlish oaf, I relied upon my delicate femininity. “But, sir, can you know what a throng of cutthroats, thieves, ruffians, procurers and common prostitutes frequent my quarters? It is your duty to protect me from the passengers in steerage.”
“It’s also my duty to protect the first-class passengers from you,” he sneered. “But if you’d care to spend your nights in my cabin—cozy like . . .”
In utter defeat, I gathered my wrap around me and marched out of his office, stumbling over the Sofa Brothers as I retreated. My cheeks burned with fury. To think that I, so recently the toast of London, could now be so insulted by common sailors! Feeling like Marie Antoinette (a heroine with whom I have often been compared) as she mounted the reeking garbage cart to be carried to her tragic death in the Place de la Revolution, I descended into the gloomy pit tha
t was steerage with Nadir and Faik Sofa jostling me obscenely.
Somehow I managed to endure the rest of the afternoon, fending off, as best I could, the bestial advances of Nadir and Faik. But, at an hour when I knew that on the promenade deck the elaborate tea service would be cleared away to make room for a gala cocktail hour, an even more obnoxious repast was flung out at the “cattle” crowded into steerage. By this time the misery was such that only the Sofa Brothers were able to eat. With such sickness all about me it is miraculous that I, too, did not succumb. But with the aid of my étui of smelling salts and a mouchoir liberally soaked in eau de cologne, I was just able to keep on an “even keel.”
By ten o’clock that evening, however, I felt that I could stand my appalling surroundings no longer. Those who could sleep (a pitiful minority) snored and those who could not moaned and gagged with every roll of the ship. Babies cried. Arguments broke out. There was a constant traffic past my “bunk” to the convenience. And, what is worse, I was always conscious of the burning eyes of the Sofa Brothers boring through my very frock! I felt most unwell and I knew that the only thing to settle my delicate digestion would be a bottle of champagne. I also recalled the purser with a bit more kindliness. Although outspoken and “fresh as paint,” he was a well-set-up lad and there could be little doubt that his quarters—no matter how humble—would be far preferable to these. However, I resolved, I would consider that problem after the “inner woman” had been lulled with a glass or two of “bubbly.”
Locking myself into the ladies’ room, I changed into a filmy dance dress, put on my chinchilla coat and all of my more important jewels. Thus dressed, I felt that a lady of my aristocratic bearing would have no trouble being served in the first-class bar. Carefully avoiding the Sofa Brothers, I darted up the companionway and marched bravely toward the bar.
As the sea was very rough and many of the passengers “under the weather,” this convivial gathering place was empty of all save the distinguished older man I had seen drinking Moxie earlier in the day. He nodded and I rewarded him with a winning smile, ill though I felt. Selecting a table quite near him, I had the odd feeling that I had seen him someplace before— New York, California, London, Paris, Venice, the Côte d’Azur?—and the premonition that I would see a great deal more of him in the future. But who, who could he be? In my confusion I dropped my bag.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, retrieving my purse.
“Granted soon as asked,” I replied with a “toney” Mayfair lilt. (How many refined British expressions had become second nature to me during my years in England!) I could not help noticing how his gaze rested on the Baughdie crest, done in delicate beadwork on my bag. I hoped that I had not fallen prey to a common fortune hunter.
“Travelling alone?” the stranger asked.
“Yais, quaite alaone,” I said in the elegant accent that was so naturally mine.
“I didn’t see you by the dining room tonight, girlie.”
“I dined in my quarters,” I said quite truthfully. “Between you and I, one has to be most cautious of the types you meet on shipboard, don’t they?”
“You’re telling me?” was his cryptic reply.
Perusing the wine list through my lorgnette, I cast him a helpless little smile. “I’m so unaccustomed to ordering champagne, sir, perhaps you could assist me.” In a moment he was seated at my table.
“Where,” I kept asking myself, “have I seen this man before and who is he?” I asked one or two leading questions (Momma always told me that men enjoying talking about themselves) but the ruse got me nowhere. However, he abandoned his Moxie for champagne and I felt that he was not exactly miserable in my company.
How right I was. About midnight my companion said, “In the bar here is so gloomy. Maybe we could go to your cabin and order there another bottle.”
My cabin indeed! Could this distinguished stranger but see it! Thinking fast I said, “I would love to ask you there but the place is a perfect sight!” (How true!) “My maid is quite overcome with mal de mer and unable to finish unpacking. However . . .”
He leapt at my suggestion. “You wouldn’t mind maybe we should go to my place?”
I demurred and then, smiling, I said, “Is it a suite or just a stateroom?”
“It’s the Verandah Suite,” he said, “and should I tell you how much these schmucks are charging by the day you wouldn’t . . .”
“In that case, sir, it will be perfectly proper.”
I watched casually as he signed the bar chit and there was the name— Morris Buchsbaum! At last everything came into focus! Here was Morris Buchsbaum, the owner of the mighty Metronome Studios, where once I had worked as a humble “extra.” I could remember seeing him as he observed the mammoth slave market “set” for Gomorrah and his eloquent criticism, “It stinks.” Morris Buchsbaum, the star-maker! I could recall now reading that Mr. Buchsbaum had returned from Madrid with that torrid Spanish actress, Magdalena Montezuma; from Stockholm with glacial Svenska Flicka; from Warsaw with fiery Pola Bara. Suppose that he should come back to Hollywood with . . . No! The very thought of it was too much to bear.
Mr. Buchsbaum’s suite stunned me with its opulence—its modernistic boiseries, the stunning murals by José Sert. “Oh, this is nice,” I said, carelessly flinging off my chinchilla coat.
“Careful, I don’t want you should catch cold.”
“Oh, but it’s so warm and toasty in here,” I said, seating myself on the sofa with him.
“In that case,” Mr. Buchsbaum said, “I’ll leave the door open.” He crossed the sitting room and opened the door wide onto the corridor. Even though he was a man whose entire professional life had been spent in the company of the most beautiful women on earth, I could not quite understand his seeming indifference to my nearness. Was this to be the story of Cedric all over again?
“A fella in my position,” he said, “they can’t be too careful.”
“And just what is your position, Mr. B . . .” I stopped quickly. He had never told me his name.
“Uh, camera supplies,” he said hastily.
“How interesting,” I said. “You mean things like the cinematograph?”
“X-rays,” he said. “Of course with an English lady like you, it’s different. But some of the nafkas you meet—on a boat, on a train.”
“It must be frightful,” I said. “Poor, unfortunate women.”
“Unfortunate women! Think of the men!”
I did so, and thought at some length of my host, Morris Buchsbaum of Metronome Studios—the “Bachelor of Beverly Hills,” the famous “lone wolf,” the recluse who refused even to be photographed for fear that self-seeking young women would “get at him.” Rapidly I reviewed the men who had been in my life: Mr. Caruthers, sweet and kindly, but merely a “hick town” entrepreneur; George Jerome Musgrove, talented, perhaps, but a man who had allowed greed and avarice to overcome his dedication to Art; Fred Poitrine—my own darling husband—“nipped in the bud” so soon that one would never know what artistic triumphs might or might not have been his (Fred whistled exquisitely and, when released from his stifling inhibitions, did the most realistic barnyard imitations); Floyd had been a gifted cameraman but too quixotic, too lacking in self-discipline to grow in stature “in tandem,” as it were, with little me; the “agent,” whom I can only refer to as “Bernie,” was simply a rat; the late Mr. Barouch, while a genius at numbers, had no time for art or for any science less perfect than mathematics; and Cedric, the Earl of Baughdie—while artistic himself—had been too repressed, too anxious to force me into the mould of his mother to accept the fact that the heart of a great artiste beat beneath the “social butterfly” who had captured London. I had given too much of myself to these men and they, in return, had taken, taken, taken, giving me nothing! But now, for the first time in my life, I was vis-à-vis with a man who had not only genius and vision—the soul of an artist—and the power to appreciate another artiste, but who also had a colossal studio all set up and
running efficiently. I scrutinized Mr. Buchsbaum through my lashes. Where others saw a squat, balding, middle-aged man, plagued by myopia and sebaceous cysts, I saw (I was born with a caul and have always had the happy— and ofttimes tragic—gift of second sight) the pure, clear light of greatness shining from behind this unprepossessing façade. It was love at first sight!
Rising, I made to pour more champagne into Mr. Buchsbaum’s glass, but a sudden motion of the ship caused me to overturn the whole magnum onto his coat and trousers.
“Ay!” Mr. Buchsbaum shouted, leaping to his feet. “This suit cost . . .”
Little Me Page 11