She didn’t. I’m sure she didn’t care who or what I was, only wanting me to get the hell out of her daughter’s room. This was implicit in her voice as she turned to Elise and muttered, “Well, my dear?” (Isn’t it time you dismissed this ruffian?)
I loved Elise all the more for not turning on me even though she certainly had every justification to do so. Lifting her chin in a regal manner which told me more, in an instant, of her inherent ability as an actress than all the books I’d read, she said, “I have invited Mr. Collier to have dinner with us, Mother.”
The lapse of time before her mother responded made her answer redundant. “Oh?” she said. I tried to return her chilling look but found it difficult. I tried to utter something but produced only a minor gurgle; my throat was still very dry. I cleared it strainingly. “I hope I’m not intruding,” I said. Mistake! yelped my mind. I should never have given her the opening.
She jammed herself inside it quickly. “Well,” she said. She didn’t have to add another word. Her attitude could not have been more clear. She expected me to pounce on her hint as any gentleman worth his salt would do, apologize, back off, and resolve into a dew.
I did none of them, I smiled, albeit wanly. Her expression instantly congealed to that of genteel, high-born lady forced into untenable plight; another scene from the same play.
Elise didn’t help by saying, “I’ll be ready in a moment,” and starting back toward the bedroom. I threw a startled look after her. Was she deserting me? Then I saw the straggling hair behind her neck and felt even worse. Not only had she been discovered in her hotel room in the presence of a strange male, she’d been discovered in a state of deshabille.
I’m not making light of the moment. I sincerely felt her embarrassment. Was that because I had begun to blend in with the moods and mores of this time? I hoped so. It was the only possible cheering aspect to that most uncheerful circumstance.
The bedroom door thumped shut and I was standing there alone with Mrs. Anna Stuart Callenby McKenna, forty-nine, who hated me.
We stood like actors who’d forgotten their lines, both stiff, both wordless. The scene about to be performed would be a flinty one, I knew.
It soon became apparent that Mrs. McKenna had no intention of initiating anything, so I cleared my throat and asked how her rehearsals were coming.
“Very well,” she answered curtly. Conversation terminated.
I forced a smile, then analyzed the rug. I looked back up. She averted her eyes; she’d been observing me with something less than amity. I had an urge to tell her something prescient but knew I must resist the urge. I had to learn immediately to quell any impulse to comment from an unfair eminence of foreknowledge. I had to behave as though I were exactly what I’d said; had to start believing it myself as well. Being a part of this time was of principal importance now. The more I made myself a part of it, the less I’d have to fear losing hold.
I’m looking forward, my mind began. No contractions, please, I told it. “I am looking forward to the performance,” I said. It felt artificial not to join the I and am but I’d get used to it; I would get used to it. “Elise—”
She stilled me with an arctic look. Mistake! I thought again. This was 1896, a bastion of formality. I should have called her Miss McKenna. Dear God, I thought, anticipating agonies to come. How was it going to be to deal with Mrs. McKenna and Robinson simultaneously? The vision withered me and I had a mad compulsion to go sprinting into the bedroom, lock the door, and beg Elise to stay with me so we could talk.
I glanced at the outfit Mrs. McKenna was wearing. On a less stout figure it might have been attractive: a floor-length gown of yellow brocade trimmed with black, the muttonleg sleeves made of black chiffon, a dark shawl draped across her shoulders. Like Elise, her hair was held up by tortoise-shell accessories. Unlike Elise, she conveyed to me only an image of distaste and disapproval.
“That’s a lovely outfit,” I offered, nonetheless.
“’Nk you,” she said. She didn’t even glance at me. I wished that she’d sit down. Or walk around. Look out the window. Anything but stand there like a palace guard steeled to arrest any suspect movement on my part. Again, I had an urge to make a dash for the bedroom. This time it was partially perverse; a desire to see how she’d react. Annoyed with myself, I forced away the notion. I had traveled to a circumspect time. I must behave with circumspection.
I was so relieved when Elise came out of the bedroom that I sighed aloud. Mrs. McKenna glanced at me with pinch-lipped censure. I pretended not to see. I stared at Elise as she crossed the room. How gracefully she moved. I felt another surge of love for her. “You look magnificent,” I said.
Another mistake; how many would I make before I learned? Though I’d spoken with sincerity, I could see that my words were discomforting to her in the presence of her mother. “Thank you,” she murmured, but her eyes avoided mine as I reached around and opened the door.
Mrs. McKenna passed me, followed by Elise, who was wearing a dark lace shawl across her shoulders and carrying a small evening bag in her right hand. A trace of her delicate perfume stirred me as she went by and I sighed aloud again. She gave no sign that she’d heard although I’m sure she did. Behave, I told myself.
I moved into the outer sitting room and shut the door. Elise held out the key to me, I took it, locked the door, and gave it back. As I did, our eyes met and, for just an instant, I could sense that odd emotion binding us again. What it was on her part I had no idea. Something very definite though. How else explain her walking on the beach with me, allowing me to enter her room, taking me to dinner with her? Not to mention those intense, engulfing looks. It was not my charm, of that I was certain.
The moment ended as she turned away and dropped the key into her bag. Her mother took up convoy duty by her side so I made no attempt to join them, trailing them across the sitting room and out onto the Open Court.
They glanced back as I made a sound of awed reaction. The Court was a fairyland, aglow with hundreds of colored electric bulbs, its tropical vegetation lit from all directions, the fountain in its center cascading plumes of shimmering, illuminated water. “I’m impressed at how the patio looks,” I told them. Open Court! I thought, aggravated by my failure to retain things.
From that point on, I was placed in durance vile by Mrs. McKenna. Physically, her girth prevented me from moving beside Elise—the walk not wide enough. Conversationally, I was isolated too, forced to listen to her speak of the production and of actors and actresses I had never known. I presumed that she intended to remove Elise from my “insidious persuasion” by discussing aspects of their world to which I was not privy. It consoled me only superficially that I knew far more about Elise’s life than her mother could have guessed. The fact that, already, Mrs. McKenna was attempting to drive a wedge between Elise and me I found disturbing. No doubt she’d make the dinner as uncomfortable as possible for me, as well, then remove Elise completely if she could. If Robinson were also present, my dilemma would be doubly pressing.
As I drifted after them along the walk, I wondered vaguely why we weren’t turning toward the back veranda, following the route to the lobby along which the aging bellboy had escorted me. I think now—just a guess but what else can explain it?—that he led me that way because it took more time and he wanted to avoid returning to the lobby—and Mr. Rollins—as long as he could.
Now, in addition to the discomfort I felt in being kept apart from Elise, there was the renewed uneasiness of moving toward the lobby. Descent into the maelstrom, chapter two, I thought. I was headed back toward that depleting nucleus of 1896. I tried to raise a mental shield but knew that once I was exposed again to the detailed energy of this period, I’d be virtually defenseless.
The lobby was crowded, I saw, as I braced myself and opened the door for Elise and her mother. The moment I did, I heard the music of a small string orchestra playing on the balcony and the babble of multiple voices. To my pleased surprise the overall effect o
n me was minimal compared to what it had been earlier. Was it possible that little nap had done the trick?
My surprise and pleasure were undone when I saw that the meal was, indeed, to be complicated by the presence of one William Fawcett Robinson. I looked at him with apprehension as we crossed the lobby; Elise had paused as she’d entered and I walked beside her now.
Robinson is five foot ten, I estimate, his build on the stocky side. To my surprise, I saw that I had failed to notice, in his photographs, his close resemblance to a darkly bearded Serge Rachmaninoff, his features angular and solemn; there is not a sign of humor in his face. His large, dark eyes were fixed on me with cold displeasure, his expression of abhorrence fully the equal of Mrs. McKenna’s. He was wearing a black suit and vest, black shoes, black bow tie, a watch chain on his vest. His hairline, unlike that of Serge Rachmaninoff, has receded so far that only a tuft of wispy, black hair remains on his upper forehead, brushed down scrupulously. Like Rachmaninoff, his ears are large. Unlike Rachmaninoff, I doubt he has one penny’s worth of music in him.
I glanced at Elise as we reached her manager. “William, this is Mr. Collier,” she said, her voice entirely controlled now. I could almost believe that she had recovered from her initial state of mind and was, now, unmoved by my presence.
Interpretive doubt did not extend to Robinson’s handshake; I knew he squeezed my hand far more than necessary. “Collier,” he snarled. It is the best I can describe his guttural, unpleasant voice.
“Mr. Robinson,” I said, drawing back my crumpled fingers. When I get my strength back, Bill, I thought, I’ll squeeze too.
If Mrs. McKenna had been hesitant to cut me openly from dinner plans, Mr. Robinson was not. “You’ll have to excuse us now,” he informed me, then turned to Elise and her mother.
“Mr. Collier is joining us,” Elise said. Again, I was impressed by the resolution in her voice. It made her reason for accepting me all the more enigmatic because it was clear that, had she chosen to be rid of me, she could have done so instantly. She had never even been close to crying out or running from me, I decided. It was simply not her style.
Any more than accepting reverses was Robinson’s. “I believe our table is set for three,” he reminded her.
“They can add another setting,” Elise told him. I knew she was becoming uncomfortable and I hoped that having to defend me constantly would not turn her against me. If I hadn’t felt such total need to be with her, I would, of course, have backed off myself.
As it was, I only stared at Robinson when he added, pointedly, “I’m sure that Mr. Collier has other plans.” I don’t, I almost said, then opted for silence, smiled, and, taking Elise by the arm, began escorting her toward the Crown Room. As we moved away, I heard Robinson mutter, “Is this the explanation for today’s rehearsal?”
“I’m sorry, Elise,” I murmured. “I know I’m intruding but I have to be with you. Please bear with me.”
She didn’t respond but I could feel the tension in her arm as we neared a mustached dandy in a dress suit who was smiling at us toothily, looking about as real as a store-window mannequin. Even his voice sounded artificial as he crooned, “Good evening, Miss McKenna.”
“Good evening,” she said. I didn’t look at her to see if she’d returned his dreadful smile. “Mr. Collier will be dining with us.”
“Yes, of course,” replied the maitre d’, sounding utterly delighted. He smiled again. “Our pleasure, Mr. Collier.” Spinning on his heel like a dancer, he started across the dining room, Elise and I in tow.
I had only glanced into the Crown Room as we’d crossed the lobby. For that matter, I had never been inside it, even in 1971. It is incredibly huge, in excess of a hundred and fifty feet in length and sixty feet wide with the probable square footage of five good-sized houses. Overhead, the dark pine ceiling is at least thirty feet high, its broad, pegged arch resembling the inverted hull of a ship. Not one post or pillar mars its massive floor space.
Imagine then this vast enclosure filled with men and women eating, talking, being—a closely packed mob of 1896 people surrounding me. Despite the noticeable improvement in my condition I began to feel a little dizzy as the maitre d’ led us through this whirlpool of activity. There was no carpeting and every noise seemed deafening to my ears: the en masse conversations, the enormous rattle of silverware on dishes, and the thudding footsteps of an army of waiters as they marched across the floor. No one else appeared to be disturbed by it but, then, this time seems more physical than the one I left; more noise, more motion, more involvement with the base mechanics of existence.
I glanced at Elise and saw that her face was turned away as she greeted various people whose tables we were passing. Most of them regarded me with unveiled curiosity. I didn’t realize, until later, that they were members of her troupe. No wonder they stared at me. They had probably never seen Elise in the company of an unknown man before.
The maître d’ must have signaled someone, for as we reached a circular table by a back window, there was, already, a fourth chair waiting and a waiter finishing another silver setting on the creamy tablecloth. The maître d’pulled out a chair for Elise and she sat down with the grace of an actress whose every movement has been perfected.
I turned to see the duo of sour wraiths upon us and pulled out a chair for Mrs. McKenna. I might as well have been invisible. She waited for the maître d’ to draw a different chair, then sat. I pretended not to notice and sat on the chair I held, seeing how Elise’s mouth had tightened at her mother’s rudeness. The maître d’murmured something to Robinson, who then sat down too, and menus were laid in front of us.
“See what’s on the program, Elise,” Mrs. McKenna said.
I glanced down the menu until I noted, near its bottom, the word Program, and under that the name of R. C. Kemmermeyer, Musical Director. I looked at the list of selections until I saw “Babbie’s Waltz” by William Furst. Babbie is the name of the character Elise plays in The Little Minister.
My napkin was rolled up, with an orangewood ring round its middle. Just like the ring in the Hall of History, I thought as I shook open the napkin and draped it over my lap. Not history, I told myself; now. I returned the ring to the table and looked at the menu cover, seeing that the words Hotel del Coronado, Coronado, California were printed across it; beneath them the drawing of a floral wreath with a coronet in its center. Below the wreath was the name of E. S. Babcock, Manager. He’s here right now, I thought. The man who’d dictated those faded, near invisible letters I had read in that ovenlike vault of a room. The realization gave me an odd feeling.
I looked back at the menu, struck by the multiplicity of selections. I ran my gaze down the dinner choices: Consommé Franklyn, Petits Pâtés à la Russe, Olives, Pickled Figs, Salmon Steak à la Valois, Larded Filet of Beef à la Condé.
My stomach rumbled ominously. Larded filet of beef? Even my improved system wasn’t up to that heavy vision. I tried to deflect my mind by jumping to the desserts: Orange Meringue Pie, Gâteau d’Anglais.
I looked up as Elise spoke. “I beg your pardon?” I said.
“What looks good to you?” she asked.
You, I thought; only you. “Well, I’m not too hungry, really,” I replied. What are we doing here? I thought. We should be alone somewhere. Elise lowered her eyes to her menu again and I did the same. This will, doubtless, be the longest meal I’ve ever sat through in my life, I thought.
I looked up as the waiter arrived to take our orders and was treated to the stimulation of listening to Mrs. McKenna order such things as Mock Turtle au Xerxes, Canapé Rex, Sweetbread Truffe Montpelier, and other stomach-wrenching fare. As she spoke, it seemed as though a cloud of odors was beginning to collect around me. At the time, I thought she was evoking it verbally. Now, I realize that my sense of smell was probably hypersensitive as well, and I was picking up fumes of food and drink all around me. They did me little good.
The chamber orchestra in the Rotunda wound up “The Seutier
s Fleuris Waltzes” and, unhampered by applause, launched into the “Isle of Champagne” from Chassalgne’s comic opera; that’s what the program said, at any rate—you couldn’t prove it by me. Trying to avoid even the suggestion of food, I closed the menu and looked at its back cover. Places of Interest in the Vicinity of the Hotel, I read, noting items about a Bathhouse, a Museum, and an Ostrich Farm at Tenth and B, “an interesting sight at feeding time.” I must be an interesting sight at feeding time too, I thought.
“Collier?”
I looked at Robinson.
“You ordering?” he asked.
“Just some consommé and toast,” I said.
“You don’t look well,” he told me. “Perhaps you’d better be taken to your room.”
My room, I thought. Yes, that would be neat, Mr. Robinson. I smiled. “No. Thank you. I’ll be fine,” I said. There I go again, I thought. No. Thank you. I’ll be fine.
Robinson redirected his attention to the waiter, and my stomach was under siege again as I tried not to hear him order Mountain Oysters a la Villeroi, Boston Green Goose with Applesauce, Noodles with Crumbs, Salad Italienne, and a bottle of ale; as is evident, I heard every word.
“Was talking to Unitt before,” Robinson said to Elise when the waiter departed; I’d missed her order, I realized. “He had a meet with this Babcock and agreed that a fire on stage would be a bad idea in light of the hotel’s structure. Unitt’s trying to work out something with the stagehands. It won’t have the effect of a real fire but, under the circumstances, I guess we’ll have to cooperate on this point.”
Elise nodded. “All right,” she said.
“We’re also set to leave tomorrow night as soon as the trains are loaded,” he added, more for my benefit than hers, I felt.
She isn’t going to leave, my mind addressed him; you are, though. But I had difficulty holding the conviction.
I was about to speak to Elise when Robinson asked me, unexpectedly, “What line of business are you in, Collier?”
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