Around the World With Auntie Mame (3 page)

Every night Auntie Mame and Vera would put on new evening dresses with a whole lot of pizazz, get me into my dinner jacket, and we'd go off to some place spiffy like Maxim's or Les Ambassadeurs, where Auntie Mame and Albert, the headwaiter, would go about ordering dinner as though they were planning the Creation of Man. Then we'd go to the theater—something of Auntie Mame's choosing like the Comédie-Française or a good gloomy French tragedy or a light, airy thing like
Three Waltzes
.

Then
we'd do a night club like Bricktop's or Suzy Solidor's or Le Boeuf sur le Toit. And finally back to the hotel, where Auntie Mame would open all the windows, take me out to the balcony for a good-night cigarette, and tell me all sorts of interesting things about the history of France—like the time she was inadvertently caught in a bordello, the wise thinking behind the installation of bidets, and how the Maginot Line had made France forever impregnable. Every day was a full one.

HOWEVER, OUR PARISIAN IDYLL CAME ABRUPTLY TO an end in the Gardens of Versailles when we ran face to face into my trustee, Dwight D. Babcock of the Knickerbocker Trust Company, armed with guidebook, camera, and shooting stick, and reinforced by his wife, Eunice, and his son, Dwight Junior.

I was orphaned at the age of ten, and Auntie Mame was my guardian. But, by the exotic terms of my late father's will, Mr. Babcock, as trustee, had complete control over my upbringing and education and he had a free hand to exercise his authority whenever he felt that Auntie Mame was doing something too eccentric. For the past seven years that authority had been exercised like a race horse. Mr. Babcock was in banking. He lived in Scarsdale. He wore rimless glasses and Herbert Hoover collars. His opinions were formed by the
LiteraryDigest, Dun and Bradstreet Reports
, and the
Wall Street Journal
.

Auntie Mame was the first to regain her speech. “Why,
Mis
ter Babcock!
What
a pleasant surprise. And how nice to see you again, Alice.”

“Eunice,” Mrs. Babcock said, correcting her primly.

“Of course, Eunice. And Junior!”

“Hi,” Junior said flatly.

Junior Babcock and I had shared the same room at St. Boniface and the less said about him the better. He was just like his father—only with acne.

“W-well, hrumph, this, um, certainly is a surprise,” Mr. Babcock said, implying that he had rather expected us to be found tossing fitfully in an opium den on the Rue Mouffetard. “I
understood
that you and Patrick had run off to Europe—
without
my permission, needless to say—but I didn't . . . um, ah . . .”

Auntie Mame could charm birds off trees when she chose to. Even Mr. Babcock was not entirely immune to her magnetism, although she'd given him good reason to be damned suspicious of it. “Dear Mr. Babcock,” she said, dimpling prettily, “why would I bother a busy executive like you over a trifling little thing like taking my nephew off on a cultural tour of Europe before he starts college this fall? I can imagine how you financial wizards must feel—sitting down there in Wall Street plotting a big stock-market coup and then having some hysterical old widow derail your whole train of thought by calling with silly questions about the grocer's bill. It must be
maddening
.”

“Well,” Mr. Babcock conceded with a constipated smile, “um, yes, um, sometimes that sort of thing is annoying.”

I could see that Auntie Mame's charm was beginning to work, and I was awfully thankful because I still had a few months to go before I became eighteen and would be set free of Mr. Babcock's insidious power.

“Well, I'm sure you
need
a good vacation, Mr. Babcock,” Auntie Mame said. “And don't you
adore
France? Your first trip?”

“Indeed not,” Mr. Babcock said dryly. “I was over here with the A.E.F. in seventeen. Had I known then what I know now about these decadent, arrogant, dishonest French, I would have gone to jail before raising a finger to help them. Of all the corrupt, indolent, swindling . . .”

I could see Auntie Mame getting that old Joan of Arc look and this was no time for her to get into an argument with Mr. Babcock over ethnic groups or over anything else, for that matter. “Where are you staying, Mr. Babcock?” I asked too loud and too fast for Auntie Mame to start in on one of her bigger speeches.

Mrs. Babcock answered me. “We're staying with some cousins of mine, Patrick. Dr. and Mrs. Gilbreath. They were missionaries in Saigon for many years and they now have a hostel out near Neuilly for young divinity students en route to Indochina.”

Auntie Mame shuddered.

“Isn't that nice!” I said quickly.

“
Nice?
” Mr. Babcock snarled. “If you were to see what passes for plumbing in that house, you wouldn't . . .”

“Yes, it's nice, Patrick,” Mrs. Babcock said dubiously. “They lead a very simple life. Serve good, plain American food—we brought over a whole case of Beechnut peanut butter; that seems to be one thing the students really crave. And they show the most interesting lantern slides of their travels every night after dinner.”

“Isn't that nice,” I said again, but without much conviction.

“Ye-ess,” Mrs. Babcock said a little wistfully, “it
is
nice, but somehow I'd always thought of Paris as—well—sort of
gay
and . . . oh, I don't know. Out-of-door cafés and pretty clothes and . . . Well, it
is
restful and my cousins the Gilbreaths are a perfect peach of a couple . . . but . . .”

It didn't take any great insight to sense that Mrs. Babcock's first trip abroad was being something of a washout. Even Auntie Mame took pity on her, because she suddenly said, “
I
know what let's do, Eunice. There's a marvelous little restaurant right here in Versailles with a terrace and a garden and a superb cellar and . . .”

“Are you going to eat in the basement?” Mr. Babcock asked darkly.

“They don't ink-dray,” I said to Auntie Mame under my breath.

“Well, it's a divine little place,” Auntie Mame went on rapidly, “and I wish you'd all come as my guests. It's so hot here and . . .”

Mrs. Babcock looked wanly hopeful, and Auntie Mame cinched the deal before Mr. Babcock could open his mouth to say no. “Here I am, a poor, silly widow just like the ones you have to deal with, Mr. Babcock, and I really
need
a good, sound financial head around to help me count out the francs and pay the bill and tip the waiter. And, oh, you know. . . .”

It was a direct appeal to Mr. Babcock's patriotism, and I felt that he would have gone to hell if only to save a fellow American from the rapaciousness of the French. Under a sort of armed truce we were off to the little restaurant of Auntie Mame's choosing.

IT WAS A GOOD RESTAURANT—ALMOST A GREAT REStaurant—and since the staff remembered Auntie Mame from previous trips, they fell all over themselves making us comfortable. Auntie Mame was being very much the Gracious Hostess and there were only two or three bad moments.

The first occurred when the captain said, “Does Madame wish a cocktail, wine?”

“Why, I think . . .” Auntie Mame began.

“No!” Mr. Babcock said, taking over completely.

Auntie Mame looked as though she'd been stabbed, but she recovered quickly. With a sly grimace she said, “Nothing alcoholic, please. Just bring a nice cool bottle of Veuve Cliquot. A magnum, I think.”

“What's that?” Mr. Babcock asked.

“It's a kind of carbonated grape juice, Mr. Babcock. Catawba grape juice. I think you'll enjoy it. So cooling on these warm days.”

“How nice,” Mrs. Babcock said.

The champagne was poured and nobody seemed to mind it at all.

When Mr. Babcock asked what we'd been seeing in Paris I was eager to tell him all about the interesting people and restaurants and night clubs and plays Auntie Mame had taken me to see, but Auntie Mame was too quick for me. “Oh, you know, Mr. Babcock,” she said. “The sort of thing boys of Patrick's and Junior's age should visit—museums, cathedrals, things like that.”

“
Catholic
cathedrals?” Mr. Babcock asked loudly. He was a sort of Inquisition in reverse.

“Well, I don't think there
are
very many Protestant ones, Mr. Babcock. And I just hustle him through. Here, do let me fill up your glass.”

Lunch was delicious and the champagne was beginning to have its tranquilizing effect. Over the salad Mrs. Babcock, who had become quite rosy, turned vivaciously and said, “Tell me, Mame dear, how is your dear friend Vera Charles?” It was the first time she had ever called Auntie Mame anything other than Mrs. Burnside or—in Auntie Mame's unmarried days— Miss Dennis. Auntie Mame was so pleased with the champagne's effect that she beckoned to the waiter and, with a broad wink, called for another bottle of that good Yankee Catawba grape juice.

“Why, as a matter of fact, Eunice, Vera's right here in Paris at the Ritz. She's opening in a new play tonight.”

“Oh,
what
?” Mrs. Babcock trilled. “You know I've seen every one of her plays twice. So refined. Such a great, great lady. I can't wait to tell all the girls in Scarsdale that I've seen Vera Charles in
Paris
.”

“Why, Mrs. Babcock,” I began, “Vera's working at the Fo . . . Ouch!”

Auntie Mame fetched me a kick under the table that nearly broke my ankle. Then she took over. “Isn't that dreadful, Eunice. Here Vera's my dearest friend and I can't for the life of me remember the name of the play or the theater or anything. Hahahaha! Can
you
, Patrick?” she asked ominously.

“No,” I said. “Isn't that funny? My mind's gone completely blank.”

Other than that, the lunch went splendidly. So well, in fact, that Eunice and Junior were nodding into the Grand Marnier soufflé and Mr. Babcock was decidedly tipsy. “No joy dee veever,” he kept saying of them.

The luncheon party broke up with Eunice and Junior being sent
chez
Gilbreath in a taxi and Mr. Babcock unsteadily joining us in Auntie Mame's car bound for Paris. He
said
it was to pick up some mail at the American Express. It was around four when Auntie Mame finally waved him out of the car with the tenderest of good-byes and drove back to the hotel.

“What I need now is a real, honest-injun snort,” Auntie Mame said, tossing her hat across the sitting room. “All that sweetness and light has undone me. Now, my little love, be a pet and pour poor Auntie Mame about twelve fingers of cognac and I'll cheer up poor Vera. You know how these actresses get on opening nights.”

There was a faint rapping at the door. I opened it and there stood Vera. She was dressed in black with a wide straw hat hung with heavy black veiling.

“Who died?” I asked.

“Vera Charles did,” Vera said, stepping into the suite and leaning dramatically against the door jamb. “Lock the door and then
look
at me.” Vera lifted her veil, and her face was a sight. It looked okay from the left side, but the right side was black and blue and swollen out almost to her shoulder. “
Look
at me!” Vera said again, wresting the brandy glass from Auntie Mame.

“Vera!” Auntie Mame cried. “What in the world . . .”

“That man!” Vera said. “That beast! He's mauled the bejesus out of me.”

“But Vera. How could you allow any man to . . .”

“I couldn't
help
it. I was in such agony.”

“But, Vera. I didn't even know you had a lover. You never told me a word about . . .”

“Lover, my eye!” Vera spat. “It's that God-damned dentist. 'Ook,” she said, thrusting her finger back into her mouth. “ 'Isdom toof. Imfacted. Damned near killed me getting it out. I'll never be able to go on tonight.” She downed the brandy and made for the telephone. “There goes two grand a week.” She picked up the telephone and got on to the management of the Folies-Bergère.

It was quite a conversation. Vera didn't know much French and Auntie Mame was often called to pick up the telephone and fill in for her. It lasted the better part of an hour. When it was over both ladies were so spent that I filled up their glasses to the brim.

“Thank you, Patrick,” Auntie Mame said absently. Then she said, “Well, they were fairly definite about it, weren't they?”

Vera moaned, sipped, moaned again.

“Of course I'm not entirely
certain
about the French verb meaning ‘to sue,' but I got the general idea that the Folies management had some sort of stringent legal action in mind.”

“You're God-damned right they have,” Vera moaned. “I should never have left the Shuberts in the first place. Now I suppose I'll spend my declining years in the old actors' home.”

“Couldn't you complain to Actor's Equity?” I asked.

“They don't cut any ice over here,” Vera said.

“Ice!” I suggested. “With enough cold compresses your face might . . .”

“No good,” Vera sighed. “I've had my jaw embedded in ice like a shrimp cocktail all day. Only makes it swell more. I look like the Swedish Angel and still those bastards insist that I sign in tonight and go on or . . .” Vera paused, sipped again at her brandy, and gave Auntie Mame a long, searching look.

“Wh-what is it, Vera?” Auntie Mame said, gulping at her drink.

“I . . .
think
. . . I . . . might . . .
just
. . . have . . . an . . .
idea
. . . .”

“Oh no you don't, Vera Charles!” Auntie Mame said, polishing off the drink and thrusting the empty glass at me.

“Why couldn't
I
go to the theater tonight, with you as my maid . . .”

“No, Vera! No! Not in a million years. Not for a million dollars. Not . . .”