Virgin With Butterflies (19 page)

His eyes looked bigger than ever but he said the next thing he said slow and quiet.

“Sir,” he says, “I have done what I think is my duty. I have taken over my brother's state, I will use the money I collected in America and Africa to finish the airfield for the British. And, sir, me and my soldiers,” he says, “are now at your service.” And he saluted like Nelson Eddy in
West Point
.

Then he walked over and kneeled before his father,
and he held up his two hands. In each one was a little lotus flower button. And the old prince put his hand on his boy's head and blessed him.

Everything was still for a minute. Then the old prince said, “Where is your brother now?”

The prince got up and said, “I have had him arrested in the name of my father.”

The father stood still a long time, then he said, “You have done well.” And he excused himself and took the prince away, and Aunt Mary let me cry all over her dark blue formal.

So we went upstairs and sat and talked with Lady Burroughs while Sir Gerald was with both princes, old and young, downstairs.

We talked it all over, but I didn't talk much, because I had seen the old prince's face and I knew how he felt. That old man was a saint if I ever saw one, and I loved him and I couldn't get out of my mind the prince in his uniform, kneeling before that old man. And that hand of the old man that was about the color of the stained white keys that had turned brown on Aunt Helga's square piano—I'd never heard her play it till that one night right after Uncle Ulrich's funeral.

So the next morning, we had breakfast in our room, and who should bring it up but Bill and Coo. There were flowers on the tray, same as always, a white orchid for me and something dark red that I had never seen before for Aunt Mary.

While we were eating, Aunt Mary told me that we were to go back in the car to Calcutta with Sir Gerald and Lady Burroughs. She said that I had done a good
job and that it wasn't Mr. Hoover that had paid for my clothes but the British government, but she couldn't tell me before. So she told me now.

She had had all my things moved over here from the prince's house and she said I was welcome to take with me whatever I wanted to, but since I was going to be flown to Australia by the R.A.F.—which stands for British Flying Core—I could only take one bag, and she had picked out the best things for me to take in it.

Then she showed me a jewelry case that was very pretty that had been hers, and she said she wanted me to have it as a present.

I says, “What will I need that for?”

And she says, “You'll have a few little trinkets unless I am very much mistaken. Besides,” she says, “if I had only sixteen strings of real pearls and an emerald anklet I wouldn't feel entirely unadorned,” she says.

Then Aunt Mary gave me a big wad of English money, which is just like toilet paper with black printing on it, but she said it was money and I guess it was, but I never got a chance to find out. Then she gave me my passport. I didn't know I had one, but it seemed that Mr. Wens had gotten it and brought it with him to Mexico City that time, and she had kept it for me.

It had that Fort Worth newspaper picture on it, and I felt pretty important with a jewelry box and a passport with my picture on it.

So we got ready to go downstairs, and then Aunt Mary said she sure wished she had me for a real niece, and I said I sure wished I had her for a real aunt and no lie, and we was downstairs and into the big room with
the tiger head to stumble over. She left me with Mr. Bosco, and said we'd meet at the car when I was ready.

Well, he took me up those long stone steps and then through the gallery to the door of the chapel with the hand altar where they kept Hankah.

And there the old prince was, with the morning sunlight from the one little window shining on his white hair.

He had a little carved ivory box with silver on it, and he said he wanted to give me something to take with me—it was the chain that Halla Bandah had worn on his neck with the ruby ring, Hankah, on it. The chain was beautiful with flat little gold links and every link with some writing on it, and he said it was like a rosary in my religion, and that each link was a prayer for my safety. Then he said he wanted me to have something to take the place of the ring that I had saved, and he began unlocking the little ivory box with a tiny key. And the key turned and the little ivory box came open.

It was a diamond, and I knew it was no rhinestone because they don't make 'em that big.

It was set in a band of gold with a little gold ring on it for that purpose so he threaded the chain in it, and let it hang down and it just trembled and sparkled like a dewdrop as big as a hazelnut.

I couldn't thank him, because I knew what it was worth—maybe not the Wrigley Building but the Annex to Marshall Field's, anyway—and I thought of how kind it was of him. And I started to try to say thank you, but something came over me and before I hardly knew it I dropped down on my knees, and he put his hand on my
head and I said a quickie Hail Mary and got up, and he kissed me on the forehead.

Mr. Bosco was waiting for me outside the door.

“You got your present?” he says.

“Yes,” I says and I showed it to him.

“Very pretty,” he said and he weighed it in his hand.

“Yes,” I says, “but most of all I love it because he gave it to me.”

“That's right,” he said, “but still, very heavy, and very heavy diamonds make very pretty diamonds.”

“You're a bad one, Mr. Bosco,” I says.

“Granted,” he says, and we walked down a few steps and he stopped again.

“I have no present for you,” he says, but he sure didn't look sad about it.

“Don't you worry,” I says, “I've still got that little green bug you gave me for Christmas.”

“That little bug will bring you much luck, and many grandchildren. That little bug is made of jade,” he says.

“It's very nice,” I says, “so you see I don't need any going-away present from you, because I couldn't never forget you, Mr. Bosco.”

He looked at me with one eye squinted.

“No,” he said. “I have no present for you now, but I do have something. You don't smoke pipe?” he says.

“No,” I says, “do the girls in Burma smoke pipes?”

“Sometimes,” he says, “but I don't have a pipe for a little girl. This pipe is an English pipe. This pipe is a man's pipe. This pipe is a present for American gentleman.”

“Who?” I says.

“Pop,” says Mr. Bosco and he laughed and took a polished wood box out of his pocket and gave it to me.

I couldn't hardly see how to open it but I did. Inside of it, on a purple silk cushion was a briar pipe that I knew Pop would die for. Because for somebody that had smoked nothing but corncob pipes all the years I've known him, he knows more about briar pipes than old Mr. Briar himself.

Well, there it was with a gold band around the stem and a gold band let into the bowl, and I saw some writing on the gold and I looked and it said “Pop” on it.

I tried to thank him for Pop, but I couldn't.

“I guess I'm going now,” I says.

“You be careful,” he says, “you have a young man in Chicago?”

“Yes,” I says. “Anyway I hope he's in Chicago. If I don't pass him on the way. He's a soldier,” I says.

“Good,” he says, “you be careful.” And then he gave me a card.

“You ever need me, you let me know,” he says, and I knew he meant it. So we shook hands there on those steep steps, and then he took me to the door of a room at the bottom.

“You go in there,” he says.

“What for?” I says.

“You'll see,” he says, and he put his little old black hat down on his ears and that's the last I ever saw of Mr. Bosco, except his hat, and I did see that again just once.

So I knocked on the door and Bill opened it, and Bill and Coo looked at me with solemn faces.

When I was inside the little room they both bowed
till they nearly fell over, with their hands behind 'em. And finally, both at once, they brought their hands out from behind their backs, and each one had a white paper flower made out of something like tissue paper, and they gave 'em to me. Then they both turned around and ran out of the room.

I just stood there with those two poor mussed up paper flowers in my hand and fished out my handkerchief, and believe me, I was glad I didn't wear mascara.

So finally I took my handkerchief down from my eyes and raised my head up, and there was Prince Halla Bandah Rookh looking at me.

It looked like he couldn't say anything.

“Listen,” I says, “I'm so sorry for you. About your brother,” I says. “I know what that feels like,” I says. “And another thing,” I says, “I got to ask your pardon for what I did to you.”

“What?” he says.

“Well,” I says, “I knew, after awhile, that you liked me,” I says, “but I couldn't very well go back after I started, and I felt guilty, because you see Aunt Mary, she's not my aunt at all.”

“I know,” he says.

“Yes,” I says, “you know now, but you didn't know she was watching you.”

“I did,” he says. “I knew all the time.”

“Then why did you let her?” I says.

“Because,” and his eyes were soft and sad and beautiful, “because so long as they thought that they had fooled me, I could keep you with me,” he says, and he touched my hand.

Well, I couldn't say a thing to that.

“You were right not to marry me,” he says. “This is a time for a man to go to war. But always, always, I will remember you, and your beauty, and your goodness,” he says, “and that across this world somewhere, I have a friend.”

He took the paper flowers and the wooden pipe box and the ivory diamond-and-chain box out of my hands, and he put them on a table. Then he took a little gold box out of his pocket and he put it between my hands. Then he turned them till the back of one was up and he kissed it, then he turned them over and he kissed the back of the other one.

“Do not open this little box until you are at home,” he says.

“All right,” I says, “but won't you tell me what it is?”

“Only this,” he says, “it will keep you and yours comfortable as long as you live. Promise not to open it.”

“I promise,” I says.

“I will not say goodbye,” he says, “but may your god and my gods protect you always from harm.”

S
O
I
TOOK THE LITTLE GOLD BOX
and my other presents and I went out to the car, and there was Sir Gerald and Lady Burroughs and Aunt Mary waiting, with two of those Cockney soldiers to drive us. And Lady B. had on her funny hat that was like John Alden's if Priscilla had sat on it.

“Where in the world did you get those dreadful flowers?” Lady B. said.

“They're not dreadful,” I says, “they was made for me by two of my dearest friends,” I says, “and I'd rather have them than the Wrigley Building,” I says, “or that old Thread Needle Bank, or anything in England, not leaving out the king,” I says.

“So sorry,” she says, and we got in and drove away. I took a last look back at the old prince's palace and it sure was the real thing.

Suddenly, out of a window high up, I saw an arm and it was waving a little old black hat, and I waved and waved till the sight of that little hat was cut off by the big trees and stuff.

When we got to Calcutta, Aunt Mary bought me a
khaki colored suit and hat, and we had tea at the British place where the government was at. Suddenly Lady B.—who I had asked the pardon of for getting mad about the flowers and she had forgiven me—suddenly she looked around behind the high-backed chair where she was sitting and she poked there hard with her teaspoon. There was a yelp from somebody that was back there hiding.

And “Roddy,” she says, “Roddy, you fiend, stop this ragging and come out at once and meet this sweet and amazing child.” And out he came with his hair all mussed. He had on a uniform with wings on him and ribbons all smudged that needed cleaning.

“This is Captain Sir Rodney Carmichael, called Roddy, and as bad as they make 'em. Look at her, Roddy, you're to take her to Australia. Won't that be jolly? She's a Yankee?”

I wondered again why the English can't seem to forget the Civil War. They're always calling you that.

“How perfectly ripping,” says Roddy and he gave my hand one shake and let go of my hand, but his eyes went all over me.

Sir Gerald cleared his throat and barked softly into his teacup. “And no tomfoolery, now, on the journey,” he says.

“Last thought in my head, sir,” says Roddy.

“And the first,” says Lady B. “Yes, this bright little lad, as a reward of merit, gets the prize,” and she patted him on the head and gave him a cup of tea.

Sir Gerald cleared his throat again. “Tell the truth, Roddy, is this a surprise?”

“Absolutely,” says Roddy.

“You mean, you haven't been told by the old bear what you're to do?”

“Not a syllable,” says Roddy with his little boy's eyes going around the curves of me, fit to skid into the ditch. “But I trust,” he says, “it is not unconnected with international relations, lend lease and all that.”

“It is indeed, she's a loan and not a lease.”

They laughed a lot at that, but I sure thought it was too Eddie Cantor.

Then they talked about stuff I didn't understand. I can remember it, because I wrote it down. So here it is.

Lady B. says, “You are to take her tied up in Christmas ribbons and deliver her to old King Mark. You can look but you mustn't touch.”

I knew they were joking, I mean English joking, but I didn't get it all.

And then Roddy says to me, “Are you fond of Tristan?”

And I said I never had any that I knew of. And everybody laughed and I knew I had made a mistake, but I didn't care much. I was going home.

So then Roddy got sent for and went with the soldier to the old bear's office to get his orders, they said.

Roddy was nice, if a little silly, like I said, acting full of stuff all the time when he talked to a girl, till he got alone with one all by himself, and then he stopped all of his foolishness and was just as nice as anybody. But I didn't know that then, and I was sure worried thinking I'd have to fly to Australia with this young fellow, all alone, just the two of us in some little plane. And if he was going to be so hell-bent on showing me what a boy he was, all the way, I didn't go for it much. But, as I say,
all that was just for show. When it came to the point where he could have been a little troublesome—and it sure did, on that rubber raft—why he was pretty shy about it, and was I glad.

Of course I did have plenty of trouble with him later but that was after he got so full of fever. If it hadn't have been for his bad arm, Roddy, with his fever raging, would sure have been a hard boy to handle. And take it from one that's done it, a small rubber raft in the Indian Ocean is no place to fight for your honor.

Well, Roddy came back to the tea table and said it was all too absolutely something and the old bear had been “very red hot,” whatever that meant. But anyway I found out what I had guessed already, that The Old Bear was the name they all called the head British council there.

But he wasn't an old bear at all, but a nice old boy that we had dinner with and stayed at his house.

The next morning at the first streak of day we got to the plane.

It wasn't a little plane at all. It was a big army plane, and had an English crew and guns, too, and was taking a whole raft of stuff, including me, to Australia and another passenger, too.

Just as we was about to start, Sir Gerald barked once, and then says, “You've got me to thank, Roddy, for this. They were thinking of giving her to the tigers.”

Well, that sure gave me a start.

“But I wouldn't hear of it,” he barked on. “No, I said this is a job for the British lion, I said, so I got the job for you.”

Roddy laughed and says, “Don't let anyone know, sir, when we're taking off or those damned tigers may come dashing out of China and hijack her from me in mid-ocean—or is it hijohn? I forget.”

I guessed they were joking about the tigers, but after that bloody lion and camels and elephants, I couldn't be just sure.

“Shut up, both of you,” says Aunt Mary, laughing, “you'll scare the child to death.” Then she turned to me. “The tigers, my dear,” she says, “are the greatest American heroes of this war, to date. Colonel Chennault and those boys of his in China,” she says, “are tops. And any girl that wouldn't jump at the chance to be hijacked—not johned, Roddy, my lad—by those boys,” she says, “well, all I can say is, she doesn't deserve any such good luck.”

“Very true, indeed,” says Roddy, and we started saying goodbye.

“Well, cheerio, sir,” says Roddy.

“Cheerio,” says Sir Gerald.

“Cheerio, Lady Burroughs.”

“Cheerio.”

And then they all said cheerio two or three more times.

“Goodbye,” says Aunt Mary, and we got in, and I says hello to all the boys, some Cockneys and some like Roddy, but all nice and making a few cracks, but nice, too.

Just before we started, a soldier ran up and gave something to Sir Gerald. He gave it to Aunt Mary, and she opened the envelope and there was another one inside of that one, and “Hey,” she says, “you're always getting letters just before you take off.”

“Me?” I says, and I couldn't breathe hardly.

“You,” she says, and she gave it to Boggs—that was the sergeant with the wings. That looks funny when you write it, a sergeant with wings, but when I think of Boggs now—and I could never forget his funny crooked little face—a sergeant with wings is exactly the way to tell what he really was like.

I couldn't understand hardly a word Boggs said till I got to know him better, but that first morning, I sure loved him when he handed me that envelope that had come halfway around the world from I could guess who.

So I don't remember the goodbyes, or the takeoff or anything much, but that suddenly we were in the air and I was sitting quietly so my goose pimples would smoothe out before I opened my letter that was surely from Jeff.

Millie says to me once, “You're a funny one,” she says. “Here I am always honing for Saint Louis where I was born at, and you just go along and home is wherever you hang your slip up.”

Well, I did always try to act like it was, and I guess I made it seem like it was that way with me, even when it wasn't, because what's the use of squawking all the time.

But now I thought about Jeff, and how I hadn't really thought of him much, just that he was big and nice looking with a smiling kind of face—like a nice horse, but kind, that was what I first saw in Jeff. He had big feet and his beard grew fast—he was always smooth when he came to work every night, but by morning I could see a stubble, like the sun on a cut wheatfield, while we sat, having coffee together at the Greek's. And how I never thought much about him till that night, or
maybe I did and didn't know I did. But anyway, I sure had thought a lot about the way his arms felt around me in the sunrise at the airport. And I knew all of a sudden that Jeff was what I wanted, that with Jeff everything I hadn't wanted with anybody else would be different and here I was, at last, headed for home. And a letter from Jeff in my hands, and what a fool I was to be sitting thinking when I might be reading it. So I opened it fast, and here it is, what I remember of it.

“For the love of Davy Crockett where are you at?” That's how it started.

The letter from Pop smelled like his old corncob pipe, and I had to read it slow, because I was getting to be a crybaby and I couldn't see half of the time.