Around the World With Auntie Mame Page 3
“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 . . .”
“I could wear this hat and the veil and sign the book, Mame, and you could . . .”
“Out of the question!” Auntie Mame said, snatching the newly refilled glass from me. “We don’t look at all alike. I couldn’t possibly . . .”
“You’ve always wanted to be on the stage, Mame,” Vera said hypnotically.
“N-not any more, I don’t, Vera. It’s absolutely out of the . . .”
“And as for looking like me, Mame de-ah, that isn’t important. We’re the same size and you play the whole thing in powdered wig and a mask. . . .”
“Not this chicken, Vera. Not on your tintype. I wouldn’t dream of . . .”
“You see, dulling, the Empress Catherine is at a masked ball in the Winter Palace and she meets this young officer (actually some French faggot who couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag) who falls in love with her, not knowing that she’s the Empress of all the Russians. . . .”
“The Russians can have it, Vera Charles. I’ve said no. No. No. No!”
“And the young officer has this huge affair with her. . . .”
“Right on the stage? Vera, I’d never consider such a . . .”
“Certainly not, Mame. That is implied. And the costumes are divine. You get to wear this magnificent sable coat that cost . . .”
“I have a sable coat, thank you,” Auntie Mame said. “It’s in storage. No, Vera, I’m sorry, but I . . .”
“Fix your aunt another drink, Patrick,” Vera said. “Haven’t you any family feeling? And speaking of feeling, Mame, I should think that after you and I have been through thick and thin together for twenty years you would at least have the loyalty and consideration to come to the aid of your oldest, truest chum when she faces ruin—yais, rrrrrru-een—a ghastly lawsuit, a penniless old age, and a stretch in the Bastille. . . .”
“Oh, Vera . . .”
“I always said, ‘Loyalty is Mame’s middle name,’ but I can see now how wrong I was.”
“Vera,” Auntie Mame said reasonably, “don’t you understand that the whole thing is impossible? I’d do anything to help you, but I don’t even know the lines. I’ve never seen the script. I . . .”
“Lines? Faugh!” Vera said. “Your French is much better than mine.”
That was true. Auntie Mame could just get through a dinner menu, whereas Vera could barely order lunch. “Besides there aren’t any lines. All you have to say is ‘Oh, mon amour!’ from time to time. This French fag does all the rest of the talking. You don’t even go on until eleven o’clock. That gives us five—almost six—hours to rehearse. Why, I could teach . . .”
“N-no, Vera,” Auntie Mame whimpered.
“Now,” Vera said, “the thing opens at a gala masquerade in the Winter Palace. The courtiers are all dancing this gay minuet when Catherine the Great comes down the stairs, heavily disguised. Now pretend that’s the staircase, over there by the door.”
“Oh, Ve-ra,” Auntie Mame moaned.
THE DOORKEEPER AT THE FOLIES-BERGÈRE ALL BUT genuflected when Vera swept in, swathed in her veiling, and imperiously signed the artistes’ register. A star was, after all, a star. But the backstage space in the theater was so cramped what with its mountains of scenery, its stagehands, its dressers, its dancing girls and dancing boys, its mannequins, its featured performers, its stars and its stars’ retinues that visitors were discouraged from adding to the general mob scene.
Auntie Mame was stopped and the doorkeeper gave Vera a questioning look.
“Ma femme,” Vera said, indicating the hastily got-up maid’s uniform Auntie Mame was wearing.
The doorman raised his eyebrows but a star was, after all, a star and the theater staff was accustomed to the odd little quirks of personality that sometimes accompany celebrity. Then the doorkeeper nabbed me and shot another questioning glance.
“Mon amour,” Auntie Mame said, almost to herself. The doorman scratched his head, shrugged Gallically, and let us pass.
Backstage all was pandemonium. I could hear the orchestra blaring out front and a shrill Greek tenor singing something about loving Paree both midi and minuit something-something avec his chérie something-something c’est la vie. Some Balkan tumblers wearing nothing but gold paint, gold jock straps, and gold teeth were having a big discussion in a tongue I took to be Croatian. A flamenco dancer was laying out her partner in a brand of Spanish that was never heard in Castille. And a statuesque woman, somewhat sketchily dressed in three rhinestone stars, was rocking a baby and crooning to it in German.
“My dressing room is this way,” Vera said, elbowing her way through a throng of chorus boys got up as Princess of the Church for what I supposed would be a big Religious Number. They were mad for singing “Ave Maria” at the Folies-Bergère. Vera tripped over a performing seal, gave it a vicious kick, and dragged Auntie Mame up the stairs. You had to be a mountain goat to get to and from the dressing rooms, and the stairway made me think of the subway at rush hour except that practically everyone was naked. However, nobody paid much attention except me.
Auntie Mame opened the door and was immediately knocked flat by six enormous Russian wolfhounds that kept barking and wagging their tails and licking her face until I could get them off and help her.
“Vera,” Auntie Mame gasped, “what is this? An animal act?”
“No, Mame,” Vera said apologetically, “they’re part of your props. You go on with them in the big love scene.”
“Vera! That’s sodomy! I won’t . . .”
“Oh, nothing like that, de-ah. See, they like you.”
“Well, I don’t like them.”
“Never mind, de-ah, Patrick will look after them. Won’t you, Patrick? That’s Sascha, that’s Jascha, there’s Vanya, that’s Pavel, and Boris and Morris.”
“Morris?” I said.
“Well, I can’t remember,” Vera said nervously. “They all sound like Santa Claus’s reindeer. Now sit down, Mame, and I’ll make you up to look just as much like me as possible.”
“But, Vera, if I’m going to wear a mask all during this—this ordeal . . .”
“Don’t ask a lot of questions, de-ah. Just sit still.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER WE EMERGED. AUNTIE MAME led the way, looking lovely in an eighteenth-century ball gown encrusted with so many rhinestones that it weighed more than she did, and a diamond mask. But the fenders of her skirt were so wide and the white wig so tall that she had to undress again to get through the door.
“Nevah mind, de-ah,” Vera said, looking rather incongruous in the maid’s uniform. “All your othah changes will be made in the wings.”
Auntie Mame minced unsteadily down the dressing room stairs. Vera followed, carrying Auntie Mame’s train, her fan, her gloves, her cloak, and her muff. I came last with the Russian wolfhounds. They yelped with pleasure at being released from the tiny dressing room and lifted their legs ecstatically at every corner.
Down below, a path was reverently cleared for the Great Star. “ Allez! Allez!” the stagehands yelled. “Mees Sharl.”
One of the chorus boys thrust an autograph book and a pen into Auntie Mame’s face. She hastily wrote “Anna Q. Nillson” and trudged on.
“Ah, Signorina Charles,” he said, “grazie!”
“Prego,” Auntie Mame said.
“You see, Mame,” Vera said, her face discreetly lowered, “even the rest of the performers think you’re me.”
“B-but, Vera,” Auntie Mame said, “what about the man I have to act with. He’ll know.”
“Nonsense, Mame. He’ll be so busy counting the house he wouldn’t know if he were playing with Sybil Thorndike. Now, up these stairs and ready for your entrance. You’re on next. Come, Patrick, and bring the dogs.”
Out front a falsetto Polish tenor was singing something about Paree and a girl named Marie being something-something et jolie. Auntie Mame struggled up to the summit of a rickety wooden platform and just avoided being decapitated by a painted drop of the Winter Palace at Petrograd that was being lowered.
“Vera, I’m sorry but I just can’t,” she panted.
“Oh yes you can,” Vera said. “Remember, all you have to say is ‘Oh, mon amour!’ Do it just the way I taught you and ham it up good and proper. You know that flamboyant French school of acting. Overplay everything. Aim for somewhere between Gertie Lawrence and Walter Hampden. They’ll love it. The French worship stars and . . .”
The strains of a minuet drifted up to us. At the foot of a long white staircase I could see the boys and girls of the chorus all done up in powder and patches cavorting about the palace ballroom. The romantic young officer entered looking just like Octavian in Der Rosenkavalier. There was a fanfaronade of trumpets and the stairway was ablaze with light.
“Vera,” Auntie Mame quavered, “I . . .”
“You’re on, kid,” Vera said, giving her a shove. And, indeed, Auntie Mame was on.
I could see Auntie Mame gliding down the stairs, the white wig nodding dreamily on her head. The audience burst into applause.
“You see how the audiences adore me, Patrick,” Vera said. Then she hissed, “Pssssst, Mame! Toss ’em a kiss.”
Auntie Mame threw a kiss and the audience went wild. Somewhere from down front a raucous voice shouted, “Take it off!”
The Empress and the romantic young officer met. They began to dance. He jabbered away quite a lot and then Auntie Mame bellowed, “Oh, mon amour.” The applause was tremendous. The same voice yelled, “Take it off!” and the curtain came down. Auntie Mame swayed to the wings, where Vera snatched off everything but Auntie Mame’s girdle and brassière.
“H-how was I?” Auntie Mame said.
“Magnificent,” Vera said. “You were almost as good as I would have been. Now here. Get into this wig and the sable cloak—put the hood up, de-ah—and the muff. Now get into the sleigh. This is the wild elopement to your hunting lodge for one night of perfect . . .”
“But, Vera, what about a skirt? My legs are . . .” One of the dogs—Morris, I think—licked Auntie Mame’s bare knee.
“You don’t need a skirt,” Vera said, throwing Auntie Mame into the sleigh and pulling an ermine robe over her lap. “This is where he makes violent love to you and . . .”
“Vera, that man’s been eating . . . Eeeeeeee!” The sleigh with the Empress and her lover was hoisted off the floor and tilted at a crazy angle in mid-air. There were the sounds of muffled hoofs and sleigh bells and then rapturous applause. Two dispirited stagehands tossed a few handfuls of artificial snow down onto the sleigh from a light bridge. The romantic officer burrowed his face into Auntie Mame’s throat and, in a position of wild abandon, Auntie Mame croaked, “Oh, mon amour!”
“The French are wild about the aerial effects,” Vera said to me as the curtain fell.
Once again on terra firma, Auntie Mame limped toward us, wild-eyed with fear. “V-vera, wh-why didn’t you tell me I was going on for the Flying Concellos? My God, I nearly fell out of that . . .”
“We haven’t time to talk now,” Vera said, snatching off the cloak, the wig, and a good deal of Auntie Mame’s own hair. “And who the hell’s that rube out front who doesn’t know a great artiste when he sees one?”
“I—I don’t know, Vera. It’s so dark and the spotlights are so bright I can’t . . .”
The rest of Auntie Mame’s message was muffled in the pelts of a tentlike white fox cape that hung from her shoulders and dragged nine feet behind her.
“This is the scene on the battlements of your hunting lodge—just outside the imperial boudoir. He makes violent love to you and then . . . Here, stick your hand through that slit for your fan and . . . Ooops, you’re on!”
The setting was as Vera said. Beyond the ramparts you could see a lighted village and onion towers. Stars twinkled. A full moon shone. Clouds drifted by. Buckets of snow fell. A massed chorus sang “The Russian Lullaby”—in French. The audience was orgasmic at this devastating bit of stage legerdemain. Then Auntie Mame drifted in through the snow languidly fanning herself—don’t ask me why—with a huge frond of scarlet coq feathers. “Oh, mon amour,” she groaned, and collapsed into the frail arms of her lover, who then led her toward the imperial boudoir. The applause nearly rocked the theater, but through it all I could hear someone shouting, “Take it off!”
“Superb, dulling!” Vera kept saying as she got Auntie Mame into yet another wig and a negligee made of lamé and pink ostrich. “Now, be sure the mask is on securely because in this scene he tries to discover your identity just before he gets into the hay with . . .”
“Vera! You didn’t tell me about . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry, de-ah, the curtain comes down in plenty of time.”
“But, Vera, what do I say?”
“You say ‘Oh, mon amour,’ naturally. Can’t you remember your lines?” Vera gave Auntie Mame a shove onto the stage and there she was in the Russian imperial bedchamber, which looked exactly like the Palace of Versailles the week before. Nee
dless to say, the audience found the scene terrific and the one lone cry of “Take it off” came even louder and oftener. The romantic young officer made some pretty eloquent love to the Empress at the very edge of the imperial Beautyrest, but just as things began to look kind of sticky for Auntie Mame the guards burst in and dragged him away while she sobbed, “Oh, mon amour!” in a hoarse tremolo that would have put Sarah Bernhardt to shame, and collapsed on the bed. The curtain fell and not a moment too soon, because the bed collapsed right after that. The audience howled its appreciation.
“Mahvellous, dulling, simply soo-pub,” Vera said as she was getting Auntie Mame into her final costume—a court dress of solid seed pearls and chinchilla, a wig that towered four feet above Auntie Mame’s head, and a picture hat with nodding plumes that towered four feet above the wig. “Now,” Vera said, “this is where you go down to the dungeon and condemn your lover to death.”
“What for?” Auntie Mame asked.
“Why, for taking liberties with the Empress, silly.”
“Well, he really hasn’t done anything so terrible except to eat garlic sausage for the past forty-eight hours.”
“Don’t ask a lot of foolish questions, Mame. This is almost over. You use the dogs in this scene. Come! Come Yascha, Sascha, Pavel, Vanya, Boris, Morris!” The six wolfhounds bayed joyously and bounded over to yet another flight of steps leading to a high platform. Auntie Mame followed unsteadily but at the bottom step she stopped dead.
“What’s the matter?” Vera whispered. “The curtain’s going up.”
“I—I can’t make it.”
“Can’t make what?”
“Vera, this Empress drag is so heavy I can’t manage the stairs.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Vera said. She gave one of the dogs a whack across the rump and all six of them bounded to the top, hauling Auntie Mame up with them.
This setting—a dungeon far beneath the icy waters of the Neva—was one of the Folies-Bergère’s more sordid attempts at grim realism. Folies-Bergère muscle men in breechclouts were avidly torturing Folies-Bergère chorus boys, also in breechclouts, on wheels and racks. The boys squealed like stuck pigs, and tormented shadows were projected onto the sweating walls. The audience loved it. The romantic young officer was led in, stripped to the waist. I felt that this was something of a mistake since he was pitifully thin and had forgotten to put any of his robust brown make-up on his chest and arms. Then there was another fanfaronade of trumpets and Auntie Mame appeared at the top of the stairs in a mass of yelping wolfhounds. And let me tell you that the audience wasn’t exactly sitting on its hands when that happened.