Around the World With Auntie Mame (14 page)

I knew that Auntie Mame had never really got over Uncle Beau, for all of her flirtations since widowhood, but I also knew that if the superficial similarities between Beauregard Burnside and Elmore Burnside had stunned me, they must have done even more to Auntie Mame, who, even cold sober, was slightly nearsighted and too vain to wear glasses except when there was something she
had
to see.

But after the initial surprise had worn off, the dissimilarities grew ever more obvious, to me at least. Cousin Elmore was almost as tall as Uncle Beau, but where Beau had been what I believe is called a Big Man, Elmore was gross; blubber replacing muscle. Beauregard had had a Southern accent— naturally—but it was more or less under control. Cousin Elmore sounded just like an End Man. While Uncle Beau had had an absolute genius for making money, he never mentioned it or business. Cousin Elmore rarely talked of anything else, except sex. The first thing he said, after soundly kissing Auntie Mame, was “Ah travel in ladies' undahway-ah,” an unsettling statement that instantly had my gaze fastened on his open sport shirt to see if I could catch sight of a lacy camisole peeping out among the pineapples, hula girls, and hair.

And that brings up the subject of clothing. Uncle Beau always looked like a million dollars, not because he had millions in the bank, but because he had billions in taste. He was the kind of man who could have appeared in a fig leaf and still been faultlessly dressed. Not so Cousin Elmore. Elmore Burnside was wrinkle-prone, a pattern pushover, and color-crazed to the point of dementia. He reveled in green gabardine, in bright blue tweed, in chocolate browns, damson plums, and pearl grays. His shirts all had very virile brand names like Cowboy Casual, Rogue, Buccaneer, He-Man Haberdashery, and Sir Sportsman, but they all ran to the pansiest of colors— the more the merrier—in frightfully gay prints, and he wore them all hanging outside his trousers as though he might be just the tiniest bit pregnant.

Some nights when I have trouble sleeping, I find myself looking back upon Cousin Elmore's considerable wardrobe and trying to pick out just which items impressed me—or depressed me—the most. There were, for example, his shoes. He had dozens of pairs, for Cousin Elmore often confessed— without even being pressed—to foot trouble. The shoes, too, often had manly names such as Lothario Loafer, Bronco Brogue, Robin Hood, Kadet Kasual, and Mr. Metatarsal, but when you came right down to them, they all squeaked like
castrati
. Elmore favored two—or even three—tones of gray calf; woven straw and fabric mesh; boxed or pointed toes, and more eyelets and perforations per square inch than seemed possible. His socks, however, were always white.

Or could it have been Elmore's jewelry? He loved big studs and links of simulated—Elmore wittily called them “stimulated”—rubies and sapphires; great gobs of garbage gold, intricately machine-stamped; beaten silver and wondrously wrought glass. His fingers and lapels always glittered with an impressive array of lodge rings and emblems, worn interchangeably because Elmore was quite a joiner and hadn't nearly enough digits to display the spoils of his good fellowship. Nor were any of Elmore's neckties complete without a golf club, an eight ball, a skull with crossed bones, or a scotty—brutally hanged from a silver link chain—to hold them in place.
Naturally
he had all the latest fads in key chains, lighters, souvenir cigarette cases, fountain pens, and automatic pencils.

At other times I think it must have been Elmore's hats. He was the kind of person who is incapable of invading strange territory without instantly adopting its native head-gear. For that reason he had—
and
wore
—a ten-gallon Stetson, a blue beret, a sola topee, a cricket cap, a gondolier's hat, a green Tyrolean with brush, a huge Panama, said to be woven under water (where it certainly should have remained), and quite a collection of less remarkable hats in velours to match—or contrast with—his vivid suitings.

Well, I don't know exactly what one
could
say about Cousin Elmore's clothes that would do them full justice. To sum it all up in a nutshell, you could sell him
any
garment simply by telling him that no other man in town owned anything like it.

But Cousin Elmore, while admitting to sartorial splendor, fancied himself not so much Beau Brummel as Samuel Johnson. It was his sense of humor that was the most agonizing thing about him. I don't mean that he actually
had
a sense of humor. He was totally without one, although he thought he was killing and would have fought to the death anyone who so much as ventured the opinion that he was not. What Cousin Elmore really had was total recall of every joke he had ever heard from Joe Penner's radio program, from lodge stag parties, from smoking compartments, and from World War I. What he did not bank on was that everyone else remembered them, too, when reminded, and that few of them had been funny to begin with.

The pun was Cousin Elmore's bluntest instrument of torture, and he never let any opportunity for injecting a sodden riposte elude him. During his seemingly endless stay in Venice, he was introduced three times to girls named Virginia and each time he said, “Virgin foah short, but not foah long! Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” When he finally and mercifully left you, he always said, “Abyssinia! Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” At parties he invariably said, “Let's all make merry” (with a wink toward any woman named Mary) “and feel rosy” (same for women named Rose). “Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” He was perfectly terrible, if you see what I mean.

Unfortunately, with the sun and the gin and the shock, Auntie Mame wasn't seeing much of anything that evening.

“I-I simply can't get over it,” she said, unwisely belting down the rest of her drink and blinking owlishly through the gloom at Cousin Elmore. “It's almost as if Beauregard himself had come into the room.”

“Are you out of your mind?” I muttered.

“Ah was always motty fond of Cousin Boragod, Mamie,” Elmore said.

“Oh, but you must think I'm so rude,” Auntie Mame said. “Do let me offer you something to drink. And I might just have another myself. Patrick, be a lamb and do the honors.” With that she toppled down onto a little sofa, whether from drink or emotion I don't to this day know.

“What'll it be, sir,” I asked, “whisky or gin?”

“D'yawl have inny sow-ah may-ush bubbun, bub?”

“I'm afraid we can't get bourbon in Italy,” I said. “But we do have Scotch.”

“Oh,” Cousin Elmore said, gazing at the Scotch bottle, “Vat 69. Ah always thought that was the pope's tellyphone numbah. Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

I had first heard that joke in 1933 on the day Prohibition was repealed, but I made a manful attempt at a chortle. Auntie Mame tittered inanely. “Scotch then?” I asked.

“That's right, sonny, Scotch and bray-unch wattah. But not too much wattah. Rusts the pipes. Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

I mixed a strong drink for Cousin Elmore, hoping to shut him up; a
very
weak one for Auntie Mame; and a fair-sized scoop for myself. I needed it. But I put it down after one sip when I heard Auntie Mame say, “But of course, Beau—I mean Cousin Elmore—of course you'll stay to dinner with us.”

“Why, Cousin Mamie, that'd be motty nice.”

It was not without a certain horror that I saw Auntie Mame, empty glass in hand, sway unsteadily across the floor. “I may just have another. And I'll mix
this
one
myself
,” she said ominously. Then she turned to Elmore Burnside. “And do let me step yours up, dar . . . uh, Cousin Elmore.”

“That's right, Mamie. Duck cain't fly on one wing. Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

They were together at the liquor table pouring out what looked like cough syrup when Auntie Mame first got a close-up of Elmore's hula-girl sport shirt. “What a divine blouse. Hawaii?”

“Ah'm fine, Mamie. How ah
yew
? Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” With that he whacked Auntie Mame across the back with a force that almost sent her sprawling.

“How too funny! Oh, Elmore, you're killing me!”

“As the actress said to the bishop! Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

Auntie Mame was in paroxysms of laughter. I excused myself, thinking I might be sick. When I came back downstairs they were back at the liquor table again and Cousin Elmore was saying, “Centipede cain't walk on two laigs. Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” From the looks of Auntie Mame, I didn't think she could make it to the dining room on all fours, but she was flushed and radiant and said, “Oh, Elmore, I haven't laughed so much in years!”

DINNER WAS FINALLY ANNOUNCED.

Auntie Mame and Cousin Elmore, arm in arm, led the way lurchingly into dinner. En route they passed the genuine Bronzino portrait, a crooked reflector lighting the young man's pale face.

“Who's that purty Eyetalian gal?” Cousin Elmore said.

“That happens to be a pretty Italian
boy
,” I said nastily.

“Well, he's settin' on the on'y place where yew could tell the diffrunce. Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

“Oh, Elmore, you
are
dreadful!”

“
Dreadful?
” I murmured.

“It's a portrait by Bronzino. It's an Old Master,” Auntie Mame giggled.

“Well, yew kin keep youah old mastuhs. Jess give me a
young
mistress
. Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

The two of them could hardly stand up,
that
remark was so funny.

Dinner was a nightmare. Auntie Mame, glassy-eyed by now, sat between us, and Elmore told one of his favorite stories—a joke we were to hear
many
times in the future—ending up “Ah, vi-ola! Lucky Pee-ayuh, always in zee middle! Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” He spoke of the cold kidney bean hors d'oeuvre as “sheet music”—a sally that was lost on Auntie Mame but which had been a standard thigh-slapper at boarding schools since 1888. Out of grim politesse, I had tried at first to muster up a counterfeit chuckle after each of Cousin Elmore's sallies. By the time we got to dinner, I hadn't the strength. Nor, I discovered, was it even necessary to smile. Cousin Elmore was his own best audience; he went into such gales of laughter that he didn't even notice whether anyone else was amused or not.

Auntie Mame was so far gone by then that she simply giggled all the time and, between snickers, kept herself and Cousin Elmore refueled by ordering two additional kinds of wine. I suppose anesthesia of any sort helped.

That Elmore! What a card! When the fish came in he said, “This is motty good, Cupcake. What is it?”

“It's uh, it's, uh—what the hell, darling, it's Baccala Mario.” Mario was the cook who came along with the house. He named all the dishes for himself.

“Shoot mah shoes, what's tha-yut?”

“It's fish balls,” I hissed.

“Best part of the fish! Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” I'd heard that witticism every Friday at school for seven years, and Auntie Mame had probably heard it seventeen years before that. Even so, she was helpless with laughter and choked on her wine.

“Oh, Elmore, darling. You're too killing!
So
like dear Beau. Tell me,” she said, eyes glistening even if they weren't exactly focusing, “where are you staying?”

“Some wop dump, Tidbit, honey. Heah, Ah got it written down.”

“Well, you're not going to stay there any longer. You're moving right in with us. . . . Ouch!” I'd fetched her a kick under the table that hobbled her for three days.

I should have kicked her in the head and harder because she went right on talking about how Cousin Elmore must move in with us for the whole summer. Then, with a fluency that she could never have managed had she been sober, she gave instructions to have Mr. Burnside's belongings picked up in the gondola and brought to the
palazzo precipitevolisimevolmente
. (That is the longest word in Italian. It means quickly.)

At that point the greens came on, and Cousin Elmore, flushed with triumph, said, “What
Ah
lak best is Honeymoon Salad. Yew know what that is, Dollfeather?
Lettuce alone, withoutdressing!
Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

Auntie Mame rolled helplessly in her chair, sobbing with laughter. “Oh, Beau,” she wailed, “darling!”

I thought grimly, Just one more course to go and then I can get away from Joe Miller and his straight man. How wrong I was.

We had fresh figs for dessert. Cousin Elmore then displayed the only word in Italian he ever bothered to learn.
“Fighi, fighi!
Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!” Auntie Mame didn't get it. She just giggled out of habit. But it wasn't lost on the elderly servant. He dropped a platter and bolted for the kitchen,
precipitevolisimevolmente
.

“D'you wish coffee?” Auntie Mame said, simpering sweetly.

“Jewish coffee? Hell no, Cupcake, I don't want no Jewish coffee. Give me
gentile
coffee! Ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
ha
!”

Auntie Mame rose and said, with a distressing slur, “Patrick, do shee that Beauregard—
Elmore
—has an itty-bitty ship of brandy. I'm going slap into—I mean schlitz into something comfy.” With that she lurched out, leaving me alone with that great humorist and traveler in ladies' underwear, Elmore Burnside.