Around the World With Auntie Mame (21 page)

I understood that all Viennese with any faint pretense to fashion used a French word wherever it was possible or impossible to do so. “You mean a big tea party?” I said.

“
Ja!
Exactement!
Chust so! Mama's
jours
. Every month the same day—second Saturday, Mama vas.
Ach!
The
Delikatesse
! Three kinds
Bäckerei
. . .” Her voice trailed off. She drained her glass and held it out again to be refilled. “Every month all Wien—Vienne—came to Mama's lovely party. Iss there I met Maxl, at Mama's
jour
. He vass young then and handsome. Not fat like now, but like Putzi—you know,
schlank
? How you say
élancé
?”

“You mean thin, slim, slender?” I said, refueling her tank.

“
Ja!
Chust so.
Schlank
. In the Vorld Var. Maxl vass
Kapitän
. Uniform . . .
so stilvoll . . . qui a du style . . . adel . . . aristocratique
. You understand?” I nodded, figuring that Maxl had once looked more like one of the family portraits and less like a tub of pure lard. And from a discreet glance at Friedl, I also wondered if there was a branch of A.A. at Stinkenbach-im-Tirol. The brandy had hit her hard and fast, but as she lost her inhibitions, she also was picking up what English she had learned, as well as the French affectations of her Viennese girlhood. “I vas so young. Pretty. My family . . . ve vere not
aristocratique
, but how you say
haute bourgeoise
. Pappa owned bank—
Privat
bankgeschäft
. Private, you know? I had the biggest
Mitgift
in Wien. You know,
Mitgift
?” I didn't and it sounded faintly dirty, but from her delvings into other languages, I understood that it meant the dowry her father paid over as Friedl's price of admission into this noble family. The rest of the story, as I understood it, was pretty much history: the defeat of Austria, the collapse of the economy, the end of Pappa's family bank; and the dissolution of the Von Hodenlohern estates. Friedl was thus left—her dowry squandered on Maxl's debts and hairnets—old and cold, cheerless and childless as the mistress and servant of Schloss Stinkenbach, scorned as a commoner and despised as a pauper by her husband and his brothers. I wondered fleetingly how Auntie Mame would fare as mistress of this house if Bache and Company were ever to undergo such a sea change. But I was too annoyed with my eccentric relative to care. All I wanted to do was to get out, and the quickest way to do that was to get rid of Friedl. “Well,” I said, briskly throwing some shirts into a suitcase, “I guess I'll be gone by the time the men get back from the horse fair. Please say good-by for . . .”

“Hah!” Friedl said, rising unsteadily and helping herself to more brandy. “Horses! The Von Hodenlohern chentlemen ride
two
horses—the Austrian horse and the Cherman horse in Berchtesgaden.”

My mouth dropped open. “Berchtesgaden? You mean Hitler's place?”

“
Ja
. Berchtesgaden. Chust a few kilometers. So very nice for the fine Hodenlohern chentlemen. The great barons of Austria now vorking for a poor Austrian . . .” Her English broke down but her gesture clearly meant paper hanger.

“Do you mean to stand there and tell me that they're Nazis—all three of them?”

“No, not all three.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved. I knew that Putzi at least would have his feet on the ground.

“No, my Maxl iss fat, stupidt, lacy. Ven Hitler comes here Maxl vill not mind. If he doesn't come Maxl also will not mind. Maxl iss oldt,
dumm, dünkelhaft
. Hannes iss a baby yet— young and
albern
.” She tapped her head significantly. “He dreams only alvace of being the big
Schutzsta fel
officer for sports with boys. Those two are a big nothing.”

“Well,” I said, “I'm glad to hear that at least Putzi is . . .”

“Putzi!” she spat. “Putzi iss the vorst! He iss a how you say a
Landsknecht
! You understand?” I didn't. “Putzi for
years
vork for the Nazis. Every veek to meetings he goes. To Berchtesgaden, to Innsbruck. He hass no money, yet alvace he travels. To Paris and London and Rome he travels—alvace in beautiful clothes, alvace in lovely varm hotels. Andt
alvace
for the Nazis!”

I was too stunned to speak for a moment. Then I suddenly realized that Putzi and the whole pack of Von Hodenloherns would soon be moving on anyhow. “Well,” I said heartily, “I guess that won't make any difference to you or me. I mean, I'm leaving here today. My aunt has bought the
Schloss
—I suppose you knew that—and so you'll be going, too. Then you won't be cold, and whatever Putzi does won't . . .”

“No,” Friedl said flatly, “I am not going. Ve are staying—all of us.”

“Oh, but you can't really. I mean after the place becomes my aunt's property you won't be staying on. Who'd want to any . . .”

“Ve vill be here. Ve vill stay on in dis coldt house until ve die or until ve are all killed. My money iss gone—all. The fine Von Hodenlohern barons need a new
Mitgift
—a new rich voman to be a new Friedl. Putzi will marry Frau Burnside. I promise you.”

“Hey, listen. He's at least ten years younger than she is. He . . .”

Friedl clutched at my arm. “You! You lissen to
me
. Take her. Take her avay. She iss a good voman. She iss kind. Gay. Foolish. Like me. Take her avay now before like me she iss a prisoner in this terrible place.”

“A prisoner?
Auntie Mame?
” Of course I knew she was drunk, but a certain urgency in Friedl's manner kept me listening.

“
Ja!
A prisoner like me. A prisoner in this house, this terrible house. There are things in this terrible place you vould not belief. There are rooms that . . .”

“Friedl!” Maxl called. “Friedl!”

Friedl's face turned white, her eyes popped. “They are back. The men are back. I must go.”

“Hey, wait,” I began.

“No, I must go now. Pleece. Don't say nothing what I told you. Pleece.” With that Friedl was gone—to trim Maxl's toe-nails I learned later. I began unpacking.

I WAS ABOUT TO GO STRAIGHT TO AUNTIE MAME AND tell her to clear out and clear out fast. Instead she came to me. “Oh,” she said airily, “you still here? I expected you to be halfway to New York by now, burdened with tennis racquets, pennants, and No Parking signs for your college education. If it's money you need for transportation, I'll be happy to . . .”

“Listen, Auntie Mame,” I said. “There's something I've got to talk to you about. It's vital that . . .”

“Thank you, no,” she said with hammy grandeur. “You've said quite enough. Howsomever, as long as you're still enjoying
my
hospitality beneath
my
roof, there is something you can do for me. You can take me to the
Kirchtag
. I wish to learn the
Schuhplattler
and . . .”

“Take you to the
what?
”

“The
Kirchtag
. It's the village market day in the church square, and as long as I'm to be more or less the patroness of Stinkenbach, it's my duty to be with the people on these festive occasions. Believe me, I wouldn't be wasting your valuable time except that Putzi and his brothers have been called to some sort of landowners' meeting and . . .”

“But if they're not landowners any longer, why did . . .”

“Don't talk to me. Don't speak at all. Just try to look as pleasant as possible. Oh, and be sure to wear those cute
Lederhosen
I bought you.”

Looking and feeling like a damned fool, I stomped down to the village while Auntie Mame, the new chatelaine of Schloss Stinkenbach, rode grandly in the Rolls. The village, a little less sleepy than usual, was decked out in some faded bunting. There were a few stalls set up with some incredible
Kitsch
on sale—bad carved figures, gaudy embroidered aprons, rustic barometers; junk like that. Beer, local wine, and crullers the size and weight of cannon balls were being listlessly hawked, and a four-piece band tooted away in front of the local saloon. There were a lot of village girls, looking like butter tubs in their tatty dirndls, some middle-aged village women, and a few old gaffers. None of the younger males seemed to be around.

“Not much of a stag line at these affairs is there?” I said.

“Never mind that,” Auntie Mame said coldly. “They're undoubtedly waiting for me to open the festivities. If you'll simply help me to start things off with a gay
Schuhplatter
, I shall make no further demands on you.”

“
Der
Schuhplattler, bitte
,” she called to the band leader. “Come, Patrick.”

The next thing I knew, I was out in the center of the square trying to follow Auntie Mame through the intricate inanities of a Tyrolean native dance. She was pretty good at it, and what she didn't know she could bluff her way through. I was not. “Listen, Auntie Mame. I don't care if you're mad or not, but . . .”

“Don't talk, child, concentrate. Now, clap your hands, slap your knees, and . . .”

“But I'm trying to tell you about Putzi. He's a dyed in the wool . . .” Before I could finish, Auntie Mame was out of sight. She turned up again behind me, bumping her rear end against mine in rhythm with the band. “Auntie Mame. Can you hear me?”

“I'm not listening. I'm dancing. Now kick.” The crowd was almost wetting itself with merriment. “Clap your hands, slap your thigh. Kick again.”

In my embarrassment and confusion I slipped and sprawled flat on the cobblestones. The villagers were in stitches. I'd struck my head pretty hard and all I was conscious of was a kind of aurora borealis going on in front of my eyes and the laughter of the local girls. Then the laughing stopped and there was utter silence for a couple of seconds, interrupted only by that phony, mellifluous voice so dear to the hearts of theatergoers everywhere. “Jesus,” the voice rang out through the mountains, “do we have to be dragged all the way to Shangri-La for one lousy, God-damned gallon of gas?”

I looked up. Coming down the main drag of the village I saw a team of oxen dragging behind them a glittering English sports car. Sitting on the folded-back roof were Captain the Honourable Basil Fitz-Hugh and his wife, Vera Charles.

“
Vera!
” Auntie Mame squealed. “Basil! What on earth . . .”

“My God!
Mame!
” In a moment the two ladies were embracing in the middle of the church square. If the citizens of Stinkenbach-im-Tirol had found Auntie Mame foreign and exotic, they hadn't seen anything until they caught a glimpse of Vera Charles, her mahogany hair, her diamonds, the long lynx cape, the svelte suit, the pert Paris hat. “Mame, dahling,” Vera shrilled theatrically, “Ah cahn't tell yew haow too uttahly divane it is to see a friendly face in the gudfawsaken countreh! Bezzle end Ay wuh maotorring beck from Bed Gastein when . . . And speaking of godforsaken,” she said in her purest Americanese, “what in the hell are you doing in this hole got up like that?”

“
I
, Vera? I own it,” Auntie Mame said. Then she babbled on. “Oh, but it's too wonderful to have you and Basil here! You must come up and see my
Schloss
. And of course you'll stay the night. I won't hear otherwise. Ito! Do see to the Fitz-Hughs' baggage.”

After that, any hope of getting a word in was madness. Auntie Mame and Vera, talking a mile a minute, swept Basil into the Rolls, and I was left to find gasoline for Basil's car and drive it back up to the
Schloss
. By the time I got back, Auntie Mame and her guests were nowhere to be seen—or even heard—in any of the main rooms. Depressed, I went upstairs to lie down and think things over. But no sooner had I hit the bed than the resonant voices of Auntie Mame and Vera came wafting in from the battlement outside my room. “Yes, Mame, yes,” Vera was saying, “it's all very old-world and quaint but why the hell would you want to buy it? The place is older than God, bigger than the Waldorf, and as cold as Belasco's heart. Basil, ducky, fetch my cape.”

“Righto, dearest.”

“Oh, but Vera. The view! The view! Look at all that scenery and every bit of it mine!”

“So get a magic lantern. Besides, all these krauts give me the creeps. There's just something in the air around here that . . .”

Encouraged by what Vera was saying, I went out to join them on the battlement. There they were, passing the binoculars back and forth and looking out onto the valley. “No, Mame,” Vera went on, handing the glasses to her, “you've bought a pup. You'll be miserable in this . . .”

“Be still, Vera, I'm trying to see. . . .”

“That's right, Vera,” I said. “It's just what I've been telling her. She . . .”

The binoculars clattered from Auntie Mame's hands. “Patrick!” she said sharply, wheeling on me. “How many times must I tell you
not
to come eavesdropping. Now go back to your room and wait there until dinner.”

“Hey, Auntie Mame, I only . . .”

“Do as I say this instant!” she snapped. “Now march!”

Hurt and angry, I started back to my room. I was just closing the French door behind me when I heard Auntie Mame say, “Vera. Take the glasses and look over there.”

IF IT WEREN'T FOR WHAT FRIEDL HAD TOLD ME, I'D have packed up and left the
Schloss
then and there. But I swallowed my pride, got dressed, and went downstairs when Poldi sounded the dinner gong. Auntie Mame was obviously putting on the dog for Basil and Vera. Dinner was a black-tie affair and the food was better than usual. As always, Maxl presided over the table with Vera at his right, while poor Friedl, looking cold and puffy-eyed in lackluster lamé, sat opposite.