Around the World With Auntie Mame (33 page)

“Oh, Mr. Dennis, I just couldn't,” Rosemary said, blushing entrancingly.

“Why, I should not mind at all, young man,” Dr. Shumway said. “As a matter of fact, I have some last-minute business to attend to and I should do my labors for the Dear Lord with lighter heart knowing that my dear daughter was in good hands. Now we shall wait right here for your reply. Oh, and would you just signal to that waiter for more tea and perhaps some sandwiches and another platter of those delicious
petit-four
biscuits.”

I BURST INTO OUR ROOMS CALLING AUNTIE MAME.

“Who was that lady I seen you with?” she said. “I was just going down to tea when I spied you through the potted palms. Rather attractive. I wonder
what
she uses on her hair. So I went to the bar, instead. And when I came back, my God, you were with the whole Epworth League. What has come over you, Patrick?”

“Her name is Rosemary Shumway,” I said stuffily. “She and her father are missionaries in China. They're English and she's just eighteen.”

“Patrick! I'd hate to be hanging since
she
was eighteen. Anyhow, where shall we dine? Certainly not that hovel with the fortuneteller.”

“Well, gee, Auntie Mame, I sort of made this date for dinner—thinking of course, that you'd be holed up with Proust.”

“I see,” she said, giving me a quizzical glance.

“But, Auntie Mame, this is what I came to tell you. Dr. Shumway and Rosemary are leaving tomorrow morning on this very nice Greek ship—a sort of yacht, actually. And they say that they can get us three tickets. And it sounds like a very interesting trip—educational. We go to all sorts of interesting places like Aden and Columbo and Bombay and China and . . . Well, I mean since we've come so far around the world, we might as well keep on going. It lands in San Francisco eventually, and I've never seen California, either. It would be much faster than waiting for the
Rex
to get here and . . .”

“Patrick!
I
have all the time in the world, but I'd always thought that
you
were the one who was so eager to hustle back to college. This Rosalie girl hasn't . . .”

“Rosemary, Auntie Mame. Rosemary Shumway. Oh, Auntie Mame, she's a lovely girl. So beautiful and well bred and with such a spiritual quality. And her father is a truly dedicated man of God. I mean here they've gone out of their way to befriend us and offer us berths on this really cultural pleasure cruise and . . .”

“All right, darling,” Auntie Mame sighed. “I may not recognize spiritual qualities and truly dedicated men at first glance, but I do know sex when I see it. You can have your shipboard romance. Besides, I like to visit places with a hot climate and political unrest. Go down and tell this Rosalind creature that we'll join her. A Greek yacht does sound sort of fun. How much are the tickets and what time do we sail?”

ROSEMARY AND I DINED TOGETHER IN THE DINING room of the hotel that evening. Having told her that I was twenty-one, practically out of college, and quite the man of the world, I really put on the dog—white tie, tails, bottle of champagne cooling next to the table. Rosemary looked ravishingly English in tulle and, while she seemed shocked that I had ordered champagne, she managed to finish off quite a lot of it and then—bless her heart—suggest another bottle. We danced to the strains of such new imported song hits as “Too Much Mustard” and “Dardenella.” At first Rosemary was very reserved and standoffish, but later I was able to hold her quite closely on the dance floor and even to manage a little cheek-to-cheek.

It was two o'clock when I took her up to her room. She looked at me with dewy eyes and said, “I never knew that going about with men could be such fun. I've led so sheltered a life, you know.” She squeezed my hand fiercely and I took it as a sign that she might be ready for at least a good-night kiss.

“Ah, but just wait for all those nights at sea. The ports of call—smart supper clubs and . . . Oh, Rosemary, I've never met a girl as beautiful as you.” With that, I threw my arms around her—and none too aptly. The door opened and Dr. Shumway appeared in a dirty old flannel dressing gown.

“Rosemary, child,” he said, “it's ever so late. You must come right in. Good night, dear boy. Until we sail!” That was the end of my big clinch.

I HAD JUST ABOUT TIME TO GET OUT OF MY EVENING clothes and into something more suitable for ocean travel when I heard Auntie Mame's traveling alarm clock go off. She got up spitting tacks. “My God! It's still as black as your hat outside! Ito!” Her mood was not much improved in the fleabitten old taxi that took us to the harbor, and I was worried for fear she might see that the
Lesbos
was not sailing from one of the more fashionable piers, if, indeed, Port Said could be said to have a fashionable pier. But it was so dark that nobody could see where we were. From its indistinct outlines in the mole-gray dawn, the
Lesbos
looked small enough to be a yacht, but its dimly illuminated interior didn't boast of any of the niceties—shiny brass, glossy paneling—that one usually associated with the
Corsair
. Its pungent companionway was dirty and noisy with odd, murky puddles. There was a constant hissing and clanking of pipes, interspersed with loud and untranslatable curses in what I supposed was Greek.

A wiry little Greek steward—he was wearing a raveled old maroon sweater instead of a natty white jacket, but I
guess
he was a steward—shambled forward with a sneer and took a look at our baggage. Auntie Mame was never one to travel lightly.

he said.

“Good evening!” Auntie Mame said, forcing a bright, false smile. “Or should I say good morning?”

the steward said.

“Naturally I won't want all this luggage on the voyage,” Auntie Mame said. “And I've done it all very efficiently. I've put my sports clothes and a few simple dinner dresses in those alligator bags. Those other bags and the trunks in the canvas covers can go right down to the hold. Is that clear?” She squandered a bewitching smile on the steward.

“Uh, perhaps he doesn't understand.
Parlez-vous français?
”

“Uh,
sprechen Sie Deutsch
?”

“Habla usted español?”

The steward said,
again and then he mumbled something like,
and spat. With that he called to some sort of side-kick, a tall, morose-looking sailor from Samos.