Around the World With Auntie Mame (34 page)

The tall sailor picked up seven or eight of Auntie Mame's bags and said in English, “You come dis way.”

For a ship as small as the
Lesbos
, it was a surprisingly long trip to our staterooms—not that those seagoing telephone booths should be dignified by so grandiose a term. We went down to what seemed almost the very hold of the old tub. It was awash with bilge and everywhere there was an odor as sour as an old dishrag. I thought at the time that the Reverend must have been transporting enough Bibles for everyone in China, because the ship sat so low in the water that it was sheer madness to open any of the portholes on our deck.

the steward said, indicating three tiny cabins situated just over the screw.

the sailor roared, with a fine show of gold teeth.

“Just the alligator bags in my stateroom, please,” Auntie Mame said. Then, with a few expressive gestures, she said, “
Seulement
les portemanteaux
—I mean to say
le baggage d'alliga
teur
. . . . How in the hell do you say ‘alligator,' darling? . . .
Seulement le baggage crocodile dans ma cabine
. Oh, no!” The steward and his chum, not even understanding her, piled the bags in.

Auntie Mame's cabin was a filthy affair about six by seven. It contained a bunk, a chest complete with pitcher and bowl, a straight chair, a life jacket, some complicated instructions in Greek about what to do in case of shipwreck, and eighteen pieces of luggage.

“
Dove
il stanza di bagno?
” she tried in Italian.

the steward said and slammed Auntie Mame's door on the rest of her language lesson.

Ito's cabin and mine were even smaller than Auntie Mame's, but then we hadn't quite so much stuff to cram into them. The steward had just disappeared when Auntie Mame came banging into my room. “Greek
yacht
? This wretched boat is so old I'm sure it's one Homer was talking about.”

“Oh, it's not so bad, Auntie Mame,” I lied weakly.

“Not so bad? It's perfectly . . .” There was a blast of the whistle, and the engines directly beneath us started churning with a vibration that set the furniture to dancing.

“Hey, Auntie Mame! Let's go above and watch ourselves set sail.”

“Now see here, young man, you're not going anywhere except where
I'm
going and that is back to bed for a few hours' sleep. You're not eighteen and I won't have you ruining your . . .”

“Please,” I said. “Not so loud. Rosemary thinks I'm twenty-one and a senior at college. You won't say anything will you?”

“Oh?” Auntie Mame said. “Well, I don't care how old you say you are. Get to bed. I know
I'm
not old enough to stand much of this. You'll have plenty of time to see her tomorrow. And really, Patrick, this despicable ship isn't actually so terrible, darling. I mean if it's what you want. It's
different
.” She kissed me good night and went back to her cubbyhole. I stretched out on my bunk for just a second. The next thing I knew it was nearly noon.

I awoke in a pool of sweat, the air in my tiny cabin flat and still. Wanting to look my best for Rosemary, I got into a robe and groped my way down the dark, filthy companionway looking for a bathroom. All the doors were labeled in Greek so I had to try all of them. The first three doors I approached were locked. The fourth led to a man who was snoring in a bunk. A rat ran out of the fifth. The sixth, marked
turned out to be the right place—a hot, stinking chamber containing a filthy toilet, two scummy washbasins, and a big, old-fashioned tub with a velvety ring around it and a nest of hairs clogging the drain.

Only slightly refreshed, I dressed and made my way up to the open deck. I'd never seen the
Lesbos
except in the pitch dark. It was better that way. The ship Rosemary's father had described as “simple, informal,” and “neat as a pin” was unbelievably filthy—its decks thick with rust, its paint peeling and untouched for years. Great flecks of soot fell from its single funnel directly onto its crew and passengers, the canvas awnings having long ago deteriorated to tatters. Mentioning crew and passengers reminds me that there were hardly any of either. If I had ever wondered why three vacancies suddenly came up at a time when space was at a premium, I didn't now. And as for a crew, what little work was done on the
Lesbos
was done by a miserable handful of sullen Turks, all of whom must have been shanghaied.

We were creeping down the Suez Canal by this time. It was hideously hot on deck and there wasn't a breath of air stirring. I found a biggish but sordid-looking room designated as
which I took to be the ship's lounge. Picking my way through the auction-room clutter of old wicker furniture, I sat down to wait for the radiant appearance of Rosemary. A fan in the dirty ceiling whirred away in a slow dispirited fashion. There were some dog-eared Greek magazines called
and some copies of The
Modern Priscilla
, which had obviously been left out for the entertainment of the passengers at around 1907 and did nothing to tempt me. Hot and hungry and thirsty, I waited.

Nearly an hour went by. Not only was there no sign of Rosemary; nobody appeared. At one, Auntie Mame traipsed in.

“Oh, Patrick, my little love,” she said. “There you are! Could you close an eye? I've never been so shaken up since Vera bought that reducing belt.”

“It's not much of a Greek yacht, is it?” I asked glumly.

“Oh, don't worry about that, darling. No sacrifice is too great for your shipboard romance. La, will I ever forget the first time my father took
me
abroad. It was on the old
Lusitania
and it couldn't have been more divine. I had three Rhodes scholars, the whole Yale Glee Club, the younger officers, and Wally Reid all to myself. Well, of course, I wasn't the
only
girl aboard, but the others were this dreary trio from some utterly unheard-of denominational school out in—hell, I can't remember—Migraine, Missouri or some place like that. Anyhow—oh, this is too mad—I happened to be spooning in a lifeboat with this dashing young . . .”

“Um, excuse me, Auntie Mame, but there's just one thing I would like to take up with you before you meet Rosemary and Dr. Shumway. Uh, well, they're not like us—like
you
. They're missionaries and very strict. So if you wouldn't talk too much about drinking and if you'd kind of watch your language . . .”

“Oh, darling, don't give it a
thought
! As for drinking, I've searched high and low for a bar. There
isn't
one. And when it comes to language, my dear, I promise you that even if I stepped in a pile of it, I wouldn't say so much as . . . Heavens, Patrick! Can
this
be the Miss Shumway you've been telling me about. She's lovely!”

I looked up, and there was Rosemary, the picture of British reserve in virginal white. I made the introductions and then watched Auntie Mame and Rosemary sizing up one another as only two females can. Somehow, though, they made me think of two prize fighters in opposing corners.

“Well!”
Auntie Mame said after a rather long silence. “This
is
going to be fun—a long, long voyage on this utterly unspoiled little ship. We'll all get to know one another
ever
so well, won't we? Now tell me, Rosamund de-ar, Patrick says you've been at boarding school in England. Which one? I want to hear all about it.”

Rosemary seemed even more reticent with Auntie Mame than she had been with me, all lowered eyes and whispered responses. For once in my life, I wished that her windy old father would show up to carry the conversational ball.

I hadn't long to wait. With a loud “Harrrumph,” Dr. Shumway was upon us, his strawberry mousse face glistening. Again I was all suave worldliness with the introductions.

“Ah, dear lady,” Dr. Shumway said, puckering his sewery little mouth into a citric smile, “I have so looked forward to having the honor of making the acquaintance of, harrrrumph, this splendid young man's aunt.”