“I got him to do something. He’s lying down now, resting before the show. I told that Greech what I thought of him. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, making an old man do strenuous monkey business like that,’ I said. That Greech, he looked at me with that face like a devil, but he didn’t say a word. He knew I was right.”
“He didn’t make Samson-Aaron do anything,” Marjorie said. “The Uncle wanted to be the toreador. It’s an honor. And it’s fun.”
“That’s how much you know. They’re paying him a hundred dollars to do it.”
Marjorie was astounded. “Who told you that?”
“It’s so. When they asked him to do it he said no, and finally Greech offered him a hundred dollars. So then he said yes, the old fool, because he wants money to buy things for Geoffrey’s baby.”
“Mom, they’re not paying him. Greech never would. The Uncle is doing it for the fun of it. He told me that himself.”
“He told you. Me he can’t put off with such stories—”
“Here’s my bungalow.”
Marjorie took a quick shower. Turning off the water, she heard her mother humming It’s Raining Kisses. She wrapped a towel around herself and dashed dripping out of the bathroom. “That’s the song. Noel’s song. The one you said you never heard of.”
“I know.” Mrs. Morgenstern was lounging on one elbow, on her daughter’s bed. “He played it for me this morning. Of course I knew it. I just didn’t remember the name or the words.”
Marjorie said warily, “You became real chummy, didn’t you?”
“Don’t stand there soaking wet in a draft, dry yourself and put on your clothes.”
Marjorie took fresh underwear and the new costume into the bathroom. She said through the open door, “How did he happen to play the song for you?”
“We got to talking after the rehearsal. He’s very charming, that Noel. I don’t blame you for falling for him. If I were a few years younger I might try to give you some competition.” Mrs. Morgenstern laughed.
Marjorie came to the door, holding the towel around her, to look at her mother’s face. “Mom, do you really like Noel Airman?”
“Listen, he could charm a cigar-store Indian. Of course I like him, I can’t help it.”
“But you don’t approve of him.”
“I didn’t say that either. Go put on your clothes.” When Marjorie was out of sight the mother said casually, “What’s the matter with his arm?”
A thrill of alarm ran from Marjorie’s scalp to her heels. “There’s nothing wrong with his arm.”
“He holds it funny. His left arm.”
“He does not.”
“Well, it’s marvelous the way he’s learned to use it and hold it and everything, but it’s a little crippled, isn’t it?”
The daughter was in the doorway in her underwear, her face blazing, her eyeballs white-ringed, her teeth bared. She said in a thick voice, “If you’re going to object to Noel because of something that happened to him at birth, something that he couldn’t help, something that he’s overcome with the most incredible willpower I’ve ever seen, I warn you I—”
“Why do you keep saying I object to him?”
“You do, you do, you do!”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I said I like him and I do. What’s the matter? Should I swear to it on the Bible? Why are you staring at me? Am I such a stupid idiot that I can’t possibly appreciate a remarkable young man?”
“It would be the first time,” said Marjorie, peering like a frightened animal at her mother.
“This is the first time you’ve showed up with one. Sandy Goldstone I said was a nice boy and a good catch, and he was. I never said he was a genius. This fellow Saul Ehrmann—I’m sorry, I can’t stand that ‘Noel’ business—is somebody. I would be a fool to tell you otherwise.”
Marjorie steadied herself with a hand on the doorway. She had taken two more aspirins, and was feeling more and more disembodied and tranced. She combed her mind for the gritty contradiction that was haunting her, perceived it, and pounced on it. “So. He’s just dandy, is he? That’s why you sent Pop out this morning to bribe me with a western trip to leave South Wind tomorrow. Because you like Noel so much.”
“Yes. It’s exactly the right thing for you to do,” the mother said calmly. “Don’t I know how you feel about me? You’re still looking at me as though you’re waiting for me to pull out a knife, or something. That’s why I told Papa to suggest it, I thought he might have better luck with you. He did fine, didn’t he, the great diplomat! I have to laugh. It’s an easy thing to say, be diplomatic. For years he’s been saying I’m not diplomatic. Darling, wait till you have to be diplomatic with a daughter in love with some good-for-nothing, or with her mind made up to do something stupid. You’ll see. Get dressed.” The mother stood and came to the doorway of the bathroom. “Do you remember when you showed up with George Drobes? Do you remember?”
“I remember.” Marjorie began to put on her costume.
“Do you remember how you hated me, do you remember the things you called me, for so much as suggesting that George Drobes wasn’t Clark Gable and President Roosevelt and Einstein and Julius Caesar all rolled into one Bronx college boy with a red nose? Do you remember?”
“I was fifteen—”
“It went on till you were seventeen, till two and a half very short years ago, my darling Marjorie. All right! Now then, was I right or was I wrong? Should I have gone out and danced in the street when you brought home George Drobes? Was I such a monster after all, such a devil, such a cold heartless killjoy to picture, to dare even to imagine for a minute, that somewhere in the world there might be a fellow—a Noel Airman, let’s say—walking around, who might conceivably be a tiny bit more promising, a tiny bit more talented, more good-looking, more everything, than the wonderful George Drobes?”
“All right,” Marjorie flared, “what do you want me to do, lick your shoes because you’re an adult and can see more clearly than a girl of fifteen? I’m not ashamed that I liked George. I never will be. He was good and sweet and bright, and if he was unlucky enough to—”
“How does he compare to Noel Airman, darling? Because if not for me, remember, you never would have met your Mr. Airman. You’d be Mrs. George Drobes of Southern Boulevard, right this minute.”
“Mom, you’re not being fair. It isn’t in you to be fair,” Marjorie said chokingly.
“No, I’m not fair, I’m not diplomatic, but I just ask you to remember this stupid habit I have of being right sometimes. Because I’m going to argue with you some more now for your own good, just as I did then. You told Papa you don’t want to marry Noel. Don’t tell me such stories. You’re putting the best face on it, so as not to look like a fool. Marjorie, if you’re not honest with anyone else, at least be honest with yourself. You think you’re going to get this fellow to marry you, and steady down, and use his talents, and become somebody big. That’s what you really think. Listen, it’s a very tough job, but it’s possible. After all, how far does the apple fall from the tree? Judge Ehrmann is a very big man.”
“I’m not planning to marry him. I’m not planning anything. I’m just enjoying myself. That’s what you and Dad can’t seem to understand. I don’t have to calculate my every move, Mom, I’m not fifty-five, I’m twenty, for heaven’s sake. Noel amuses me, he’s brilliant, he’s charming, as you say—except you don’t know how charming and brilliant he is, you can’t begin to imagine—Naturally it’s fun to be around such a person.”
“All right. Marjorie remains Marjorie. Say what you please,” said the mother. “I’m not blind. All I’ve got to see is the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. He’s in love with you, too.”
“I never heard such nonsense,” Marjorie said, and in the wave of gladness that swept her she thought that her mother was really changing with advancing age and becoming more likable. Fluffing out her skirt, she walked to the door. “Mom, I’m so
rry to break up this fascinating conversation, but I have to get to work—”
“If you’re a minute late, Greech won’t fire you, for the money he’s paying you. Listen to me, it’s important. Your friend Noel is so used to girls that he can’t take a new one too seriously, not even the great Marjorie Morgenstem. Your problem is to make him be serious. And believe me, the way to do it is to get out from under his thumb. This way you’re at a disadvantage. You’re always around, you’re working for him. Any time of the day or night you’re handy if he just snaps his fingers. It’s too easy. Let him miss you a little bit. That’s the first thing you have to do.”
It was amazing, Marjorie thought, how sometimes her mother could crash to the heart of a matter. The fact was she had been feeling neglected and piqued during the past week. Exactly the same ideas had been going through her mind. She had ventured once to complain to Noel of his inattention. He had laughed heartily at her; he was simply preoccupied with the fiesta, he said. The explanation was a reasonable one, and she had accepted it. But she had not forgotten the mood of chilliness, the fear of being despised and discarded by Noel, that had overwhelmed her for a couple of days.
She said with a laugh that wasn’t very successful, “Well, he’d probably just be glad to get rid of me if I went out West, and that would be the end of it.”
“Marjorie, if that’s the case, isn’t this the time to find it out?”
“Dad doesn’t like him, I know that. He hates him.”
“He doesn’t hate him. Papa is jealous, that’s all. He doesn’t think any man in the world is good enough for you. Listen, Marjorie, I won’t fool you. I’m not overflowing with happiness. A man who changes his name, a songwriter, Greenwich Village—but listen, you’re in love, you’re almost out of college. His background is fine. He’s strange, but you’re strange too. My actress!” The mother smiled at her, half fondly, half satirically.
“You really—you do really like Noel, though?”
Mrs. Morgenstern shook her head. “I’m not saying he’s the right man for you. I don’t know. I did my best for twenty years. Now, it’s up to God.”
“We’ll talk about the trip, Mom. Later. Let me think about it.”
“Think all you want.”
Every seat was taken for the bullfight, and a heavy overflow of spectators sat on cushions on the grass. The bull ring was a huge three-quarter circle of yellow folding chairs, five deep on the lawn. At the open end of the circle, near the social hall, the band in sombreros and charro outfits and eyeglasses sat in a huddle, their music sheets flapping in the breeze on rickety stands.
Marjorie made her entrance with the other dancers from behind the social hall, laughing, shouting Spanish, and throwing roses. She was extraordinarily gay. Her mother’s astounding friendliness to Noel had given her hope that all was going to be well. She swished her skirt so flirtatiously, and cast such brilliant smiles at the circle of guests, that many of the men watched her to the neglect of the other dancers.
It was so strange and so pleasant to be dancing on the grass in the summer sunlight! The ring of guests made a bright show. Earlier in the day they had struck her as a grotesque lot, skylarking about the lawn in Greech’s cheap sombreros and pink cheesecloth mantillas, singing snatches of Rancho Grande and Cielito Lindo, calling each other Pedro and Carmen, affecting Mexican accents, often as not in the flat singsongs of the Bronx and Brooklyn. It had occurred to her that they were material for a New Yorker story. But now, looking around at them as she twirled and smiled, she thought that they were exactly like herself, youngsters snatching at fun while they chased the dream of a happy marriage; chased it through a world that became more of a maze, and more slippery underfoot, each year. She even had compassionate thoughts for the bulbous pigs scattered through the crowd, wearing rakishly cocked sombreros.
The afternoon was cooler and the shadows were growing long when the dances ended and she joined her parents to watch the bullfight. Mrs. Morgenstern had kept a vacant chair for her, fending off the guests ruthlessly. “It’s not fair, you know,” Marjorie panted, sinking gratefully into the chair despite the glares of guests squatting on the grass. “I’m just hired help.”
“Let him fire you, that devil,” said Mrs. Morgenstern. “For what he pays you, you can sit in a chair.”
The bullfight began.
The annual South Wind corrida, though colorful in its fashion, bore only a remote resemblance to the sombre and gallant ritual described in the works of Ernest Hemingway. First the band lined up at the open end of the ring and marched in, playing the entrance music raggedly and thinly. Next came a procession of assorted waiters, caddies, and bell-boys, grinning stupidly in motley bullfighter costumes, which were tight in the seat, and ran heavily to red cheesecloth and gold spangles. Some of them were mounted on horses from the camp stables. The horses, too, were decked out in loud-colored cloth, feathers, and paper streamers. There was scattered applause, together with some laughter and jeers, as the burlesque parade filed around the ring. “It’s pretty, though,” Mrs. Morgenstern said, when the marchers halted in a semicircular array facing the entrance. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“Noel’s done it all,” Marjorie said. “He even designed the costumes.”
The music stopped. The giggling and the shouting died away. A cool breeze fluttered the streamers on the horses. Everybody looked toward the entrance. The band crashed into the toreador song from Carmen; the bullfighters began to sing, in raucous chorus; and from behind the social hall Samson-Aaron appeared, riding a spindly old white horse.
He was wearing an unbelievably vast pair of lavender tights that extended from his knees to his armpits; also white silk stockings, purple pumps, a purple silver-trimmed jacket that barely covered his shoulders, and a tiny flat matador’s hat with two purple pompons. Fastened to his side on a belt in place of a sword was a gigantic meat cleaver. As he came trotting into the ring, his great paunch bobbed and flopped in the straining tights, which threatened to pop like an overblown lavender balloon. He was so broad-bottomed that he appeared to hang over in lavender bags on either side of his bony mount. He was grinning his black-gapped grin, bowing this way and that with blubbery precarious majesty, as he bobbed in the saddle. Marjorie and Mrs. Morgenstern were shrieking with laughter at the fantastically ridiculous sight from the moment he appeared; and even the father, after a reluctant grunt or two, threw back his head and laughed as Marjorie had seldom heard him laugh. The whole lawn echoed with cheers and guffaws. Samson-Aaron jogged once around the ring, doffing the little hat to the cheers, and rode out, leaving the crowd still laughing. The musicians marched out behind him and took their former seats. The bullfighters scattered about the ring, and stood with their cardboard weapons poised.
A bugle brayed, and the “bull” catapulted snorting into the ring.
It was a remarkably lifelike fake. Puddles Podell was in the front end; the rear was occupied by a grumpy little stagehand who was jealously proud of this assignment. In four years the pair had worked up a supple, scary imitation of a bull’s gait and stance. The head had ghastly staring eyes that could roll and blink. The ragged-toothed mouth opened and closed on a string, with a monstrous red tongue licking in and out. After pawing the ground and snorting in mid-ring for a while, the bull let out a fearful bellow, and came charging down directly at the part of the ring where the Morgensterns were sitting, its eyes staring, its sharp curved horns poised to gore, its mouth flapping open as it roared, a terrible red cavern. The bullfighters scattered out of its way, yelling, and as it bore down on the seats Marjorie was a bit frightened, despite herself. In front of her some guests ducked, and one fat girl ran squealing from her seat. Inches from the chairs, the bull stopped short with a sound of screeching brakes. As the fat girl returned sheepishly to her seat, to the laughter of the crowd, the tongue poked out of the bull’s mouth and licked her hand; then the bull nosed her behind, and rolled its eyes, and clicked its rear legs in the air.
&nbs
p; Ten minutes of extravagant monkeyshines with the bullfighters followed, at the end of which several of them lay scattered on the grass, presumably gored to death. The bull, bristling all over with crepe-paper banderillas, stood in the center of the ring, panting, its tongue hanging down nearly three feet. The band struck up the toreador song, and Samson-Aaron came waddling into the ring, sharpening the cleaver on a razor strop.
The foolishness that ensued was indescribable. Marjorie laughed so hard that at one point she sank off her chair and sat on the grass with her head in her hands, moaning and weeping feebly. All the spectators were howling and writhing with laughter. The Uncle chased the bull; the bull chased the Uncle; they boxed; they butted each other; the bull got on its knees and begged for mercy; it seized the cleaver in its teeth and beat the Uncle over the head with it; there were a hundred other crazy antics. Noel had used all the gags of previous years and had invented some new ones; and Puddles and the Uncle had worked out a few more. Marjorie had never laughed so loud or so long in her life. At the finish, as Samson-Aaron with upraised cleaver was about to despatch the bull, he pronounced over the drooping staring animal the first words of the Jewish prayer for the dead. The bull raised its head and bellowed the correct response. The Uncle dropped the cleaver, amazed, and asked the bull in Yiddish where it came from. In a rapid Yiddish exchange the bull and the toreador discovered they were both from the same small town near Odessa. Samson-Aaron threw his arms around the bull and kissed it. The band started up a lively Russian dance. The Uncle began to bound and twirl, then he squatted and kicked out his legs, his belly shaking fearfully. The bull stared at him for a moment, then it too squatted and kicked out its four legs, Russian style. It was at this incredibly ludicrous sight—the gargantuan toreador in lavender and the bull with the hanging tongue squatting and dancing Russian-fashion, and shouting “Hey! Hey!”—that Marjorie fell off her chair. Samson-Aaron and the bull danced out of the ring side by side, and all the guests rose and cheered, and threw sombreros in the air.