2.79 The Afternoon Soiree With Famous Entertainment

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79. The Afternoon Soiree

We shower and relax on twin beds.

On time, Mrs. Wylie, who from now I'll call Ricky, rings. Party on; wanted anon!

From top of stairs, the living room presents an arresting view: its jet-black rug with white-curve diagonal stripes is rococo. Sofas are arranged along walls and partly filled with well-gowned, pearled and perm’d women, and the men in blazer-lapel jackets and summer slacks. There are gilt-edged, red and green padded Chippendale chairs; plush, expensive sofas; and small rectangular glass tea-tables, with matching slim chairs that allow guests with drinks who tire of standing to sit. 
   Circulating with trays of drinks and bite-size hors d’oeuvres are three light-brown-Frskin maids, each in dainty white-apron over black serving dress and on head frilly, fluffy pink mob-caps.
   Ricky is thoughtful enough to supply me with one of her husband’s jackets with tan slacks matched by brown suede shoes, and, luckily, he and I are same size. Ali, who manages to look good in anything, is wearing Ricky’s latest Paris strapless white gown, which gives vivid view of shoulders and arms with daring décolletage, for those who care to glimpse, as I do.

   Ricky, observant hostess, quickly comes up to top of stairs to accompany us down. In contrast to the Bronx, these guests are tres blasé, or as Ali says “coolly sophisticated” as in Duke Ellington’s, Sophisticated Lady, "nonchalant." And though I guess they are aware of and interested in the odd mod couple we present, they do not appear to take notice. Ricky moves swiftly: she signals for martinis and circulates us.

   Our last introduction interrupts a party of three who stand conversing amiably between sips – an older rich lady with eyeglasses on chain, expensive triple pearl necklace and amply bosomed gown; beside her a younger woman with brown bobbed hair, pleasantly pudgy in her well-filled-out black cocktail dress; and on her other side a handsome bloke – British he seems, hence “bloke” – in an elegant light blue blazer and white-duck slacks.

   Ricky says, addressing the dowager: “Ada, I should like to introduce our special guests, Mr. Ken Kimura foreign correspondent of The Nippon Times in Tokyo and his photographer, Miss Alison Le Beau of New York. Meet Mrs. Ada Van Allen who has kindly arranged for today’s entertainment.

   Mrs. Van Allen raises right hand midway between and offering for a kiss and a making for a shaking. Ali saves me from indecision by seizing the moment to shake the lady’s hand.

   The younger woman is daughter, Mrs. Gloria Foster – husband is on other side of room – and the bloke is Rodney Stokes, Esquire; the British Attaché in Washington enjoying a weekend at Mrs. Van Allen’s mansion in Palm Beach.

   Mrs Van Allen looks at us through eyeglasses on chain. “Ah, Mr. Kimura, is it not Kimura-san? I lived in Tokyo a year. Wonderful country – the people so artistic! You know, I have a diploma from the Ohara School of Flower Arrangement.”

   Gloria interrupts her mother and I realize from the daughter's slurred speech that she has had too many martinis.
   “Did I hear you say Ohara, mater? Is that an Irishman in Japan, mater?” She giggles. “But don’t get me wrong, mater. Some of my best friends are micks. Ain’t that right, Rod?” And she gives the Englishman a sharp nudge in the ribs, to his evident discomfort.

   Mrs. Van Allen looks mildly unhappy and says to the attaché, “Rodney, I think Gloria needs to sit down. Can you please take her over to the couch?” She turns to us with gracious smile. “Excuse my daughter. She is so full of spirits but sometimes she gets boisterous. I’m afraid it is the inheritance of her father, Mr. Van Allen.” She leans toward us and in quiet voice, “He is dead several years now but he had a wild streak.” Then she smiles and turns to Ricky. “Frederica! Can you put your chyahming guests in my care? Mr. Fuzzy Knight will be doing his ‘gig’ as he calls it and I wish them to sit with me.”

   Ricky is happy to leave and, bidding us temporary goodbye, hurries off.  Mrs. Van Allen says, “Please call me Ada. And you, young lady, did I hear ‘Le Beau'? It is so je ne sais quoi (she pronounces “jyeh neh she qwah”) French. Are you of the New York Le Beau’s my d’yah?”

   From Ali’s answer I am surprised in learning she is a cousin to the New York family, and Ada Van Allen is overjoyed hearing it. Despite Mrs. Van Allen’s high society aura I like her unique personage. Beneath the glitter she seems a smartly alive person with sense of humor and involvement in life that carries with it no condescension. Certainly she is to manor and manner born; but despite or perhaps because of the security of person it gives her she does not stoop to conquer; she stands head to head.

   Shepherding us to an empty sofa, she sits with us near a shiny dark mahogany grand piano at the same time as the maids are un-folding chairs and the guests finding seats. She places herself between Ali on her right and me. Hers is an overpowering presence – big but not fat, and a well smell but not too perfumed. She directs the conversation equally between Ali and me, turning her head so that each of us is not ignored: “My dyahs, I do hope you enjoy Mr. Knight – Fuzzy, he is popularly called, for no particular reason I can see – Ah yes, the hair, it is rather fuzzy! But he is so good on the piano with the topical songs. The woman who stands by is wife Inez. Well, here he comes.”

   Everyone is sitting and Ricky stands by the piano to introduce Fuzzy Knight, a jolly-face fellow with twinkle in eyes and dressed showily in Hawaii open-collar pink shirt and blue slacks. He starts his entertainment, sitting to tune the piano with help of Inez, a pretty, green-eyed blonde in white blouse and short brown skirt, who sits at left on piano bench and hands him successive music sheets as he plays. After a minute of introduction he stands, looks about and beckons everyone with finger: “C’mere folks, I like a more in’imate setting. You ladies! Bring your pearls with you and come over here and lean over the piano facin' me so’s I kin see yo’ dekoll’tazhes better.” (He winks wickedly and Inez glares) “And you other folks, bring yo’ chairs up close."

   He strikes a cord, looks at the ladies over his piano, and recites in singing voice.

Listen Girls!

There’s a topic prevails in historical pages.

It’s a one thing ‘at makes the worl’ go roun’.

He hesitates and repeats the line with a forced stutter.

It’s a, it’s a, it’s a roun’, but it’s on a squair.

Women laugh and some men chuckle. Fuzzy continues.

Love is the thing,

Adam lost a rib for,

What did he but tell a fib for?

Love is the thing.

He looks his audience over, particularly the women leaning on the piano showing cleavage and gives a risqué wink while wife Inez glares jealously.

Love is the thing,

Juliet sighed for,

Even Romeo died for.

Love is the thing.

He takes a sip of martini and catches a nearby female hand for a quick continental kiss while Inez angrily pulls out a handkerchief and wipes it off his lips.

Great Cleopatrer went to the bat-fer

Her Mark Antony.

He lost a nation while he was station’

For jus’ a one hour of a bliss

He repeats a one hour of a bliss with another of his sexual winks, eliciting more titters from the crowd and a furious gasp from Inez.

Love is the thing.

If you evah doubt it.

Try an’ live alone withou’ tit

Love is the thing.

And as final touch, Inez stands and, catching Fuzzy’s left earlobe daintily between right forefinger and thumb, leads him away from the women leaning over the piano and upstairs, presumably to bed and all that goes with it. Everyone stands to clap.

The afternoon soiree is ending. Ada Van Allen has taken us in hand and she goes to the Wylies, who are seeing guests out at the door. “My d’yah, d’yah Frederica and Philip, I am going to beg your leave to allow me to leave with your two most chyahming guests. I should like to take them for an overnight at my mansion.  They must meet my resident genius, Richard, don’t you think?”  The Wylies nod Yes and Phil takes me aside. “Kimura-san, I sense in you a fellow cosmic cousin and journeyman journalist. Keep in touch.”
    I assure my friendship. 

   Wylie continues, “About Mrs Van Allen's resident genius, he is Richard Fuller. ‘Genius?’ Well, you can judge that. He has a strange ego – some think him a nut case. Tell him you are my friend and give him my best. Then he’ll be sure to open up to you and what he has to say may be brilliant but I think it's off the wall. OK, see you in jail.” Wylie offers his hand and we shake.

We quickly change clothes upstairs and come down to Ada Van Allen’s limousine. A curious pot of jam our luck has pushed us into!

To read next, click 2.(80-81) Ending of Slim Novel 2