Famous Last Words (50 page)

Mauberley—poet, novelist, critic, polemicist and winner of prizes, including both the Pulitzer and the Concordia—sat amongst the whores and lighted a cigarette.

Should I write that he sat “amongst the other whores”?

I do not know. I do know I thought it then, as I sat there on my bench all dressed in white. And it made me smile. In spite of my nervousness that I was there at all, in the dark—

or nearly in the dark—with all those strangers, one of whom might be looking for me; watching me; assessing me…and in spite of my apprehension of what the messenger might say and what he might expect of me…and in spite of my fear of Harry Oakes and the Duke and—yes—of Wallis, too…in TiU

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spite of all the years I might still have to live as me, despised as I was by people I admired, and looked down upon as I was by all, or nearly all, of my peers…1 smiled. I smiled because I was alive. I still had that. I could smell the bougainvillaea still, and smoke my cigarette and feel the cool

white cloth of my suit against my legs—and I could watch the Airmen, still, in the marvel of their youth, the brevity of which they had no inkling of; and I could see them cross the street and pass into the dark and I could feel their fear, their marvellous, sensual fear as they went their way to whatever beds they would find. I still had that. I still had that.

And then he was there.

And it was him.

He said, “There is too much light just here. Get up and go further back. I will join you.”

But how could I get up and go further back? How could

I go anywhere? I could barely move. I had thought it would be anyone but him. I had thought he was safely out of my life.

Move further off. There is too much light just here… .

We sat on a bench and I could see his shoes, his hands, his knees. The shoes, as always, were the sick lime-brown of alligator skins and the knees were still the square, hard knees of an athlete—but the hands were folded into fists and the veins stood out so boldly I could see his pulse.

The only view I really got of his face was when he struck the match and it flared so long I knew he was giving me a chance to look at him. He had still the same damned beauty as before, though now I could not see the eyes. They were cast against the light and hidden by the brightness.

After the match was out, it seemed very dark.

“Who are you, Harry?” I said. “Tell me who in hell you

are.”

Harry Reinhardt gave what passed, at least in that partii -

ular moment, for a laugh.

N^Nl^’;.

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“No, no,” I said. “Please tell,” I said. “I want to know.”

“I’m the messenger,” he said. And it frightened me because it dawned on me all at once what the message really

was. It was the message he had delivered to Ned.

Above us, over the Square, there were half-a-dozen nightjars—

or more—and all through the time we sat there, one by one they flung themselves down through the air towards us. Just at the end of every dive, they made that strange, low screeching sound that can be so unnerving when you don’t know

what it is—and is haunting when you do. They do it for the danger, no other reason. Just for the danger. Just to impress.

Each bird climbs a little higher than the one before, and flings itself a little closer to the ground. Only the males indulge in this, of course, while the females sit on the telephone wires and watch. At the end of the display, there

might be a mating.

“The only thing I’ve never understood is why they do it in the dark,” I said.

But Harry Reinhardt said it wasn’t really all that dark. He said the degree of darkness depended on how long you’d

been there.

And I thought; no. It depends on who you are.

Before he left me sitting there, he said we must meet again Monday at two o’clock. He wanted the Sunday to adapt

himself to his surroundings, walk out and see the town and judge the distances between the houses where each of us lived and the ultimate rendezvous. Not that he did me the honour of telling me where the ultimate rendezvous might go .

Just as he was about to leave, I spoke his name. “Harry?”

I said—because I wanted to see him turn around and face me in the light. But he didn’t turn and neither did he pause.

Once he had left me, we were apparently strangers. All I could see was his shoulders and his buttocks and his going away. And I sat there half an hour, unable to move.

1 felt a compulsive need to hide and not to speak or hear my

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name. I was even leery of taking a cab that night, fearing to tell a stranger where I lived. So I walked back “home” to Westbourne, using as many residential streets as I could, knowing fewer people might be strolling there. But I could not resist a pass by Government House to see how many

lights were burning. None.

Sunday morning, July 4th, I anticipated correctly Wallis and the Duke would have to attend the Memorial Service for the victims of the Fiery Fete. Consequently I telephoned as early as I dared—at 8:00 A.M.—and got the Duchess out of her

bed.

“Chit-chat,” I said.

“Good morning,” she said.

“I thought I should telephone to say the messenger has

arrived.”

Wallis coughed.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s just my early morning hack. Would you

repeat the message, please?”

“I said the messenger has now arrived.”

“And what’s the news he brings?”

“Am I seeing you tomorrow?” I asked.

“You’re coming to dinner, yes. And cocktails at seven.”

“Any news I have, I’ll bring you then.”

“Can you tell at least this much. Are we going?”

“Of course,” I said.

Wallis was the first to hang up—which is why I heard the second “click”.

Harry Oakes had been listening.

On Monday at two, I was seated in Rawson Square on the

same wooden bench we had used before. I will say this much for Harry Reinhardt: he was prompt. On the very dot of two, as if appearing from the air, he sat at the other end of the bench.

I don’t know how long we sat there, while we finalized

the details of the plan. The S.S. Munargo was to leave on

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the morning of the ninth for New York. Our story was to be that the Duke and Duchess were making a secret trip for diplomatic reasons. And with the danger of a lurking German submarine, we would say, the Windsors must board the

Munargo under cover of darkness on the night of the eighth.

It sounded like a cunningly-thought-out operation. The

authorities who could potentially prevent the Windsors’

escape from the Bahamas would actually be duped into lending a hand—a military escort down to the wharf, a boat ready to take the couple out to the Munargo; and no communication with anyone on board for fear the enemy might pick

up the signal. The whole departure, in fact, would be kept a total secret, so the authorities were to be told, until the Windsors safely reached New York.

“What really happens?” I asked.

“They will be rowed out to the yacht, of course.”

“Rowed?”

“It won’t be far… .The main thing is to get them on the yacht and the yacht will do the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Deliver them to the sub.”

“I hope you’re impressed with what I’ve said about the

Duke. He’s in quite bad shape, you know.”

“That can’t be helped.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m only trying to prepare you. After all, we want to be ready for any eventualities. Can’t have something coming out of left field just as we get underway.”

I told him then about the Windsors’ dogs.

“Dogs?” said Harry Reinhardt.

“Yes,” I said. “There are six of them—and the Windsors won’t go anywhere without them.”

“Well, if we have to,” said Reinhardt, “We’ll take them along and drown them at sea.”

Ever since the Fiery Bazaar, Wallis had been unable to celebrate the fourth of July in any other way but as a sombre

public wake. She did, however, have her revenge by creating “The Glorious Fifth”.

Understandably, I was extremely nervous on this partic—

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name. I was even leery of taking a cab that night, fearing to tell a stranger where I lived. So I walked back “home” to Westbourne, using as many residential streets as I could, knowing fewer people might be strolling there. But I could not resist a pass by Government House to see how many

lights were burning. None.

Sunday morning, July 4th, I anticipated correctly Wallis and the Duke would have to attend the Memorial Service for the victims of the Fiery Fete. Consequently I telephoned as early as I dared—at 8:00 A.M.—and got the Duchess out of her

bed.

“Chit-chat,” I said.

“Good morning,” she said.

“I thought I should telephone to say the messenger has

arrived.”

Wallis coughed.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. It’s just my early morning hack. Would you

repeat the message, please?”

“I said the messenger has now arrived.”

“And what’s the news he brings?”

“Am I seeing you tomorrow?” I asked.

“You’re coming to dinner, yes. And cocktails at seven.”

“Any news I have, I’ll bring you then.”

“Can you tell at least this much. Are we going?”

“Of course,” I said.

Wallis was the first to hang up—which is why I heard the second “click”.

Harry Oakes had been listening.

On Monday at two, I was seated in Rawson Square on the

same wooden bench we had used before. I will say this much for Harry Reinhardt: he was prompt. On the very dot of two, as if appearing from the air, he sat at the other end of the bench.

I don’t know how long we sat there, while we finalized

the details of the plan. The S.S. Munargo was to leave on

363

the morning of the ninth for New York. Our story was to be that the Duke and Duchess were making a secret trip for diplomatic reasons. And with the danger of a lurking German submarine, we would say, the Windsors must board the

Munargo under cover of darkness on the night of the eighth.

It sounded like a cunningly-thought-out operation. The

authorities who could potentially prevent the Windsors’

escape from the Bahamas would actually be duped into lending a hand—a military escort down to the wharf, a boat ready to take the couple out to the Munargo; and no communication with anyone on board for fear the enemy might pick

up the signal. The whole departure, in fact, would be kept a total secret, so the authorities were to be told, until the Windsors safely reached New York.

“What really happens?” I asked.

“They will be rowed out to the yacht, of course.”

“Rowed?”

“It won’t be far.…The main thing is to get them on the yacht and the yacht will do the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Deliver them to the sub.”

“I hope you’re impressed with what I’ve said about the

Duke. He’s in quite bad shape, you know.”

“That can’t be helped.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m only trying to prepare you. After all, we want to be ready for any eventualities. Can’t have something coming out of left field just as we get underway.”

I told him then about the Windsors’ dogs.

“Dogs?” said Harry Reinhardt.

“Yes,” I said. “There are six of them—and the Windsors won’t go anywhere without them.”

“Well, if we have to,” said Reinhardt, “We’ll take them along and drown them at sea.”

Ever since the Fiery Bazaar, Wallis had been unable to celebrate the fourth of July in any other way but as a sombre

public wake. She did, however, have her revenge by creating “The Glorious Fifth”.

Understandably, I was extremely nervous on this particular occasion, knowing Wallis and the Duke were to quit the Bahamas four days later and never return.

The dining-room I see in my mind was blue. I cannot

recall precisely who was there although I know that Elsa Maxwell was and the Windsors, of course, and myself. What I see is perhaps a frieze of ten or a dozen faces—all of them suspended, hung above the plates. I also see the silver knives and candlelight through glass and all the men in white, their shirts and dinner jackets caught at the neck with black-tie knots, and the women in their evening gowns all blue—I don’t know why the women all wore blue; they did, that’s all; or they do in my mind—and all their hairdos caught in the updraught from the blazing candles, sweeping back from their faces—every face an oval marked with all the appropriate dots: two eyes, a mouth, a nose and all pulled taut

and pinned into place with outsized jewelled ears. I remember the ears so vividly, and the sound around the table of

ten, a dozen little mouths being fed—and otherwise the only sound was of the knives going up and down and of Wallis shaking out her bracelets over the cloth and the Duke of Windsor’s cigarette lighter clicking through the whole proceedings.

All he seemed to do was smoke and I think he

hardly ate at all.

There was wine all through the meal and the intrusive

arm of the steward pushing past the shoulders with its bottles, pouring out the sound of someone drowning every three

minutes or so.

And the smell was of yellow jasmine—everywhere.

Into all this white and blue there was suddenly injected—

unannounced and uninvited—the twin black presence of

Harold Christie, the real estate man, and Sir Harry Oakes.

They had come, so they said, presuming there had been

some mistake. They had always been invited before on “The Glorious Fifth”.

Wallis lifted her eyes to mine. And then she looked at the Duke. The Duke was drowsing, way off past the jasmine in its bowls and the candles in their glassy lamps. The pouches and the lines beneath his eyes had been whiled out, and the blue of those eyes was dangerously sad. It could make a

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person weep to see those eyes, and think; poor boy—what can we do to help? And his fingers reaching down to feed his meal to the crowd of little dogs beside his chair. His heart was very wide, but his mind was not.