Pinkerton's Sister (14 page)

“‘S’ is for …” he whispered teasingly. “‘S’ is for …”

He didn’t spell out what the “S” was for.

(“S” was secret.

(“S” was seductive.

(“S” was saucy.)

People strolling in the street, picking their way carefully and unobtrusively between the heaped piles of bouquets and crumpled drawers — “Mind those bloomers, Brenda” — moved helpfully to one side.

They were all there, watching the dancing, the people of Longfellow Park: Charlotte and Linnaeus with Mrs. Chirikos; Dr. Twemlow and Miss Swanstrom, with the sour-faced Mrs. Twemlow interposing herself like a fearless bodyguard between her son and his beloved; Myrtle Comstock and Roland Birtle; Oliver Comstock and Arthur Vellacott; the Renwicks and Bertie; Mrs. Alexander Diddecott; Kate Calbraith’s parents; Hilde Claudia, Theodore, and Max Webster; Reynolds Templeton Seabright; Henry Walden Gauntlett; Elphinstone Dalhousie Barton (a trio of triple-deckered monikers grouped helpfully together like a subspecies); Dr. Severance of Staten Island (drawn out of his natural habitat by the presence of Alice); Miss Caulfeild, the senior schoolmistress at the grade school; Dr. Brown; Dr. and Mrs. Crowninshield; Mr. Rappaport; Mr. and Mrs. Scrivener; Mr. Caswell; the shifty-eyed Dibbo Daughters in full force; Miss Iandoli, the piano teacher; Mabel Peartree; Miss Wouldhave; Miss Ericsson; the Misses Isserliss; Miss Stein (there was a whole armada of Misses, all dressed in white, like the maidens in the May-Day dance in the second chapter of
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
; another Miss — Miss Stammers — hurtled past in the background, hauled by her enormous dogs: they seemed to regard her as a conveniently sized snack on legs, nibbling her in a way she liked to believe was affectionate); Carlo Fiorelli; Dr. Vaniah Odom; Dickinson Prud’homme; Harry Hollander; Highland Kinsolvin…

Others were pouring in from the adjoining streets.

Somewhere, half hidden in the shadows in an out-of-the-way corner, unnoticed by the crowds, there was Annie.

All of them, like the saints in the windows of All Saints’, bore emblems of themselves before them, held proudly forward, pilgrims inviting a blessing from a passing pope. (Not an image that would have gone down well with Dr. Vaniah Odom, the Goodchilds, or Mrs. Albert Comstock. The group of nuns from The House of the Magdalenes — provocatively gathered together behind Dr. Vaniah Odom, who kept glancing nervously around; when he had told Satan to get him behind him, he hadn’t meant it quite so literally — would have responded with more enthusiasm.)

Henry Walden Gauntlett wore the leopard-skin rug from his photographic studio slung over one of his shoulders, a Zulu warrior unaccountably carrying a camera instead of an assegai. Hilde Claudia, Theodore, and Max Webster fluttered their semaphore flags, wordlessly soliciting requests for them to spring into emblematic action, glumly enthusiastic to shape themselves into all the letters of the alphabet, and spell out coded messages. Cissie Isserliss carried a little wooden box with a slit in the lid, like a charity collecting box, rattling it in the faces of those around her like a menacing maraca, as Issie Isserliss rang a little tinkling silver bell, and pointed at the box meaningfully. Puns were not allowed
chez
Isserliss. Issie Isserliss rang the little hand-bell whenever anyone made a pun, and shouted, “Pun Warning! Pun Warning!” Cissie Isserliss called herself the Keeper of the Pun Box, and exacted a small fine from the perpetrator of the pun. This tended to inhibit the natural flow of relaxed conversation. Highland Kinsolvin, dressed in all the black solemnity that befitted his position of funeral director, held a huge black-ribboned wreath aloft, all ready to award it to the victor in some competition: the fastest sprinter in some serious-faced race, the sad-eyed poet whose panegyric had called forth the most tears. Dickinson Prud’homme, his beard, hands, and face, his upheld, well-soaked brushes, as pink as a brothel parlor with carelessly spilt paint, had the dazed, slightly dribbling look of a man who had been painting colossal nudes with considerable enthusiasm all night through. With an imperious
Peep! Peep! —
there went his whistle — Dr. Severance of Staten Island moved forward with his notebook, looking eager, pen poised …

In the distance the vastness of Mrs. Albert Comstock hove into sight, with Mrs. Goodchild dancing attendance. Behind them, characteristically scowling, was Serenity Goodchild, followed by a whole plague of frog-faced indistinguishable Goodchilds and Griswolds. Their parasols were being used with the same prod, prod, prod motions they employed with their umbrellas when they were out on patrol, the standard-bearers for moral standards, and their flags flew high, snapping in a brisk breeze. They hastened forward, as if late for their big number in
Florodora
.

The parasols began to twirl flirtatiously.

Glances were exchanged.

If you studied Mrs. Albert Comstock carefully you could convince yourself that Emmerson’s theory was right, and that she really was Albert Comstock himself, in disguise. Those beefy biceps, those architectural thighs: they were unmistakable, and that Mount Kilimanjaro of a bosom (thick snow on the upper slopes) could readily be improvised.

Nostrils were flared — you could have had
Ben-Hur
chariot races in and out of Mrs. Albert Comstock’s Hoosac Tunnel-sized nostrils — and all senses were on full alert.

They’d heard that
French
was being sung, and they all knew what French meant. French meant filth. French meant licentiousness and poor drains. French meant the complete collapse of all moral standards, and the end of dignity and decorum, accompanied by a strong whiff of garlic. You just
knew
it meant something repugnant. Mrs. Albert Comstock had once been to Paris for a week, and was verging on the bilingual. She couldn’t actually
speak
French — “
Nong parley Frongsey
, me,” she could announce proudly, virtuously, like Justice Hare in
East Lynne —
but she had acquired a few French phrases, some of them from restaurant menus, and used them (shuddering as she did so) more or less at random, when she felt that the occasion required it, a
conny-sewer
of cringing. She spoke them with a nudgingly portentous, threatening note, the voice of someone saying “
Carpe diem
” at the very moment a comet arrived to bring an end to all life on earth. “
Tabble-dhoti
,” she would announce warningly, adding the taste of an Indian loincloth to a French meal, and improving the flavor significantly, “
fetter-complee
,
tetter-tet
,
garsong
,
wee
,
mersewer
” — trust the French to bring sewers into something — “
swarry
,
sheff der cwiseen
,
a bean tote
,
servees non compree
,
day-core
,
chick
.” (To be told that she was wearing a very
chick —
her preferred pronunciation — dress was one thing; to be told that it was
chic
, with recognizable French intonation, and flirtatiously straining eyebrows, was quite another. This was the unmistakable signal for the fan to be produced, the bone-jarring whacks to be administered, and the room hastily evacuated.) On her return from Paris (thankful to have survived, that was the message) she demonstrated her cosmopolitan sophistication by stringing what appeared to be whole sentences together, to the wonderment of Mrs. Goodchild and Mabel Peartree.

“
Lah platt dew jewer
,” she remarked meaningfully — this was one of her more ambitious utterances — a philosopher detecting a subtle nuance in one of the more obscure passages of Descartes. (Her lips moved with shuddering distaste: this
platt
would not contain anything nice, that was for sure.)

(Applause from oh-my-goodnessing Mrs. Goodchild and Mabel Peartree.)

“
Entry interdite. Ne pas deeranger silver play. Pelouse interdite
.”

(Thunderous applause. Gasps of astonishment.)

It was one thing for Mrs. Albert Comstock to speak French in this effortless fashion. (“Aren’t the French
peculiar
?” That was what she was saying. “Why on earth can’t they speak
English
?” That was the true translation of all she spoke.) It was
quite
another thing for anyone else to speak French in her hearing. She could, wincing,
sense
when French was in the vicinity. If you whispered
gàteau
or
chàteau
she would instantly recognize that it was French, and her sucked-lemons expression of appalled disgust would spring into action.
Fin de siÈcle
: sucked lemons (she’d approached the new century with permanent sourness);
ici on parle français
: sucked lemons;
petits pois à la Française
: the taste of lemon completely drowned the flavor of the peas;
plus ça change
: sucked lemons (no change here). If you whispered “apple pie” in a French accent, it would have the same effect.

Mrs. Albert Comstock and her grim-faced guardians of niceness had definitely heard — faintly, ahead of them as they hastened to Hudson Row — the word
l’amour
(a lemon-lemon-lemon slot machine jackpot of an expression from Mrs. Albert Comstock), panicked slightly, and broken into a waddling sprint. Their parasols strained at an identical angle in front of them, hauling them forward like the leashes of eager bloodhounds sniff-sniffily seeking out sin.

L’amour
was a single word to these fearless defenders of public morality. They wouldn’t have recognized
amour
, but
l’amour
— oh yes, yes,
yes
(simultaneous shudders at this point) they knew
exactly
what that word meant, thank you very much, and they didn’t like what they knew. They didn’t like it
at all.
When these women were in the right mood, they spoke almost exclusively in italics. The sharp edges seemed to cut at the insides of their mouths, and give them pained, incensed expressions. They’d heard
l’amour
— quite distinctly —
more than once
. There’d been a
une
(this was
definitely
French) and — loud and clear, as if challengingly emphasized — a provocative
je t’aime
.
Je t’aime!
It was whispered behind cupped hands from ear to ear, a secret pornographic password being passed on. First
l’amour
and now
je t’aime
! Before much longer they’d be hearing a
le
or a
la
, and it was but a small step from a
la
to an
Ooh la la!
, and they were there to put a stop to any hint of
that sort of thing
. They’d arrived not a moment too soon. Alfred Eakins, in his long apron, continued with his sweeping, the stiff bristles moving backward and forward over the same section, as if he were trying to erase the shadowed letters
SIN
. His service was to remove
SIN
with celerity.

From the entrance of Columbarian & Horowitz, two doors away, a complete orchestra began to play the Cigarette Girls’ song. The musicians were rather crammed in, at awkward angles, and the necks of cellos and violins protruded untidily above the heads of the woodwind section, which squatted down on the polished tiles just inside the door. Brass glinted from the inner dimness. The elderly Misses Isserliss, who had never smoked in their lives (indeed, smoking, like punning, was a proscribed peccadillo in their house on Hudson Heights), drew expertly on the cigarettes hanging casually from their lips, and began to sing, swaying in perfect unison. Cissie rattled the coins in the wooden box; Issie rang the little silver bell, as an improvised percussion accompaniment to the music.

Mrs. Albert Comstock and Mrs. Goodchild, despite their best efforts, were seduced from their high purpose by the closer proximity of French. Showing an unexpectedly sensitive response to the Spanish setting of
Carmen
(Mrs. Albert Comstock did not have a box at the Metropolitan Opera for nothing) they removed their false teeth, and began to utilize them as castanets, humming along with the music.

Look at us!
they were saying.

We can afford G. G. Schiffendecken false teeth!
they were saying.

They moved their bodies sensually from side to side — it was not a sight for the easily nauseated — as their grin-filled hands clicked up and down with manic glee, sending sprays of spit flying for yards. It brought a welcome coolness to those in the immediate vicinity, like a gentle summer shower.

There was a
la
! There was a
la
! Expressions of dawning horror spread across the faces of the denture-wielding dancers. What were they thinking of? What madness had possessed them?

Again!

Teeth were crammed back into mouths with gestures of firm resolve, and parasols were once more grasped firmly, leaping forward at the sound of the
la
, seeking out the evils of Frenchness. The bloodhounds snuffled with whimpering excitement, a low, warning growl beginning deep in their throats. They were close. They were
really
close to the fountainhead of filth. They would cry “Havoc!” and let slip the dogs. Mrs. Albert Comstock was not quite sure what this meant — she was not bilingual in Shakespeare — but it sounded the right sort of idea: teeth, blood, ripping sounds, obliteration, that kind of thing. They would not falter in their purpose a second time. They’d lay about them with their parasols, a scything massacre of muckiness
pour encourager les autres
.

Damn!

They’d just used French.

Shit!

They’d just said “Damn!”

You just couldn’t
help
being corrupted when these Frenchies were out in full froggy force. Come on, girls! Time to dagger a dago!