{"id":75,"date":"2012-06-06T03:57:35","date_gmt":"2012-06-06T03:57:35","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/?p=75"},"modified":"2015-03-15T13:02:15","modified_gmt":"2015-03-15T17:02:15","slug":"going-somewhere","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.turtlepointpress.com\/traveltainted\/going-somewhere\/","title":{"rendered":"Transatlantic Episodes"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Lethargic<\/em> lay in the Southampton harbor, looking reluctant to pull out. Napier saw his baggage swung on board and went down to investigate his cabin. Unable to afford a first-class passage, he had insisted on traveling second-class against the advice of his friends who urged him to travel third. In November, they said, the second-class would be filled with bearded immigrants who avoided going third-class in order to escape something tiresome at Ellis Island. Napier never understood these things. The second-class, he argued, was obviously that much better than third, and certainly it did not sound so pauperish. The agent who sold him his passage told him he was putting him in a room for three, but that undoubtedly, in November, he would have the room to himself.<\/p>\n

This did not prove to be true. As Napier entered the stateroom he was faced by two rabbis, who looked about eighty years old, their faces cracked like cr\u00eape paper, and their eyes sunk into pits. In flowing black robes or figured silk they were opening paper bundles. Both of them spoke incessantly in high, cracked voices. In the washbowl they had placed a bouquet of red roses, and they were now engaged in arranging a row of pineapples under the berths.<\/p>\n

Napier\u2019s heart sank\u2014what was he to do\u2014spend seven days and nights in a cabin with these old ghosts? He felt that he could not cope with it, and he went to the purser to complain. The purser agreed that it was a most unfortunate juxtaposition, and suggested that something might be done about switching him into a cabin with someone less objectionable than the rabbis. He told him to come around again at midnight. By that times things would be squared away, and some improvement could undoubtedly be made.<\/p>\n

Napier put in a restless day and returned to the purser at midnight. \u201cGot you all fixed up,\u201d the purser said, \u201cyou can move in D-400. There\u2019s only one other occupant. A nice young fellow, an American who has won some prize or other. \u201c<\/p>\n

The young American, no matter how bad, could not be worse than the rabbis, reflected Napier as he entered D-400. On the floor of the stateroom sat a dark-haired young giant surrounded by magazines. He was stripped to the waist, and as Napier came in he smiled in a friendly fashion. His smile was a kind Napier had never seen except in tooth-paste advertisements.<\/p>\n

\u201cAm I disturbing you\u2014moving in like this?\u201d Napier asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot at all, old man, come right on in. They told me someone was coming.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry\u2014bursting in like this\u2014but I\u2019ve just been switched from a den of roses and pineapples and rabbis.\u201d<\/p>\n

This surprising statement did not appear to surprise the young man at all. His attention was directed only to the problem of Napier\u2019s luggage. \u201cHere, old man, let me give you a lift,\u201d he said, hoisting a suitcase to a shelf. He picked it up like a feather and deposited it with a theatrical muscular flourish. The muscles of his back and shoulders were magnificent. He even seemed to pose for a second before he dropped the bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see your name is Knightsbridge, old man. I\u2019m mighty glad to meet you.\u201d He took Napier\u2019s hand in a grip so firm it was agony. \u201cZukor\u2019s my name,\u201d he added. \u201cVictor Zukor. Just call me Victor.\u201d<\/p>\n

In view of this statement Napier was surprised to see emblazoned on the young man\u2019s luggage the somewhat sweeping cognomen: MR. AMERICA.<\/p>\n

Victor Zukor\u2019s eyes followed Napier\u2019s as they focused on this title. \u201cMy real name\u2019s Zukor, but on this trip I\u2019m known as Mr. America. I won the title last summer at Asbury Park.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI see,\u201d said Napier, understanding nothing.<\/p>\n

Victor Zukor sank with a bound to the floor to pick up his magazines. Napier noted that they were in several languages, all of them profusely illustrated: the German Querschnitt<\/em>, Sport und Sonne<\/em>,\u00a0 and Sch\u00f6nheit<\/em>; the British Health and Strength;\u00a0 the Scandinavian Gymm <\/em>and Swing<\/em>; the French Sport et Sant\u00e9<\/em>; and a sheet called La Suisse Sportive<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook here, old man, here I am in this Swedish paper,\u201d said Victor Zukor, pointing to his picture posed as the Apoxymenus of Lysippus. \u201cWhy, man alive,\u201d he added, \u201cI\u2019m coming out in everything.\u201d He brought, one by one, to Napier\u2019s attention the astonishing number of magazine reproductions of his photographs, nearly all of them nudes. \u201cJust look at that serratus magnus<\/em>,\u201d he beamed. \u201cThat\u2019s what made me Mr. America.\u201d<\/p>\n

Napier agreed that it was \u201ctoo extraordinary,\u201d but he was still in the dark as to how it made him Mr. America. Pressed for an explanation, Victor Zukor divulged some data. With interest decreasing in the contests in which a Bathing Beauty each year became Miss America (or ultimately Miss Universe), an enterprising publication which went by the name of Muscle<\/em> had sponsored, two years ago, a similar contest for men, which had taken place at Niagara Falls. From all parts of the country, Victor Zukor explained, had come track-runners, weight-lifters, pole-vaulters, discus-throwers, adagio dancers, life-guards, and models to compete for the proffered title. There had been some unpleasantness over its award because Mr. Hot Springs and Mr. Ann Arbor had tied in the judges\u2019 decision. It was finally settled by giving Mr. Ann Arbor the title of Mr. East of the Mississippi. The interest in the contest had been surprisingly widespread, and was more than doubled the second year when it was held at Asbury Park. In addition to the title of Mr. America, the winner was to be given a three months trip to Europe under the the auspices of\u00a0 Muscle. Victor Zukor, who competed as Mr. Poughkeepsie, was awarded the title without any hitches.<\/p>\n

His trip to Europe had been a prolonged celebration of Victor Zukor\u2019s physique. In Athens he had been f\u00eated on the Acropolis. He was photographed in Sparta and on the shores of the Hellespont. In Rome he received a welcoming reception in the ruins of the Baths of Diocletian, and the straggling little bagni<\/em> along the Tiber were given over for a week to carnival. But the greatest ovation of all had been held in store for him at Berlin. A frenzy was what he said that city went into. A parade from the Wannsee to the Brandenburger Tor had been organized, and Victor Zukor had led it, wearing a zebra-skin cache-sexe<\/em>, a gift from the Berlin branch office of Muscle. The parade broke up with a picture being take at the foot of a statue of Bismarck.<\/p>\n

His tour officially over, Victor Zukor had been offered a first-class passage back to the States or an unofficial week in Paris with a second-class passage back. He had chosen the latter and now he felt he had made a minor mistake. Paris had taken little note of his presence, and he had spent his days in the Louvre alone, studying poses of secondary deities. He already knew by heart all the poses of the first rank gods.<\/p>\n

It was one o\u2019clock when he finished his story and he said he must go straight to bed. Napier was avid for further facts concerning his European tour. What for instance did he think of life as lived along the Kurf\u00fcrstendamm?\u00a0 Victor Zukor inferred that this was a river, and said he had never been near it. And he really had to go straight to bed because it was already past his limit.<\/p>\n

Napier was unable to destroy Victor Zukor\u2019s determination. With an agile gesture Mr. America swung himself into the upper berth. In less than five minutes his regular breathing revealed that he was fast asleep.<\/p>\n

Napier had scarcely gone to sleep when he was abruptly awakened. It was morning, and Victor Zukor was naked, touching the floor with his fingers for the hundred and fiftieth time. \u201cHurry up, old man, or you\u2019ll miss breakfast. It\u2019s after eight o\u2019clock.\u201d<\/p>\n

Napier said we would ring for some toast and coffee in bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo on,\u201d said Victor Zukor.\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t you want to radiate power?<\/p>\n

\u201cWant to what?\u201d asked Napier who was still only half awake.<\/p>\n

\u201cI said, don\u2019t you want to reap glowing rewards and learn to radiate power?\u201d<\/p>\n

Napier, reviewing his vocabulary, found he had nothing to reply.<\/p>\n

Victor Zukor was lifting one arm against the pressure of the other. \u201cYou\u2019ve got to give Nature a chance,\u201d he said, \u201cor you\u2019ll be a human cipher. If you don\u2019t do any building up, what will She think of you?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat will who think of me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe girl of your dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n

Napier, amused, again had no answer. \u201cHow can you do all that before coffee?” he asked through a yam.<\/p>\n

\u201cBefore coffee? Say, pal, I never touch it.\u201d He went on with his strenuous flexing.\u00a0 \u201cDo you see what I\u2019m doing? I\u2019m using the system of Aggressive Self-Resistance. It\u2019s better than an apparatus. All you\u2019ve got to do is simply learn to resist yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

The ship was swaying slightly, but Victory Zukor was firmly on his feet. He was now doing the \u201cstiff-legged pick-up\u201d which he said helped the ham-string muscles. \u201cFeel my gluteus minimus<\/em>,\u201d he ordered. \u201cThe best way to develop that muscle is to get someone else and do a mutual. Pull up that chair and we\u2019ll do some resistant legwork.\u201d<\/p>\n

But Napier said he would do nothing of the sort before he had breakfast.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re sure a shilly-shallier,\u201d said Victor. \u201cBut I\u2019ll develop your grit and gumption by degrees,\u201d he added good-naturedly. They dressed and went into the dining room and ate some hot cereal and eggs. Across the table sat the rabbis, mournfully munching pineapples. Most of the other passengers were grizzlies.<\/p>\n

After breakfast Napier went up to the first-class quarters to deliver his note of introduction to the Princesse de Villefranche. He consulted a list of the first-class passengers to see what cabin the Princesse was occupying. In glancing through the list he looked for other well-known names. Celebrities were always trooping to America in November. But they did not seem to be numerous on this crossing of the Lethargic.<\/p>\n

The first name Napier recognized was that of Madame Armada Menace. \u201cShe\u2019s lost no time getting out of England,\u201d he said to himself in passing. Farther down he saw the familiar name of Mr. Wilburton Renegade, an American publisher with a branch in London, who since the success of Queen Victoria had published practically nothing but intimate biographies. The Princesse de Villefranche, he read, was in B-312. At the end of the list a name struck Napier as being extremely curious. Alphabetically, the last of the first-class passengers was Mrs. Niobe Why.<\/p>\n

He called a boy and asked him to deliver his note from Anthony to the Princesse. He then returned to his stateroom, hoping to receive a prompt reply.<\/p>\n

The boy, before knocking at the Princesse\u2019s door, gave his uniform a tug and a pat. This was only his second trip across, and his first look at royalty was imminent.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome in,\u201d two women\u2019s voices answered his knock.<\/p>\n

Opening the door, the boy was startled by the sight which met his eyes. The Princesse was on her hands and knees, looking highly disorganized. She was wearing a voluminous bathrobe of flowered Turkish toweling. Her maid, Mirabelle, a wild-eyed wench, was also on her hands and knees.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re looking for Albertine Disparue,\u201d said the Princess in a desperate voice. As she spoke she tossed her head to shake her graying hair from her yes.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot the book, the cat,\u201d said Mirabelle, who thought this made things clearer.<\/p>\n

The Princess was taking her cat to America against the advice of her friends. As a kitten its chief characteristic had been a desire to stay out of sight. The Princesse’s rambling apartment in Paris had provided her cat with superb opportunities for indulgence of its whim. Often for days she would never see it at all. And this deprivation seemed in some way to delight her. She had named the cat Albertine Disparue after the volume which had just appeared. Only recently she had taken to calling it Albertine for short.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve brought a note for you, Madame,\u201d said the boy, but looking under the bed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere shall I put it?\u201d he asked, indicating the note.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait until we find it first. Well put it on my pillow.\u201d<\/p>\n

The boy put the note on the pillow and went away confused. The Princesse said, \u201cFancy that boy coming in!\u201d and once more looked under the bed.<\/p>\n

Mirabelle had gone into the adjoining room, pursuing a clew of her own. \u201cI\u2019ve found Albertine,\u201d she called to the Princesse. \u201cI had locked her in a wardrobe trunk.\u201d<\/p>\n

The Princesse got up and scrutinized them both and broke out in a roguish laugh. \u201cI\u2019ll soon have to call the two of you Plum and Sweet Cheat Gone,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

The cat, a long haired, dark grey Persian, started in to pull Mirabelle\u2019s hair. The Princesse watched this activity intently and said \u201cI must look for my deck chair.\u201d<\/p>\n

She settled down in her deck chair and tucked the robe about her knees. The day was bright and the sea was smooth, and the Princesse took in a long deep breath as she focused on a friendly gull.<\/p>\n

The seeming precariousness of the Princesse\u2019s mind was due to the conception of time. She lived exclusively and intensively in the very immediate present. The past, even the past of five minutes ago was for her something finished and forgotten. And the future was something far away with which she established no connection. She attended to the nearest matter at hand, no matter how trivial it was. If she found herself faced with two matters at hand, she selected the more insignificant. Insignificance, she found, was almost always more charming and delightful.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

From: Going Somewhere<\/a>\u00a0Turtle Point Press \u2013\u00a0ISBN 978 1 933527 27 7<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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