Someone gave a masked party in a wine cellar called “Little Europa.”
The immediate past and the impending future always merged together for Mama, and there was never any knowing what she would do next. But when an idea came to her, she took it to her heart, and made up her mind quickly. Then she acted… acted fast. She could cross a green lawn with the epic strength and purpose of the Jews coming through the Red Sea. And never spill a drop of her excitement.
She came to Papa one morning and said, “Henry, I am going to Europe.”
“Europe!” said Papa, who always felt pure women are unpractical for life on slippery surfaces.
Mama nodded. “My sister Fran is about to marry that hod-clopper she thinks she is in love with. And Gramp says that war may come any year, now that the German King has signed peace pacts with the Tzar and England. And anyway, I want Stevie to know Europe. Auf baldiges wiedersehen, Puppchen.”
Papa turned pale. “What's that?”
“German. I've been taking lessons. It means… 'See you soon, sweetheart.'”
“Poopkin? Sweetheart?” said Papa softly to himself. Then he bucked up. “But what does Fran say?”
I said, “Aunt Fran says French… she's going over to get a torso for her wedding….”
“You see how ignorant Stevie is. He means Fran will shop for her wedding gown.”
Make French, Mama,” I said.
“French, too?” said Papa.
“Oh, I just brushed up on school French. Oh, Henry, I wish you could come. The chestnut trees along the Place de la Concorde by the Ministère de la Marine, the blossoms breaking by the Musée de Jeu de Paume, the Renoirgreen leaves against the Madeleine, shading the café chairs near the rue Royale….”
Papa said, “There aren't that many chestnut trees in the world!” But Mama knew by the way he said it that she had won and we were going to Europe for the summer.
“Oh, Henry,” said Mama, kissing Papa because she knew she had skillfully brought his enthusiasm to a quick boil.
“Now, Sara… maybe you can go… but Gramp must go with you.”
“I'm a grown woman.”
“Gramp knows Europe better than a guidebook.”
Mama looked at Papa, as if she wanted to say the kind of guidebook Gramp was, was sold after dark from the inside pocket. Mama was very moral, and Gramp had once had dinner with Oscar Wilde, and even been photographed with a dancer, a shabby little Lautrec drawing in highheeled, red-button shoes.
“We're going to Germany… Gramp hates Germans.”
“Now, Sara, all he said was that Germans keep on their overcoats while visiting America, like stage detectives.”
We were to sail on a Hamburg-America liner in June, but I can't remember her name. It was a Baron something or a Baroness something, or maybe even a Graf.
Fran was very happy because Mama had said she could be married at once… as soon as the trip was over… to her freight-handler. And Mama never went back on a promise… if she remembered it. She hoped some refined Herr Direktor, or French millionaire, or Generalkonsul would fall in love with Fran and give her culture.
The boat sailed at midnight, and we all met at Gramp's house and drank a toast to a happy trip. Gramp was in form and singing a Schubert Lied, and he looked at Mama and Fran.
“Hell in a taxicab, and save me at sea! At my age, traveling with two of the most beautiful women in America.”
“I'm going, too, Gramp,” I said.
“Well, Stevie, you'll be the cool head we need to help us when we go into some dive like the church of St. Germain-des-Prés.”
“That's what I mean, Gramp,” said Mama. “You mustn't mock culture. I want Stevie to love beauty.”
“Wait until we get some Cordon Rouge '07 and a homard à l'américaine inside him.”
“Art,” said Mama, “music, and, of course, the dance.”
Gramp fluffed back his tufts of white mustache and got into his burberry and picked up his gold cane. He didn't like that crack about the dance; Mama knew all about the dancer from the Russian ballet, and it wasn't nice of her to say anything about art, music, and, of course, the dance.
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