A View From a Broad Page 5

  “The diaphragm,” she told me over high tea, “is an object that heralds pleasure. Why must it look like some hideous prosthetic device that just came out of a hospital supply room? Ditto, you see, for the douche. Is there any reason,” she went on firmly, her tomatoes bouncing up and down in place, “that these items, so intimately connected with feminine delight, should be not only unattractive, but positively repellent? Think about it, darling. Isn’t this state of affairs the result of a sexist, puritanical society still resisting the idea that sex for a woman can be a beautiful, joyous occasion free of guilt and anxiety?”

  I must say I was intrigued. Old Lettuce Head was really hip. Sensing my interest, Cecily nibbled on a scone and went on.

  “. . . what a rara avis I was to those who had never been to the slums of Honolulu.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind, dear. What the world needs now is a hand-painted diaphragm and douche set that comes complete with its own design-coordinated carrying case—you know, something a woman would be proud to take anywhere. Of course, what’s most important . . . Are you following, dear? What are you staring at?”

  “Your veggies, Cecily. They seem to be heading for a tumble.”

  “Oh, bother,” Cecily said, readjusting her hat, which by now had slipped down nearly to her nose, “what a nuisance vanity can be. But I was saying, in actual point of fact, what’s most important is that when she reaches inside that colorful little case, a woman will not be met by the sight of an ugly medicinal-looking device designed as if pleasure were a sin, but instead by a lovely, artful item designed specifically for pleasure. . . . Well, speak up. What do you think?”

  But before I had a chance to let her know, Cecily raved on.

  “I’ve already decided on several themes I thought might translate jolly well as design lines for the sets. I’m thinking particularly of a line I call Miss Liberty. I will have the bust of the famous bronze statue painted boldly on the diaphragm, while the refillable douche dispenser will be in the very shape of the great lady herself. On the case I would have a full-length portrait of the Torchbearer. Think, darling, what that would mean to a woman. After that, I’m considering a series based on other feminine interests such as Louis the IV Furniture, Lovers on the Run and of course, Famous Women of the Twentieth Century. And here, my dear, is where you come in. You see, I think your portrait would look simply smashing on a diaphragm. Your hair would so nicely fill out the circular design of the device itself. Don’t you agree? . . .

  “Of course,” Cecily continued, hardly giving me a chance to comprehend what I’d just heard, “there’ll be no more calling things diaphragms and douches. I’m going to call my items DIDOs, after the famous queen.”

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I seemed to recall that Dido killed herself unloved and untouched, but I thought it best not to mention that to Cecily.

  “You see,” the indomitable woman went on, “names are everything. Not just for people. For things too. Take death, for example.”

  “Death?” I queried, failing to see the immediate connection between death and feminine hygiene.

  “Yes. People are afraid of death, so they call it by every other name they can think of. They talk about pushing up the daisies, or checking out, or croaking, or popping off, or hopping the twig, or cashing in one’s chips, or joining the Choir Invisible. Death by any other name is sweeter. Juliet, darling, beautiful though she may have been, failed to grasp an essential truth.”

  Oh, Cecily, I thought as a slowdown in the hat bobbing indicated she was finally coming to a halt, what a scamp you are! Then when I was certain she was through, I told her I’d consider everything she said and fled out the door, my mind reeling.

  My but it had been an edifying afternoon! How I regretted that my three yentas had not been there with me to listen and learn. They were in their hotel rooms, with shades drawn, recovering. London, you see, had proved to be a bit rough for them.

  As you may remember, I had promised to see to my girls’ cultural refinement, and towards that goal had surprised them with tickets to a special National Theatre matinee of Hedda Ga-bler. But the tickets went unused. Worse than unused. Sold. For a dank afternoon in an East Thamesian bar where the hapless girls were arrested for attempting to raffle off some personal items they had snatched off my dressing table. Unfortunately, a few of those items were illegal in Great Britain, so the girls got more than they bargained for. A trial date, for example.

  The remainder of my troupe were adjusting to life on foreign soil with varying degrees of success. My band, as usual, didn’t know where they were, so there was nothing for them to adjust to. With the notable exception of my drummer, Doane, who nearly blew himself up one night trying to get the water heater to work, they remained as unruffled and inscrutable as ever.

  And then there was Miss Frank. Considering my dresser’s puritanical aversion to Pomp and Grandeur, I had feared that upon our arrival in London, she might very well take to her room and limit her communication with me to reproachful notes full of apocalyptic foreboding and advice. But such was not to be. Perhaps it was the aroma of rotting cod wafting up from the Fish and Chips shop below, or the fact that such a large part of the populace was considerate enough to speak in English. Whatever the reasons, if London contained any failures of the human spirit, Miss Frank forgave them all and flourished like a rose in Paddington.

  How I hated to leave the town where things—on the whole—had gone so well for me. But as it often does just when I’m enjoying myself, Duty called, and before I even had a chance to say But-isn’t-Brighton-in-Brooklyn? I was packed again and wending my way south toward the rocky shores of the English Channel.

  • BRIGHTON •

  And now, Ladies and Germs, would you please give a rousing welcome to three prime examples of why drugs are not the answer. Just back from the Brighton Pier, where they are one of the rides, please say hello to the Staggering Harlettes!!!!!

  “It’s the best . . .”

  — Sir Walter Raleigh

  QUEEN ARMS HOTEL

  LONDON SW 14 ENGLAND

  Dear Peter:

  Darling, don’t worry about the car. At least you didn’t kill anyone! You know how they drive. If you live in Beverly Hills they don’t put blinkers in your car. They figure if you’re that rich you don’t have to tell people where you’re going. It’s not driving anymore, honey, it’s primal therapy. In the three years we’ve been together in that land of billboards and burritos I haven’t honked my horn once—I just stick my head out the window and scream.

  I received your letters in Lund. I’m still not sure where it is. Do you think in years to come when people in show business want to know the mettle of their material they’ll ask, “Yes, but will it play in Lund?” Lund, my god. “Friends, Romans, and Countrymen—Lund me your ears.”

  There! You see what’s happening to me? With Virtue guarding my mind, and Miss Frank guarding my door, I miss you more than ever.

  Your everlovin’

  sometimes blondie

  • CHOPPED HERRING •

  “I eat, therefore I am . . .”

  DIVINE REVELATIONS, Chapter 1: Verse 1

  • CHOPPED HERRING •

  Nana was just about to receive the “Golden Fly” award when Flight 54 nose-dived through the clouds and suddenly there was Sweden. My first impression was that the pilot had defected to the East and we were about to land in Siberia. Every city girl’s vision of ultimate wilderness lay spread out below me: nothing but row upon row of the darkest, most perfectly triangular pines marching relentlessly off to the horizon, their green undulations broken here and there by small black lakes and racing rivers. Not a road, not a farm, not even a Howard Johnson’s to indicate that man had ever been there or ever planned to be. It was beautiful but disturbing, for as we headed down for a landing I couldn’t help wondering where the six thousand people I was supposed to play for that night were going to come from. Still, this was my Arrival on the Continent, and I r
efused to allow the fact that we seemed to be landing in some remote time-forgotten wilderness to dampen my excitement. Instead, I let my soul swell with the pioneer spirit, and trying desperately to remember if I knew any jokes about lumber or canoeing, I lifted up my satchel and my chin and disembarked.

  The airport was a shock. As modern and civilized as any I’d ever seen: poured concrete and recessed lighting, the latest in contemporary graphics, an architectural non sequitur delightful in its total inappropriateness to its surroundings. Actually, the airport did have one thing in common with its environment: there was not a human being in sight. Maybe the promoter had said I was going to play for six thousand raccoons; maybe this was all a gigantic mistake, due, no doubt, to some faulty transatlantic cable or the lilting peculiarities of the Swedish accent. Discouraged, but still determined, I kicked a possum off my luggage and walked through towering blue spruces to the bus that was waiting to take us to the theatre, smiling bravely on my way at my troupe, all of whom seemed as astonished as I to have landed in Siberia.

  But eventually, as we drove toward the town that had to be there somewhere, the pines began to give way to farms, then to small clumps of houses, until from the knoll of a hill I could see something totally unexpected: the North Sea. And there, stretched out along its edge, like a rampart between the forest and the ocean, was a city.

  Well, not exactly a city. But it was too late to be choosy.

  “Jutebory . . . was the Swedish equivalent of Des Moines.”

  Jutebory, or Gothenburg, or Goteborg—everyone pronounced it differently and every sign spelled it differently—was the Swedish equivalent, it turned out, of Des Moines. My manager had decided to kick off the Continental portion of my tour here so that if we bombed miserably at least we could hide our heads in a compost heap and maybe fix up the act before we got to the big burgs.

  But even as we started to drive into what was, thank God, quite a large town, I found it hard to believe that anyone in Jutebory would lay down good money to see some demented American in a dog dress do a two-bit impression of Shelley Winters. I felt yet another loss of heart coming on when suddenly we turned onto the main drag of town and, amazingly enough, into a sea of teen-agers who, like so many of their rural or small-town counterparts in America, seemed to have nothing to do with the staid, conservative territory around them.

  Yet there they were—greased-back hair, tight tight jeans, black leather jackets—and the motorcycles to go with them. When we arrived on Friday evening, bikeloads of Sha-na-na look-alikes were cruising up and down, shouting what I took to be obscenities and/or traffic reports at the girls, who were also in motorcycle jackets and evidently loving every minute of the abuse. Well, maybe my Jutebory engagement wouldn’t be a disaster after all.

  My breast swelled with hope and curiosity. As soon as the bus pulled up to the hotel I hopped right out, and before anyone could stop me, I went for a walk on my own.

  I didn’t get very far. Right across the street was a brightly colored food stall, with the legend M. Svenson emblazoned on a big yellow-and-blue umbrella. Famished after the pathetic little -pâté en croûte Air France considered déjeuner, I looked both ways in the wrong direction and dashed through the traffic, my mouth watering.

  “Hello,” I said cheerily to the neat little man behind the counter.

  “Goddag. Det skall bli ett nöje,” he replied, tipping his hat and making a little bow, “att hjälpa er.”

  “Oh,” I replied charmed by the vendor’s Continental politeness. “Do you speak English?”

  “Nej, nej. Vad önskar ni?”

  Well, at least I could tell he had asked a question. Remembering Miss Frank’s adage that a pointing finger is worth a month at Berlitz, I smiled and pointed to a tray of chopped herring that looked irresistible.

  “Nej! Nej!” Mr. Svenson cried. “Ni måste välja!”

  And then he began to point. Up in the air. I couldn’t figure out what he was pointing at. Then I saw it: above the stall was a large sign picturing all the various herring combinations available. There were little drawings of plain herring, herring with onions, herring with cucumbers, herring with carrots; of chopped herring, of chopped herring with apples, chopped herring with mustard, chopped herring with garlic and mustard. Faced with those forty-odd pictures, that waving finger and my innate fear of vendors, all I could do was quiver dumbly in my new caribou boots and stand there, dazed with the possibilities of herring.

  “Ni måste välja!” Mr. Svenson repeated, snapping me out of my reverie.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I decided on No. 36—chopped herring with onions and cucumbers on some kind of bread—and pointed firmly at the appropriate drawing.

  Unfortunately, as his rolling eyes told me, Mr. Svenson couldn’t see the sign. It was too high and too far back. Oh, well, I thought, I’ll simply point at each tray, and with my stomach grumbling wildly, I began to do so.

  “Remembering Miss Frank’s adage that a pointing finger is worth a month at Berlitz . . .”

  Mr. Svenson became more hopped up than ever. “Ni måste bli precis!” he exclaimed practically in tears, as he feverishly pointed upward once again.

  “But why? Why can’t I point at the trays?” I whined almost in tears.

  “Amerikanare är förryckt!” was all the vendor muttered, as he threw down his spoon in a frigid display of Nordic disgust.

  “You know,” I said in that calm tone which sounds like a truce but is really a declaration of war, “here I am, newly arrived in your country, anxious only to think the best of your fair land, eager to praise the Swedish mind, the Swedish heart. But I am not only open-minded. I am also starving. So I come to you in friendship and I ask you, as one human being to another, WHY CAN’T I POINT AT THE TRAYS, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE . . .”

  At this strategic point, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around to look into the eyes of Max von Sydow. At least, I thought it was Max. He sure looked stern enough.

  “Young lady,” the stranger said, “you wish to know why you cannot just point at the trays?”

  “Well,” I mumbled incoherently, eyeballing his sensational fur coat, “yes.”

  “Then I tell you. You see, you didn’t come to just any fish stall. You have come to the most famous fish stall in all of Jutebory. In all of Sweden perhaps. Mr. Svenson here is a man of pride, of genius. He would never serve you anything that was not perfect. And of course in food, as in life, order is everything.”

  It is? I thought, remembering some of the chow I had thrown together in the past.

  “Now, what combination did you want?” the stranger asked me.

  “Number 36.”

  “All right, then, you were pointing at the cucumbers, were you not?”

  I had to admit that I was.

  “Well, if Mr. Svenson had put the cucumbers on the bread before the onions, the result would have been a soggy mess. Unthinkable. You see, to prepare a dish properly, the chef must know what all the ingredients are going to be. Mr. Svenson was only acting out of a sense of duty. To his reputation and the continuing education of your palate. And now, if you will allow me . . .”

  My well-dressed friend spoke to Mr. Svenson, who rapidly began putting together a platter.

  “Here,” the stranger said when Mr. Svenson was done. “Number 36. Chopped herring with cucumbers and onions.”

  “Why, thank you,” I said quite touched. “May I pay you for—”

  “Of course not,” the man said. “I hope you enjoy Scandinavia. I know you’ll enjoy the fish.”

  And with that he was off. Savoring the concoction, I looked back at Mr. Svenson, who was already tipping his hat to another customer.

  “In food, as in life, order is everything.”

  The Most Famous Fish Stall in all of Jutebory. Well, go know. I finished my herring rapt in thought and resolved thenceforth to bear in mind while traveling that it is best to always assume, until proved otherwise, that the fish stall you are in is the most famo
us of them all, and the man you are speaking to, a hero.

  • THE CONTINENTAL DIVINE •

  I had always wanted to see the Scandanavian countries. But not from the middle of an ice rink. Yet that’s what I was playing in Jutebory, and there I was, teeth chattering, in the locker room of the hometown hockey team. Miss Frank, whose fingers were too numb to sew, had given up the needle and resorted to glue. She sat huddled in a corner, trying to paste some renegade sequins onto Dolores’ tail, while I sat staring into my dressing-room mirror, not only shivering, but terrified at what I was about to face: my first non-English-speaking audience. I could see it all before me—hordes of thundering reindeer-chomping Swedes rising up as one and walking out, impatient with and/or repelled by what they could not understand. The vision was enough to drive even the strongest of divas to drink or worse. Unfortunately, since we had to cross a different border every day, I had neither drink nor worse at hand.

  What was I to do? Running away seemed like a pretty good idea, but I was in my bathrobe and loath to ask Miss Frank for anything in her present state. Lately, she had been even stranger than usual. I think 86-ing the hot dog really got to her. What with all those hours of relish sewing and mustard patching, I suspect the poor woman had developed an intense attachment to the wiener and was, consequently, bummed out when the old skinless bit the dust. And after all, her name was Frank, so that might have had something to do with it too.

  I have learned to discard no possibilities in my efforts to discover what’s really going on.

  But let’s face it: the hot dog had to go. In fact, I was still recovering from that indelible moment during my third performance in London when I stepped out to sing “Lullaby of Broadway” and, without warning, my buns fell off. Right on top of the Duke of B. . . . How could I ever chance that sausage suit again? We left its remains in London, crumpled up and unrecognizable in an alley near the theater, to the deep disappointment of some and the great relief of others.