L’envoi

Saturday, September 6

After our two-hour layover in New York. Still flying.

They set the in-flight movie up, and it was Drake, of all things. Harlan looked so smug, I wondered if he’d arranged it. He whipped his little white guitar and dubbing deck out of the garment bag he’d carried on and patched it all together so we each had an earphone to the movie and an earphone to his toys. Imagine the last third of an intercontinental flight spent listening to Harlan Parr play rock continuo to the whole soundtrack of Drake. Easily, as if that witty jazzy rollick of music was the machine language of his mind, and everything else, even his English speech, was a poor translation.

When the movie was over he packed it all away and silently showed me his watch. The flight was on time, an hour out of Heathrow.

My failure of nerve began and ended: I couldn’t deplane in Levis. With my little portmanteau from under the seat, I went and found an even smaller metal womb to hide in. A restroom, bright Formica-colored, well lighted and coffin-small. I washed my gray and smudgy face, drew on raccoon eyes. Wondered about Theda Bara. Out of the Levis and T-shirt and jacket, into the streamlined little white silk ’40s dress and much-despised white heels.

I stuff my real clothes in the bag: amazed at how it feels to give in, sell out, be intimidated this way. I consider keeping out the Levi jacket. No, if I freeze my ass in Heathrow airport, I can at least hate Harlan for it.

Back at the seat now. Watch him never glance up.

The airy whine, which has grown natural, lowers pitch. “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please return to your seats. Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened—”

Sense of lagging, dragging, holding back, deceleration, like a dropping elevator, only diagonal, interminable. Look out the window. Nothing. White. Cut off from all the living in a featureless world of cloud, we could meet another speeding plane in this pale secrecy, and never see it. Death would come faster than fear.

No warning. The fog shredded. We were scudding out beneath it. Night; and the ground a thousand feet below, jeweled and ablaze with lights, as far on every side as I could see. Hung here and there among the strings and ropes of diamond light were huge flaming-green brilliant oblongs, like unimaginable emeralds.

“What are those? Harlan? The green things?”

“Football matches, love,” he said brightly, craning to see. “Bread and circuses, and all that. Those would be the circuses. Pretty from the air, what?”

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. We are beginning our approach to Heathrow International Airport; seat belts must remain fastened until etc. etc. Thank you for flying Pan Am to the British Isles, and enjoy your stay in London. Before leaving the aircraft, please check your immediate area for items you may have brought onboard with you.”

Harlan went again into the garment bag where all his music electronics were stowed, and pulled out three more orderly packages. First: the Marines ROTC dress jacket, folded neatly. He put it on. Then the Knights of Columbus cocked hat, boxed to save the plumes. He put that on too. Some deft hand, I noted, had hot-glued Belshangles patches over the KoC emblems. Okay.

The third bundle he plumped into my lap.

“Heathrow is notoriously frigid.”

Inside the Gump’s logo cloth bag was the ermine bomber jacket with the flippety-floppety tails.

———

“Mr. Parr, sir—”

“Have we problems disembarking?”

“I understand there’s a small crowd—”

“Is my partner—ah. Yes. Are the—? Oh God, the police as well? But they are on the other side of customs? Of course. So ought we to go first and let the rest get on with their lives?”

“‘We understand there’s a small crowd—’” he mimics as we take the gray baize tunnel hand in hand. “Should hope there’s a bloody great riot with that much advance notice, or it’s time we cashed our winnings and retired to the South of France—”

Customs sized up Harlan and shunted us to a private room. He seemed to expect it as his due. When their drug-sniffing dog turned up her nose at us, they started on our clothes.

Out of the bag came Harlan’s black leopard coat.

He flipped it open. Inside the left front, exquisitely made into the lining, was a clear vinyl window. Inside that, a document certified that the leopards went to glory in India, 1933–34, well before the establishment of protected status. Their pelts were exported to France, and in 1939 became a full-length coat, made to order for a Frau Anna Davidoff of Berlin, who, due to circumstances beyond her control, never took delivery. The coat hung, black but beautiful as the tents of Kedar, in Parisian cold storage through war, invasion, liberation, and efforts to locate living heirs of Frau Davidoff. Almost forty years later it was auctioned and recut to the specs of a Mr. H. Parr of London.

Wow. To what shall I be compared, O Lord? I think about Saint Ann walking in her garden. I could collect ill-omened treasures for a lifetime and never equal that.

The customs guys, crestfallen, nearly frog-march us out, past rows of the mundane explaining away their liquor and their cigarettes. Then we hit the main concourse, and I can see Tom’s face—

His head is as the most fine gold—

—His hands are as gold rings set with beryl—

His legs are as pillars of marble—

His mouth is most sweet:

yeah, man, altogether lovely—

The crowd breaks over us like a flashbulb sea.