| |
––––––––
GOOD LORD, PLEASE GET me out of here! Alexandra’s Montana-fledged sensibilities were no match for the hullabaloos of Manhattan. It was Chicago on Coca-Cola, and she very much felt the insufferable stimulation of a tasty insect dropped into the center of an ant colony. It was her last day amidst the madness, and she was already coveting a week on an ocean liner to recover before London, which, while hectic, was a better-mannered metropolis and of more leisured stride. She posed in front of a fitting mirror, growing smitten with her reflection. Her current getup, though posher than the evening called for, would have to be the one. The boutique owner was spot-on in stating that the green tabard dress was a head-turner.
It fit Alexandra like a taut embrace.
Black, gold, and ivory embroidery gave it a sequined splash of class. The woman’s talent with makeup brought out the winsome arc to Alexandra’s eyebrows and favored the amber flecks to her playful hazel eyes. Black satin opera gloves and a peacock feather headband provided a final touch of swank. As an assistant struggled to corral Alexandra’s hair into something sophisticated, a church bell outside tolled six times.
She would arrive late, but at least fashionably.
Alexandra marked her day dress and other purchases for delivery to her hotel and headed out the door.
It was a humid evening. Dark clouds stirred above the towering skyline. She scurried down a sidewalk, holding high a leather messenger bag to fend off fleeting raindrops. If she had not spent the day signing documents with lawyers and bankers, she’d be in less of a rush, but windfall fortunes needed time-honored fiduciary managing from time to time. She’d left the consultations with a scant clue if they invested her money in a conventional portfolio or something more revolutionary, such as Chilean penguin hatcheries.
The rain picked up.
Alexandra skirted over to a crowded bus stand, screeched, and then returned to the bustling street corner. Rush hour during foul weather was a perfect storm for not finding a cab. She briefly locked eyes with a man standing nearby. He was a handsome fella close to her age and one tall glass of water at a few inches over six feet. His dark hair was neatly parted to one side, and the adorable cleft to his chin was no bigger than a dimple. He popped on a fedora before turning away.
Alexandra inched her way over with inconspicuous canny until she was safely under his umbrella.
Without turning, he said, “If you wiggle any tighter, you’ll end up in front of me.”
When he faced her, Alexandra fell bedazzled. “I tried the bus stand, but somebody reeks of Limburger cheese. Your umbrella was my last port in the storm.”
“Well, I’m tickled I pass the smell test.” He offered a wry smile and more of the umbrella. “It seems unfair that I have a hat, brolly, and raincoat, and all you possess is the illumination of an Avalonian goddess. We’ll share. By the bye, my name is Archibald Alec Leach.”
“My father has the exact same name... except for the last part. I’m Alexandra Illyria Bathenbrook.”
He shook her hand. “I hope you’re not engaged in anything notorious, such as larceny. I would like to avoid arrest for sheltering a fugitive from police seeking to catch a thief.”
“Not lately.” Alexandra had already forgotten she was desperate for a cab. “Why do you ask?”
“Some find it fashionable to take these off. Allow me.” He used a nail clipper to snip the price tag hanging from her headband. “Now you’ll truly be the toast of New York.”
“You’ve caught me in a pinch.” She broke her gaze to loop her bag over a shoulder. “I need to flag a taxicab to Midtown West.”
“As do I. Not to be indiscreet, but if one is waved down let’s split the fare. No monkey business intended I assure you.”
“What fun in that?” She bit her lip, bemused it had escaped.
The rain was letting off.
Alexandra stepped out into the street to try with more vigor. It worked. A Model–G Checker cab screeched to a stop. She waited for Archibald to open the back door for her, just resting her eyes on him. Once settled in, she told the cabbie her destination, adding, “Please drive slow.”
Archibald folded his brolly, and they were off. “If traffic were any slower, we’d end up back in the Stone Age.”
Alexandra found him amusing. His lighthearted style of speech was charmingly disarming, with artful inflections to his subtle Cockney pronunciations. She could tell he expressed his honest thoughts in every word spoken yet did not take himself too seriously in speaking them.
“I meant to say ‘carefully,’” she cheekily clarified. “We can’t risk anything tragic marring your manicure.”
He waved a playful finger. “My sacrifice for the theater.”
An actor no less her hormones happily pulsed. “Have you starred in anything familiar?”
“I just secured a minor role in a Broadway musical, Golden Dawn. The awful truth is, if it were any smaller, the crowd would need a microscope to see me.” He chuckled and straightened his tie. “It’s a crazy business, but insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops!”
Alexandra nudged Archibald with an elbow. “I think one day your name will hit the lights.”
“And what amazing adventure are you seeking tonight? I have a suspicion I hate him.”
She grinned, having already made him jealous. “A business dinner before going on holiday.”
Traffic was flowing better. Their time together was running short. The inside of the cab had grown steamy, fogging over the windows.
Archibald made his play. “I am boxed up at the theater tonight, but might we accidentally bump into each other tomorrow?”
She hated to disappoint him... but did. “I’m afraid not.”
Archibald deflated in his seat. “I envisioned us traveling the world together: worshipping you night and day, champagne on yachts, seeing the Eiffel Tower and Egyptian pyramids hand-in-hand... The Taj Mahal! We could have been a romance for the ages. You could have been my favorite wife, and yet here I’m left getting the icy mitt.”
He ended his melodramatic homily with a humbled chuckle.
Alexandra fought off an irrepressible urge to grab his face and violently kiss him. “It all sounds lovely, but I sail for England tomorrow. And I should warn you I will not consider marriage until age twenty-five. I don’t see the ladies waiting that long before one gobbles you up.”
Archibald perked up. “Every girl should be married. Tell me your birthdate and I’ll divorce her.”
“Once I settle somewhere, I’d like to write to you. Perhaps we’ll cross paths and get a second chance at having an affair to remember.”
He was resigned to his fate. “If the play goes well, I can be reached at the Hammerstein Theater. If it bombs, you might find me in bum’s alley or as an uncredited geisha in Madame Butterfly.”
The cab pulled to the corner. Alexandra passed the entire fare up to the driver. “Drop my companion someplace to raise his spirits.” She turned to Archibald. “I am truly crushed. Cash or check?”
He raised an eyebrow and leaned toward her. “People will talk, but by all means, cash.”
Alexandra planted a soft, languid kiss on his lips that she held little interest in ending. Once disengaged, she gave him a parting smile and exited the cab. “Sayonara, Archibald.”
As the taxi headed off, Alexandra waved farewell upon spotting his forlorn face pressed against the steamy rear window. He looked like a man being shanghaied. She felt something magical had escaped her grasp. At least if Archibald Alec Leach ever became a star, she could say that she had kissed him.
—‡—
JAMES FORD MET ALEXANDRA outside of Keens Chophouse. The rain subsided, easing any need to make an artless dash to greet him. His letter requested an informal meeting for her to share tales of Papua and hinted at potential inclusion in future projects. For one interested in taking photographs of things never seen, there was no bigger interview than this. These were among the men—in spirited competition with their stodgier rivals of the Royal Geographical Society—on the forefront of supporting ventures into realms unknown. Ford was a distinguished sort. He greeted her cordially and escorted her inside. The landmark restaurant posed a no-nonsense decor with its brick-faced walls and white draped tables.
Other than its aged mutton chops, Keens was famed for its exclusive pipe club. The main hall was a boisterous mishmash of gaudy actors and city bigwigs jammed into one dark and crowded arena. Alexandra tried to stoke any failing embers of confidence, desperate not to fumble this opportunity.
An attendant walked them to their private room.
Ford pointed out a glass-encased playbill said to have been held by Abraham Lincoln at the time of his assassination. He testified, “The theater is not named after my family, mind you.”
Alexandra struggled to unearth something witty to say but was rendered tongue-tied. She finally blurted, “I was once detained for an assassination attempt on Calvin Coolidge.”
Ford halted his steps, awaiting an explanation.
“It was all a terrible misunderstanding,” she clarified. “Anyhoo, how ‘bout those Yankees?”
Alexandra sighed relief once settled in the private Lillie Langtry room. She was unaware if this setting had been reserved by intent or coincidence, but the answer would resolve if it were to be a case of the club courting her or the other way around.
Two smartly attired gentlemen stood upon her arrival. They glanced at each other, stunned, possibly expecting someone of heartier physique and not dressed to the nines. Ford first introduced the older man, Frank Chapman, as a renowned ornithologist eager to discuss bird species of the Fly River estuary.
The other man was George Dyott. He was the youngest of the trio at only twice her age, and the only one that Alexandra was familiar with, having read somewhere about his daring exploits in aviation. Dyott was short, tight-lipped, and looked sallow in the face. He returned little more than a grunt to her polite salutation.
“Gentlemen, this looks perfectly marvelous,” she acknowledged as the waiter settled her into a heavy wooden chair.
Dyott whispered to Chapman, “It certainly abates that idea.”
Things progressed nicely through the salad course. While the Explorers Club was rife with pioneers who had traversed vast uncharted regions between the frozen poles, none had ventured into hidden Papua. Alexandra gave a calm and measured account of her quest. Chapman listened with a fresh-faced glee while examining the photographs of exotic birds she presented.
The bone dagger of the Marind-Anim warrior engrossed Ford. His inquisitions centered on anthropological aspects of study.
George Dyott exhibited no interest whatsoever.
They drifted into less formal discussions once their entrées arrived. The hot topic was the upcoming Guggenheim Tour that would see Charles Lindbergh visit every state in the Spirit of St. Louis. Ford found interest in Alexandra’s plans to pursue some newfangled field she termed “adventure photography.”
Dyott livened up with a few snickers and sighs of exasperation.
“I am under contract with the University of Chicago to rendezvous with Philip Langstaffe Ord-Guy to photograph his excavation of Megiddo,” Alexandra confided, needing a sip of water. “Anyone with four names must surely be important. They expect me by October.”
Ford asked, “Where will you set up your office?”
“I will tour from Lisbon to Greece and choose a location along the coast. I’ll then entertain travel to any corner of the globe, except the North Pole, as frozen lands aggravate a nipple condition and I’ve been on poor terms with Santa Claus since Christmas 1912.” Alexandra let out a deep breath and smiled, sensing by their palpable astonishment how impressed they were with her itinerary.
Dyott finally spoke. “It sounds ridiculous to the fullest degree.”
Alexandra glared at him but then chose to let it go.
Ford cleared his throat. “You must forgive George. He has just returned from Brazil, whereby he proved all the naysayers wrong about Roosevelt’s discovery of the River of Doubt. He filmed the entire undertaking. Alas, for the Royal Geographical Society.”
“Bully for you.” Alexandra offered a fig leaf. “It is wise to dabble on both sides of the Atlantic.”
“My father is English, and my mother is an American,” he said.
“As are mine.” Alexandra took a gulp of water. Dyott was weighing on her. At least he possessed the foresight that film would soon surpass the photograph in popularity. Her neck and back muscles were in knots. She sought diversion.
“Quite the baked potato, Mister Chapman.”
He held up the colossus. “Bulbous enough to choke Beelzebub.”
“Beelzebub... Beelzebub...” When overwhelmed, Alexandra’s mind spasmodically functioned like a worn phonograph needle on a dusty record. “Beelzebub... Beelzebub...”
As nobody seemed eager to toss a glass of water in her face, she bit down hard. It worked.
Dyott pressed his handkerchief against her bleeding lip. “Cannibalism may serve well in Papua, but not among the civilized.”
She relieved him of his duties and held it in place until the bleeding stopped, feeling stupid.
They all ate in silence for several minutes.
“How are your mutton chops?” inquired Ford.
“Far superior to those served at the Warm Springs Asylum, I assure you.” Alexandra sat mortified it had slipped out. She shrugged it off. “I so regret I will not be home when Mister Limburger arrives in September. The entire state was abuzz with the news when I left.”
Ford said, “He’ll be a club member soon. Might we speak of potential collaborations?”
She took a sip of water to regain solid footing. “By all means.”
“We’re promoting George’s potential return to Amazonia to seek out the fate of Colonel Percy Fawcett.”
The famed explorer had entered the Amazon in April 1925 seeking the fabled Lost City of Zed and was now deemed vanished to the jungle. A rash of news stories had fomented a frenzy of gossip and efforts to find him to the degree it had a diagnosis: “Fawcett fever.”
“I briefly visited the Amazon as a girl,” said Alexandra.
George Dyott grunted in disbelief. “Amazonia is a veritable hell on earth. Hearty men in my company had daily cause to fend off death. Some failed. Surely you speak with a reckless imagination.”
“I said briefly,” countered Alexandra.
Ford continued, “The newspaper syndicates are willing to fund George, however—”
“To cut to the chase,” Dyott intruded, “they desire a photographer besides the two cameramen in my employ, as traditional photos are needed to post with their daily drivel.”
“Two cameramen in case one gets eaten,” Alexandra remarked, nodding. “That’s good planning.”
“The moneymen want George to pick you for the assignment,” Ford finally finished.
It stunned Alexandra. She had hoped to have a few photographs published in their newsletter, The Explorers Journal.
She dared to ask, “What is your opinion, Commander Dyott?”
He sighed. “The newspapers wish to pitch a damsel in constant peril to hook readers. A silly prop. It will line their pockets, and if you die some horrible death, they’ll figure it all the better. Just look at the circulation stirred by that Wanderwell circus. It’s also likely why the university in Chicago chose you.”
He was making her feel quite small. She spouted, “I’m fitter than you might think. I can do six push-ups... and not those of the girlie, knees on the floor, variety!”
“I highly doubt that.”
Alexandra tossed her napkin onto her plate. “If I were a man, Mister Dyott, I’d challenge you to a duel, but as I am not and unarmed...” She fumbled about trying to remove her long opera gloves, which clung to her slender forearms as if made of flypaper. She finally wrestled them free and threw them to the floor. “As I am not, and unarmed, I will...”
The men watched impassively once Alexandra’s thighs became wedged against the table in her efforts to wiggle around an arm of the heavy wood dining chair. She leaned forward, struggling to no avail, until the waiter stepped over to pull it back.
The Explorers Club discovered trifling evidence of cleavage.
Alexandra finally popped free and picked an open spot near the small room’s arched entryway. After straining in her tight dress to stretch herself down across the floor, she started pounding them out. One... two... three...
The men observed, half-risen in their seats, speechless.
Midway through, a cavalcade of applause filled the main hall.
Alexandra struggled to make it to four before surrendering to her trembling arms. She fought the constriction of her silk body slip while attempting to rise, but ended her efforts, fearing she’d rip her dress—left to wiggle upon the floor like a hatching butterfly unable to free itself from its cocoon. She paused upon spotting a pair of shoes next to her face and lifted her eyes to a fellow with blonde hair gazing down. He stood under the archway, espousing a sense of gravitas, and was backed by a posse eliciting hopeful expressions for an encore to her exhibition involving jumping jacks or squat thrusts.
The man said, “Hello, gentlemen. Quite the eventful evening.”
“I say, the man of the hour! I cannot fathom how to explain it all,” said Ford. “Our dexterous fourth upon the floor is Miss Alexandra Bathenbrook of Helena, Montana.”
Alexandra took the man’s hands, and he lifted her to her feet. He removed his fedora. “Lindbergh, Charles.”
He looked younger and more serious than in the newsreels. She had noticed nothing Herculean about his feet, which seemed of average size. She muddled out, “September, you land in Butte.”
“I believe that is part of the schedule.” Lindbergh retrieved her gloves. “Shall you be there to greet me?”
Alexandra shook her head and leaned forward to whisper, “How did you avoid peeing on such a long journey?”
“One simple rule. Bladder empty, petrol full.”
The moment after Lindbergh bid farewell, Alexandra set off into a whirlwind of motion. She tossed the dagger into her bag and gathered her photographs for handoff to Chapman, needing to pop a partially escaped boob into hiding while straightening her dress.
Dyott said, “One usually attends a cabaret for such jocularity.”
“Let’s end on a pleasant note over peach cobbler,” said Ford.
Alexandra grunted with locked fists and stomped a foot on the floor to halt her panic. “I’m more able with a compass and rifle in hand! I thank you all for dinner.”
Once escaped into the warm air and bright lights of the big city, Alexandra’s anxiety subsided, leaving only humiliation and annoyance over which to fuddle. In the year of her birth, a socialite named Lillie Langtry had sued Keens Chophouse after being denied entrance into the exclusively male bastion. The court had ruled in her favor. This victory for equal rights opened doors to public establishments for women near and far.
Alexandra did not want to raze the world but desired a stronger voice in it. Any chance those of the Explorers Club viewing a female colleague as a compeer had been dented—taking her seriously, obliterated—and it was all her own doing. She asked a passing man for a smoke. He handed one over and fired it up. She felt a desperate need for a quick whiskey or slow brandy. Prohibition would soon be an ocean away, but alas, that day was tomorrow.
“I have been dispatched to apologize for my boorish behavior.”
“I came to dine at your invitation and should not have been a subject of mockery.”
“Agreed,” Dyott stated, walking closer. “My protest, though based in pragmatism, took on a tone of the personal. Men in dire jungle conditions must stay disciplined or they will revert to savagery. I could not safeguard the virtue or safety of a young female under such circumstances. Chapman suggested I disguise you as a man, but you are the essence of femininity. Now, Miss Bathenbrook, what would you have me do?”
Alexandra started pacing, puffing on the cigarette. Her anger diminished enough for her to foist some semblance of cunning to punch a hole in his rhetorical enquiry. “If you were to face this conundrum again, I’d advise that you agree to your financiers’ conditions but arrange for the female candidate to arrive just before departure into the jungle, with no fanfare, to avoid the circus. I assume you’ll be in the thick of it for many months, so send her back before the point of no return or if things get too grim. The newspaper syndicates will get their photographs and you won’t have to worry over her once the men tire of wanking the bishop or the food runs out.”
Dyott seemed impressed. “I plan to depart this December and will consider your ideas.”
He turned to leave, but she halted his steps in asking, “You flew in the war, sir. If you had crashed your plane and left terribly disfigured, how would you want others to treat you?”
“Like the whole man I once was.” Dyott touched the brim of his hat and headed back inside.