III
Teddy is not wearing any underwear.
Ginny jerks backward in shock and falls clumsily and half-fainting in Tim's unprepared arms, while Poppy unhelpfully vomits atop Ginny's disordered coif.
"Shame about that wig!" someone snidely remarks.
Aggie numbly sits up, wincing at the soreness she feels in her backside, with Teddy's loincloth still clutched tightly in her hand. She feels as if she's floating lazily in slow motion as she gapes hypnotically up at his bare buttocks and can sniff what is, for lack of a better term, that powerful 'baby cologne' scent Mary had alluded to earlier. She shakes her head into lucidity when she suddenly feels, or thinks she feels, aroused, and then realizes the unseemliness of it when for a moment Teddy's pained and embarrassed gaze meets hers. He plows into the vulgarly jeering crowd, flings open the front door and barrels down the slick steps, nearly losing his footing as he vanishes into the still thickly rainy London evening. Aggie carefully lifts herself up off the floor and plops into a chair next to the orchestra, which has not, except for the soprano (who naturally couldn't help but briefly stop and stare before resuming "Toot Toot Tootsie"), missed a beat during the commotion. Mary speaks with a dazed Ginny, who asks of the young man's current whereabouts, and when notified insists on being led to a telephone before she consents to get herself cleaned up. Mary politely concedes and with Tim's assistance leads her away, meekly followed by an ashen Poppy. A disgusted Cadwyn soon appears with bucket and brush to clean the floor of residual vomit while the laughing dancers swirl heedlessly around her, oftentimes coming very near to crushing her hands as she works.
Aggie sits despondently with head tucked in hands and stares at the loincloth she let drop to the floor as Mary soon approaches, and in her constricting dress struggles yet incredibly succeeds in deftly scooping it up and then subjecting it to casual scrutiny.
"Mary, I-" Aggie begins.
"Wait just a bit."
"Cripes, what the hell are you doing that for?"
"Curiosity, of course," Mary answers. "Hmm, it's quite clean. I wonder if he may have had it double-pleated, else my eyesight is going. Sorry, Ag, I seem to have been wrong about this." She neatly folds the loincloth and hands it to Aggie, who avoids looking at it further as she slips it beneath her chair.
"You're sorry?! No, I'm-Mary, I swear, I swear I would not have done that at all if I knew-"
"No, stop, stop! I put the underwear idea in your mind so I'm to blame just as much as you."
"Oh, I really do wish I could apologize to him right now. I feel just awful. Wait! Have you rung for the police already to help look for him?"
"That's rather an odd thing. Ginny insisted on ringing someone she knows to search 'round Chiswick but leaving the police strictly out of it."
"Hmm, that is a bit odd. Are she and Teddy pals or something?"
"I'm not really sure, Ag, but they must mean something to each other if she's willing to personally see to his welfare."
"Well, as much as I detest Ginny I'm glad of that, because I'd really rather Teddy was not pinched by the cops tonight and put in the hoosegow."
"I don't want that either, my friend."
"Just out of curiosity did you say anything to him when he arrived earlier tonight? About his...what he wore?"
"Not to me, no. We barely exchanged pleasantries before he moved over here. People gawped at him, of course, and said some unkind things, but thankfully they just ignored him. Also he's tall so perhaps they were a bit intimidated by him to try and...well..."
"Pull it off of him," Aggie finishes. "And...he was waiting for me. He wore that because of me! And I..."
Mary puts her hand under Aggie's chin and gently lifts up her head. "Look at me, Ag. Like I said before, I do believe he fancies you. I'll wager he still does, even after tonight. And how could he not, with a sweet mug like yours? But if I see him again I'll be sure to let him know how you feel, and perhaps we can arrange a meeting sometime. And as the hostess it's only proper that I apologize to him, too."
"That would be swell, Mary, thank you very much." Then after a short pause Aggie says, "Um, this is really quite off the topic and probably not the best time to ask, but could you maybe please tell me about 'Button your brown-ho-'"
Suddenly the grandfather clock chimes seven o'clock, startling Mary. "Oh, shit! I forgot all about them!"
"Who?"
"You'll see in a minute. I'm very sorry, Ag, but I must go right now. Will you be all right?"
"Yes, yes. Go on."
Mary smiles and pats her on the shoulder. "Talk to you later, then." She politely but swiftly elbows her way between her guests, and Aggie resumes her neo-Thinker pose. Soon she hears a general tittering and then applause as people make way for the four white-robed young men solemnly and carefully hefting the table from the sitting room to a spot near Aggie and the orchestra. As an especially interested knot of people look on as the men pull from their robe pockets small papier-mache, Mycenaean-inspired funerary masks covered in gold leaf and fit them snugly over their faces with yellow twine, after which they each stand one to a table corner, and for a few moments appear to make adjustments beneath their robes and the table. They slowly, stoically loosen their belts while remaining quite stationary, then on a shared cue let their robes slither to the floor, revealing their lean, naked bodies. Though some women and men fall into a faint, everyone (excluding Aggie who, having had her fill of naked men for one night, barely looks askance at them) simply gasps, but then very quickly and heartily applaud this tableau. Mary moves in between the four men and her guests and demands the latter's attention.
"Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen!" she begins. "I shall try to be brief here with my remarks, but as many of you have known for some time I have agreed to install this piece of Living Art for my little party tonight and yes, all of my future ones upon the request of and for the especial benefit of those of you with...particular tastes." She shoots a glance at the increasingly antsy knot. "You may already know that this piece was named, though supposedly not conceived by the woefully late and lamented artiste Anita Berber, who in fact herself dubbed this 'Die Titanen von den Weissen Nepenthe', or rather 'The Titans of the White Nepenthe'. Rather poetic, don't you think? Don't have too great a care about the stamina of these, mm, handsome and brave lads, they will be allowed rest and movement for fifteen minutes but shall remain here until they resume their postures. Ah, and here comes Cadwyn now with the four chamber pots they will need to use for...well, I'm sure you can imagine. Oh, and I do hope you won't mind the awful stench." She gestures to a spot behind the aghast crowd where all turn back to look, as Mary quickly winks at a mildly curious Aggie; Cadwyn is nowhere to be seen. "Ha ha ha! Oh my goodness! No, no, my friends, as you know I do have working flush toilets so you needn't fret about that. Good lord! Now, as you all will no doubt wonder, no, the penises you will be seeing through the glass are sadly fraudulent, but for obvious safety reasons, and were originally prototypes I borrowed with my enduring gratitude to former army surgeon and a dear friend of mine, Dr. Trevor Trewe, currently at London Hospital, who is fashioning them for our... blessed Tommies who can't...who won't...well now, I really rather feel I needn't explain further to you all, do I? These lads' own, well, 'equipment,' if I may euphemize for a bit, are carefully concealed under the penises they now wear. Or are they called 'penae'? Oh, do stop your bloody gasping, Poppy! Yes, yes, I know, I'm saying one of your least favorite fucking words in the whole god-damned world! And for Christ's sake, why are you here and not assisting your - oh, well, she's off. Ahem! Ladies and gentlemen, I beg you to please pardon both the rather sensitive Miss St.Cecile and my vulgar language. At any rate, here it is - 'The Titans of the White Nepenthe' - created by Anonymous but dubbed as such by Fraulein Anita Berber. I thank you all. What's that, Lord Dunmore? Oh yes, I am finished, so you and the others may use it now, there's really no need to beg so; do let go of my sleeve, please. Thank you. Right, enjoy your oblivion, my friends, though in moderation if possible. No overdosing, please! The rest of you may carry on as you were. Music, Maestro! Andiamo!"
Those in the knot quickly produce small vials of white powder (some having even brought it in antique snuff boxes) and rolled up pound notes; they then frantically scurry and kneel or stand around the table and get to work, actually prompting Aggie to conclude that it's become like "a doggoned busy beehive" over there.
Mary continues to mingle with her guests as during the hour's progression Aggie wends her way between chair and table for a plateful of food and two more bottles of beer. She is barely interested in the goings-on that happen around her, not including the one where a nearly perfect living representation of Edgar Allan Poe saunters around the room waving to and beaming broadly at everyone he sees, including Aggie, though she simply shudders.
A tizzy of hoydens skip saucily up to the soprano as she rests for the moment and tartly ask who the hell she's supposed to be in her costume. With a gentle smile and a curtsey the young lady graciously answers that she is Emilie du Chatelet, mathematician, dictionary editor and lover of Voltaire, among many other wonderful things. They then cruelly opine that she is, oh, my goodness, really, really too big of a girl to be anyone's lover, let alone Voltaire ("Whoever that poor chap is!" one of them snorts.) Emilie has already had quite enough; she deftly hikes up her skirts and darts into the hallway to the bedroom suites even while still being pursued by inane barbs and honeyed cackling. Aggie watches Emilie disappear even as the hoydens still insult her, but as last she flies up and rushes fiercely at them, scowling hideously. They yelp and flutter away while often glancing fearfully back at her, but at last she only sits back down and resumes her Thinker again between bouts of drinking, noshing and just barely restrained belching.
At about half-past seven a shrieking Violet Gibson bursts out of the sitting room with Benito Mussolini hot on her heels. He is brandishing a prop pistol and yells "bang-a bang-a!" with every invisible shot he fires at the ceiling. The crowd laughs and fervently cheer him on as he zooms amongst them. He chases Violet around the room until they reach the hallway entrance then suddenly stop, grab hands, turn and bow to receive their audience's wild applause.
Oscar Wilde and Alfred, Lord Douglas pet heavily in a corner under an especially fleshy Bouguereau; Mary sees them, as well as a few other couples doing the same, and with a little sigh loudly announces to all that she will now "once again" open up her bedrooms for the "rampant sexual abandon" soon to be unleashed - but only for the hour's remainder and no longer. More than half hurry out for nearly twenty minutes, during which a disgusted Emilie hastily re-emerges. By the time people return flushed and disheveled but ready for more dancing an intoxicated Aggie feels a familiar and quite uncomfortable sensation in her gut. She very slowly rises to her feet and sights with her filmy vision a nearly unnoticeable blue door across the room where she remembers a toilet sits. She feels the acute pressure build with each slight step she makes in that direction.
"'Scuse me, I need t' get to th' loo, please!" she groggily begs of the dancers, who merely glare at Aggie and mock her with heartless laughter and epithets even as they very nearly knock her down.
"C'mon! Just, just...please!"
Too late.
TO BE CONTINUED
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