A View From a Broad (8 page)

“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 •

N
ana 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 refused 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.