A Wreath for Rivera

“I mean suppose you kind of lost interest. Where,” asked Mr. Bellairs passionately, “would I be then?”

“I’ve told you perfectly plainly…”

“Yes, but…”

“Do you call me a liar, you bloody fellow?” shouted Lord Pastern, two brilliant patches of scarlet flaming over his cheekbones. He clapped the dismembered parts of the parasol on the piano and turned on his conductor, who began to stammer.

“Now, listen, Lord Pastern… I–I’m nervy to-night. I’m all upset. Don’t get me flustered, now.”

Lord Pastern bared his teeth at him. “You’re a fool,” he said. “I’ve been watchin’ you.” He appeared to cogitate and come to a decision. “Ever read a magazine called Harmony?” he demanded.

Breezy shied violently. “Why, yes. Why — I don’t know what your idea is, Lord Pastern, bringing that up.”

“I’ve half a mind,” Lord Pastern said darkly, “to write to that paper. I know a chap on the staff.” He brooded for a moment, whistling between his teeth, and then barked abruptly: “If you don’t speak to Skelton to-night, I’ll talk to him myself.”

“O.K., O.K. I’ll have a wee chat with Syd. O.K.”

Lord Pastern looked fixedly at him. “You’d better pull y’self together,” he said. He took up his drumsticks and without more ado beat out a deafening crescendo, crashed his cymbals, and snatching up his revolver, pointed it at Bellairs and fired. The report echoed madly in the empty ballroom. The piano, the cymbals and the double-bass zoomed in protest and Bellairs, white to the lips, danced sideways.

“For crisake!” he said violently and broke into a profuse sweat.

Lord Pastern laughed delightedly and laid his revolver on the piano. “Good, isn’t it?” he said. “Let’s just run through the programme. First, there’s ‘A New Way with Old Tunes,’ ‘Any Ice To-day?’ ‘I Got Everythin’,’ ‘The Peanut Vendor’ and ‘The Umbrella Man.’ That’s a damn’ good idea of mine about the umbrellas.”

Bellairs eyed the collection on the piano and nodded.

“The black and white parasol’s m’wife’s. She doesn’t know I’ve taken it. You might put it together and hide it under the others, will you? We’ll smuggle ’em out when she’s not lookin’.”

Bellairs fumbled with the umbrellas and Lord Pastern continued: “Then Skelton does his thing. I find it a bit dull, that number. And then the Sandra woman does her songs. And then,” he said with an affectation of carelessness, “then you say somethin’ to introduce me, don’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Yes. Somethin’ to the effect that I happened to show you a thing I’d written, you know, and you were taken with it and that I’ve decided that my métier lies in this direction and all that. What?”

“Quite.”

“I come out and we play it once through and then we swing it, and then there’s the shootin’, and then, by God, I go into my solo. Yes.”

Lord Pastern took up his drumsticks, held them poised for a moment and appeared to go into a brief trance. “I’m still not so sure the other routine wasn’t the best after all,” he said.

“Listen! Listen!” Breezy began in a panic.

Lord Pastern said absently: “Now, you keep your hair on. I’m thinkin’.” He appeared to think for some moments and then — ejaculating “Sombrero!” — darted out of the room.

Breezy Bellairs wiped his face with his handkerchief, sank on to the piano stool and held his head in his hands.

After a considerable interval the ballroom doors were opened and Rivera came in. Bellairs eyed him. “How’s tricks, Carlos?” he asked dolefully.

“Not good.” Rivera, stroking his moustache with his forefinger, walked stiffly to the piano. “I have quarrelled with Félicité.”

“You asked for it, didn’t you? Your little line with Miss Wayne…”

“It is well to show women that they are not irreplaceable. They become anxious and, in a little while, they are docile.”

“Has it worked out that way?”

“Not yet, perhaps. I am angry with her.” He made a florid and violent gesture. “With them all! I have been treated like a dog, I, Carlos de…”

“Listen,” said Breezy, “I can’t face a temperament from you, old boy. I’m nearly crazy with worry myself. I just can’t face it. God, I wish I’d never taken the old fool on! God, I’m in a mess! Give me a cigarette, Carlos.”

“I am sorry. I have none.”

“I asked you to get me cigarettes,” said Breezy and his voice rose shrilly.

“It was not convenient. You smoke too much.”

“Go to hell.”

“Everywhere,” Rivera shouted, “I am treated with impertinence. Everywhere I am insulted.” He advanced upon Bellairs, his head thrust forward. “I am sick of it all,” he said. “I have humbled myself too much. I am a man of quick decisions. No longer shall I cheapen myself by playing in a common dance band…”

“Here, here, here!”

“I give you, now, my notice.”

“You’re under contract. Listen, old man…”

“I spit on your contract. No longer shall I be your little errand boy. ‘Get me some cigarettes.’ Bah!”

“Carlos!”

“I shall return to my own country.”

“Listen, old boy… I… I’ll raise your screw…” His voice faltered.

Rivera looked at him and smiled. “Indeed? By how much? It would be by perhaps five pounds?”

“Have a heart, Carlos.”