Sunny inclined her head towards me and confided, “Hokum, isn’t it? But Mama has had some powerful experiences in her time, and who’s to argue? That is to say, I did argue at the time, because who wants to come all the way here and have to skedaddle away after a few weeks as soon as the weather gets hot? But Mama chose her time, and we will at least have a month to sight-see before we go to see her Teacher.”
There was no mistaking the capital letter on the noun. Knowing I was going to regret it, I asked her which teacher that was.
“His name’s Kumaraswami Shivananda, have you heard of him? No, most people haven’t. Mama met him when he was on a lecture tour through the States, and came to Chicago. He’s absatively keen for an old man—has to be at least forty, but has those dark eyes that seem to look right through you. Anyhoo, he channels the spirits, especially one he calls The Vizier, who was something big in ancient Egypt. The Vizier sent Kumaraswami on his world tour, to gather pupils and then teach them all about enlightenment through the body. Ever so much nicer than all those skinny, unhealthy-looking characters who tell you to renounce all sensation, don’t you think?”
“Is, er, Kumaraswami Indian, then, or Egyptian?”
“Oh, no, he’s from Pittsburgh. But The Vizier spoke to him one day in a seance and told him to change his name and go to India, so that was that.”
Keeping my face straight was a struggle, but I agreed solemnly that enlightenment through the body did sound far nicer than some of the ascetic disciplines I had heard of. Sunny smiled, not knowing what I was talking about, but happy to have found what she took to be a kindred spirit.
“Have you ever been to a seance?” she asked.
“I, er, I know people who have.”
“They’re bunk, really, but tons of laughs. Everyone sitting so serious and then the channeller begins making all these squeals and groans, and you have to sit there fighting not to giggle.”
At least I shouldn’t have to warn the child not to be too gullible, I reflected, somewhat relieved.
“Come meet Mama and Tom?” she urged, jumping to her feet as if there could be no doubt that I would instantly agree.
“I should be getting back to w—” I started, but she pleaded.
“Oh, just for a jiffy! They’re right below us waiting for tea, it would be ever so nice to show Mama I’ve made a friend so that when I want to go off and flirt with those tasty young officers she won’t worry.”
Who was I to shackle a free spirit such as Sunny Goodheart? And if she had originally intended to join the “fishing fleet” of eligible young women travelling to India to hook a husband, she would need all the help she could get to make up for three months of lost time. “I’d love to meet your mother,” I said, causing her to give a little jump of pleasure before she seized my hand and led me down the deck towards the stairs. It was impossible not to smile at the creature; despite her dress and her cultivated worldly airs, she struck one as little more than a child.
Mama, on the other hand, was formidable, and I vowed not to venture into the heavy waters of theology with a woman possessed of that determined jaw. I offered her my hand, did not bother to correct Sunny’s introduction of me as “Mrs Russell,” and then shook the hand of the tall young man who had been seated at Mrs Goodheart’s side. He had placed a bookmark in his collection of the works of Marx (an English translation) before unfolding himself from the deck chair, a process rather like that of a standing camel or an unfolding crane. He was at least three inches over six feet, taller even than Holmes, and thin to the point of emaciation. One might think he’d been ill, except his colour was good and his movements, although languid, showed no discomfort.
“And this is Tom,” Sunny told me. “My brother. He finished at Harvard last June and has been taking the Tour in Europe. He decided to include India, since Mama wanted to go. Tommy’s a Communist,” she appended proudly.
Personally, I couldn’t see much to be proud of, either in the political stance or in the young man himself. Tom Goodheart’s features were pleasing enough, and he appeared to have some wiry muscle under his European- tailored jacket, but even seated, he looked down his nose at one—not openly, but behind an expression so bland, one immediately suspected it of being a mask. I decided that he was a member of the supercilious generation—no doubt he fancied himself an artist or a philosopher, or both—and the attitude as much as the clothes the three wore told me that Communist or no, money did not go wanting in the Goodheart family. The swami from Pittsburgh, I decided, was on to a good thing.
“How do you do?” I said, and before Sunny could drag up a chair (and it would be she who dragged it, not her brother) I glanced at my wrist and began to apologise. “I’m terribly sorry, I just remembered that I promised my husband I’d meet him a few minutes ago, it went right out of my head. Lovely to meet you, I look forward to seeing more of you all on the voyage.”
And made my escape.
But in the end, there would be no escaping Mrs Goodheart. The following afternoon, the rapidly filling pouches of my brain threatening to burst and spill out all the verb forms and adjectives I had ruthlessly crammed inside, Holmes and I took a turn around the deck. It was, I found, very pleasant indeed, with a degree more warmth in the winter sun. As we strolled arm in arm, dodging nannies pushing perambulators and the marching khaki-shorts brigade, I was doubly grateful that our haste had forced us to bypass the inevitably heaving Bay of Biscay and pick up the boat in the relative calm of the Mediterranean. Had we boarded in Southampton, I should only now be recovering from sea-sickness.
Then I heard a voice from a shaded corner, and the biliousness threatened to return.
“Mrs Russell, how good to see you. Won’t you introduce us to your husband?”
Two-thirds of the Goodheart family, mother and son. I opened my mouth to correct the American matriarch, but despite her opening volley, she did not wait for introductions, merely thrust her many-ringed hand at Holmes and said, “Mr Russell, glad you could join us. We were just talking about you, wondering if you were going to hide out in your cabin the entire trip.”
“Actually,” I began, but this time Holmes broke in, taking a brisk step forward to grasp the woman’s hand.
“Mrs Goodheart, is it?” he said. “And this must be your son. Afternoon, young man, I hope you’re enjoying your voyage?”
Amused, I let my correction die unborn: It seemed that Holmes was to be “Mr Russell” for a time.
Mrs Goodheart ordered her son to find another chair; to my surprise, Holmes did not object. Instead, he settled into the deck chair at her side as if a leisurely contemplation of the sea in the company of a bossy American spiritualist was just the thing for a Sunday afternoon. Bemused, I subsided into the vacant chair on Mrs Goodheart’s other side and waited to see what Holmes was up to.
“Where is Sunny?” I asked the mother.
“She said she was going to try her hand at shovel-board. I would have stayed to watch, but I found the sun rather warm for my delicate complexion. She’ll be here in a while, I’m sure. And you, Mrs Russell—have you found some shipboard entertainment?”
Stuffing my head with Hindi verb forms and hurling tea-spoons back and forth at my husband, I thought, but said merely, “I’m not much of one for games, Mrs Goodheart.”
“Sunny will change that,” she said, with a somewhat alarming confidence. “Thomas my dear, tell the Russells what you’ve been doing in Europe.”
The languid young Marxist settled into the chair he had caused to be brought, and launched into a recitation of the Paris literary salons visited, the avant-garde artists met, the underworldly haunts flirted with, the firebrand politicians-in-exile drunk with. He had even met Lenin—well, not met, precisely, but they had been at a function in Moscow at the same time early the previous autumn, and had friends in common.
“And tell them about your maharaja,” Mrs Goodheart said, oozing with complacency.
“Oh, you mean Jimmy?” he said, magnificently casual. “Fellow I met last year—at the same party Lenin stopped by, in fact—turns out he’s a maharaja. Never know it by looking at the man, he’s as common as you or me” (Sherlock Holmes did not even blink at being dubbed “common”) “and interested in everything. We got to talking about the States, he wanted to know if I’d ever seen a herd of buffalo—he called them bison, turns out they already have a kind of buffalo there in India, very different animal, could get confusing. I had to tell him I’d personally only seen them in a zoo, but that I had a pal who lived out in the Plains and he had one he kept as a pet. Well, Jimmy— his name’s Jumalpandra, but that’s a bit of a mouthful—he got so excited, nothing would do but for me to cable my friend immediately and ask where Jimmy could get a few bison for himself.
