Pilgrim Son: A Personal Odyssey by John Masters Page B
Authors: John Masters
Tags: Literary, General, Asia, History, Literary Criticism, War & Military, American, Biography, Autobiography, India
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bitten in that affair and did not want to get bitten again.
In the outside world, which became dimmer and more unreal every day as I dug deeper into my own struggle for survival, the Foreign Office prophecies continued to come sickeningly true. In this month of February the Communists, protected by Russian troops, took over Czechoslovakia, and in March murdered Jan Masaryk, to remove the only figure round whom an opposition could have rallied.
I learned of the existence of travel editors, and began to call on them. Snippets about Himalayan Holidays appeared in half a dozen newspapers and magazines. Then a letter of inquiry arrived from Boston, and I danced for joy in my seventh floor eyrie. Success!
The writer of that letter came down to New York and we had a long talk. He was, I think, convinced of my good faith, but it turned out that my expedition was not going to fit into his schedule. However, he gave me introductions, I was invited to parties, met people, and talked continually about the Himalayas, and the wonders of the open air and the high mountains. My victims listened with tolerant mistrust — of the open air, I mean. (Was it not in New York that the cocktail party guest crept into the kitchen and opened the window a tiny fraction to get some air, to have the hostess rush in a moment later, crying 'I smell gas!'?)
I allotted more time to The Bra, and found my way over to Seventh Avenue and the notions streets of the west 30s. Bra in hand, I explained its merits to many a wary denizen of the garment district. Their idiom was more sharply pointed than the travel agents', and they worried considerably less as to whether they were hurting my feelings; but they spoke their opinions honestly, and were in that way more helpful. Also, they didn't care what kind of a charlatan I might be. They confined their attention to the wonderful bra, and when that was dismissed, as it always was, chatted to me with no ill will. When I left these small, cluttered establishments we were usually on the best of terms, and I shared several kosher lunches in the district, but I wish I could have recorded in marble the expressions that accompanied our early dialogues, which went something like this:
'Good morning. I'm Colonel Jack Masters. I have here a brassy-air that should interest you.'
The chewed, unlit cigar swings slowly from the left to the right side of the mouth opposite, the ears prick forward like a hound's, the nose twitches, the eyes stray from my mouth, whence these strange noises emerge, to the tweed suit.
'A brazeer? That?'
'This strap here, and this, go round under the bosom, and by tightening, so...'
The cigar rotates wildly: 'Who did you say you were, mister?'
'... remarkable brassyair... patents pending...
He gets up and fingers my suit, which has the texture of a grouse moor. 'Nice piece of material there. How much did that set you back?'
'...supports sagging breast... firms muscles...
'Jesus, a dame could strangle herself in this, you know... Now, this tweed...
When I was there in February 1939, New York had seemed a cold, dirty city. It was still dirty, but the people I met now, on my improbable quests, showed me that it 90
was not cold. And after the travel agencies and the sweat shops were closed, and I could do no more talking, I kept on walking, and knew no boundaries but those set by hunger, when my rumbling belly told me I must eat. I walked from the hotel up to Columbia and down to Fulton Street. I walked to Coney Island and the Bronx. In Manhattan I walked from river to river, knew every street between the Village and the Park, and never, never spoke of the 'Avenue of the Americas'. I gazed in every window and at every intersection paused to observe the traffic, for sooner or later I would have to take a driving test here, and I did not mean to fail it. (I hoped I would take the test in a Cadillac with the flirty little fins. I found them as dashing and distinctive as the Vauxhall's radiator
In the outside world, which became dimmer and more unreal every day as I dug deeper into my own struggle for survival, the Foreign Office prophecies continued to come sickeningly true. In this month of February the Communists, protected by Russian troops, took over Czechoslovakia, and in March murdered Jan Masaryk, to remove the only figure round whom an opposition could have rallied.
I learned of the existence of travel editors, and began to call on them. Snippets about Himalayan Holidays appeared in half a dozen newspapers and magazines. Then a letter of inquiry arrived from Boston, and I danced for joy in my seventh floor eyrie. Success!
The writer of that letter came down to New York and we had a long talk. He was, I think, convinced of my good faith, but it turned out that my expedition was not going to fit into his schedule. However, he gave me introductions, I was invited to parties, met people, and talked continually about the Himalayas, and the wonders of the open air and the high mountains. My victims listened with tolerant mistrust — of the open air, I mean. (Was it not in New York that the cocktail party guest crept into the kitchen and opened the window a tiny fraction to get some air, to have the hostess rush in a moment later, crying 'I smell gas!'?)
I allotted more time to The Bra, and found my way over to Seventh Avenue and the notions streets of the west 30s. Bra in hand, I explained its merits to many a wary denizen of the garment district. Their idiom was more sharply pointed than the travel agents', and they worried considerably less as to whether they were hurting my feelings; but they spoke their opinions honestly, and were in that way more helpful. Also, they didn't care what kind of a charlatan I might be. They confined their attention to the wonderful bra, and when that was dismissed, as it always was, chatted to me with no ill will. When I left these small, cluttered establishments we were usually on the best of terms, and I shared several kosher lunches in the district, but I wish I could have recorded in marble the expressions that accompanied our early dialogues, which went something like this:
'Good morning. I'm Colonel Jack Masters. I have here a brassy-air that should interest you.'
The chewed, unlit cigar swings slowly from the left to the right side of the mouth opposite, the ears prick forward like a hound's, the nose twitches, the eyes stray from my mouth, whence these strange noises emerge, to the tweed suit.
'A brazeer? That?'
'This strap here, and this, go round under the bosom, and by tightening, so...'
The cigar rotates wildly: 'Who did you say you were, mister?'
'... remarkable brassyair... patents pending...
He gets up and fingers my suit, which has the texture of a grouse moor. 'Nice piece of material there. How much did that set you back?'
'...supports sagging breast... firms muscles...
'Jesus, a dame could strangle herself in this, you know... Now, this tweed...
When I was there in February 1939, New York had seemed a cold, dirty city. It was still dirty, but the people I met now, on my improbable quests, showed me that it 90
was not cold. And after the travel agencies and the sweat shops were closed, and I could do no more talking, I kept on walking, and knew no boundaries but those set by hunger, when my rumbling belly told me I must eat. I walked from the hotel up to Columbia and down to Fulton Street. I walked to Coney Island and the Bronx. In Manhattan I walked from river to river, knew every street between the Village and the Park, and never, never spoke of the 'Avenue of the Americas'. I gazed in every window and at every intersection paused to observe the traffic, for sooner or later I would have to take a driving test here, and I did not mean to fail it. (I hoped I would take the test in a Cadillac with the flirty little fins. I found them as dashing and distinctive as the Vauxhall's radiator
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