Paths of Glory

“Can we afford it?” Ruth had asked as she looked out of the window of the lagoon-side suite her father usually occupied.

“Probably not,” George replied. “But I’ve decided to spend a hundred of the thousand pounds I’m going to earn in America on what I intend to be an unforgettable holiday.”

“The last time you went to Venice, George, it was unforgettable,” Ruth reminded him.

The newlyweds, as most of the other guests assumed they were, because they came down so late for breakfast, were always holding hands and never stopped looking in each other’s eyes, did everything except climb St. Mark’s Tower—inside or out. After such a long time apart, the few days really did feel like a honeymoon, as they got to know each other again. By the time the Orient Express pulled into Victoria Station a week later, the last thing George wanted to do was leave Ruth again and sail away to the States.

If his bank statement hadn’t been among the unopened post on their arrival back at The Holt, he might even have considered canceling the lecture tour and staying at home.

There was one other letter George hadn’t anticipated, and he wondered if he ought to accept the flattering invitation, given the circumstances. He’d see how the tour went before he made that decision.

George’s overwhelming first impression of New York as the ship came into harbor was the sheer size of its buildings. He’d read about skyscrapers, even seen photographs of them in the new glossy magazines, but to see them standing cheek by jowl was beyond his imagination. The tallest building in London would have appeared as a pygmy among this tribe of giants.

George leaned over the ship’s railing and looked down at the dock, where a boisterous crowd were smiling and waving as they waited for their loved ones and friends to disembark. He would have searched among the throng for a new friend, had he had the slightest idea what Lee Keedick looked like. Then he spotted a tall, elegant man in a long black coat holding up a placard that read MALLORY.

Once George had stepped off the ship, a suitcase in each hand, he made his way toward the impressive figure. When he was a stride away, he pointed to the board and said, “That’s me.”

That’s when George saw him for the first time. A short, plump man who would never have made it to base camp stepped forward to greet him. Mr. Keedick was wearing a beige suit and an open-necked yellow shirt with a silver cross dangling from a chain around his neck. It was the first time George had ever seen a man wearing jewelry. Keedick must have stood a shade over five feet, but only because his crocodile-skin shoes had higher heels than those Ruth usually wore.

“I’m Lee Keedick,” he announced, after removing the stub of an unlit cigar from his mouth. “You must be George. Is it OK to call you George?”

“I think you just did,” said George, giving him a warm smile.

“This is Harry,” said Keedick, pointing to the tall man. “He’ll be your chauffeur while you’re in the States.” Harry touched the rim of his hat with the forefinger of his right hand, then opened the back door of what George had thought was a small omnibus.

“Somethin’ wrong?” asked Keedick, as George remained on the sidewalk.

“No,” said George as he stepped inside. “It’s just that this is the biggest car I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s the latest Caddie,” Lee told him.

George thought a caddie was someone who carried a golfer’s clubs, but then recalled George Bernard Shaw once telling him, “England and America are two nations divided by a common language.”

“It’s the finest darn car in America,” added Keedick, as Harry pulled away from the curb to join the morning traffic.

“Are we picking up anyone else on the way?” asked George.

“I just love your English sense of humor,” said Keedick. “Nope, this is all yours. You gotta understand, George, it’s important for people to think you’re a big shot. You gotta keep up appearances, or you’ll never get anywhere in this town.”

“Does that mean the bookings for my lectures are going well?” asked George nervously.

“They’re just swell for the opening at the Broadhurst Theater tomorrow night.” Keedick paused to light his cigar. “And if you get a good write-up in The New York Times, we’ll do just fine for the rest of the tour. If it’s a rave, we’ll sell out every night.”

George wanted to ask him what “rave” meant, but satisfied himself with looking up at the skyscrapers as the car inched its way through the traffic.

“That’s the Woolworth Building,” said Keedick, winding down the window. “It’s seven hundred and ninety-two feet tall. The tallest building in the world. But they’re planning one that will be over a thousand feet.”

“That’s just about how much I missed it by,” said George as the limousine came to a halt outside the Waldorf Hotel.

A bellboy rushed forward to open the car door, with the manager following close behind. He smiled the moment he saw Keedick step out onto the sidewalk.

“Hi, Bill,” said Keedick. “This is George Mallory, the guy who conquered Everest.”

“Well, not quite,” said George. “In fact—”

“Don’t bother with the facts, George,” said Keedick. “No one else in New York does.”

“Congratulations, sir,” said the manager, thrusting out his hand. George had never shaken hands with a hotel manager before. “In your honor,” he continued, “we’ve put you in the Presidential Suite, on the seventeenth floor. Please follow me,” he added as they walked across the foyer.