Confederacy of Dunces, A - John Kennedy Toole [139]
“Oh, what a gathering,” Dorian said as he opened the gate. “Everyone is simply letting his hair down.”
Dorian did a rapid and uncoordinated pantomime to illustrate this.
“Oh, my God!” Ignatius said. “Stop that appalling obscenity.”
“Several people will be completely ruined after this evening. There’s going to be a mass exodus for Mexico City in the morning. But then Mexico City is so wonderfully wild.”
“I certainly hope that no one has tried to inflict any warmongering resolutions upon the gathering.”
“Oh, goodness, no.”
“I’m relieved to hear that. Heaven knows what opposition we may have to face even at the outset. We may have some ‘enemy within.’ Word may have leaked out to the whole military combine of the nation and, for that matter, the world.”
“Well, come along, Gypsy Queen, let’s get inside.”
As they walked down the carriageway, Ignatius said, “This building is repellingly flamboyant.” He looked at the pastel lamps concealed behind the palms along the walls. “Who’s responsible for this abortion?”
“I, of course, Magyar Maiden. I own the building.”
“I should have known. May I ask where the money comes from to support this decadent whimsy of yours?”
“From my dear family out there in the wheat,” Dorian sighed. “They send me large checks every month. In return I simply guarantee them that I’ll stay out of Nebraska. I left there under something of a cloud, you see. All that wheat and those endless plains. I can’t tell you how depressing it all was. Grant Wood romanticized it, if anything. I went East for college and then came here. Oh, New Orleans is such freedom.”
“Well, at least we have a gathering place for our coup. Now that I’ve seen the place, however, I would have preferred your renting an American Legion hall or something equally appropriate. This place looks more like the setting for some perverted activity like a tea dance or a garden party.”
“Do you know that a national home decorating magazine wants to do a four-page color spread on this building?” Dorian asked.
“If you had any sense, you would realize that that is the ultimate insult,” Ignatius snorted.
“Oh, Girl with the Golden Earring, you are driving me out of my mind. Look, here’s the door.”
“Just a moment,” Ignatius said cautiously. “What is that awful noise? It sounds as if someone’s being sacrificed.”
They stood in the pastel light of the carriageway listening. Somewhere in the patio a human was crying in distress.
“Oh, dear, what are they doing now?” Dorian’s voice was impatient. “Those little fools. They never can behave themselves.”
“I would suggest that we investigate,” Ignatius said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Some obsessed military officer may have slipped into the meeting incognito and may be trying to extricate our secrets from some faithful party member by means of torture. The dedicated military will stoop to anything. It could even be some foreign agent.”
“Oh, what fun!” Dorian shrieked.
He and Ignatius tripped and waddled to the patio. There someone was crying for help in the slave quarters. The door of the slave quarters was slightly ajar, but Ignatius threw himself against it anyway, shattering several panes of glass.
“Oh, my God!” he screamed when he saw what was before him. “They’ve struck!”
He looked at the little sailor shackled and chained to the wall. It was Timmy.
“Do you see what you’ve done to my door?” Dorian was asking behind Ignatius.
“The enemy is among us,” Ignatius said wildly. “Who tattled? Tell me. Someone is on to us.”
“Oh, get me out of here,” the little sailor pleaded. “It’s awfully dark.”
“You little fool,” Dorian spat at the sailor. “Who chained you in here?”
“It was that terrible Billy and Raoul. They’re so awful, those two. They brought me out here to show me how you’re redecorating the slave quarters, and the next thing I knew they locked me in these dirty chains and ran back into the party.”
The little sailor rattled his chains.
“I’ve just had this place redone,” Dorian said to Ignatius.