Zuleika Returns
BY EDMUND IONS (Merton College. Oxford) SHE arrived in the early afternoon and moved on to the Randolph Hotel in a swift, sleek car. This was not the traditional arrival, but the weather was on its best be- haviour, and the Oxford sky was warm, clear and summer- scented. That evening the Union Society was to open up the new extensions to the Night Club, and a giant film corporation had sent us one of their starlets to give the venture a good send-off. Our guest had made a few films, but she was young.
Her publicity manager whispered to me in a sepulchral aside that she was Britain's answer to Miss Monroe. And for the next three hours, fate, in the form of the Union mandarins, had decreed that I should show our guest the spires and gar- dens of Oxford. I dutifully appeared in the foyer of the hotel at three o'clock, where the Union treasurer explained that our guest was having a short rest in her room. He whispered some few injunctions in my ear, 4s though afraid of being over- heard, and then made off swiftly. Where, 1 knew not; yet the treasurer's last words struck a warm note : 'You can't mistake her when she comes down; she's really beautiful,' and his eyes had fluttered helplessly. Meanwhile there I was, holding, as you might say, the baby. Shortly she would come down the broad staircase and I would move forward to introduce myself as instructed. I sought an armchair and hid behind a magazine—any magazine—facing the staircase. After an eternity of minutes I looked up on a sudden impulse. This, there could be no mistaking. was our guest. She was petite, graceful, small, fragile, and moved slowly down the staircase. The dainty feet pointed at each step as she floated down. I stood up. eased my collar and lurched forward. 'Miss ?
How do you do? I'm to show you round Oxford. My name . . .' She whispered a greeting. A delicate hand was extended, lily-white, and I touched the tiny fingers gingerly.
Her eyes were large, luminous; the nose straight, pert; the mouth bright, moist, delicate; and the eyelashes as long and languorous as the waist was tiny. The treasurer was right, she was beautiful. Zuleika had returned to Oxford, and for an instant I wondered if the treasurer had gone off to fling himself in the Isis in the best tradition. Of course, she had changed a little. The new Zukika was a blonde; but fashions change, and the sun glinted on the corn-coloured tresses as she gazed down and outdid the wide-eyed beauty of the young gazelle.
Zuleika had spoken little so far. When she did it was with a pronounced American accent, in a drawl that was unusual for an English film star, but which was not unpleasing. This time she smiled and, in a husky drawl, said : 'The dear deers; aren't they dears?' I may have winced; I cannot be sure; but 1 smiled my appreciation. After all, I had heard worse puns. I suggested a visit to Merton, and as we crossed the High she talked further. Strangely, much of the male host had dis- appeared and I had discarded my ducal robes somewhere in Magdalen Grove. Dorset was now wearing a plain after- noon suit; robes were pretentious and perhaps a little superfluous.
Merton Field shone in the sunshine, and our guest looked up at the tower. 'You know something?' she said. 'This is a great place; I like it.' Trite but apt, I thought, and no doubt sincerely meant.
'Is it very old?' she asked in a husky drawl. I guessed the date, and she said it must be wonderful to be here. I assured her that we liked the old place.
'Of course you do,' our guest went on. 'You've got tra- dition here. Let's face it.' I faced it; but I winced noticeably as we came into Merton Street. The hosts had almost dis- appeared; just a few stragglers now; and we passed on to Christ Church. Our guest paused in Peckwater and said it was like a stately home. We came into Torn Quad and some choir- boys scurried out of the Cathedral. 'They take them young here, don't they?' she queried. I smiled. She paused in the Cathedral porch and scanned the Rolls of Honour. Turning once more, she drawled : 'All those long names and mine isn't in once. I guess none of my ancestry studied at this place.'
'No, Miss , I guess not,' I said, not wishing to appear un-American.
We walked out of Tom Quad in the teatime sunshine, and the traffic streamed over Carfax in its usual confusion. In the Cornmarket a few men stared and an American soldier whistled perfunctorily in the lower register. At the Randolph we had tea, and soon after she excused herself for another short rest. I too felt tired. The evening was still sunny and Oxford looked beautiful as I walked back to Merton in my best suit.
Previous page
