Famous Writers I Have Known

by James Magnuson

  The key was not to drag my feet. I gulped down a cup of coffee, got into my car, and drove right over. It was barely nine, but I figured Rex had been up writing at the crack of dawn.

  When I pulled up to the house, I noticed a blue Lexus convertible parked behind Ramona’s pickup, but didn’t think much about it. I angled across the dead grass. Canadian geese honked high up, somewhere over the clouds. I guess fall had to arrive everywhere sooner or later, even in Texas.

  The front door was ajar. I rang the bell a couple of times, but when no one came to greet me, I let myself in.

  “Hello?” I called.

  No one answered but I could hear voices at the back of the house. I hesitated for a couple of seconds, not sure what to do, but finally made my way down the hallway. I never figured there was any point in being shy.

  Peering around the corner into the living room, I saw Rex, huddled on the couch with two people I’d never laid eyes on before. They were leafing through some sort of coffee-table book. The woman was a knockout—tall, with killer cheekbones and huge almond eyes. The guy could have stepped right of of GQ. Middle-aged and natty, with a brush mustache and red suspenders, he looked like David Niven in one of those movies where he went around hitting on the wives of clodhopper Midwesterners. They were all so absorbed by whatever they were looking at no one noticed me at first.

  “Morning, Rex,” I said.

  Rex’s head came up so fast you would have thought someone had fired a rifle. He stared at me, his face ashy-white.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. The man and the woman looked up, smiling amicably.

  “I was just in the neighborhood. I thought I’d drop by and say hello,” I said. From the way he was glaring at me, I could tell he had no intention of making introductions. I stepped forward and extended my hand to the woman. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Horton Caldwell. Rex’s assistant.”

  She lifted her fingers to me almost as if she expected me to kiss them. I was tempted. “I’m Francesca,” she said. “It’s a delight to meet you.” Her accent was vaguely European.

  The guy with the suspenders rose from the couch and gave me a manly handshake. “Dudley. Dudley Stainforth,” he said.

  “So where you from, Dudley?” I said.

  “Florence.”

  “You mean North Jersey?”

  “No, Italy, actually.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rex quietly close the coffee-table book and slip it in between his knees. You would have thought I’d just walked in on a major drug deal.

  “So you two here on vacation?” I asked. Ramona came out of the back hall with a stack of Rex’s freshly ironed shirts.

  Stainforth glanced over at Rex, not sure how much he was supposed to say. “A mix of business and pleasure,” he said.

  Ramona set the shirts on the kitchen counter. “They’re offering Rex this wonderful prize,” she said.

  I glanced from Stainforth to Rex and back again. Stainforth had an awkward smile on his face, and Rex just looked cross.

  “Rex, is this true?” I asked.

  “I suppose it is,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “But I haven’t decided whether to take it or not.”

  “And what prize is this?” I asked.

  “It’s called the Vita Nuova Prize,” Stainforth said. “We give it each year to the writer who best exemplifies the Dantean spirit.”

  “Wow,” I said. I had no clue what “the Dantean spirit” meant, and I wasn’t all that sure about “exemplifies.” Rex squinted up at me. “This is fantastic,” I said.

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  “I’ve been having a terrible time getting him to say yes,” Stainforth said. “So I decided to fly over for a few days to see if I could talk some sense into him.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said.

  “And Horton,” Ramona said, “the place where they hold the ceremony? Oh my goodness.”

  “Here, let him see,” Francesca said. She wrestled the coffee-table book out of Rex’s hands and gave it to Stainforth. I caught just a glimpse of the title: Dante’s Florence, with an introduction by none other than Stainforth himself.

  Stainforth riffled through the pages until he found what he was after, then held it out for me to look. “Here’s a couple of shots of the villa where we conduct our festivities.”

  I stared down at a full-color spread of a garden perched high above the city. With pools and fountains, the rows of pruned cypress trees, the garden looked as if it was sitting up in heaven. The overlook was lined with busts, and Stainforth made a point of identifying them one by one.

  “Da Vinci here . . . Michelangelo . . . Dante . . . Petrarch . . . Horace, missing his nose, I’m afraid.” I leaned in to get a closer look. They all seemed pretty much the same to me, with Beatles haircuts and togas draped over their shoulders. Ramona came to join us, peering in.

  “And here’s Boccaccio,” Stainforth said, “right down on the end. If the weather is good we like to have our little ceremony out here. Unfortunately, the day that Rushdie came, it rained like the dickens and we had to move everything indoors.”

  “So where do the writers stay?” Ramona asked.

  “You can’t see it in the picture here,” Stainforth said, “but the main part of the villa is back a hundred yards or so. It’s got great views of the Arno, and on a clear day you should be able to see the Ponte Vecchio from your bedroom windows.”

  “Well, I’m happy to hear that,” I said. Oh, if you could only have heard the way he said “Ponte Vecchio”! It must have taken years to get that one right.

  Rex watched me as I flipped through the stiff pages. He thought he knew what I was thinking and he was dead wrong. I was irritated, sure. But it had nothing to do with prizes. What it had to do with was the fact that I’d come over here to have a real conversation about helping out some homeless kids in Maine. But was there any way I was going to convince him of that? Not in a million years.

  “Cool,” I said. I handed the book back to Rex. His eyes had not left me once.

  “You think I should take it?” he asked.

  “The place looks beautiful,” I said.

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “Rex, I’m the last one you should be asking about this. Seriously.”

  He didn’t find my answer satisfying. His look was close to murderous.

  “Horton doesn’t believe in prizes,” he said. “He’s a purist. He was a very promising historian when he was young. People expected great things of him, but he’s such a perfectionist, he made it awfully hard on himself.” He cracked the book open and tilted his head to have another look at the pictures. “But I need Horton. Horton keeps me honest. But I do believe he thinks I’m a bit of a glory hound.”

  “Rex, if you want to take this prize, you should take it.”

  He clapped the book shut. “I’ll need a day or two to think about this.”

  I patted Stainforth on the back. “Very nice to meet you,” I said.

  “And very nice to meet you!” he said. He seemed a little rattled by all the strange goings-on in the room, but at least he had his good manners to see him through. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re doing tomorrow, but Francesca and I are planning on taking Rex and Ramona to brunch. I’d be honored if you could join us.”

  “Horton hates brunch,” Rex said.

  “But, hey,” I said, “with a group like this, who could say no? I’d love to come.”

  The next morning at eleven they came by to pick me up and we drove to this fancy Mexican restaurant on the north side of town. It was quite a place, one of those joints where you’d want your daughter to have her wedding reception if you had a couple million bucks to burn. The lobby was a jungle of ferns and palm trees and, best of all, there was a beady-eyed parrot in a cage that looked as if it would bite off your finger if you came anywhere close.

  The hostess showed us to a far room and seated us in chairs that must have been carved by Aztec slaves. Over
orange juice, Stainforth tried to regale us with his adventures entertaining the various winners of the Vita Nuova Prize. He told us about truffle hunting in the Apennines with his good friend Wisława, about driving all over Florence late one night, trying to find a cassette of 48 Hours for Kenzaburō Ōe, who was a huge Eddie Murphy fan. He told us about the uproar some Finnish author had created when he sent his pasta back, and about the brilliant lecture Kundera had given on the European novel.

  The only problem was that Rex was in one of his moods. Part of it, I’m sure, was that he was not happy about my having horned in on their party, but it felt as if it was more than that. Restless and irritated, he was only half-listening. Ramona seemed out of sorts too, which I’d always taken to be an early warning signal.

  Rex sprinkled salt on a chip, then looked over his shoulder, trying to get the waiter’s attention. When he finally slid the salt shaker to the middle of the table, Stainforth stopped talking.

  “It sounds remarkable,” Rex said, “absolutely remarkable. But I did a lot of thinking last night.” Francesca straightened in her chair, her beautiful almond eyes widening. She had on this red dress she could have worn to the Oscars.

  “Dudley, I can’t tell you how moved I am by you and Francesca offering me this prize. I am deeply honored. But I have no illusions about how I am viewed by the literary world. I know my place. And I don’t want to make a fool of myself. Or of you. Regretfully, I’m afraid I have to say no.”

  Francesca gave a small cry. Stainforth looked as if he’d just heard that his mother had died. Head down, I stirred my margarita with a straw. I have to say, I was impressed with old Rex.

  It took Stainforth several seconds to recover, and when he did, his voice was still shaky. “May I say something?” he said.

  “Of course,” Rex said.

  “I don’t want to disagree with you, but I think it’s impossible for any writer to know how he is viewed by the literary world. But I do know that our selection committee approached their task with the utmost rigor. They all agreed that what you’ve accomplished is monumental, and they’re some of the most distinguished writers and critics in Europe. I’d give you their names if I could, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

  Rex toyed with his silverware. He was wearing his favorite bolo tie, the one with the Texas star, and cinched up tight it made him look a little like a child.

  “But please,” Rex said, “I hope you’re not telling me that they consider what I do high art.”

  “High art?” Francesca said, as if she’d never heard the term before.

  “The truth is,” Stainforth said, “we’ve struggled with this issue for years.”

  “What issue is that?”

  “What constitutes serious literature. I’ve always felt . . . and the majority of our committee has slowly come around to my side on this . . . that we’ve been hampered by too rarified a definition.” I began to down my margarita with long, steady sucks. The guy was starting to get on my nerves. “Look at the history of the novel. Look at Balzac, Dickens.”

  “Exactly,” Francesca said. “If you’re looking for a contemporary writer with that sort of ambition and scope and engagement with the world, I think Schoeninger is the first name you come up with.”

  “Let’s not overdo this now,” Rex said.

  “Probably half the people in this room have read a book of yours,” Stainforth said. “Every summer cabin in America has a shelf of your novels. That counts for something.”

  “I’m not saying it doesn’t count for something . . .” Rex said.

  “Every year we get dozens of letters from lawyers and housewives, high school teachers and GIs, asking how it can be that we’ve overlooked you for so long,” Francesca said.

  “They’re not writing us about Djuna Barnes,” Stainforth said.

  Ramona took a chip. She had been silent for a long time, which wasn’t like her. All I could figure was that she was a little intimidated by these two being so damn good-looking.

  “I understand that you might be wary,” Stainforth said. “We know you’ve taken your hits.”

  Rex shot me a sidelong glance. “ ‘The Grandma Moses of American literature’?”

  “Oh, that!” Francesca said. “That was just silly!”

  Stainforth seemed astonished. “That’s it? V. S. Mohle?”

  “I’m not just talking about Mohle,” Rex said. “But the fact is that I was offered one other prize in my life . . .”

  “That’s not true, Rex!” Ramona said. “What about all your presidential medals?”

  He waved her away. “They don’t count. I’m talking about serious literary prizes. And that one turned into holy hell.”

  I licked the salt off the rim of my glass while Stainforth scratched his neck. “But Rex,” he said, “how can you still be fretting about that? The man was clearly disturbed. That was just small-minded jealousy.”

  “Not entirely.”

  “What a vile human being!” Francesca said. “And that book of his! Am I mistaken, or isn’t it totally dated?” Rex, to his credit, seemed skeptical. Francesca turned to me. “Horton, have you tried to read it lately?”

  “I have, actually . . .” A sharp kick to the shin made me jump. When I glanced up, Ramona was shooting me threatening looks, eying me the way a secret service agent might eye a potential presidential assassin.

  Rex had had enough. “What do you say we get something to eat?” he said. He put his hands on the arms of his chair as if he was about to get up. The rest of us sat there, feeling bad.

  The old guy was aching for the prize. Anyone could see it. But how could he accept it with V. S. Mohle sitting across the table from him?

  I needed to do something. They may have been great-looking, but I didn’t trust Stainforth and Francesca any farther than I could throw them. I may not have sussed out exactly what their game was yet, but, honestly, did it matter? The problem was that if Rex turned the prize down, he was going to blame me. I knew the way the man’s mind worked.

  All I wanted was another shot at the man’s money. That wasn’t going to happen until I got back into his good graces. It was time for a little magnanimity of spirit.

  “You know what I think?” I said.

  They all swung around to look at me. “What?” Rex said.

  “I think you should take it,” I said. “I think these two are absolutely right. You deserve this. What have you written? Sixty books?” In a small alcove, a trio of Mexican women in native dress rolled out tortillas, pounded them flat, flipped them onto huge black skillets. “You’ve got two million readers and you’re still brooding over what some idiot said about you twenty-five years ago?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it brooding,” Rex said.

  “What are you afraid of? Do you really think he’s going to come out of the woods to denounce you? Do you really think he doesn’t regret acting like such an asshole?”

  I wasn’t sure Ramona was buying my act. She’d already formed some pretty strong opinions of me, whoever the hell she thought I was. She rose from her chair, ready to head to the buffet tables.

  “Rex,” I said, “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts, if he heard about your getting this prize, he’d be the first to congratulate you.”

  “You think so?” he said.

  “I know so,” I said. I reached across and put my hand on his. Francesca and Stainforth exchanged glances.

  “Okay, then,” Rex said.

  “Okay?” Stainforth said.

  “And what does that mean, Rex?” Francesca put the question softly.

  “It means that Ramona and I are coming to Italy.”

  Stainforth gave a short, swift jab, like a tennis player who’s just served an ace on set point. Francesca was so excited she barely knew what to do with herself. She gave Rex a hug and me a kiss on the cheek. Ramona was grinning like a banshee. If the three of them had had confetti, they would have thrown it.

  Stainforth got up to shake Rex’s hand. He squeezed my e
lbow and mouthed a silent thank you. Everybody was congratulating everybody. It was hard to keep track. Rex sat smiling quietly through all the commotion, but he’d been moved by what I’d said, I could tell. We all retrieved our glasses. When we raised them to give a toast, it was my eyes he sought, and when he found them he gave me a two-fingered salute.

  The food was great. There were enchiladas smothered in a thick smoky green sauce, shredded pork wrapped in banana leaves, peppers stuffed with raisins and nuts and ground tapir. A mariachi band came through with trumpets and guitars, their black outfits glistening with silver studs, enormous hats tilted back like Steve Martin and Chevy Chase in Three Amigos.

  My second margarita was better than my first. It’s a beautiful thing, how well people can get along, once they stop getting in one another’s way.

  My shin was hurting like hell, but everyone was having the best time. Ramona and Francesca chatted away like long-lost sisters—it turned out that one of Francesca’s cousins had gone to riding school in England with Ramona’s brother, so they had stories to tell. But the best part of it was seeing Rex laugh, loose and easy, like a man who’s just been told by the doctor that he doesn’t have cancer. It was a great thing I’d done.

  I was sure Stainforth and Francesca had something up their sleeves, but what did it matter? They would be flying off to Italy in a day or two and then I’d have the old guy to myself. And right where I wanted him.

  Stainforth paid the bill while Rex spoke to a couple of the diners who’d come up for autographs. As we were walking out Rex got the bright idea of taking Stainforth and Francesca for a tour of Austin. We piled into the van, drove through the university, and took a spin around the capital.

  We ended up at Barton Springs, where we all got out and strolled to the chain-link fence to have a look. It was a cool, sunny November afternoon and the pool sparkled, a couple hundred yards of clear water, set down in pale limestone cliffs. A half dozen swimmers were out doing laps, and people dotted the sloping lawns like seals, sleeping, catching a few rays, rubbing one another with suntan lotion, while a pair of tattooed kids did cannonballs off the diving board.