“The hell I did. You took me on a —”
“Quite. But you got no further than groping me in your greedy, inexperienced manner before that rustic — that habitant — speaking that patois that passes for French here, came to say we were trespassing. You made up the rest, because no woman worth her salt will even give you a look any more, you filthy-minded, shrinking, liver-spotted, sunken-bellied old Jew, now almost a deaf-mute, if the truth were known. You concocted this salacious story because you are still procrastinating, and would scribble anything rather than get to the truth of what happened at the cottage. Now out of bed with you for one of your pathetic little pees that couldn’t fill an eyedropper. Poor Boogie.”
17
I never lost touch with Boogie, who would send me cryptic little postcards from wherever he was. Marrakesh. Bangkok. Kyoto. Havana. Cape Town. Las Vegas. Bogotá. Benares:
In the absence of a mikva, there is always the Ganges for purification. Read Chester, Alfred. Green, Henry. Also Roth, Joseph.
Or a note from that city in Kashmir, whatever it’s called,66 where the druggies stop to refuel. When I was a boy, I had a map pinned to my bedroom wall on which I traced the path of the Allied armies in Europe after D-Day. Now I kept a globe in my office so that I could follow the progress of my friend the latter-day pilgrim through his own Slough of Despond. His short stories appeared infrequently in the Paris Review, Zero, and Encounter. Inevitably, Boogie settled into a loft in the Village and became a regular at The San Remo and The Lion’s Head. Women sought him out. Among them, to the amazement of onlookers one evening, Ava Gardner. He commanded the attention — no, something approaching reverence — of the young as well as beautiful women, by his silence, broken only when he made one of his rare pronouncements. One evening, for instance, when Jack Kerouac’s name came up, he muttered, “Energy isn’t enough.”
“It’s not writing,” I said. “It’s typing.”67
Boogie was also disdainful of Allen Ginsberg. Once, when I just happened to be there, a beguiling young woman, out to make an impression, made the mistake of reciting the opening lines of Howl to him:
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix…
Boogie responded, “The best minds? Names, please.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Isaiah Berlin? No, too old. Surely not Mr. Trocchi?”
Among Boogie’s regular drinking companions were Seymour Krim and Anatole Broyard. He was the polar opposite of Hymie Mintzbaum, never dropping a name, but then a letter might turn up from Cuba, addressed to Boogie c/o The Lion’s Head, and it was from Ernest Hemingway. Or John Cheever could come by and take him to lunch. Or Norman Mailer or William Styron might pass through, and they would sit with him or, if he wasn’t around, inquire about his whereabouts. Billie Holiday, after her disastrous last cabaret tour of France and Italy, turned up looking for him. Mary McCarthy came. So did John Huston. His legend flowered after an excerpt from his novel-in-progress appeared in the New American Review, but I knew he had written it in Paris something like ten years earlier. All the same, Boogie gradually acquired the reputation as author of the greatest modern American novel yet to be written. The editors of some of the most distinguished publishing houses in New York came a-courting, armed with chequebooks. One of them once dispatched a limousine to drive Boogie to a meticulously engineered dinner party in Southampton, only to discover that he had gone to visit a girlfriend in Sag Harbor instead, the car arriving at the publisher’s dacha without him, adding to Boogie’s mystique. Another editor took him to lunch at The Russian Tea Room. Oozing flattery, he asked, “Would it be possible to see more of your novel?”
“That would be indiscreet,” said Boogie, tending to his dripping nose. “I can’t seem to shake this cold.”
“Possibly we should talk to your agent?”
“I haven’t got one.”
His own best agent, Boogie was noncommittal, or changed the subject, as generous contracts were proffered. The longer he resisted cutting a deal with a publisher, the higher the figures flew. Finally Boogie signed with Random House for an advance that ran into six figures, not unusual today, but I’m talking 1958, the year the Canadiens won their third Stanley Cup in a row, taking out the Boston Bruins 5–3 in game five. Geoffrion and Maurice Richard scored in the first period; Beliveau, and Geoffrion again, in the second; and Doug Harvey, with a seeing-eye sizzler from forty feet out, in the third. So there’s nothing wrong with old Barney Panofsky’s memory, is there? Spaghetti is strained with a colander. The names of the Seven Dwarfs are Sleepy, Grumpy, Sneezy, Doc, Happy, and the other two.68 The Weizmann Institute is in Haifa. Frederick Wakeman didn’t write The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, it was the other guy.69 Napoleon was defeated in that town Spike Jones wrote that nonsense song about:
She’s the pearl diver’s daughter,
And she’s nuts about the water,
WATERLOO …
Boogie is where I was at. He squandered some of the money at blackjack and chemin de fer tables; and drank, sniffed, and mainlined the rest into his arm, and when that vein hid from him, he stabbed his ankle and even his tongue. Then came the day he phoned me at my office. Had I been blessed with foresight, I would have hung up. I didn’t.
“I’d like to crash at your place in the country for a while,” he said. “I’m trying to kick. Can you put me up?”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to need some methadone.”
“My friend Morty Herscovitch will provide.”
I picked up Boogie at the airport, unprepared for how gaunt he had become since I had last seen him, sweat beading his forehead and sliding down his cheeks in spite of the chill in the air, unseasonable for late June. “We’re going to celebrate with a bang-up lunch at El Ritzo,” I said, linking arms with him, “and then we’ll drive out to the Laurentians,” where, I told him, The Second Mrs. Panofsky was awaiting us.
“No, no, no,” he said. “You’ve got to take me somewhere I can shoot up first.”
“I thought you were here to kick?”
“Just one more time or I won’t make it.”
We drove to my house, where Boogie promptly shed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, knotted a tie round his arm, and then began to pump it like a windmill softball pitcher, trying to get that elusive vein to protrude, even as I heated up his stuff in a spoon. It took three bloody probes before he was finally able to drive the syringe into the vein. “I guess that’s what Forster meant by ‘only connect,’ ” I said.
“ ‘Do you mind my asking what the syringe is for?’ the druggist asked. ‘Why, I’m cooking a ham Southern style, injecting it with Jack Daniels.’ ”
“Shall we go and eat now?”
“I don’t. Good to see you.”
“You too.”
“How many of those cigars do you smoke a day?”
“I never count.”
“They’re bad for you, you know. Say, whatever became of your friend McIver?”
“Nothing much.”
“He showed some promise, I thought.”
“Ah.”
The Second Mrs. Panofsky was waiting for us on the porch, dressed in her finest, and looking attractive, even sexy, I am honour-bound to acknowledge. She had gone to a good deal of trouble, preparing a dinner by candlelight. But Boogie slid into sleep over the first course, split-pea soup, his head lolling and his body wracked by sudden attacks of twitches. I led him into the room that had been prepared for him, dumped him onto the bed, and showed him where I had left his methadone supply. Then I returned to the dining-room table. “Sorry about that,” I said.
“You would get him drunk before bringing him out here, never mind that I’ve been standing over the hot stove all day.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Now you’ll have to sit here and talk to me, pretending we’re a
real couple. Or should I get you a magazine?”
“He’s awfully sick, you know.”
“I don’t want him smoking in bed. He could set the house on fire.”
“He doesn’t smoke. Bad for your health, he says.”
“Where are you going? I haven’t even served the lamb yet. Or are you not hungry either?”
“I was just going to pour myself a Scotch.”
“Well, in that case, bring the bottle to the table, so you don’t have to jump up every two minutes.”
“Zowie, are we ever in for a few days of fun here.”
“You don’t know the half of it. I had to empty your pockets before I took your suit to the cleaners Tuesday, and this is what I found.”
Oy oy oy. A bill from Regal Florists for a dozen long-stemmed red roses. “Oh, that,” I said, reaching for the bottle.
“I thought that was so sweet of you. I washed out a vase and I didn’t dare leave here all day — in case I missed the delivery.”
“I guess they couldn’t find the cottage.”
“Your nose is getting longer by the minute.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m a liar?”
“Suggesting? No, honeybunch. I’m saying.”
“That’s outrageous.”
“Who were they for?”
“As a matter of fact, the purchase was entirely innocent, but I refuse to be interrogated in this manner in my own home.”
“Which one of your whores were the roses for?”
“You’re going to be awfully embarrassed when those roses turn up here tomorrow morning.”
“Only if you sneak out to the general store and put in an emergency phone call for another dozen. I want to know if you keep a whore in an apartment somewhere.”
“Only one?”
“I’m waiting for you to answer my question.”
“I could prove my innocence and answer your question just like that,” I said, flicking my fingers, “but I don’t care for your tone of voice, or your insults.”
“I’m the one who’s behaving badly?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now tell me who the roses were for.”
“An actress we’re trying to get to commit to a pilot I’m planning.”
“Where does she live?”
“Somewhere in Outremont, I think. But how would I know? That’s what I have a secretary for.”
“Somewhere in Outremont?”
“Côte St-Catherine Road, I think.”
“You want to try again?”
“This is ridiculous. The lamb is delicious. Really excellent. Why can’t we enjoy our dinner like two civilized people?”
“I phoned Regal Florists, pretending to be your secretary —”
“You had no business doing such a —”
“— and the guy there wanted to know if you wished to change your standing order. A dozen long-stemmed red roses once a week to an address in Toronto. No, I said, but I wanted to check the party’s name. That must have made him suspicious, because he said, ‘I’ll have to look that up and call you back.’ So I hung up. Now tell me the name of your whore in Toronto.”
“I refuse to sit here any longer,” I said, leaping up, my bottle of Macallan in hand, “and tolerate this manner of questioning.”
“You’re sleeping in the other spare bedroom tonight, and if your friend, the druggie, wants to know why, tell him to ask me. Does he know you’re taking tap-dance lessons?”
“Tell him. I don’t mind.”
“I can’t wait for him to see you in that straw hat and cane. You look like such a shmuck.”
“I suppose I do,” I said.
“My father saw right through you. If I had listened to him, may he rest in peace, I wouldn’t be in this position.”
“Married beneath yourself.”
“I’m an attractive young woman by any standard,” she said, her voice cracking, “intelligent, and well educated. Why did you need somebody else?”
“Let’s get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.”
But she had begun to weep. “Why did you marry me, Barney?”
“It was wrong of me.”
“I came up behind you at our wedding, and you were saying to Boogie, ‘I’m in love. For the first time in my life I am truly, seriously, irretrievably in love.’ I can’t tell you how touched I was. What I felt in my heart for you at that moment. And look at us now. We’ve been together hardly more than a year, it’s been months since you’ve made love to me, and I hate you in my bones for disgracing me.”
“I want you to know,” I said, laden with guilt, “that I haven’t been unfaithful to you.”
“Oh, I’m so ashamed. So broken. And you are such a liar. Such a street person. Such an animal. Go ahead. Finish your bottle. Good night.”
I didn’t quite finish the bottle, but almost, and wakened early to the sound of her on the phone to her mother. The Second Mrs. Panofsky’s morning report. “It was leg of lamb. No, not New Zealand. Local. From Delaney’s. Maw, I’m well aware it’s cheaper at Atwater Market, but I didn’t have the time and there’s never a place to park. I remember. Certainly I’ll check his bill. I always do. No, you were absolutely right to complain about the roast that time, it was tough. I was not embarrassed, I just preferred to wait outside. Maw, that’s not fair. Not every Irish Catholic is an anti-Semite. It just happened to be a tough standing rib. I am not criticizing your cooking. What? Oh, split-pea soup, and afterward green salad and cheese. Yes, you gave me that recipe. I know Rabbi Hornstein is crazy for it, but Barney doesn’t care for desserts. God knows he gets enough sugar out of the Scotch he drinks. I’ll tell him, honestly, but he says he isn’t interested in living to be a gibbering old idiot of eighty. I agree. That’s not old any more. Please, he knows very well you have a degree from McGill, and that you review books for the ladies’ reading group at the Temple. He does not think you’re stupid. Correction — he thinks everybody is stupid. What? He said that to you? Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t think he ever finished the seven volumes of Gibbon either. You don’t have to prove anything to him. Maw, I think that Frank Harris is disgusting too, and he shouldn’t have given it to you for Hanukah. It was a bad joke. What? Oh, he’s a writer. An old friend of Barney’s from his Paris days. Moscovitch. Bernard Moscovitch. No, not Canadian. He’s a real writer. Maw, you’re not the only one who hasn’t heard of him. I beg your pardon, but I’m suggesting no such thing, I know you’re very well read. Maw, I’m not being condescending. Let’s not get into that. It’s my natural tone of voice. I was born with it. But I couldn’t yesterday — there was so much to do here. I didn’t forget and I don’t consider phoning you an obligation. I do love you and I appreciate how much you miss Daddy, and how I’m all you have left now. And, while I’m at it, I’d like you to know that I never suggested there was anything wrong with having your hair coloured, but I think the curls he does for you are a bit too girlish for a woman of your age. Maw, I know very well I’ll be your age one day, and I only hope I will look as attractive as you do when my time comes. I am not being critical. You can’t have it both ways. If I say something I’m being critical, if I don’t, and somebody else mentions it, then I was too uncaring to warn you ahead of time. I didn’t say somebody else mentioned it. Maw, please. Yes, of course we’ll go to New York together next month. I can’t tell you how much I look forward to our trips. But, Maw, please don’t be offended, you’re a fourteen now, and you must stop wasting time trying to squeeze into twelves. Hold it. Stop. You have never embarrassed me. At your age, I would be lucky to still have such a good figure. We could be sisters, isn’t that what the saleswomen at Bloomingdale’s thought? He said we could go to the showroom and have anything we wanted wholesale? No kidding. Hey, do you think Katz has his eye on you? I am not being disrespectful. Nobody could ever replace Daddy for me either. But, you know, there’s a problem with Katz’s outfits. It’s not that they’re shmatas, they aren’t. They’re excellent copies of what he saw
in the Paris shows, if you don’t mind the machine stitching. But you take something off one of his racks, you get all dolled up for a party, and there’s bound to be at least one other woman wearing the same thing. What do you mean you weren’t invited to the Ginsbergs’ anniversary-dinner party, you always were. Maw, you’re imagining it. Old friends are not dropping you because Daddy has passed away. It’s not true that people don’t feel good to have a widow at the table. Among your age group, it has to be a common experience. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. Maw, I’m not insensitive and I am not waiting for you to die. You are not a burden to me. But in your age group these things happen. That’s life. Maw, would you prefer me to censor my thoughts before I express them? Can we no longer speak frankly? Is it now only safe for us to talk about the weather? Maw, you are not going to hang up on me in that mood. Maw, please. Stop at once. No sniffling. I am not being impatient. Call Malka, I’ll bet she’s as lonely as you are, and the two of you could go out to dinner, and then maybe pick up a couple of guys in a bar. Maw, it was a joke. I know very well you would never do such a thing. Okay, she never picks up a bill. So what? You’re not exactly broke. What do you mean, what do I mean by that? I meant nothing by that. Maw, I never asked you how much he left and I don’t want to hear it now. Shit. If you think that, you can leave everything to the SPCA for all I care. That’s a horrible thing to think of me. You know how I feel this very minute? Degraded. Now I’ve got to hang up and — Maw, it is absolutely sick on your part to suggest that I always manage to twist things round just before I hang up on you, so that I’m the one who has been hurt. What? Come on. I said hurtful things to you? Name one. Uh huh. Uh huh. Shit. If you think you look pretty in those Shirley Temple curls, keep them. And you know what? You’re going to Florida with Malka next winter, get yourself a bikini. Handkerchief-size. But don’t count on me coming down to visit you, if that’s the case. Now I’ve got to hang up and — I am not having one of my tantrums. Maw, if we had a tape recording of this conversation I’d play it back to you, if only to prove I never suggested you suffered from cellulite deposits. You’ve still got great legs. Now I’ve really, really got to hang up and get busy here. Barney sends his love. No, I’m not just saying that. Goodbye now.”
Barney's Version Page 32
