The City and the Pillar

by Gore Vidal

  * * *

  —

  Shaw was sitting beside the swimming pool when Jim arrived. The swimming pool was set like a navel in a redbrick terrace flanked by two bathhouses resembling the turreted pavilions of a medieval knight. Shaw waved as Jim approached.

  “Did you make a clean break?” The deep voice was mocking.

  “Clean enough. I told Schilling I was going to teach you and some other people tennis.”

  “You mentioned me?”

  “Yes. I wish I hadn’t. I’m sorry. Because he knew exactly what was going on. He didn’t say much but I felt like dirt.”

  Shaw sighed. “I don’t know how the hell they know so much about me. It’s the damnedest thing.” Like most homosexuals, Shaw was astonished that anyone saw through his mask. “I guess it’s because so many people are so bloody jealous of me.” Shaw sounded both sad and proud. “Because everyone knows who I am and because I make a lot of money, they all think I must be terribly happy, which they resent and which isn’t so. Funny, isn’t it? I’ve had all the things I ever wanted and I’m not…well, it’s an awful feeling not having anybody to be close to. Oh, I tried to get my mother to come out here but she won’t leave Baltimore. So here I am, all alone, like the song says. At least until now.” He gave a flashing smile. Jim smiled back, in spite of himself. He couldn’t help thinking that the man did have everything, and if he hadn’t found a lover by now it was doubtless his own fault.

  Jim unbuttoned his shirt. The day was warm and the sun was pleasant. He sat very still, trying not to contemplate the sadness of the life of Ronald Shaw. But Shaw was persistent. “You know,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like you. Somebody so natural and…well, unscheming. I also didn’t think you could be made. You don’t seem the type.” Jim was pleased to hear this, faith in his own manhood momentarily restored. Shaw grinned. “But I’m glad things turned out the way they did.”

  Jim smiled, too. “So am I.”

  “I hate those others, those lousy queens.” Shaw lifted one shoulder and gave a curiously feminine shake to his body, mocking in a single gesture the entire legion.

  “They’re OK, some of them.”

  “I’m not talking about them as people,” said Shaw. “I mean for sex. If a man likes men, he wants a man, and if he likes women, he wants a woman, so who wants a freak who’s neither? It’s a mystery to me.” Shaw yawned. “Maybe I ought to be psychoanalyzed.”

  “Why?”

  Shaw examined his biceps muscles critically: his appearance was his livelihood. “I don’t know. Sometimes I…” But he did not pursue the thought. The arms went slack. “Bunch of fakes, every last one of them, telling you stuff you already know. No, what matters is being tough. You got to be tough in this world. There’s no place for the weak, like Mamma used to say. She was right, too. That’s how I got where I am, being tough and not feeling sorry for myself.”

  Jim was impressed by the sternness of this speech. He was also reminded of his own situation. “That’s OK for you,” he said, “this being tough. You had talent. You knew what you wanted. But what about me? I’m just a better-than-average tennis player. So what do I do? Toughness isn’t going to help me play any better.”

  Shaw looked at him, obviously making an effort to consider the case. “Well, I don’t know.” The beautiful eyes went slightly out of focus. “Would you…uh, like to act?”

  Jim shrugged. “Me? Why?”

  “Well, that’s not what I’d call burning ambition. No, you’ve got to want this thing so much it hurts.” And Shaw resumed the monologue which pleased him most, the chronicle of his own rise in the world, aided by no one except Mamma. Within the circle of his own self-love, Shaw was content, and Jim did not in the least resent being at the periphery of that self-absorption. Jim accepted Shaw completely and uncritically. After all, their affair was but a temporary halt on a long voyage whose terminus was Bob.

  When Shaw had finished his hymn to achievement, Jim said, with an admiration not entirely false, “I guess I haven’t got it,” he said. “I don’t want anything that bad.”

  Shaw fondled the vertical line of dark hair on his own chest. “We could certainly get you work as an extra. Then—who knows?”

  “Who knows?” Jim rose and stretched. Shaw watched him, pleased and aroused.

  “Put your bathing trunks on,” he said, and he led Jim into the knight’s pavilion.

  IV

  TWO MONTHS PASSED PEACEFULLY. Jim enjoyed the large house with its rooms like movie sets. On the days when Shaw was at the studio, Jim would play tennis with various friends who wanted to meet Shaw’s new lover as well as improve their backhand. Jim was agreeably surprised to find himself something of a celebrity, at least in this one world, and the interest he inspired compensated somewhat for the shame he had felt with Schilling.

  Jim enjoyed Shaw’s parties and he quickly made himself useful. He learned how to cope with drunks, mix drinks, and discreetly cue Shaw if there was a story he wanted to tell. Jim was much impressed by the beautifully dressed people who drank heavily and talked incessantly of their sex life. Their harsh candor both shocked and pleased him. They feared nothing, at least behind the high stucco walls of Shaw’s estate.

  Jim found Shaw not only an agreeable companion but, more important, informative. He showed him the secret Hollywood where, so it was said, nearly all the leading men were homosexual and those few who were not were under constant surveillance. A number of women acted as outriders to the beautiful legion, and they were often called upon to be public escorts. They were known as “beards.” But they were not always reliable. One evening a drunken outrider tried to make love to Shaw and, when he pushed her away, she shouted obscenities at everyone present; then she was led away and no one ever saw her again.

  For purposes of publicity, Shaw appeared regularly at nightclubs with girls, often rising actresses. He did this to satisfy the head of the studio, a nervous businessman whose nightmare was that scandal might end the career of his hottest property.

  Jim liked Shaw, though he never believed him when, together at night, he would tell Jim how much he loved him. For one thing, the speeches flowed so easily that even the inexperienced Jim recognized that the actor was playacting. Nor was Jim disturbed. He was not in love with Shaw, nor did he pretend to be. For one thing, the idea of being in love with a man was both ludicrous and unnatural; at the most a man might find his twin, like Bob, but that was rare and something else again.

  One day, Shaw took Jim to the studio. As a rule they never went out in public together, but today Shaw thought it time Jim saw him work.

  The studio was an immense enclosure of white sound-stages, resembling mammoth garages. As Shaw drove through the studio gate, he was saluted respectfully by the gateman, while a pack of girls gave shrieks of recognition and waved autograph books at him.

  Beyond the gate was another world, peopled with costumed extras, executives, technicians, laborers. Twenty films were being made simultaneously. Nothing else on earth mattered here.

  They parked in front of a bungalow framed by hibiscus.

  “My dressing room.” Shaw was already beginning to get businesslike. Inside, stretched on a sofa, was a small bald man.

  “Baby, you’re late. I got here half an hour ago, like we agreed. And so far I’ve read Variety, the Reporter, and even the script.”

  “I’m sorry, Cy.” Shaw introduced Jim to the man on the sofa. “Cy’s directing my picture.”

  “If that’s what you can call what I’m doing in this miserable place.” Cy moaned. “Why did I ever leave New York? Why didn’t I stay with the Group Theater?”

  “Because they didn’t want you, baby.” Shaw grinned as he shed his jacket.

  “There he stands. Pound for pound, the worst actor in America.” Cy turned to Jim. “All he’s got is that adorable smile and those obscene pectorals…or
pectorials, as they say out here.”

  “Jealous, baby?” Shaw stripped to his shorts and flexed his celebrated pectorals. Cy groaned with disgust and shut his eyes.

  “I can’t stand it!” He pointed to a door. “Get your costume on. Makeup’s been waiting since seven.”

  Shaw stepped into the next room, leaving the door ajar. “So what’s the schedule?”

  “A new scene, that’s what. The writers were at it all night. They wrote this wonderful new scene on a menu at the Cotton Club. You’ll love it.”

  “Am I terribly brave?”

  “What else? They’ve given you a stiff upper lip, a tight sphincter…everything.”

  “A tight what?”

  “I’ll say one thing, if they ever educated one of you dopes it’d be the end of the American Dream. You agree, baby?” Cy gave Jim a sharp look.

  “Sure,” said Jim.

  “Sure,” mimicked Cy. “What am I doing here?” he asked the ceiling.

  “Making fifteen hundred a week” came Shaw’s voice from the next room, “and that’s nothing for a good director, but for you…”

  “Is this my reward for coming here to try and help you with this crucial new scene so that when you face the Big Brownie you’ll know what you’re doing? Yes, this is my reward, and you’ll just wing the words like always, and another moneymaking bagel will drop into the laps of the American moviegoers. I guess you want to be an actor, too?” Again the sharp eyes turned to Jim.

  “Well…”

  “Well, of course! Where else in the world can a guy with no brain and no talent get to be rich and famous all because…”

  Shaw entered in full eighteenth-century costume. “All because I am a Sex Symbol,” he said happily. “Look at those legs, baby. Drool at the thought.” Shaw patted a muscular thigh with obvious affection. “That’s what they want out there in the dark and I got it.”

  “Keep it, please.”

  Jim had never seen an actor in full makeup. He was quite awed by the transformation. This was not the man he knew but someone else, a glamorous stranger. As usual, Shaw was conscious of the effect he was making. He gave Jim a conspiratorial grin.

  “What sort of picture is it?” asked Jim.

  “Shit,” said Cy, quietly.

  “Popular entertainment,” said Shaw. “Which will gross four million domestic. It’s a remake of this classic French novel by Dumas fils,” he added in a rehearsed voice, suitable for instructing interviewers in the commissary.

  “Dumas fils was the Ronald Shaw of his day, God help him.” Cy stood up. “So let’s get down to the set. The Bitch Goddess is already there.”

  Shaw explained to Jim that the Bitch Goddess was his costar, a famous lady whose presence in a film guaranteed success. The combination of Shaw and this lady was considered especially potent.

  “She hungover?” asked Shaw as they stepped from the bungalow into the main street of the studio.

  “At dawn, her eyes were like two rubies,” said Cy, dreamily. “And her breath was reminiscent of a wind in summer over the Jersey Flats.”

  Shaw grimaced. “We got a love scene?”

  “Kind of.” Cy handed him two pages. “That’s it. Straight from the back of the menu of the Cotton Club. You’ll love it.”

  As they walked, Shaw studied the two pages intently. Jim noticed that all the marvelously dressed people who crowded the studio street stared enviously at Shaw; and Jim took vicarious pride in this attention. Just in front of the soundstage, Shaw handed Cy the script. “I got it,” he said.

  “You mean you learned it, which isn’t exactly getting it.”

  “Quickest study in the business.” Shaw turned to Jim. “I’ve got this photographic memory. I can see the whole page in my head when I’m acting.”

  “And that’s just about what comes across.” Cy was mocking. “Shaw even gives you the typos. Remember that time you said, ‘But where is your hubsand’?”

  “Knock it off,” said Shaw, and all badinage ended as they stepped onto the soundstage, where he was in his proper kingdom. The Bitch Goddess, looking extraordinarily beautiful, lay on an incline board in order not to crush her elaborate costume. When she saw Shaw, she shouted in her celebrated hoarse voice, “Hiya, Butch!”

  “You got the new scene?” Shaw was flat.

  His costar held up the pages. “It’s even worse than the old scene.”

  “Academy Award time,” said Shaw lightly.

  “Academy Award? We’ll be lucky not to end up in radio when this turkey hits the nabes.” She threw the script down.

  Then Cy came over. “Ready, folks?” Obediently, they followed him to the center of the set. He then talked to them in a low voice, rather like a boxing referee before a bout. The rules understood, Cy yelled, “Places!” The extras fell into position, some talking in groups of three or four, some ready to walk slowly from group to group when the action started. A buzzer sounded and Cy shouted, “Start moving, children! Let it roll!” There was silence on the soundstage. As the camera approached the female star, she turned, smiling, then, seeing Shaw to her left, she looked surprised.

  “Why did you come?” Her voice was clear, the question vital.

  “You knew I would.” Shaw’s voice was resonant and warm. Jim barely recognized it.

  “But…my husband…”

  “I’ve taken care of him. Get your cloak. Quickly! We must leave tonight for Calais.”

  “Cut!” yelled Cy. The room became noisy again. “Let’s take that over again. Shaw, remember to keep your left shoulder down when you walk into range. Darling, try and remember to show surprise when you see him. After all, you think that your husband has had him locked up. OK. We’ll take it again.”

  Jim watched them do this scene for several hours. At the end of the day he was no longer interested in acting.

  V

  DECEMBER CAME AND JIM found it hard to imagine that it was winter, for the sun continued warm and the trees green. And he was able to play tennis every day. He was beginning to make money, and acquire a reputation as a good teacher. When a magazine photographer came to take pictures of Shaw’s house, he also took pictures of Jim. These were published in a fan magazine. As a result, Jim got many offers to give lessons, which he accepted. Offers of another sort he sternly rejected.

  Although Shaw approved of his earning money, he disliked it when Jim left the house. One night when Jim did not come home until after dinner, Shaw accused him of being ungrateful and thoughtless. They shouted at one another until Jim went to his room, angry at being treated like a possession. It was even worse later, when Shaw came to his room to say that he was sorry, and to make love, and to tell Jim how great the love was he had to give but how hopeless it all was knowing that such deep feeling could never be returned. Jim could not help but think that perhaps Shaw had less to give than he suspected.

  As Jim lay very still in the dark, his arm beneath Shaw’s head, he wondered if he should at least speak up and say that he wanted to be free to go wherever he pleased and see people he wanted to see without giving excuses to a lover who was not in love. But Shaw divined his mood.

  “I’m sorry I’m so jealous, Jimmy, but I hate to think of your being out with anybody else. I depend a lot on you when I’m tired and want to get away from all these hangers-on. You’re different from all the others. You really are. And, God, I’d love to quit this whole racket one of these days. Get out of this town of fakes and go off somewhere in the country and buy a farm maybe. Then Mamma could come live there with us. Of course we’d have to be a little careful with her around, but we could manage. Yes, I’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Jim moved uneasily in the dark. His arm was beginning to go to sleep beneath Shaw’s head; he clenched his fist, trying to restore circulation.

  “I don’t know, Ronnie. I don’t know if I’d like to settle
down just yet.”

  “Oh.” Shaw’s sigh was bitter and stagy. “You really don’t give a damn, do you? It’s the same old routine: upward and onward. Whores of the world, unite. Because of me, you can now make a living with those tennis lessons, if that’s what they are. So I’m nothing to you.” Shaw moved over to the other side of the bed and Jim was relieved to feel the blood circulating again in his arm.

  “That isn’t true, Ronnie. I like you a lot but I haven’t had an awful lot of experience with this sort of thing before. I’m still pretty new at it” (he had never told Shaw about Bob) “and I don’t think you’re being very fair. You can’t expect me to give up my whole life when I don’t know but what you might find another guy you like more than me, and where’d I be then?”

  “What would you do if you did leave me?” Shaw’s voice was distant.

  “I’d like to start a tennis school maybe. That’s what I’m saving for.” Jim realized that he had said too much; he had not wanted Shaw to know that he was carefully saving money, three thousand dollars so far.

  “You’re not really planning to leave?” Shaw was plaintive.

  “Not until you want me to,” said Jim simply, making up for his blunder.

  * * *

  —

  After breakfast Christmas morning, Shaw telephoned his mother in Baltimore and talked to her for half an hour, regardless of the cost. Then he gave presents in front of the tree. Jim received an expensive Australian tennis racket. Next came dinner at one o’clock, the high point of the day.

  Shaw had invited a dozen guests, old friends, men without families who had no place to go at Christmas. Jim knew them all except one, a sandy-haired young man who was talking intensely to Cy. Through the window, Jim caught a glimpse of a palm tree. No, it was not really Christmas, he thought as he said hello to Cy, who looked like a Persian vizier from one of his own pictures. Drunk and merry, he introduced Jim to the sandy-haired man.

  “Jim Willard, this is the great Paul Sullivan.” They shook hands and Jim wondered why Paul Sullivan was great. Then he excused himself and helped Shaw serve eggnog. Shaw’s face was flushed; he was in a gay mood.