The City and the Pillar

by Gore Vidal

  “Lovely party, isn’t it, Jimmy?”

  Jim nodded. “Who is this guy Sullivan? Should I know who he is?” Shaw was usually careful to let Jim know who people were and what they did so that he could treat them accordingly. That was Hollywood procedure. In the hierarchy of money, each man was treated with the deference his salary called for.

  “He’s a writer who writes books and he came out here to work with Cy on a picture. He’s a real highbrow, which means he’s a real pain, always bitching about Hollywood. These guys take the industry’s money, then they complain. He’s typical.”

  At dinner, Shaw carved the turkey. Champagne was served. The guests were happy. And to Jim’s inattentive ear, the conversation sounded brilliant. Even though most of it was about movies: who was being signed for what picture, and why.

  Sullivan sat beside Jim. He was a quiet man, with dark eyes and a slightly upturned nose. His mouth was too full and his ears were too large. But he was attractive.

  “You’re a writer, aren’t you?” Jim spoke respectfully, wishing to make a good impression.

  Sullivan nodded. “I came out here to work on a picture but…” The voice was light and boyish. Deliberately he left the sentence unfinished.

  “You don’t like working for movies?”

  Sullivan glanced at Cy, who was sitting across from him. “No,” he said in a low voice, “I don’t like it at all. Are you in this business?”

  Jim shook his head. “You write books, don’t you?”

  Sullivan nodded.

  “Novels?”

  “Novels, poetry. I don’t suppose you’ve read any of them.” This was said sadly, not defensively.

  “I don’t expect so.” Jim was truthful. “I don’t seem to find time to read.”

  “Who does in this damned town?”

  “I guess they like their work,” said Jim uncertainly. “They think about pictures mostly.”

  “I know.” Sullivan ate a stalk of celery and Jim watched him, wondering if he liked him. Most of the people who visited Shaw seemed all alike. They said what they thought about everything, including themselves, and usually they liked themselves rather more than other people did. Sexually they were obvious, unlike Sullivan, who appeared perfectly normal.

  “Are you from the East?” asked Jim.

  Sullivan nodded. “New Hampshire originally but I live in New York.”

  Then Sullivan asked Jim many questions and Jim answered most of them truthfully. It was a bit like a cross-examination. Jim had never known anyone to ask so many questions. By the time dessert was served, Jim had told Sullivan most of the facts of his life. As for Sullivan, he was twenty-eight (Jim thought that was old), married once and divorced, an impressive achievement which explained why he was not like most of the sensitive young men who visited Shaw. Obscurely Jim was glad.

  Dinner over, the guests gathered in the drawing room. As usual, a group gathered about Shaw. But Sullivan was not one of them. He sat alone in a window seat, his large hands playing idly with a silver matchbox. Jim joined him.

  “A beautiful place,” said Sullivan.

  “You mean this house or…”

  “The whole thing. It’s idyllic. Like going to Heaven before your time. Perfect climate, bright colors, fantastic houses. And beautiful people with suntans, white teeth, empty heads.”

  “Like me?”

  “Yes. No!” Sullivan laughed. Suddenly he was a boy, and Jim was captured. “Like our host,” said Sullivan. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You live with him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he must be all right.”

  “He is,” said Jim, realizing that he should say more but not able to.

  “You give tennis lessons on the side?”

  “That’s how I make my living.” Jim tried not to sound kept. But it was no use. The thing was plain enough.

  “What would you like to do eventually?”

  “Set myself up as a teacher. Buy some courts. But that takes money.”

  “And otherwise, do you know what you want?”

  “No,” said Jim accurately. “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Neither do I.” Sullivan smiled, reminding Jim of Bob. Then he rose to go.

  “Would you like to play tennis sometime?” Jim was bold. They made a date and Sullivan left. Not until then did Jim realize that Shaw had been watching them.

  CHAPTER

  5

  I

  JIM AND SULLIVAN MET every day, unknown to Shaw, who suspected but did not know for certain what was happening. The lovers would meet at Sullivan’s hotel each noon, the only time during the day when Sullivan was able to leave the studio lot. Since Jim was usually the first to arrive, he would go straight to the room and wash up after the morning’s tennis. Then he would lie on the bed and wait for Sullivan, heart beating fast, surprised to find that he was excited not only by their lovemaking but also by Sullivan as a person. He was intrigued because Sullivan never mentioned their affair, destroying Jim’s theory that all homosexuals talked continually of love, like Shaw. Reticence was a relief, while it lasted. But eventually words became necessary. Sullivan’s contract with the studio was ending. Soon he would leave California. That meant they needed to understand one another before plans could be made, if plans were to be made.

  “How many times have you done this?” Sullivan was abrupt. Jim hesitated, then he told the truth. “Three times. Three different people.”

  Sullivan nodded. “I thought so.”

  “What do you mean? Flattery or insult?”

  “Just that you haven’t followed the usual pattern. I could tell right off. So could Shaw. I expect that’s why he wanted you to live with him.” This was the first time Sullivan had mentioned Shaw.

  “So what’s the usual pattern?”

  Sullivan lay back on the bed, his eyes on the ceiling. “It starts in school. You’re just a little different from the others. Sometimes you’re shy and a bit frail; or maybe too precocious, too handsome, an athlete, in love with yourself. Then you start to have erotic dreams about another boy—like yourself—and you get to know him and you try to be his friend and if he’s sufficiently ambivalent and you’re sufficiently aggressive you’ll have a wonderful time experimenting with each other. And so it begins. Then you meet another boy and another, and as you grow older, if you have a dominant nature, you become a hunter. If you’re passive, you become a wife. If you’re noticeably effeminate, you may join a group of others like yourself and accept being marked and known. There are a dozen types and many different patterns but there is almost always the same beginning, not being like the others.”

  “I’m pretty ordinary,” said Jim, almost believing himself.

  “Are you? Perhaps. Anyway you started late and I don’t think you’re much involved with others. I don’t think you could ever love a man. So I hope you find the right woman for yourself.” Sullivan stopped. Jim did not answer. He had not told Sullivan about Bob, and yet Sullivan had revealed him to himself as just like the others, varying hardly at all from what must be a familiar pattern. With self-knowledge came alarm. If he was really like the others, then what sort of future could he have? Endless drifting, promiscuity, defeat? No. It was not possible. He was different, Bob was different. After all, hadn’t he been able to fool everyone, even those like himself, even Sullivan? Deliberately he banished the unsought revelation to that part of his brain where he disposed of unpleasant memories and then, truth disposed of, he found that he was hurt by something Sullivan had said. Was it true that he was so unfeeling in his relationships? Perhaps with Shaw and Sullivan, but not with Bob. Certainly no one had ever felt as desperate and as lonely as he when Bob had left. Yes, he was perfectly capable of love, at least with someone who could be his brother. And though Sullivan was hardly this longed-for twin, at least he was wiser than
Shaw and less demanding and Jim felt easy with him, if not candid, and even affectionate.

  “I think you’re the unluckiest type.” Sullivan rolled over on his stomach and looked at Jim. “You’ll attract everybody, yet you won’t be able to do anything about it. Not really. Oh, maybe someday you’ll find a woman who’ll suit you, but not a man. You’re not like the rest of us, who want a mirror. It’s exciting in a way but it’s also sad.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Jim, who knew exactly but chose to maintain his secret: a memory of a cabin and a brown river. Someday he would relive all that again and the circle of his life would be completed. Meanwhile he would learn about the world and please himself and scrupulously hide his secret from those who wanted him to love.

  * * *

  —

  In February Sullivan’s option was not renewed. A few days later, coincidentally, Shaw took a new boy. Jim tried to avoid the obligatory scene of parting, but Shaw had waited two months for this moment and so it was played through to the end.

  Knowing what was coming, Jim packed his bags that morning and tried to leave the house, but Shaw had insisted that they have a “last supper” together, with Jim in the role of Judas. So Jim remained.

  Shaw was silent during most of dinner, crown of thorns resting heavily on his brow. Not until after coffee did he speak. He started in a low voice, more in sorrow than in anger. “I suppose you and Sullivan are going to leave town?”

  Jim nodded and Shaw smiled gently. “It’s such a shame, Jim. I really was counting on you. I really felt that this was the one, the big one that would last. In a funny way, I’m kind of innocent. I thought you were different, and you weren’t. Not that I’m blaming you,” he said quickly, eager to seem fair. “I know it’s tough living with somebody like me, and all the people around us trying to break things up. I know, God knows I know, what the temptations are. Only an awfully strong person could resist, a really strong character—or else someone in love. Which you weren’t. Not that that was your fault. I don’t blame you. How could I?” Not wanting to be interrupted, Shaw was careful to give both sides as he went along. “After all, love is something which few people are capable of. You were too young. And I should have realized that. You can only love yourself, and now that you’ve gotten the most out of our relationship, you’re ready to move on to this writer, this misfit who’s just as incapable of feeling as you. Yes, I’ve heard a lot of things about Sullivan,” said Shaw darkly. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve heard, of course. You must find them out for yourself. I’m only telling you this now because I’m still very fond of you, in spite of what you’ve done, and to show you that I’m not bitter. As a matter of fact, I’m happy because I’ve found Peter, who’s coming to live with me.” He paused, ready for the defense. But there was none. Jim stared at him politely, wondering when he could decently go.

  Disappointed, Shaw tried walking on water. “I’m sure Peter can return the affection I give. At least I hope so. My bad luck has got to end someday. Oh, I hate to sound as if I’m accusing you, Jim. I’m not. I know how difficult it must have been for you. You never really cared for me and at least you were honest; you never said you did. But then since you never said you didn’t, I hoped and even believed sometimes that you did care a little. It’s only now that I have Peter that I can regard what we had together, our affair, detachedly and with complete understanding. I see that you weren’t mature enough and that’s probably my fault for trying to attain the impossible.” Jim recognized this last line from one of Shaw’s recent films. Tag ends of scripts tended to work their way into his conversation.

  “I hope,” Shaw continued, turning the other cheek, “that you will realize these things about yourself before you hurt Sullivan, too. Yes, I admit I’ve been hurt, terribly hurt by you, but I don’t hold it against you. Which is the one quality I have that you will never find in anyone else. I always forgive. Will Sullivan?” Jim tried to appear interested in this new question, which he knew would soon be answered. It was. “You see, Paul Sullivan is an unusual person. There’s no doubt about that. They got him here for snob appeal, or so they thought. He’s an intellectual, and I suppose in Greenwich Village the left-wingers think he’s wonderful, though he’s never written a real best-seller or anything anybody has ever read. I certainly haven’t. Not that I have much time for reading, but at least I’ve read all the classics—Walter Scott, Dumas, Margaret Mitchell, all that crowd, and they were popular….” He stopped, aware that he was making too much of a case for the popular. “Anyway, it’s not important whether he’s a good writer or not. The important thing is whether he is capable of feeling, whether he has the maturity to overlook your shortcomings. He was quite cruel to one boy, I’m told. But I’m sure you’ll have better luck. I want you to be happy. I really mean it. I do.” Shaw’s radiant smile almost disguised the hatred in his eyes.

  There was a sound in the hall and a dark-haired youth appeared in the doorway.

  Shaw rose from the dead. “Come in, Peter, and have some coffee. Jim was just saying good-bye.”

  II

  SULLIVAN WAS THE FIRST person Jim had ever met who found obscure pleasure in his own pain. Obsessed by failure, professional and private, and unable to relieve himself in scenes like Shaw, Paul’s only outlet was to write. Yet even in his work he was so studied and inhibited that all he could ever convey was a light bitterness, a casual anger at a world which, all in all, had done well by him. A doting family, until he ceased to be Catholic at sixteen. There was much argument then, but he would not budge. Even the family priest gave him up at last, perfectly bewildered by this unlooked-for apostasy. None suspected that he had forsaken the Church because he was homosexual. For a long time he had tried to exorcise the unnatural spirit, demanding furiously of God that he be freed of this terrible inclination. He prayed continually. But in the end, God failed him, and he turned to Hell. He studied a book on witchcraft, celebrated a Black Mass, tried to sell his soul to the devil in order to be free of lust. But the devil had no use for him either, and so Paul Sullivan abandoned all religion.

  For a time Paul was happy. If only in this one act, he had at least demonstrated that he could be free. But his happiness did not last long. At school he fell in love with a young athlete. It was months before he summoned up the nerve to speak to him. During this time he could do nothing more than sit near him in class, watch him play football, and wait. Finally, late one afternoon when everyone else had gone home, they met in front of the school. The boy spoke first. It was easy after that. Though Paul was thin and shy, he had always been accepted as one of the boys. Since he was admired because he was known to read a lot, an athlete would not lose caste by being his friend. So it began. Together they experimented with sex and Paul was as happy as he would ever be again in his life, and perfectly pleased that Heaven and Hell had forsaken him.

  But the next year everything changed. The athlete liked girls and they liked him, and so Paul was abandoned and suffered accordingly. He became shyer, more aloof than before. He made no friends. His parents worried about him. His mother was certain that his unhappiness came from the denial of God and Church. He let her believe this, unable to tell her what it was that set him apart from others and made him feel obscurely superior to all the heterosexual world, if only because he had a secret that they could not guess and an insight into life that they did not have. Yet simultaneously he hated himself for needing the body of another man to be complete.

  Women were attracted to him, particularly older women, and they were kind to him and, as a result, Paul learned a good deal about women at a time when his contemporaries were learning only about girls’ bodies. But this knowledge had its price. Imperceptibly, these amiable companions would begin to presume that conversational intimacy might lead to something else. When that happened, flight was in order.

  At seventeen Paul went to Harvard. For the first time in his life he found himself in a to
lerant environment. He soon made a number of friends, all of whom were going to write books. Spurred by them, he concentrated on writing. When his father suggested that perhaps he should prepare for the Business School, he reacted so strongly that the subject never came up again.

  In college Paul wrote his first novel, about a young man who wanted to be a novelist. (Thomas Wolfe was popular that year.) The novel was rejected by every publisher he sent it to. He also wrote poems; several were published in little magazines. Confident that he was a poet, he left Harvard without a degree, went to New York, broke off all communication with his family, did odd jobs, and wrote a novel about a bitter young man who did odd jobs in New York. The prose was crude, the politics Marxist, the dislike of Catholicism authentic. The book was published and he found himself with the reputation of a person of promise, living in New York with other persons of promise.

  One day, in a spirit of rebellion against his nature, Paul married a girl his own age. The marriage was not consummated. He loathed the bodies of women. He liked their faces but not their bodies. As a child he remembered watching his mother undress and being horrified by her sagging body. Since then all women were associated with his mother, not only taboo but unaesthetic. His wife left him and the marriage was annulled.

  Paul had many affairs. Some for physical relief, some as the result of boredom, a few for love or what he thought was love. These all ended badly; he never knew exactly why. Of course the men that he liked were usually simple athletic types, bisexual, who preferred the safety of family life to the edgy pleasures of a homosexual affair, and so he turned to those bars where he could always find a boy who would spend the night with him, in cold blood as it were, through callousness, giving him the pain he had come to expect and secretly need. He lived alone and saw few people. He traveled a good deal and he wrote novels. He put everything into his novels. Yet the result was disappointing. His books were praised but not taken seriously. He made enough money to live but he was not a best-seller. He had an honest contempt for the bad novels that sold well and yet he secretly envied their authors, damned by reviewers but wealthy. Nevertheless, he continued to write. There was nothing else to do, no other life for him but the surrogate one of putting words on paper.