by Gore Vidal
“Carson McCullers? Yes. And of course Faulkner. The Agrarians, yes. A lot of Southerners seem to be writing. Perhaps it was the Civil War. One must have a tragedy to have a literature. Also, Southerners are not forced so quickly into business. That makes a difference. And then they talk so awfully much.”
“Is the Partisan Review really, truly Trotskyite?”
“The Jews can’t write novels. No, I’m not anti-Semitic. And Jews do make excellent critics. But they are not creative. It has something to do with Talmudic training. Of course Proust was a genius but he was half-French and all social climber.”
“Henry Miller is almost as boring as Walt Whitman, and a good deal less talented.”
“I adored For Whom the Bell Tolls. I read it twice. Obscenity of an obscenity but it was beautiful and good and true.”
“Scott Fitzgerald? I don’t think I know the name. Is he here? Does he write?”
A lean young man in need of a shave asked Jim if he was a writer and when Jim said no, the young man was relieved. “Too many writers,” he mumbled. He was drunk.
“What do you think of Paul Sullivan?” Jim was curious to know. But he found the answer unfathomable. “I don’t like Aldous Huxley either.”
Across the room Sullivan was signing a book. Jim departed.
* * *
—
It was a busy summer. The war continued. Jim’s work was hard but rewarding. He particularly liked Mr. Globe, who knew nothing about tennis. “I’m in this for the money, Jim,” he said one day. “I used to have this secondhand shop and that closed in the Depression. And then I was a clerk until I got into this for the money. I say you can make money easy if you’re in things for the money but you need a little help sometimes. You know why we let you buy in the business?”
Jim shook his head, though he knew.
“Because you’re not in this just for the money. You like what you do and there’s always got to be a few people who know something to help the ones who’re in it for the money to make money.”
That summer they made money, and Jim was happy.
When Maria Verlaine returned to New York that autumn, Jim and Sullivan visited her at the Harding. She was in good form, Jim thought, and told her so.
“I’ve been in Argentina.”
“Is that an answer?” Sullivan laughed.
“I thought you were in Canada,” said Jim.
“Yes, to both of you. I’ll get you a drink. I thought we’d have dinner here in the room.” Her movements were swift and graceful. “It’s a very simple, a very familiar story. I met an Argentine in Canada. He invited me to visit him in Buenos Aires. I did.”
“Was that wise?” Paul was oddly conventional.
“Dear Paul! He’s a rich poet and quite indifferent to what people say. As a matter of fact, he told everyone I was a famous literary figure from Mexico and I was worshiped. It was delightful.”
“And now?”
“I’m back, as you see, and we’ll be here for the winter.”
“We?” asked Jim.
“Yes, Carlos is here with me. But in a different suite. We must be hypocrites in New York. We don’t want to corrupt the Anglo-Saxons.”
“Is he published in America?” asked Paul.
She shook her head. “I don’t think he’s ever really written anything.”
“But you said he was a poet.”
“That doesn’t mean he has to write poems, does it? Actually, he does nothing at all and that’s his poetry, to do nothing, with imagination of course.”
“Are we going to meet him?” asked Paul.
Maria was evasive. “Of course. But not today. Perhaps later. Now tell me about your new book.”
Jim listened and wondered why he felt betrayed instead of pleased for Maria, who seemed to have found what she had been searching for. But he was not pleased. He was furious with her and with himself for being unable to give her anything except a friendship and a candor she could get as easily from others quite as understanding as he. Yet he was hurt; it was as if she had indeed been a lover who had deserted him.
Dinner was brought them in the room, and Jim drank prewar Burgundy, hoping to get drunk, but his mind was too sharply focused in its outrage.
During dinner Paul described his London meeting with Amelia. Maria was not surprised. “I was afraid she would become an Amazon.”
“Now don’t blame it on me.”
“Never! It was not your fault, not hers. It’s just this terrible country.”
“Terrible?” Jim was startled from his self-pity. He had never heard anyone be quite so vehement about God’s country.
“Maria’s a Nazi.” Paul chuckled. “Or a Communist.”
“The Russians are our allies.” Maria was light. “But I’m not political. Just a woman. A rather hard thing to be in your country. Either I meet men who have been…wounded, or I meet those who think only of women as a kind of relief, rather like aspirin.”
“Latents are lousy lovers.” Paul grinned. He had never been impressed by Maria’s hymns to Aphrodite.
“You are perfectly right.” Maria chose to take him seriously. “Everything in this country is calculated to destroy both sexes. Men are told that their desires are dirty and unwanted. Women are told that they are goddesses and that men are fortunate to be able just to worship them at a distance….”
“It’s the fault of advertising,” said Paul. “Since women buy the most things, the advertisers flatter them the most, tell them they have more taste than men, more sensitivity, more intelligence, even more physical strength because they live longer. The advertisers of course are men.”
“Well, they have a lot to answer for.” Maria was uncharacteristically grim.
“Are Europeans so much better?” asked Jim.
Maria shrugged. “At least the men know who and what they are, and that is the beginning of sanity.”
Paul agreed. “Americans tend to play different roles, hoping that somehow they’ll stumble on the right one.”
Jim turned to Maria. “When the war is over, will you go back to Europe?”
“Yes. Forever!”
“With the Argentine?” Paul was amused.
“Who knows?” She smiled. She had never seemed quite so lovely to Jim. “I live in the present.” She looked at Jim and because he saw affection in her eyes, he looked away, pondering the betrayal, cursing its cause.
III
SULLIVAN’s NEW BOOK WAS not a success. He wrote articles for magazines and wondered if he should try his luck in the theater. Jim found him easy to get along with. From time to time one or the other would bring home a stranger and neither was in the least jealous or envious. From Jim’s standpoint it was an ideal relationship; only the intense experience with Bob could be more satisfactory than his life with Sullivan.
Jim saw Maria Verlaine occasionally; the Argentine was never present. Their old intimacy continued, but he was aware, now more than ever, that it was not enough. He found it unbearable that she should be happy and that he was not the cause.
At New Year’s Rolloson invited Jim and Sullivan to a party: “a congenial group, my dears, just a little gathering” of what turned out to be the same group that had been there at the time of Jim’s first visit. Rolloson wore a light gray suit pulled in tightly at the waist, a mauve shirt gorgeously monogrammed, and a sea green crepe de chine ascot at his rosy throat. He greeted them at the door, smelling of violets.
“How lovely of you to come, Mr. Sullivan. May I call you Paul? Paul, there are loads of people here dying to meet you and I’m sure you’ll find a lot of old friends, too. I think literally everybody is here, and I did so intend to have an intimate party. Ah, well.” He thrust Sullivan at a group of literary-looking men, among whom was the gray-haired professor from City College. With Sullivan safely put aside, Rolly took Jim about
the room, introducing him to various people, all the while chattering. “First Shaw and now Sullivan. Aren’t you the one, though! How do you do it? Or should I say, what do you have?” He gave Jim a lightning grope. Jim shied away, irritated.
“It just happens that they’re the only people I know.”
“But where did you know them?”
“In Hollywood. Did you get your Papal thing, that decoration?”
Rolly frowned. “My dear, the Church is riddled with politics, literally riddled. As a matter of fact—don’t repeat a word of this to anyone—I think I shall take up Vedanta. I’ve met the most wonderful swami. At least I think he’s a swami. He’s here tonight unless I forgot…no, I remember I saw him at the Van Vechtens’ and I invited him…or was that the prince? I’ve got the most wonderful Hindu prince here, too. You’ll just love him. He looks like Theda Bara. He’s here, I know, because I remember complimenting him on his handsome turban. But I’m not so sure about the swami. You know, he’s got millions of dollars in rubies and emeralds right here with him in New York—the prince, I mean, not the swami. I don’t think he has anything but he’s terribly high-minded. Read Gerald Heard if you don’t believe me. Where’s Shaw now?”
“Who? Oh, Shaw. Well, I think he’s back in Hollywood by now. He’s been discharged from the Navy, or so it said in the papers.”
“Papers? Don’t you ever hear from him?”
“No, we don’t write.”
“What a pity! You know, he broke so many hearts when he was here. Good evening Jack, Jimmy, Allen. Lovely of you to come. I think he’s terribly handsome—Shaw, I mean. He has such an air about him.” Rolly looked about the room at his guests. Jim noticed that he was wearing makeup. “It’s very gay, don’t you think so? Oh, here comes Sir Roger Beaston, the perfect camp! Do excuse me.” Roily darted across the room to meet a pale little man with yellow hair.
Jim found Sullivan at the center of a group of people, not all literary. They were drinking champagne and talking animatedly about a certain European king who had taken a new boy who was supposed to be extraordinarily handsome and charming, even if he had begun his career hustling in Miami. Jim listened, no longer surprised at hearing revelations about people he had never suspected before. At first he had disbelieved all the stories on principle, but too often they had proved to be true. Obviously the world was not what it seemed. Anything might be true of anybody.
Jim ambled away. In the hall he found a telephone, cradled in a piece of driftwood. Without thinking he picked it up and telephoned Maria. She answered. He could hear music behind her voice and the sound of voices.
“Jim! Where are you?”
“At a dull party.”
“Then come here!”
* * *
—
Maria wore an evening dress of silver and a red flower in her hair. Her eyes sparkled and she seemed drunk, although she never drank. She simply became charged with energy and enthusiasm when she was with those she liked. They embraced and she led him into her apartment. Maria introduced him to a dozen handsome couples, mostly European émigrés. Then she gave him champagne and they sat in front of the mock fireplace.
“Whose party did you desert for me?”
“A man named Rolloson.”
She made a face. “I’ve known Rolly for twenty years. He’s harmless, I suppose, but he alarms me. It’s like seeing oneself in a distorted mirror.”
“We only went…well, because we were asked to come.” He felt awkward because she had not invited him originally to her party. Sensing this, she said, “You know why I didn’t ask you?”
“Carlos?”
She nodded.
“Is he here now, in this room?”
“No, he’s gone downstairs to order more champagne. It won’t hurt you to see him, to meet him?”
“No, of course not. I’d like to.”
Then the bells began to ring and over the radio came the noise from Times Square and everyone exclaimed, “Happy New Year!” and Carlos returned and kissed Maria. “I was almost too late,” he said. She turned to Jim. “This is Carlos, Jim.”
They shook hands. “Happy New Year,” said Carlos.
“Happy New Year,” said Jim. In a few minutes he went home.
CHAPTER
10
I
IN THE SPRING SULLIVAN received an advance from a publisher to write a book about Africa. “And that means six months of traveling, all expenses paid. If I don’t take it, you’ll have to support me.”
“Not if I can help it.” Jim was guiltily pleased at the thought of living alone again.
“Funny thing about travel, once you start, it’s hard to stop. Like being an alcoholic. I really want to go.”
“So do I. But I’ve got work to do.”
“And someone else to find.” This was flat.
“I’m not exactly looking.” Jim was sharp.
“I know.” Contrition. “I’m sorry. Anyway, there is something wrong with two men living together, a man and a woman, too, for that matter. Unless they have children, it’s pointless.”
“We’re too selfish, I suppose.”
“And separate. Perhaps a good thing. I don’t agree with Maria’s high romantic view of love. We affect one another quite enough merely by existing. Whenever the stars cross, or is it comets? fragments pass briefly from one orbit to another. On rare occasions there is total collision, but most often the two simply continue without incident, neither losing more than a particle to the other, in passing.”
So they separated, with a metaphor involving stars.
The next day, as if by further celestial design, there was a letter from Mrs. Willard, full of news.
“You remember Bob Ford, don’t you?” she wrote. “He was such a friend of yours in school. Well, he’s in the Merchant Marine now and he was home on leave for a few days last week. He asked after you and so did his wife. I don’t know if I ever wrote you that he married Sally Mergendahl last year, and they have a baby. You know that job with the school is still open and if you want to come back…”
There it was. Bob had returned. But he was married. Not once had it occurred to Jim that Bob could ever in any way be different from the way he had been that day beside the river. Yet he must have changed. He had married Sally. Jim experienced a sudden panic. Was it possible that he had waited years for a reunion with a man who cared only for women? No. He rejected the thought. Bob was obviously bisexual, if only because no one could have been so perfect a lover on that unique occasion and then change entirely. Jim reassured himself, and because he wanted to believe that nothing had changed, nothing changed, in his mind. Meanwhile, he made plans to go back to Virginia as soon as summer ended and take up his life at the precise point where it had left off that green summer evening seven years before.
* * *
—
During the summer Shaw came to town for the premiere of someone else’s picture and Jim met him in a restaurant where the food and service were bad but where many people who were famous came to look not only at one another but also at themselves in the mirrors which lined the dining room.
Jim was startled to find that Shaw was gray at the temples; he was moving with unusual dispatch into middle age.
“You’re looking handsome, Jimmy,” said Shaw, “really handsome, I must say. Of all my graduates, you’re easily the best-looking.”
“That’s like winning the Davis Cup. Thanks.” Jim smiled. “Who’re you living with now?”
“Nobody. I was with a perfect son of a bitch, from Detroit, a diver, of all things—you know, Olympic Games stuff. He had a wonderful build but stupid! My God, I don’t think I’ve ever known anybody so stupid. All he wanted to do was drink beer and sit up late in gay bars. I kicked him out. Anyway, he had a wife and two children so I really think I did the right thing, don’t you? Nobody wants to br
eak up a home. What have you been doing?”
“Working.”
“Sullivan?”
“Gone to Africa.”
“Hope they eat him.” Shaw was sour. “He’s such a pretentious bastard. I saw where his new book got bad notices. Not that critics mean a thing. When they pan my pictures I make money, and when they praise them we lose it. After all, entertainment is entertainment.”
Jim noticed that everyone in the room was aware of Shaw, but for once Jim disliked the attention; particularly when he noticed several men he had met at Rolloson’s party: each accompanied by a woman, for this was enemy territory.
“Are you making a picture?”
“No. It’s hard to get the right roles nowadays. I’m sitting it out. The studio thinks the war is going to be over and they’ll get the old stars back and to hell with us who’ve been selling the tickets for them. Well, they’ll find out. Gable means nothing now.”
Jim wondered if Shaw was finished. It was a harsh business, as everyone liked to say.
“They’ll come back to me in time. But it’ll be too late.”
“Why?”
Shaw looked about him; then he whispered, “I’m quitting the movies, retiring.”
“And do nothing?”
“Not quite. I’m going on the stage. I start rehearsing in September.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“But tough. I’ve never been on a stage, but I’ve got to do it.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Still in Baltimore. It’s a funny thing, she brags about me, of course, but sometimes I think she resents my success. Imagine a mother being competitive! I guess people are people, first. Anyway, she’s happy about me being married.”
“Married?”
Shaw nodded. “It’s the studio’s idea. They think too many people are catching on. Maybe they’re right.”
“Who’s the girl?”
