Meantime, the man with the goatee was saying to someone ensconced on a futon:
Really, his novels are about the difficulties inherent in the act of reading. Well, isn’t every novel? Of course, when I say “reading,” I don’t mean only the reading of little black letters on paper. Not at all! To me, reading is a figurative term alluding to the forms, all the ways and means by which individuals try to extract meaning from the world in which we live—and from themselves as well.
Leezen, you fucking whoredog, we’re not in class, the guy with the French accent said. Don’t you have enough fucking all the female students? If you want to bore the sheet out of everyone, go somewheres else. Look how poor Chandler is staring at you. He took acid. God only knows how much you’re freaking him out! Fuck off.
Who’s he? I asked Mel, referring to the guy in his underwear.
You don’t know Genghis Cohen? He’s the chair of the department of comparative literature in some prestigious university on the West Coast. He’s a visiting professor at Columbia University this semester.
The man howled, let out a fart, and continued with his rant:
In the contemporary novel, the act of reading runs parallel to the act of decrypting a world problematized by a battery of dehumanizing codes . . .
Goddamn it. Shit on you, you fucking motherfucker, the Frenchman said. He wobbled closer and slapped Cohen in the face.
I warned you, the aggressor continued.
Professor Cohen, Professor Cohen, cried the young woman who now skittered out of the room she and the naked Frenchman had so recently occupied. She was wearing a nightgown through which light and therefore the sight of those gifts bestowed upon her by nature were able to move freely. Mel told me that the girl was working with Cohen on her thesis about entropy in contemporary fiction.
Why did you have to do that, Pierre? the girl whined. Poor old Genghis. There was no harm in what he was saying.
Let’s go back to bed and finish what you left half done, Pierre replied.
Stately, obese, with a crafty double chin and lascivious lips, the egregious Harry Krug, aka the Philological Toad, opined from his place on the futon: You’re entirely too late, young man. Obviously this fair lady is far more interested in what Professor Cohen and I have in hand here than whatever she might have had in hand in there. Ignore him, Genghis. In my opinion, it’s imperative that we incorporate the aleatory irresolution of modern life, the chaotic forces governing the—eternally in flux—physical world, into our analyses. Only thus can we even begin to characterize reading as a means by which the individual might extract something approaching a linear narrative from their own experiences.
I see your point, but what if History, with a capital H is the greatest of fictions, Krug? History with its private army of authors. Perhaps even most random-seeming world-historical events only occur because some authorial figure (ah, but who, who, who, for Chrissakes?) has porvoked, I mean, provoked them? Isn’t it true that his first novel deals with the notion of occult conspiracy as motivating force for all contemporary experience? A disturbing idea, because it undermines every rational understanding of History—be it micro or macro!—as a perceivable entity in which the random randomly attains the form of order.
Oh, said Mel. It’s you. They’re talking about your stuff. And she jabbed τπ, who shrugged.
Nobody knows what I look like. To me he explained: Actually, I’m the Invisible Man.
Who, then, is the mysterious woman for whom the book is named? Cohen asked.
A goddess, Krug replied. She is searched for through fragments of history—big H and little!—since the nature of conspiracy is that those who are not initiates may only ever be permitted to see little pieces of the grand design. Yes, she is an ideal, a woman whose first initial is the only thing we can ever really know about, the first letter of a name that on top of everything may be a fake.
Genghis Cohen looked over at Pierre, afraid perhaps to launch a new sally lest Pierre throw another punch at him, but the
Frenchman was busy with Chandler, who was drooling something about Wendell Willkie in the midst of his (increasingly) bad trip. When the two disappeared into an adjacent bedroom, Cohen felt it was safe enough to reply:
In that sense, our protagonist is a representation of the reader, who in turn performs the role of authorial stand-in, and since the creator is by nature unknowable, we can say, as some have regarding the Bible, that the primum movens is not a he, but rather a she—that it is more appropriate to speak of Goddess than of God.
Waitaminute, that’s my theory, you thief. You can’t steal it just like that. It’s in print! Professor Krug protested.
Hush, hush . . . I was merely alluding to your worthy theoretical construction in passing. Consider it a tribute, if you will, Cohen intoned.
The Invisible Man came out of the kitchen then with two six-packs of beer, grabbed me by the arm, and led me out of the apartment. Oedipa! he yelled from the stairwell, let’s get out of here. Mel came out of the apartment at a run.
Who is playing at the Inverarity tonight?
The Paranoids.
Perfect, somebody roll another joint.
From the street we could hear Genghis Cohen and Harry Krug continuing to spout off:
Genghis Cohen: A ghostly organization that functions underground . . . Its mission? To slow entropy down, diminish the level of disorder in the world. Enough with irrelevancies, redundancies, and confusions. Enough with disorganization, chaos and loss and waste! All of which, we must regreatfully [sic] admit, comes down to that most hideous and wasteful component of human life: language.
Harry Krug: The central image of the novel, the V-2, is at the point of convergence between two separate lines of thought. You can see it as functioning in a similar way, narratively and structurally speaking, as the great white whale who still stands (swims?) proudly at the apex of our national literature . . . the V-2 is at once the Dynamo and the Virgin, but better, better yet, going back to the Melvillean symbolism, it is the White Whale and the Pequod at once.
The Wolfman: Oedipa, you’ve got the radio down too low. Turn it up! Man oh man, I already knew I was doing the right thing, but after tonight, I swear, no one’s ever going to get a look at my mug ever again. I’m gonna outsalinger Salinger.
Turning toward me, he said: By the way, what on earth is your name?
[Appendix: Rejections]
I sent “τπ” to fourteen different publications, most of them quarterlies. Ten didn’t even bother responding or making use of my excellently caligraphed SASEs. The other four sent rejections. Here’s what the first three said:
Verbally inventive, but too crude and irreverent. [Eric Sorrentino, The Nation]
Abominable. I don’t even know why I’m responding. [Cynthia Lump, Story]
No one is going to publish this, Ackerman. Why do you waste your talent like this? Send me something when you’re sober, and let’s talk. [Ron Abramovicz, Atlantic Monthly]
The last thing I got was a handwritten note on New Yorker letterhead, which said:
Our readers’ reports on your piece were so unanimously virulent that they piqued my interest and I decided to read it. I am forced to agree that it’s not publishable in a magazine such as ours. Which is not to say that I also believe that the New Yorker ought to always play things so safe—risk can be beneficial, but to print your piece would be a risk too far. Nevertheless, I wish you luck, Mr. Ackerman, and hope this is not the last time I run across your name.
Cordially, William Maxwell.
And PS: Pardon the indiscretion, but did you really meet Pynchon?
Sunday, May 18, 2008, 6:00 A.M.
No, Néstor, I didn’t read that one either. How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t really go in for fiction? For me, Brooklyn isn’t a novel. As for the other documents, I’d rather not talk about them for now. They’re the only ones that really count for me. But don’t let my relative lack of interest in literature worry you. I still
plan to hand everything over.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008, 10:05 A.M.
Dear Néstor, Congratulate me! I’m a free woman. I’ve turned in all my papers and I’m going out in a minute to celebrate with my friends. I’ll have a drink in your honor.
Friday, May 23, 2008, 9:56 A.M.
Néstor, I’m going away for a bit—Amanda’s folks have a place in the country they let us use. Now that my mind is free of any academic obligations, I’m going to give our little dilemma lots of thought. You’ll be glad to hear (won’t you?) that after all your comments, I’ve gotten a bit curious about Gal’s literary endeavors after all.
Friday, May 23, 2008, 8:30 P.M.
Dear Néstor, I’m writing from Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where Amanda’s parents have a house on the shores of the Susquehanna River. Yes, that’s “the country” to us. It’s a beautiful place. How strange the power of fiction! I began to read Gal Ackerman’s stories today, starting with the two I sent you a few days ago, and everything seems so different. Anyway, we’ll be seeing each other very soon. I’ll write you again from New York, right before I fly. Greetings from your nameless lady (it is such a relief to know that aside from abundant patience you also have a sense of humor . . .).
Monday, May 26, 2008, 6:02 A.M.
Dear Néstor, This is to confirm that I leave tomorrow—American Airlines. I’ll see you in Cádiz. I have your number and will call as soon as I’m down. Very much looking forward to meeting you in person.
Fifteen
CALL ME BROOKLYN
Cádiz, June 2008
I discovered the Oakland when my marriage was on the verge of collapsing. Days I threw myself at my work, going nonstop at the newspaper, and that was fine, but when I was done, in the evening, I had to scramble around looking for excuses not to go home. At one point, I even rented a room at Hotel 17 near Gramercy Park. One Friday night at the office, I’d been alone for over half an hour already, unable to make up my mind to leave even though I had nothing left to do. Nat, the security guard, tapped on the window with the butt of his flashlight and asked me if everything was all right. I said yes and realized how ridiculous I was acting. Out I went. On Lexington Avenue, I came across the subway entrance for Uptown & the Bronx and instinctively looked across the street for the corresponding entrance for Downtown & Brooklyn. When I got to the Borough Hall stop, I let my feet guide me to Frank Otero’s place. It was as though they already knew the way. After that, I started going to the Oakland a few nights a week. What the appeal was, I couldn’t tell you. On the one hand, it was like being in Spain, a distorted Spain to be sure, a kind of caricature; on the other hand, and for some reason this was comforting, going there gave me the curious feeling of being somewhat outside of reality.
I liked the owner, Frank Otero, from the moment I met him. I liked the way he looked at life. He was a carefree, generous guy, a people person, very open (not that he didn’t have a dark side too). He loved striking up conversations with strangers. He had the knack—he could connect with certain kinds of people; particularly the kind the world called losers. If their lives had spat them out on the Oakland’s doorstep, well, Frank was always quick to offer his protection. As for Gal Ackerman, we didn’t hit it off immediately. It took time. For the first few months, I just watched him from afar. He was difficult to figure out. He could spend weeks coming down into the bar twice a day, in the morning and in the afternoon, just to write. He’d sit at a table in the back and became submerged in his world, indifferent to whatever was happening around him. And then, all of a sudden, he would disappear without telling anyone—and not even Frank knew where he’d got to. After some time (it could be days or weeks), he would show up again and start to write as if he’d only left off the afternoon before.
The bar had a few permanent residents, so to speak—it wasn’t just Gal. Not all of them appear in Brooklyn, or if they do, are barely mentioned; among these, the one that I got to know best was Manuel el Cubano—he was gay, and alone; when Niels Claussen could no longer take care of himself, he became the former sailor’s guardian angel.
The Luna Bowl folk were also trapped in the Oakland’s gravity. Gal’s best friend there was old Cletus Wilson, the doorman. Cletus had met Gal before Gal had discovered the Oakland, and he loved him like a son. Cletus had trained some of the greats, in his time, and he himself had once been quite a renowned professional boxer. In Frank’s office, there was a picture of the young Cletus posing next to Rocky Marciano at the entrance of Madison Square Garden. If the Luna Bowl was the closest planet in orbit around the Oakland, the farthest was the Danish sailors. For me they were no more than faceless extras, but they were an essential element of Frankie’s imagination.
The book doesn’t say a single word about the tenants of the motel, as Frankie called the second floor of the Oakland, despite the fact that there was no doubt more than enough material up there for several novels. In the two years that I spent in Gal’s studio, I got some glimpses of the mysterious inhabitants of that world, although I never exchanged a word with them. When we passed each other in the hallway, they didn’t even look at me. The only person with whom I dealt during all the time I lived in Gal’s studio was a woman named Linnea. She was very attractive, somewhere between thirty-five and forty; she looked like a femme fatale out of an old thriller. She came to the motel in the middle of winter, some eight months after me. Her hair was dyed platinum blonde and she was always wearing expensive furs and jewelry. Every time I ran into her, she would stop to have a chat with me. The first time we met, I was coming out of the studio and she asked for a light. I offered her one, and she told me she’d been a long-term resident once, in the old days, and asked me what had become of Gal. When I told her, she was quite upset. I told her too that I was putting together his writing, trying to finish the book that he had left half done, and she told me she’d always known that Gal was an artist. She went off without saying good-bye, as if she suddenly realized that it might be best not to be seen talking to a stranger in the hallway of a flophouse. The other times we ran into each other, she did exactly the same thing: she used the age-old excuse of needing a light, stopped a few minutes to chat, then suddenly broke the conversation and took off without saying good-bye. I never knew for sure whether she was a call girl or the mistress of some big shot. She came and went in a black limousine. No one aside from her and the driver—a tough guy with a Haitian accent—ever got in or out of the thing. One afternoon, I was surprised to see a bunch of suitcases in front of her room. The Haitian appeared and, seeing me loitering by her property, gave me a nasty look. I remember it was snowing. From my window, I could see the limousine double-parked outside. Out of one of the half-lowered, tinted windows, I could see Linnea’s cigarette holder and its squiggle of smoke. After a few moments, the driver put the luggage in the trunk, climbed behind the wheel, and took Gal’s friend away forever. And that’s it for interactions with Frank’s tenants. Weeks passed between brief stairwell or hallway encounters. I always knew when a room had been vacated: Nélida would leave its key in the lock.
What Frank called the motel comprised six rooms of different sizes, all of them unnumbered save mine, which is to say Gal’s. Some were deluxe, as far as this went, while others were real dumps. After Linnea left, I got in the habit of going inside the various vacant rooms and looking around. I’m not sure why. I would go up to the windows overlooking Atlantic Avenue and stand for a long time watching the traffic and the lights of the port. And then some morning, that room’s key would disappear from its door, and that’s how I would know the room had been rented again. It wasn’t at all unusual for people to disappear from the motel after having spent a few months there—and without my ever setting eyes on them.
Frank was very careful about making sure that the world of the motel and the world of the Oakland never met. They were parallel universes: no communication allowed. With one obvious exception, the tenants of the second floor didn’t go into the bar, and vice versa—it woul
d have never occurred to any Oakland patron to peek upstairs. Each establishment even had a separate entrance, although, oddly enough, there was a revolving door behind the dance floor that led to the adjacent building. Frank always kept it unlocked, which I found odd in itself, but people rarely used it, Gal notwithstanding. Frank had reserved one of the rooms upstairs for Gal’s use in perpetuity. It started out as Raúl’s. He spent years there. When he went to live in Teaneck, Frank offered it to Gal, and when I started working on the novel, he offered it to me. On the door, in bronze, was the number 305, which Gal had put up himself. I never figured out what it meant, but I have my suspicions—for one thing, the number of the room at the Chelsea where Mr. Tuttle committed suicide was also 305. Frank pretty much acted as though the motel didn’t exist. He never talked about it and there was nothing in or outside of the building to betray its existence—neither a sign on the street nor a reception desk. The names of the tenants weren’t kept in any registry book. They could spend their lives there, but they stayed invisible. Certainly there were some fishy things going on up there. A few glimpses have stayed with me: a Bentley that pulled up in the middle of the night and spent a few hours parked out front, vanishing by morning; groups of people who came and went as if in fear for their lives. One moonless night, I saw Frank distribute cash to several guys who had climbed down from a canopied truck—Víctor was watching his back. And then, once, I ran into a group of girls wearing strange masks in the lobby.
If in fact there were illegal goings-on at the motel, I never found out what kind. I don’t believe Frank was directly involved. My impression is that he rented the rooms without asking too many questions. Otero allowed Gal into that world because he knew Gal was the soul of discretion. When I arrived, he saw no reason to treat me any differently. As for the Oakland, it too was somehow occult; not hidden, but then not exactly open to just anyone. You had to discover it. You could wander in at random, of course, and people did from time to time; but, in the end, it was up to Frank to select the regular clientele. And he had a weakness for the weird, people with shady pasts breathing down their necks. More than a few of them actually depended on Frank for subsistence; a select few even received a weekly allowance. In exchange for his aid, those under his aegis were required to do certain chores. Nélida and Ernie were in charge of assigning these duties, and they did it with great equanimity. A number of customers ran tabs, and when the time came to settle them, it could be that Frank only made them pay part of their debt, asking them to do some job for him. In any case, Frank’s selection criteria weren’t always clear. It came down to this: if he thought that you didn’t fit in, you weren’t admitted—and there were no appeals possible.
Call Me Brooklyn Page 31
