Stephen bounces up and again smoothes the creases and wrinkles in his blanket, for rather too long a time. Will it ever be right? It seems that it never will. Perfect, perfect, he murmurs. His sounds are more like purring than speech. At last satisfied, he stations himself at the edge of my blanket and stares down upon me again. He is grinning. It is disconcerting, but then one expects bizarre behavior from a hermit. I sit up. Obviously he is pleased to see me, too. He is in much better shape. He has washed recently. He is wearing cut-off blue jeans, faded but not in ruins, and he has trimmed his unruly beard. Actually one can now recognize how handsome he is or was, how nature once endowed him generously. Stephen had the kind of looks that could kill, as Stan Green would put it. His looks surely brought him an early fame and caused an equally precipitous fall. His looks may have killed only him.
“Welcome, welcome,” he exults. Up until this moment, no words had passed between us. After this hearty salutation Stephen flings his arms out as if to embrace me. He doesn’t, as I am sitting. It is merely a gesture. I stand up and embrace him, which surprises him. Perhaps this is somewhat uncharacteristic of me. Nevertheless, he doesn’t run away, which is good. In unison we both sit down again upon our respective blankets and remain so, side by side, for quite a while. The uncanniness of his appearance in this lonely spot forges my silence. And also it is pleasant to be with an old acquaintance to whom one does not have to speak or to explain. Stephen does not, and would never, ask me why I am here, what brought me to this place, and why should I inquire it of him?
He is scooping up sand with one hand and depositing it into the other. He does this over and over, compulsively repeating the same action in the same way and in the same rhythm, until I feel on the verge of nausea. It could be hunger. Or it could be the sun beating down upon me. Like me, Stephen may be at a loss for words or without any pressing need to converse. That is typical of him. No polite colloquy for Stephen. With him, as far as talk goes, it is feast or famine.
Sweat pours from him. The English, I believe, have difficulty taking the sun. He is turning beet-red. Stephen leaps up and races toward the sea. As a child might, he swings his arms exuberantly and runs crazily—his legs going this way and that—then he flings himself headlong into the water. I marvel at his joyousness and strangeness. And to think, we are here together.
I change position, so that my back is to the sun. I clasp my knees to my chest. Stephen has always loved swimming and diving and will be in the water a long time. I watch him frolicking. He may think he is a dolphin. Such a harmless soul, now, but when he was younger and eminently presentable, men and women alike flocked to him. He toyed with them and cast them off and about with nary a care. I watch him swimming back and forth—he is shouting and singing ecstatically. I look again at his absurd beach blanket. Where did he get such a thing? And his shoulder bag. What does he have in that silly bag? I could, I think playfully—without his ever knowing—search it. I could go through its contents. This mischievous idea plants itself inside me and takes root. He would never know. How would he know?
Without fanfare or further ado, I reach for the bag and stick my hand in it and bring out its contents. A book on electricity, a copy of Aesop’s Fables, a leather purse with a few coins, a red bandanna, sunglasses, pen, and…Helen’s diary. The book with ANALYST inscribed on its cover. This is it, I exclaim to myself, heart beating, this is it. Astonished and alarmed, I shove everything back into the bag and then place it again on Stephen’s blanket.
But I do not and I cannot relinquish Helen’s diary. I will not. It is mine. I ought to have it. I smooth Stephen’s blanket to return it to its previous pristine condition.
I have never before stolen. Never. Not since I was a small boy and then only a trinket. It meant nothing. I glance anxiously, shiftily, toward the sea where Stephen still swims, innocent of my theft. But why should he have her diary? Why Stephen? Then it comes to me. Yes. How stupid of me. The last night I saw Stephen was also the last night I saw Helen. So she must have gone off with him, which I did consider then. Helen followed after him that very night and did not go off with the Gypsy girl. Or all three joined up and ventured off together. But I cannot ask Stephen what happened, and obviously Helen is no longer about, as he has her diary, and I will not surrender the diary. About this I am adamant, even indignant, and I certainly don’t want him to know that I have gone through his bag. Of course I could replace the diary in the bag and hope that the whole story would spill out, and probably a story would—but Stephen cannot be counted upon for a reliable report, and I would not have Helen’s writing, her own words. Besides, the diary—I keep thinking this—belongs to me. I am insulted that he should have it. I stare at the book. I cannot open it now. Who knows what will be in it?
The sea and sky, the sand, the view, all this is as it was, but I am not. I do not know what I am. But I know I have to leave. I must get out of here before Stephen finds out what I have done and what he is missing. For surely he will miss it and know. Still, I remind myself, he is so crazy he may think he lost it. He would never suspect me, Horace, of such an outrageous and scurrilous deed. Not Horace. This calms me and enables me to contemplate the situation and to devise a plan.
Yes, I see it now. I can grasp it. Stephen is here as he arrived at this place with Helen, who left abruptly, the way she can. Alternatively it was he who was living at Bliss’ house, with her, or by himself after she left, so it could have been he who made the map and the drawings. But whatever, whatever, I repeat to myself, Helen befriended Stephen, that is as clear as the pellucid sea, and they disappeared together, at least from my purview. These facts square with the evidence, with the diary, its being in Stephen’s possession. These things clearly show themselves; they are demonstrable. A fact is a fact, after all. One must confront reality.
I place Helen’s diary in my shoulder bag and gather my belongings. I straighten Stephen’s blanket again. I know exactly what I will say to Stephen. I cannot—and do not—run away, for that would make him suspicious. Upon Stephen’s return I will tell him that I am sick and must leave the south and drive home, as quickly as possible. I will say it is my heart. He will be sympathetic but I will not let him help me. I will tell him I have left my pills at home. Strange to say, but as I concoct my cover story I do begin to feel queasy, as if I might have a heart attack. The best cover, as Stan Green knows, is honesty. No one should blow an honest cover. Didn’t Joseph Conrad once write that all a man can betray is his own conscience?
Stephen returns. In short order I tell him I am ill. He is dripping wet and not ready for my revelation, which is perfect for my plan. Before he can utter a word in response, I hurry off and leave him with his towel on his head. I march to the path that leads to the road and even more quickly thumb a ride—I have never before hitchhiked—to Partheny’s store. I throw my things together and shove them into the suitcase. I pay my bill— scarcely thinking about what she will make of my sudden departure. Then I jump into the car and drive like the wind—or in any case with more speed than I ever have—toward home and safety. It is possible, I realize, that Helen did not give Stephen the diary. He may have stolen it from her. That is just as likely. In which case, I am no more a thief than he.
I arrive home in the early evening. The return trip seemed to have taken no time at all.
Chapter 17
Inside my apartment, at last in the secure confines of my rooms—I note Yannis has not tidied up since I left—I can breathe again and relax, somewhat. The door locked and secured behind me, I walk in shadow to the windows to draw the curtains. No one must know I have returned. Upon entering the hotel I instructed Nectaria not to tell anyone I’d come back. Except for Gwen and Yannis. Nectaria will bring a meal to my room. Dear Nectaria.
Only after the curtains are closed do I switch on a light. I settle into my favorite chair near the window and hear once more the music of the harbor. Yet nothing alleviates my anxiety. Helen’s diary—the stolen treasure—awaits my perusal. It is
a prize and will be my reward, I tell myself, though reward for precisely what I have not yet ascertained. For the journey, for my labors, for my concern, for my relentless curiosity? All the way home, I was able to refrain from pulling over to the side of the road to read her diary then and there; this was accomplished by admonishing myself that I ought to be in the right place to do so, that all must be right—the setting and so forth. I do not like dark, dreary places for reading or eating. On this point I appreciate Sydney Smith: “Better to eat dry bread by the splendour of gas than to dine on wild beef with wax candles.” My objective was to dwell in a place of peace and quiet, I told myself, and then, and only then, would I—and would it be proper to—immerse myself in Helen and her diary.
With a stiff drink in hand, I study its covers carefully. There is silver glitter sprinkled and glued onto the back cover. On closer inspection I notice that the word “analyst” has been scratched upon. I swallow the Scotch then pour another shot—the tawny liquid toasts my innards. Then, for good measure, another, and only then do I dare open the book.
Gingerly I flip through its pages, from first to last, to get a sense of the whole. Some pages are nearly blank, with just a few words on them; some are covered with magazine pictures, a few words glued on or over the images. Other pages are filled with doodles and scribbles; most are writings, scrawled in an intense, vertical script. There are photographs and news clippings. The journal is in bits and pieces, cut up and pasted, like a collage. Like her room, I say to myself. At first glance Smitty’s diary—though I have nearly quit using that name—is a messy, disorderly affair; though, like her room, it may have its own rhythm and order. Helen is a very young woman—just a girl, really—and not a writer, after all. Thus I prepare myself.
I begin in earnest. Her diary starts at page two, for page one merely gives her name and address, in New York City, under which is emblazoned in gold ink, READ THIS AND DIE. I down another shot of Scotch. While these words are chilling, unnerving, they are also sophomoric, touching and comical, something common to adolescents. The diary is undated and may have been begun before she came to Crete, but I am not sure.
On the second page is a quote: “Take a walk on the wild side.” Beneath this is a picture of Jane Fonda. Helen has scrawled Klute next to it. The movie played here; I was intrigued by Fonda’s portrayal of a prostitute, who was shown in session with her psychiatrist. It was a frightening film—she was stalked by one of her clients. Fonda’s having visited Hanoi during the war in Vietnam was an outrage to Roger; one can barely mention her name to him. He will fulminate for hours. Opposite is a photograph of Helen and another girl, posing extravagantly; the two look about fifteen. The other girl is pursing her lips. They are both wearing black lipstick, I think. Next, two pages of line drawings that appear to me to be sexual organs.
I’m walking somewhere maybe a park on my way to something, a date with O., and I see a man, a father, with his child, a girl, and the father’s struggling to carry something that has to do with his work and his child’s welfare. So I help him by carrying one side of it—like a car hood or counter—I carry it on my shoulder and the child is in the middle between us and he and I do all the work. Then we have to run and I’m afraid I’m going to drop my side. Daddy REX.
I am reminded of OEDIPUS WRECKS, written on the piece of paper I found in her room.
Picked up J at CBGB’s—the Dolls—the usual/Told J he could follow me all night if he wanted and he did, all night, followed me everywhere, and he was there in the morning. And it was weird. Told him, lying the way I can, told him I was in a theater class and studying to he a great actress and I was trying to be someone else just for an experiment, to see if I could. Like the Method. I’m not really like this I said. He got really really FREAKED, it was funny and he tried to act like he knew what was happening. Just felt like it.
Was this “J” our John? If so, their relationship had a rocky beginning. Why would she want to experiment in that way? One cannot understand why he would have followed her here, if he did, based upon this piece of evidence. But one must never forget, or underestimate, how perverse we humans are. A quote from Rainer Maria Rilke follows, from the Duino Elegies, I believe.
But what are they doing here, these acrobats, a little more fugitive even than us? Who are they trying to please? What sadistic will compels them from earliest childhood to perform such violent contonions? Rilke
Helen has marked his name only, which, as I proceed through the diary, or scrapbook, is, I see, her usual mode, though occasionally she does state the source. I am rather surprised by her liking Rilke; but I remember that when I was young he appealed to me, too. I haven’t read him in ages.
Headlines or captions dot almost every other page; I suppose this kind of thing is popular in her group. For instance, on the page just mentioned, at its top, is inscribed “Perpetual Out-patient.”
I’m going to blow up and explode and die a thousand times. Every day. Silting on a nuclear bomb. What’s the point, everything is so stupid such bullshit it makes me sick.
There follows, after this outburst, a series of phrases:
Courage between legs
Spaced out
Walking the dog
live evil
Kill for Peace
outsider insider
fuck the sixties
fuck prohibitions
These are not written in her hand but appear to have been clipped from newspapers or magazines. They are accompanied by matchbook covers that have also been cut up. The phrases may represent and be typical of graffiti; Gwen has mentioned in passing its popularity. A headline similar to anyone of these phrases sits at the top of pages dense with Helen’s intense, vertical script and functions. I believe, as a title for a dream or story, though it is often difficult to distinguish one from the other.
Looked more second avenue than any 20 year old should, skin on ankles actually drying up ALREADY so I bought socks and later I told him and he said he would have given me a pair, they would’ve been too big anyway. His arms, no arms could keep me warm enough, couldn’t hold me long hard tight enough.
This is titled: “Trouble is Love.” I wonder if the “he” was John or another. Like most teenagers, Helen is concerned with love.
There are several lists scattered over the pages—things to do, buy, chores—and these are interrupted by quotes and headlines of the type already noted. I turn the page and find a lurid paperback cover, for a novel by—of all people—Colette. It depicts a scantily clad young woman with a long-haired black cat at her feet. She, the coquette, wears hot-pink stiletto heels. “Colette’s Claudine. Shocking and Delightful. Part woman, part child. Ruthless and sensual as a young cat.” It is an Avon Book, and at the time it was published—I would guess the late fifties—cost only thirty-five cents. I can well remember when paperbacks cost that little. Those times are gone.
Next, there is a sequence of doodles, all geometric shapes: squares, rectangles and intersecting triangles; above these, EMOTIONAL SLAVES DON’T TALK. More magazine clippings of images from films, including one from Sergio Leone’s A Fistful of Dollars. Below it, Helen has printed in bold letters: “Make a movie NOW everything’s a movie.” The Leone image is pasted beside a news clipping about a man born with two heads, and beneath this collage is an item about the Watergate burglars as well as one entitled “Some Who Believe in a No-Work State.” On the next page a photograph of Helen and another young woman—her sister? Helen is holding a camera. Her sister is frowning.
There follow a few clippings about the plight of Patty Hearst that detail her kidnapping by, and her professed allegiance to, the Symbionese Liberation Army. Helen has inserted two pictures of Hearst—indeed the infamous bank—robbery image itself. Helen might identify with her, in some way.
On the opposing page, in carefully rendered block letters:
It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they executed the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York. Plath, The B
ell Jar
I remember that terrible day. I remember it as if, were I to walk through the door, I would discover myself in a bar in Cambridge, with my friends, arguing about treason and the death penalty. How poignant and odd that Helen, who wasn’t born then, should have chosen this particular line. Just below it is a telephone number painted in what I take to be nail polish, a repugnant orange. Perhaps the number indicates the person who gave Helen the Plath novel, as a present, though from what I know of it, the book is depressing, not her best work. I have not read it. I believe the book is a roman à clef and has to do with the suicide attempt of a young college woman, which of course might have reference to Helen’s sister. But who turned Helen onto, as John would say, Plath?
Amelia Earhart. Dupe. First lady of the skies.
She had no guy holding her down.
No one could clip her wings.
She was no bird in the hand.
She is no living thing now.
Patti Smith
Helen has underlined “no living thing now.” John might be one of the many guys who would hold her down and clip her wings. But why is Earhart a dupe?
Script: He and I on the street. He does something I don’t like. I kick him. He holds me. I laugh. He picks me up. I wrap my legs around his waist.
The title for this fragment is “slap kiss I kiss tell.”
Cast in Doubt Page 21
