And then there was Karl Kinch, the most memorable of all the New Yorkers.
“WE WON’T STAY LONG. Kinch rarely has visitors. He expressed some interest in meeting you.”
Naomi noted the qualification—some interest.
Yet more improbably—meeting you.
Doubtfully she asked why would this friend of Madelena’s want to meet her?
“Why? Why d’you think?”—Madelena smiled, though with rather an edge.
“I—I don’t know . . .”
“Of course you don’t ‘know.’ But you might infer, Naomi, that I’ve spoken of you to him.”
Naomi could not think of a reply. Wondering what on earth her grandmother could have said about her to arouse the interest and curiosity of this stranger?
Madelena added, “And Kinch is not a ‘friend’ of mine, exactly. We are too close, we know each other too intimately, to be for each other what the bland word friend implies.”
Kinch had been variously a poet—(“A prodigy, who published his first book of poems at the age of twenty-one”)—a composer—(“Atonal music, exquisite and subtle if grating to the ordinary ear”)—a memoirist—(“Memento Mori is the title of Kinch’s precocious first memoir, told from a posthumous perspective”)—a translator—(“Working with a native speaker and ‘translating’ texts into his own, idiosyncratic English prose”)—a critic—(“Fiercely original, with terribly high standards, and feared by many”). He’d made himself into something of an amateur-expert Biblical scholar, with a particular interest in the poetry of Psalms; he’d taught himself Hebrew, Sanskrit, and Aramaic. He had no advanced degrees—he’d begun Ph.D. programs at Harvard, Yale, and Columbia but dropped out after realizing that the individuals entrusted with assessing his work were “inferior” to him intellectually and imaginatively; he did teach from time to time, graduate seminars in esoteric special topics, at Hunter College, Columbia College, New York University, and Princeton, as a “distinguished” visitor.
“Of course, Kinch is ‘not well.’ That is the first thing that is said about him though when you are with him, it is the last thing, or nearly, that you are struck by.”
Naomi asked in what way Kinch was “not well”?—but Madelena seemed reluctant to explain.
“Kinch has written beautifully and persuasively of the tyranny of ‘wellness’—‘normality’—‘sanity.’ You will see for yourself.”
The first time Madelena took Naomi to visit the mysterious Kinch, who lived on the sixteenth floor of a grimly featureless high-rise building several blocks north of Washington Square Park, they were rebuffed in the foyer by an embarrassed doorman who informed Madelena—(whom he called “Professor Wein”)—that “Professor Kinch” could not have visitors that day, and “deeply regretted” that their visit would have to be rescheduled.
“Really!” Madelena laughed, though visibly annoyed. “May I speak with Professor Kinch? Will you call him?”
But the doorman regretted no, he could not call Professor Kinch for Professor Kinch had expressly forbidden any calls that afternoon.
“Is he unwell? I mean—has he been unwell? Unusually unwell? Has there been an emergency?”
“No, ma’am. Not that I know.”
“His ‘assistant’ is with him? He isn’t alone?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s there. He isn’t alone.”
Outside on Fifteenth Street Naomi dared to ask Madelena again what was wrong with Karl Kinch?—and Madelena said airily, “Oh, Kinch has numerous ailments. His genius has effloresced in unexpected ways and not all of them aesthetic. The most obvious is MS—multiple sclerosis—that was diagnosed when he was in his late twenties. (But it isn’t clear what MS is—not a single ailment or condition but a syndrome.) Reputedly, Kinch was a young lover of the philosopher Michel Foucault who died of AIDS in the mid-1980s—it is believed by some, including Kinch himself, that he contracted an HIV infection from Foucault, if not AIDS itself. And the poor man is very visually impaired—‘legally blind.’” Madelena paused, considering Naomi’s alarmed expression. “But that’s enough for now, dear. We never speak of such matters with Kinch but if he wants to tell you more about himself, he will.”
They returned two days later, also in the late afternoon. This time they were not rebuffed but directed to an elevator by the doorman who continued to call Madelena “Professor Wein” and was not corrected by her.
In the elevator Naomi asked her grandmother why she didn’t trouble to correct the doorman and Madelena explained: “I always feel that it’s impolite to correct a civilian. I am paid to ‘correct’ students of mine, who have enrolled in my courses, and so it’s expected in that context; but it is not expected that I should go around ‘correcting’ others. And why should I care what I am called by a stranger?—as long as the mis-‘calling’ is consistent, and Kinch knows who is coming to see him.”
Madelena smiled as she spoke. Naomi felt a rush of affection for her grandmother who was in an unusually friendly and accessible mood.
“Has the doorman always called you ‘Wein’?”
“Yes! But I think I didn’t notice at first.”
“How long have you been coming to visit Mr. Kinch?”
“How long here? As long as he’s been living here—he’d used to live in Washington Mews, in one of those charming brownstones owned by the university. But when he became seriously ill, about fifteen years ago, he decided to move away from Washington Square Park—he thinks the city is too intense there, it grates against his nerves. So I’ve been visiting Kinch in this building for approximately fifteen years. In fact, I’d helped him find his ‘bourgeois’—that is, ‘deeply boring’—apartment, which he finds protective as a kind of ‘quarantine.’ And I must say, I never—really—know how Kinch will greet me.”
Madelena was feeling so exhilarated, having been not-rebuffed in the foyer, she didn’t object to her granddaughter asking so many questions.
For the visit Madelena wasn’t wearing her usual stylish black clothes but a dark magenta suede coat with a matching hat, that hid much of her silver hair. She’d stopped at an expensive food shop on University Place to buy a bag of mangoes for Kinch—“His favorite fruit, he claims.” Her usual cool, slightly ironic composure seemed to have vanished leaving her both excited and apprehensive, as Naomi had rarely seen her.
As they waited for the doorbell to be answered Madelena cautioned Naomi: “Don’t be surprised when you see Kinch. And don’t feel sorry for him, please! He’s very sensitive to what he calls ‘gratuitous pity.’ He is quite happy with his life, which has been very creative. He has won many awards which he won’t mention. He has few friends—but those he has are special to him, and love him. What you will see is just the outer man, the surface. Our true lives are interior and inaccessible to the eye.”
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman with a severe expression who let them in without a word, and took their coats to hang in a closet.
Was this person a nurse? Caretaker? She wore a shapeless cardigan sweater over white nylon slacks and white crepe-soled shoes. Stiffly she smiled at Madelena, who called her “Sonia.” She took no notice of Naomi at all.
Blindly Naomi followed her grandmother into the apartment—through a small dim-lighted foyer in which books were stacked on the floor like stalagmites and into an equally dim-lighted living room in which books were similarly stacked on tables and on the floor, as well as crammed into floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The single window in this room was obscured by heavy velvet drapes. Madelena moved briskly without waiting for Sonia to escort her as if there were some old, familiar friction between them, which Madelena blithely ignored.
Naomi was dismayed by the smell of the apartment—airless, gingery-medicinal, faintly rancid. Worse yet, there was an underlying odor of tobacco smoke. How strange that Madelena who was fastidious about the air in her own apartment seemed oblivious of the stale air here.
“Professor Kein! Bonjour.”
A young-old man in a
motorized wheelchair rolled in their direction, to greet them with a wide smile.
“Bonjour, Professor Kinch. Thank you for seeing us!”—gaily Madelena stooped to brush her lips against the young-old man’s cheek, even as he stiffened just perceptibly as if fearing being touched, yet not wanting to offend. “And here she is, the granddaughter from the wilds of the Midwest, Naomi.”
“Ah yes—‘Na-o-mi Voor-hees.’”
So Kinch knew her name. Her full name. Well, that was not so surprising perhaps. Madelena must have told him.
Naomi wondered if Voorhees meant anything to Kinch? Surely he would know that Madelena had been married to a man with that name, though she’d never taken on the name; and possibly, he knew of Gus Voorhees.
(Except: Madelena was so elusive, and so exulted in secrecy, it was possible that even her longtime New York City friends didn’t know of her former marriage or that she’d had a doctor-son who had been assassinated.)
“Naomi, this is Karl Kinch—you need not call him ‘Professor’—but he does not like to be called ‘Karl.’”
Naomi had no idea what this might mean. Surely she could not call him Kinch?
Now came the motorized chair in Naomi’s direction. Kinch’s manner was playful as an adolescent with an oversized dangerous toy. Do you dare step aside, try to escape me?—Kinch’s wide smile, filled with discolored teeth, seemed to be taunting her. Naomi guessed that, wheelchair-bound, a man would resent having always to look upward, crane his neck, at persons of normal height. Kinch lifted a long slender soft-boned hand to be shaken by Naomi even as she tried to sidestep the motorized chair.
“Bonjour, Naomi! Welcome to the mausoleum.” The word was given an exuberant French pronunciation.
In an aside Madelena murmured to Kinch, “Elle est belle, est-elle?” and Kinch murmured, “Pas si belle que tu, ma chère.”
Madelena smiled with a look of irritated pain to signal that she did not approve of this remark. Naomi pretended not to have heard.
Kinch had a large head that looked sculpted out of some fragile material like eggshell. Sparse graying hair fell in ringlets to his bowed shoulders. He wore formal clothes—white dress shirt buttoned to his thin throat, dark trousers with a crease. He might have been any age between thirty and fifty—his skin was papery-smooth and white, presumably from lack of sunshine. Yet his manner was youthful, even boyish. A sort of bad-boyish. He fidgeted constantly, his legs and long white toes in (open) sandals twitched on the footrest of the wheelchair. Except for a subtle deformation of his face and the exceptional size of his head he would have been an attractive man. His features were fine-chiseled. His voice was subtly modulated like an actor’s or a singer’s voice. He was not wearing glasses though one of his eyes was milky and the other appeared severely myopic. His mouth was strangely wide, his lips wetly sensuous. From the way he blinked, smiled, squinted at Naomi she supposed he was seeing her as a blur.
“Please sit, ‘Naomi Voorhees’! Wherever you wish. Just push those books aside.” Kinch’s tone was both mocking and tender.
They were slender books of poetry with stiff, slightly warped hardbound covers that gave off an odor of mold. Not in a language Naomi recognized.
She sat. The sofa was of well-worn leather though seemingly of high quality like other furnishings in the room. How strange it was in this airless place! Very little light was allowed here. All was dim as if undersea. The very reverse of Madelena’s high-rise apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows rarely shaded from the sun. Madelena had said that Kinch’s eyes were sensitive to light. He could not watch television, he could not go outdoors—during the day the sun’s rays were too bright, even if the sky was overcast; at night, streetlights and neon lighting gave him migraine headaches. He could not work with the shimmering screen of a computer that affected his sensitive brain but had to write by hand, or type manuscripts on an old-fashioned manual typewriter, though such typing required muscular coordination of a kind he could no longer depend upon. So Madelena had reported, with a curious sort of detachment.
Naomi felt something beneath her foot on the carpet—a cigarette butt? She was noticing ashtrays on tables, with a look of having been hastily cleaned with a paper towel; and on each table, a book of matches formally displayed.
Madelena didn’t smoke, of course; she would never have allowed anyone to smoke in her apartment. Most of her friends whom Naomi had met did not smoke nor was smoking allowed in any restaurant in the city. How bizarre, that the invalid Kinch should smoke . . .
“Naomi, don’t worry! No one will force you to smoke in this den of iniquity.”
With a wheezing sound Kinch laughed as if he’d said something very witty, intended to annoy his dignified silver-haired visitor.
“I realize it isn’t very ‘fresh’ in here—I can’t open any window, unfortunately. The noise—the drafty cold—would annihilate me. And I have to keep the damn drapes closed most of the time. In my quarantine life it’s always a kind of pre-dusk—as in a painting of Hopper—that wan, fading light, the mannequin-people who seem scarcely to be breathing, the melancholy clumsiness of the world from which there is no escape since that is the world.”
Kinch spoke eloquently, sadly. Yet his sensuous, damp-looking lips quivered as if he were about to burst into an irreverent smile.
To spare Naomi the awkwardness of a reply Madelena deftly intervened. “Hopper is ‘clumsy’—set beside painters like Whistler and Homer who can replicate the world so precisely. Yet when you’re looking at Hopper’s paintings you are utterly persuaded, you don’t feel that ‘clumsiness’ at all.”
Kinch made a derisive snorting sound. “You may not, Professor Kein. More discerning others do.”
With a vague naive hope of aligning herself with her grandmother who was looking vexed, and making some statement of her own, for surely it was time for her to speak, Naomi remarked that Madelena had taken her to the Whitney Museum the other day where they’d seen paintings by Hopper she had never seen before in reproductions and these she’d thought very “beautiful,” “haunting” . . .
“Of course you did, Naomi. ‘Beautiful’—‘haunting.’”
Was Kinch speaking ironically? Was he laughing at her? Yet he seemed kindly, and not at all malicious.
Dour-faced Sonia approached asking if their guests would like something to drink? Tea, sparkling water, wine . . . With some fuss she set down a tray containing several cheeses, a scattering of pale crackers, shriveled-looking olives.
Tea for Madelena, sparkling water for Naomi. “Nothing for me just now”—Kinch said primly.
“Ah, before I forget—here. Your favorites.”
Madelena handed the little bag of mangoes to Kinch who accepted it with a childish sort of delight, all but smacking his lips.
“Take these away, Sonia, will you?—and prepare a little dish for us.”
Dour-faced Sonia took away the mangoes without a word.
Madelena inquired after a new medication Kinch had begun taking, and what progress he was making on a composition commissioned by the Juilliard String Quartet; Kinch inquired after “your old Laslov.”
A gruff sort of intimacy existed between the two. Each appeared to be just slightly critical of the other, or bemused; yet affectionate, even proud. Especially, Madelena glanced at Naomi to see how she was taking Kinch’s provocative manner, that was always on the edge of rudeness. Madelena was the more gracious of the two, speaking of “we”—“Naomi and me”—who’d been seeing such interesting exhibits in the city, and such an excellent performance of Les Contes d’Hoffmann.
“Really! The review in the Times wasn’t so enthusiastic, I think.”
“I thought it was very enthusiastic.”
“Not if you know how to decode that critic’s ‘enthusiasm.’ If you read between the lines . . .”
“The Picasso exhibit is really quite extraordinary . . .”
“No. Not possible. Nothing in Picasso is extraordinary any longer. An artist with just t
wo modes—naive-primitive, and prurient. Both are outworn in the twenty-first century.”
As they spoke together in their quasi-flirtatious banter Naomi glanced about the room. She was becoming accustomed to the acrid smell, and her eyes were adjusting to the diminished light. Through a doorway she saw, in an adjoining room, that had formerly been a dining room she supposed, an article of furniture that must have been a mobile desk, with sliding parts; on the desk-top were an old-fashioned manual typewriter, neatly stacked sheets of paper, journals, books. The desk was somewhat lower to the floor than an ordinary desk, ideal for one in a wheelchair. Against a wall was a “baby grand” piano outfitted with crane-necked lights.
In the living room were mismatched furnishings. Leather sofa, upholstered chairs, glass-topped coffee table. Against a farther wall was a display of what appeared to be antique musical instruments, predominately strings; on the hardwood floor a large, faded but still beautiful rug of the kind Naomi knew to be “Persian”—quite a dazzling rug, in fact, that reminded Naomi of a smaller rug in Madelena’s living room. The walls were solid-packed with mostly hardcover books. Naomi wondered if, like the books in Madelena’s apartment, these were carefully alphabetized.
“And how d’you find New York, chère Naomi? A ‘blooming, buzzing confusion’—n’est-ce pas?”
Now Kinch turned his full attention upon his younger visitor. You could see, in the way in which he addressed Naomi, and in his manner of seeming to care about her remarks, that he had cultivated a courteous teacherly self; he had had experience with young people. Though he might consider Naomi’s replies no more than schoolgirl banality he would not turn upon the nineteen-year-old the satirical manner he turned upon the silver-haired Madelena with whom he seemed to share a complex history.
A Book of American Martyrs Page 49