I'll Let You Go

by Bruce Wagner

  “How could it be legal to fake your death?”

  “It is if you don’t rip anyone off. Then there’s this ensemble piece I’m thinking of, about a bunch of despots—you know, from imaginary countries—living on a wealthy street in London. They’re all neighbors, kind of an outcast’s Notting Hill. So-called kings who looted their treasuries and tortured people. Idi Amin and Papa Doc types. That could be for HBO. I’d love to create a Sopranos, but the dictator thing might be too harsh.” Pullman hobbled out of the room in disgust. “Oh! And I want to do a comedy about a girl who’s a ‘G.T.A.’—know what that stands for? Genital Teaching Associate. That’s a model who teaches pelvic-exam techniques to med students. I’m serious, Tull, that job actually exists! Ya gotta learn somewhere, baby, I am telling you—it’s like I’ve been freed: my mind’s completely opened up. When I look at those ‘Rafe’ scripts I wrote, it’s like holding third-rate artifacts from another time. And I owe it all to Ron Bass!”

  Let us pick up from where we left Katrina.

  She is wearing a sixties Lanvin python jacket and Miguel Adrover chain-mesh halter top; setting off seriously green eyes is a multicolored pearl necklace bought at Piranesi, in Aspen, a few years back, for a quarter-million. She sets aside her Colonne excavations, nostalgically distracted by her father’s collection of photographs.

  The familiar images erupt, shuffled out of sync, a mess of time: Bluey, in ’51, at Count Carlos (Charles) de Beistegui’s costume ball at the Palais Labia on the Grand Canal, the Venetian summer before she met Louis. Cecil Beaton took the picture: her friend Daisy Fellowes came as Marie-Antoinette, and Bluey went as lady-in-waiting, dressed like a milkmaid—they stood with the count, sweetly absurd in his sausage-curl wig. A half-dozen years later: Bluey standing with her dapper, slightly intimidated husband in the downstairs gallery of Peggy Guggenheim’s astonishing palazzo among the astonishing Pollocks. Her mother first met Merce Cunningham there—and André Breton, who Trinnie later learned had been obsessed with “the Broken Column” himself, camping with the Surrealists at the Désert de Retz. A snapshot of her father in Guam, 1945; another of Louis pointing to the pig tattoo on a sailor’s foot (he told her the popular mariner’s notion that, like David Copperfield’s caul, the mark could prevent one from drowning); again Louis, on the terrace of a Fifth Avenue penthouse showing off his Bronze Star; at the Paley wedding; then both parents, years later, with the Paleys and Cushing sisters at Round Hill. Summertime clambakes in Nantucket; messing around at Bouldereign (Carefree, Arizona); Jamaica and New Orleans; with Valentino and the Buckleys in Gstaad, and Carol Burnett at Snowmass; grinning madly at the Malaparte cliffhouse in Capri; with Jackie Gleason and Oona O’Neil at Villa Nirvana, Las Brisas … Palm Springs with the Nixons and Annenbergs; a hoedown at the deMenils’; Bluey in someplace like Laguna with a handsome man Trinnie had always suspected to be a lover; Louis and Bluey at their own wedding in Palm Beach. Then—standing on the pontoons of a seaplane on the lake outside their Adirondacks Great Camp, arms raised in a toast; Louis in his duds on digging machines in front of various yawning, mile-wide quarry pits; Louis during somber late-life travels to far-flung graveyards. Then came the kids: blurry black-and-whites of Dodd and Katrina behind nursery glass, haunting, smudgy little faces, swollen post-natal eyes and bundled bodies held aloft by smily-eyed, half-masked attendants for all the world to see.

  Beverly Hills. The kids with new Schwinns. The kids at Point Dume. The kids in water-hose sword fights with Liz Taylor’s sons in the driveway of the house on Roxbury, overlooked by a scowling, very much younger Winter. The kids in the back of the Corniche at Dolores’s Drivein, hamburgers already transferred to mahogany seat trays. Dodd, age thirteen, at the Beverly Vista graduation, standing in front of the orange-brick wall of the inner court like a prisoner about to be executed. A photo of the ten-year-old Tull riding Pullman had snuck in …

  She stole another look at Bluey in Venice and thought, Her life has been full. Still, it distressed her to already be eulogizing.

  Her eyes grew tired. She felt a hard frame beneath the remaining fan of images and pulled it out—a quote from the embattled founder of the William Morris Agency, clipped from a 1909 Variety. Marcus used to keep it on his desk at work.

  I will be William Morris forever. And if I must lose the business I have cherished, so be it. I would rather be William Morris and have my home and three meals a day and leave my name to my son—

  Stuck to its underside for no rhyme or reason was the Kodak she had taken (her heart skipped a beat) of the benighted Désert de Retz on the day of their long-ago trespass. A chill came over her—she hadn’t seen a photo of her Marcus in so long. He stood in the foreground of the meadowy depression, the cracked alabaster skin of the castle rising from his shoulders to crown him.

  Finally, Trinnie saw the thing for what it was: the megalithic woman he’d left her for. She’d never had a chance.

  She heard something and looked up—it was her son. He walked toward her through the vestibule of the great room, small steps over a floor made of 57,000 hand-carved pieces of mahogany, ebony and tulip-wood, past draperies tied with leg-of-mutton passementerie, circumnavigating his grandfather’s cemetery of beloved architectural models, slowing regally as he reached a grove of Chinese porcelain birds on giltwood brackets, and Fragonards resting upon a Pluvinet canapé covered in horsehair. His mother had by then tucked away the portfolio and greeted him with a smile.

  He thought her ostentatiously dressed, and that concerned him; it usually presaged a leave-taking or breakdown. “What are you doing?”

  “Some research.”

  “For the hospital garden?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Well.”

  “How’s Bluey?”

  “Not so well.”

  “How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Can I talk?”

  “Yes, you can talk!”

  “It’s about my father. I found out a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “That he was an agent. And that he worked at William Morris.”

  “You talked to your grandfather …”

  “No. I just—I found out myself.”

  “I could have told you that. It wasn’t a big secret.”

  “Everything’s a secret,” he reprimanded. “Anyhow, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Why not?”

  He lowered his eyes, wanting respect conferred upon his discretions. “But I do want to ask some things now.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Who was he an agent for? Actors?”

  “Actors, directors, writers. He had them all.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “A party. At the home of a man named Ed Limato.” She smiled; it had been years since she’d said that name. “Everyone went to those parties—they were great fun. I wanted to be an actress, or thought I did. For about a week.”

  “He was your agent?”

  “No.”

  “If I mention something, will you not ask me how I found out?” She nodded. “Because I gave certain people my word.” She nodded. “Do you—do you know anything about him—about Marcus—stealing a book?”

  “Yes.” Then: “They never brought charges.”

  “Because the store was reimbursed by the detective.”

  “You’re good. You are very good.”

  She lit an American Spirit, inhaling the smoke like a native.

  “I thought you stopped.”

  “They’re organic.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever.” She paused. “He was seeing a psychiatrist—mine, on Bedford. Same building where Daniel Ellsberg saw his shrink. But you wouldn’t know about Ellsberg.”

  “Why did he take the book?”

  “He was having some … problems. You know, it wasn’t like sticking up Van Cleef and Arpels. It was a difficult time for your father, that’s all.�
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  “Was he using drugs?”

  “For what,” she said, somewhat defensively.

  He wavered. “Just … to take them.”

  “No.”

  “You use them.”

  “I’m not doing that anymore. And your father wasn’t a druggie, OK? He never even smoked pot.”

  All the frankness made something between them relax. He saw how beautiful she was and felt his love anew. “Was I adopted?”

  “Were you—no. Emphatically not.”

  “Did Father finish high school?”

  “Of course he finished high school. With honors. Marcus was brilliant. He went to Oxford on a grant.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “England! Christ, Tull, you should know that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s appalling, Tull.” She sucked on a Spirit, taking a deep, incredulous draft. “When he came back, he was … a little at sea. A friend of his worked at the agency.”

  “At William Morris?”

  She nodded, punching out her cigarette. “Your father’s friend helped get him a job in the mail room and within a few years he was a full-fledged agent. He loved the business, but I think what he really wanted was to be a writer. Marcus was a very creative man—hilarious. A great mimic. He was famous for his revue sketches at the Morris retreats.” She stopped to scrutinize her son. “Why did you ask if you were adopted?”

  Tull shrugged, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know.”

  “Because he was. Your father was.”

  The boy enlivened. “Who were his parents?”

  “His real parents? He was never able to find out.”

  “Was he in an orphanage?”

  “I already told you, he was adopted.”

  “But you have to be in an orphanage first, don’t you?”

  “I suppose. He never discussed it.”

  “Then where did he live—I mean, grow up?”

  “Redlands. That’s where he was raised. Lovely people.”

  “Have you seen them? His foster parents? I mean since.”

  “No.”

  “Was he crazy?”

  She consulted the Spirit, and lit up afresh. Then: “Something happened when he was at Oxford … when he was a student.”

  “Like what?”

  “He didn’t talk about it much. All I knew was that he put himself in the hospital—from the pressure of exams.” Pullman yawned, stretching in the doorway like a guardian-statue come alive. “And something happened in France, too, the first time we saw the tower.”

  She retrieved the snapshot taken at the Désert de Retz and handed it to a goggle-eyed Tull. There, short-bearded and charismatic, with open brow and fearful eyes, stood his washed-up father in front of the ruin, which itself looked beached in the bowl of a lea. He’d never seen the man before, and stifled a surge of tears that seemed to rush up from the earth like an electrical charge.

  “Keep it if you like.”

  “What happened in France?”

  “When we left that place, your father insisted on walking. He wouldn’t get in the car. So I drove while he strolled—all the way to Versailles. It was awful. I followed alongside the way they do in those bike marathons. I had to make sure he didn’t hurt himself … but I was the one who almost almost got killed. He wouldn’t even talk to me. I checked into a little hotel—this was in Versailles—and after cajoling him like hell, he finally came in and lay down on the floor. We were in that room for days; I’m still shocked no one called the police. I don’t think either of us slept. Anyway, Bluey knew a doctor in Paris—Bluey knew a lot of doctors in Paris—how we got him there I’ll never remember. They finally put him under. For a whole week I kept bedside vigil at the Plaza Athénée; I just didn’t want him in the hospital, which was probably a mistake. When we got Marcus to the States, we put him in a private place in Westwood on Bundy. It’s not there anymore; I think it fell apart in the earthquake.” She stared at her lap, wondering if she had already said too much—or if that was even possible. “They gave him shock treatment and that seemed to help. The quality of life got better anyhow. It couldn’t have been much worse! He started being his old self again. Your father and I had a lot of fun together,” she said wistfully. “He and your grandpa got very close. They hardly said a word, but they loved each other—the way Louis and Pullman are when they’re together. Ha! Just like Grandpa and Pullie! After a month or so, Marcus went back to work and just flourished. Lots of important clients: Diane Keaton, Meryl Streep. Then it started all over again, the mania, sleeplessness—the walking. Walk walk walk walk walk. Oh God, I think once he walked to Montecito. It culminated in …” She sighed, looking off into space. “It went on like that—relapse and recovery, relapse and recovery—and when we got married … you know, we didn’t know anything about your grandfather’s gift—it was a very well kept secret. We saw La Colonne for the first time on the day of our wedding, like everyone else. I can’t tell you the look in your father’s eyes when we emerged from the allée and saw it perched up there on the hill, waiting—for him. He shook all over, then tried to get his bearings … like he was having shock treatment again! Then came a look of … acquiescence. Tull, it was so scary to see—the mountain had come to Mohammed. This inescapable thing that in France so unhinged him had somehow taken flight across the Atlantic and set up residence, like a dream. Bizarre! Your grandfather couldn’t have had any idea … because Marcus and I had spoken so glowingly of the place—it truly was magical, and Grandpa Lou was so taken with it, by our enthusiasm. You know how he can be. But he—your grandfather—was merely the instrument … I remember watching Marcus standing there smiling to himself as if—as if he finally understood, as if he had some final understanding that he was trapped, in a web—a spiderweb—I saw the shadow of the tower cross his face like some fairy-tale dungeon. It had come for him!”

  She trembled, and Tull moved closer to take her arm. She stubbed out her cigarette, took a deep breath, and composed herself. “That must have been his thinking, anyway.”

  “And he left the next day?”

  She nodded. “I was still sleeping.”

  “And that’s why you took the drugs?”

  She looked pale and flustered. He could see her capillaries and the fine down of her cheeks; could hear the blood beating through her veins.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s why you took the drugs? Because he left you?”

  She was duty-bound to answer everything now.

  “I was just so … astonished. I thought we could—get through anything. We’d already been through so much in so short a time. But never to see him again? That he would just walk away? I hadn’t considered the possibility. It wasn’t an option.”

  A delicate hand rose to blot the tears. Tull wrapped his arms around her, imagining his mother’s hot breath like a frightened calf’s. Then he said all he could think to say that was true: “But he loved you.”

  The words hung in the air, an indisputable paradox, sad and just, with no corollary or conclusion. The Withdrawing Room fell silent save for the sound of her weeping. Pullman loped over, lowering himself at their feet—and that simple act unleashed in her a round of sobs, wails and clenches that inured Tull to manhood before he even knew what had taken place.

  Not all that far from the house on Saint-Cloud, on Santa Monica Boulevard’s verdant north side, walked a bearded giant all in tweed. His gait slowed while he thought of his mentor John Ruskin’s descent to madness—the great beacon of his generation and author of The Stones of Venice hallucinating in Derbyshire, foaming at the mouth in Brantwood, mute and occluded on the Kent Sands—and while he feared the same, he was willful enough to determine that would not be his fate. He must take care, if only for the girl’s sake. His stride was festive and leisurely now, as one who arrives at a pleasure faire, though the ocean was really his destination. Perhaps he wasn’t as vigilant as he should have been, having surmised the police would not look for him
this far west.

  In Beverly Hills, he paused at a “pocket park” on South Reeves to catch his breath. Other homeless were there, roosting with the requisite shopping carts and rags. He thought it made him less noticeable.

  After the unfortunate summit with the baker and his wife, Will’m had returned to Angelino Heights beside himself with rage. He tore at his beard and battered his head against fragile walls like a wounded rhinoceros. He bellowed in the garden. He fell to his knees and beseeched the skies: “O darlin’, darlin’ girl, what have I done! What have I done!” It would not have been a good thing for a mortal to meet him during those imprecations, but there came Fitz to run his hand through Will’m’s hair, with unexpectedly palliative effect.

  “You’ve got to leave,” said the pasty caseworker. Today, there seemed to be no blood in him. “The flatfoot was asking for you—look out. He will find you. Knew me by name he did, me, your ‘running partner’—knew more about me than I know myself! So, look out, that’s a wily man. I’d go north, Will’m—Bay Area. Big population. Cut the hair, trim the beard … get yourself a new set of clothes. Lay low awhile, then settle down in San Rafael or Sebastopol. I hear there’s a vagrants’ camp in Occidental—”

  Will’m unhappily agreed, and they sat to a makeshift meal, consumed in silence.

  Then he retired and plunged into sleep. A carousel of grueling, tenebrous images swam before his rhino eye, a virtual News from Nowhere newsreel: the Pre-Raphaelite orphan girl with nail-bitten hand resting upon a shit-stained illuminated manuscript. He heard his voice in the dream, but without English accent—the woman calling to him was not, for once, his Janey. He stood in a meadow. A man on a tractor rolled toward him, raffish cigarette stuck on lower lip. The tractor-man opened his mouth and spoke in Frankish tongue: “Monsieur,” he said, “would you be so kind to consider the appointment of Chairman of the Disembodied?”