by Jay Parini
“I don’t think about that,” I said, and it was true. That sort of professional envy would come later, when I actually had something to compare with others.
Auden was delighted, however. “Try to remain obscure as long as you can,” he said. “It’s much safer. And forget about this word ‘inspiration.’ A young poet has to court his own muse, but Dame Philology should become his mistress. Go deeply into words. And don’t be concerned with originality.”
“So far, that hasn’t been a problem,” I said. “I’m an imitator.”
“I’m sure Rupert would approve,” he said. “He’s been imitating me for decades.” There was an artful pause. “And what do you make of Rupert? Tell the truth now. I won’t tattle.”
“He’s very disciplined,” I said.
“Of course,” Auden said. “Discipline, in a man of intelligence, is a sign of ambition.”
“His best work is probably in the novels.”
“Alas, I’ve never read one.”
“Really?”
“I prefer detective stories, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve written prose.”
“Quite a lot, I should say. Had to make a living. Mostly book reviews, lectures. It’s all a bit scrappy.”
Scrappy, indeed. I had, with excitement, read and admired The Dyer’s Hand, a volume of aphoristic essays and reviews. But I understood that he’d focused on poetry with a unique vengeance. Few poets had written with such variety, in so many forms, many invented for the occasion. The range of his voice, from colloquial to formal modes, dazzled me. The problem was, the audience for such virtuosity was surely dying.
“Do you have anyone in mind, when you write a poem?” I wondered.
“What a funny question,” he said. “Do you know, sometimes, when I read a book and adore it, it seems to have been written for my eyes only. I don’t want anyone else in the world to know about it, so I keep mum. As a poet, I should like to imagine that thousands of chaps—or ladies—are out there feeling like that about my poems. They’ve all got a tremendous and wonderful secret which they are loath to share.”
What he said made such astonishing good sense, and he clearly enjoyed saying things he’d probably said a thousand times before. He would make, I thought, a marvelous teacher.
“Tell me something of yourself, Alan.”
“Alex,” I said.
“Yes, yes. So you are happy at the Villa Clio? It’s a lovely spot.”
“Not really,” I said.
“Oh, dear. I suspect the worst, so tell me the truth.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. “I’m in love.”
He drew back, feigning disbelief. “In love? Not very wise, dear,” he said. “Who is she? Or he?” He lowered his voice. “Not Rupert, I should hope? He doesn’t deserve it.”
“An English girl,” I said. “Rupert’s research assistant.”
“He’s very keen on his research, isn’t he? I’ve heard about this obsession—from Vera, the poor darling.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“Make a complete fool of yourself,” he said. “It’s your right and your duty. You’re a young man. Do what follows naturally—as the night the day.”
“I’m going to leave Capri,” I said, “as soon as possible. And with Holly, if she’ll come.”
“Oh, she’ll come,” Auden said. “Abduct her, if she won’t. The Italian police are hopeless. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
I laughed, saying I would take his advice, and this cheered him inordinately. For whatever reason, I had the feeling that he needed my cheer that morning. His bright, healthy spirit seemed uncomfortably trapped in a flabby, unwholesome body that had never willingly been found on a squash court. His complexion—the skin papery and sulfurous—reflected a life of booze and cigarettes. (“His apartment in New York always looked like an ashtray that no one bothered to empty,” Grant once told me.) It didn’t surprise me when, only a couple of years later, he died—a man in his early sixties, but one whose flesh had long since become irrelevant.
After a few further minutes of chatter, I sensed that Auden wished to regain his solitude. The fleshy eyes kept glancing away from me, toward the sports pages. His fingers began to drum the table.
“I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Auden,” I said, rising.
“How nice to meet you,” he said, putting forward a hand to shake, a habit perhaps acquired in New York.
I returned to my table and began to write—a true story about an old man called Gus who lived in my neighborhood in Pittston. He occupied an otherwise abandoned Bricktex building on the corner of our block, and children tended to taunt him. Mothers warned against speaking to him at all. The grandmother of a friend informed me that Gus “ate children for breakfast.” One day, I caught up to him as he limped along the street, starting a conversation. He seemed glad for my company, and invited me to his filthy apartment (old newspapers were stacked waist-high in every corner). He offered me cookies and a glass of Coke, served in a coffee-stained cup, and—with some reservations—I ate and drank. Gus was supposedly retarded, but I found our conversation delightful—he talked of nothing but the Yankees and their current season. “Mickey Mantle,” he said, “very good. He hits so many homers!” He grinned at me, toothlessly. “And you,” he said, “what is your name and do you play baseball?” I told him about my Little League team and my dream of pitching for the Braves like Warren Spahn. I also confessed to problems with throwing a curve. “It’s hard,” I said, and he nodded aggressively. Curve balls are hard to throw, he agreed, extracting a baseball from the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Put your fingers like this,” he said, showing me how to place my fingers on the seams of the ball in a particular way. “Try it,” he said, handing me the ball. “I think you will throw a curve today.”
I left him that day with a feeling of peculiar exhilaration. I was not Gus, and I was not retarded, and I would never, ever live in such a peculiar apartment. And if, by some rotten twist, I found myself in parallel circumstances, I would open my heart to every child on the street.
When I glanced at the table beside me, I noticed that Auden was already gone.
five
“He’s quite hysterical,” said Holly, whom I met on my way to the cottage. “I don’t know what you’ve said to him about us.” Annoyance wrinkled her brow.
“Who?”
“Rupert!” She seemed quite hysterical herself, her eyes moist and red.
“You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”
“I must get away. You’re right.”
“Did he hurt you?”
She looked at me as though I were mad. “He’s too savvy for that. And too British.”
Mimo was glaring at us, crouching in the garden with a trowel, so I insisted that she come into my cottage.
“What did he say exactly?” I asked, putting a mug of tea before her.
“He said I had disappointed him.”
“That’s all?”
I suspected she was not telling the whole truth. Grant was capable of immense scorn. I had seen it, and wondered when it might turn in my direction. I never guessed, however, that Holly could be abused by him in this way. He had, toward her, been almost solicitous.
“It was the tone,” she said. “And the expression on his face. I’ve never seen him like that.”
“He knows how I feel about you,” I said.
“Please, Alex. We mustn’t go there.”
I shrank inwardly, aware that I would not further my cause by making such remarks. “We may actually be in some danger here,” I said.
Holly smirked—one of her patented expressions. “What a lovely streak of melodrama.”
“Thanks.”
“We’re not in any danger,” she said, “but we should leave. This place is too uncomfortable.”
“You’ll go with me?”
“I’ve packed,” she said. “We might even go this evening, on the last ferry.”
/> I agreed at once.
“I’ve got only two cases,” she said. “Rather large ones, I’m afraid.”
I had only one suitcase and a backpack, but it would not be easy to slip away from the Villa Clio without attracting attention. I wondered if, indeed, it was even advisable to leave in such a manner, as though we’d stolen the silverware. “Maybe we should tell them,” I said. “We owe them something.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I can’t face him.” She smiled through tears now. “I’m rather a coward, as you see.”
I’d been going through my options for several days, and concurred with Holly that under the present circumstances it would be wise to abandon the island without further notice. Grant was behaving perversely, and Vera played along. They had, effectively, terminated my position. On top of which, I felt angry with them both, and wanted to demonstrate that my existence didn’t depend on theirs. I could go wherever I pleased. I could write my own books, rather than type Grant’s. I could cook my own elaborate dinners, in my own kitchen, without their sufferance.
So I spent the afternoon making arrangements for departure. We’d take the last ferry, at nine, though that meant having to abandon the dinner table rather precipitously. The Grants would, perhaps, suspect that something was amiss; but they would never guess we were leaving, and without notice.
I stopped by the Quisisana to tell Patrice about my plans. “I am not wanting this,” he said, standing on the cool, marble floor of the vestibule outside the dining room in a white jacket. “Now I am alone here, on Capri, when you go. Maybe I will go, too. With you, Alexi. There is no point to stay.”
That was the last thing I wanted. “You can follow,” I said. “I’ll send my address, when I have one. Probably in Rome.” I explained that Holly and I were going together.
“This is love!”
“Not exactly,” I said, “but I’m hoping.”
“I am hoping, too,” he responded. “I am feeling that Giovanni, he doesn’t believe this marriage is love. It does never work. He will love me, when he realize…” His eyes widened. “We can join you, in Roma! I have loved Roma, no?” For an awful moment, I thought he might break into song.
“We may go to England,” I said. “I’m not really sure.”
“Go to Roma, Alexi,” he advised in a hushed tone. “The English are very cold. I have told you this many time. England is a country of the head. They have no physical senses. You can examine this in their food, in the ugly clothes. The newlywed, they come to Capri, and they don’t hold hands or kiss. They say, ‘Isn’t the hotel jolly nice, poppins?’ This is their only pleasure!”
I hoped that Patrice, when he turned to philosophy, had greater sophistication, but I doubted it. He was no Jean-Paul Sartre, but I would miss him badly. He had lightened my days on Capri, giving me solace and companionship.
“I am coming to see you away,” he said, kissing me on either cheek, solemnly, before shuffling back to the grand dining hall. The slump in his shoulders spoke volumes. I guessed that his time on Capri had come to an end as well.
Before dinner, I packed my few belongings, cleaned the cottage, finished a last assignment from Grant (typing a batch of letters to his London agent and publishers), then paused to read again a letter from Eddie Sloane, my brother’s army friend. It had been waiting for me upon my return from Salerno, having been forwarded by my father. It was postmarked from Iowa, written in a carefully scripted hand—the letters all tipping to one side.
Dear Alex,
You don’t know me, but I was in your brother’s platoon in Nam. I was with him when he got killed. We were good friends, and this was hard for me but I’m sure harder for you and your family. My condolences to you and them.
Once he said that if anything happened to him—that sort of thing was on your mind there—that I should write you. He wanted you to know he did have a good friend through his tour. We looked out for each other. Talked a lot, late at night. Nothing else to do sometimes but sit around and slap mosquitoes and talk, and I learned a lot from Nick.
He said you were damn smart, and was always bragging about your college and stuff you accomplished. He didn’t know how you could read so many books and not lose your vision! That’s what he said, and he was mighty proud.
Nick was smart himself, as you know. I never saw a guy like him, so concerned to get things right. And he talked about you all the time. That’s all I really wanted to say. I don’t know exactly what goes on between brothers, since I don’t have one, but he said he really missed you over there, and he said it was nice that he had somebody to write to. And Jesus, he spent time on those letters!
I am trying to put this in the right words because it seems important. I wanted to explain—you probably know it anyway—that Nick cared about what happened to you, and he said he was looking forward more than anything to getting back. But you know, he’s still thinking about you. I got to believe he’s somewhere.
After I came back, it was hard to adjust, for me. After all that mess, the war, and the guys who didn’t make it, like Nicky. Sometimes I try to push it away, like a dream, and I say it didn’t even happen. The world couldn’t be like that.
So, that’s all. If you ever get to Davenport, this address is where you can reach me. We can go for some beers, and I’ll tell you stuff you never heard in your life before.
The letter was signed, “Sincerely, Edward Sloane.” I found it strangely comforting that my brother had spent his last months near Eddie. It told me something about Nicky that he would find such a friend. He’d come a long way in a short time, had discovered and amplified a fine, intelligent, and wise part of himself, one that—had he been luckier—he’d have carried back from Vietnam.
Now I put Grant’s letters in a neat pile on the table, and wrote a note to him and Vera. It would have to suffice:
Dear Rupert and Vera,
I’m leaving in a stack here what has become my final assignment from Rupert. You will know by now that I have left Capri, for good, with Holly. I can’t speak for her—her motives are probably different from mine. But I will say that I felt my time at the Villa Clio had come to a natural end. Unfortunately, I did not feel comfortable with saying good-bye. I’m sorry about this. The past week—the past month—has been, for me, a difficult time. I’m leaving, but I’ll be in touch again by letter. Let me say I regret my stay on Capri didn’t end more happily, and that I will always remain grateful for the many things I learned in your company. I think I will never forget the Villa Clio, or either of you.
It surprised me when, instinctively, I wrote “Love, Alex,” at the bottom. That was a false note, but I could not help it. I still feared Rupert Grant, and continued to admire him; but I didn’t “love” him. Vera was, perhaps, another matter. I had made a genuine connection there, and many things she had said to me would reverberate for years to come. I also dashed off good-byes to various friends and acquaintances, such as Peter Duncan-Jones, the Bonanos, and Father Aurelio. Each had offered forms of consolation and encouragement, and I would miss them.
It would have been more pleasant to leave Capri under better circumstances, but I felt an urgency that could not be quashed. I had to go, immediately and without further notice.
Holly came to the door, breathless. “I’ve asked Mimo to take my bags to the ferry,” she said.
“Won’t he tell Rupert?”
“Have you ever heard him speak?”
I saw there was no turning back. We would leave that night on the ferry, after dinner, slipping away into the dusk. Exactly where that journey would end I couldn’t imagine.
six
Before dinner, I carried my suitcase and knapsack to the Bar Vittoria, in the Marina Grande. They would keep my things there, with Holly’s. I wanted as smooth a getaway as possible, and could visualize an incensed Rupert Grant bearing down on us, a bull with flaring horns, trying to prevent our departure. I’d had a sequence of nightmares about that dagger of his, envisioning it stuck in
my back as I walked the metal gangway onto the ferry—a scene from one of Graham Greene’s thrillers.
To my horror, the Grants had invited Auden to dinner at the Villa Clio that night without telling either me or Holly. I discovered this when entering the long sitting room, where Auden—or the ghost of the poet—sat alone in a faded linen suit on the white sofa beneath the whitewashed walls and high vaulted ceiling. His pale hands were awkwardly folded before him—like unwelcome pets that had crawled into his lap and made themselves comfortable. Above his head loomed a painting by Peter Duncan-Jones, the one where an androgynous creature with three eyes and two navels was being fondled by several grotesque, smaller figures of indeterminate sex.
“Hello, Mr. Auden,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows when he saw me, as if to say, “What? You again?”
I wondered what Grant had in mind. Was he trying to make up to me, having guessed that I felt dejected about not meeting him the day before? Was this a conciliatory gesture from Vera? I began to question the whole business of departure. Perhaps I should tell Holly I had changed my mind, and we must proceed in some orderly fashion? We might give a month’s or a week’s notice. Or resolve to stay on Capri indefinitely: Grant was already talking about a new assistant, another Italian girl (recommended by his Italian publisher, Mondadori) who would replace Marisa, and she would surely consume his erotic imagination for a while. I no longer knew what made sense, though I’d begun to question so much of what I’d appropriated from the Grants. Their way in the world was not mine.
Vera entered with a tray of drinks. Vodka for Auden, with ice. No mixers. Wine for the rest of us.