The John Fante Reader

by John Fante

  The next day when I went to the restaurant, the little girl came across the street again, and put out her hand, and I gave her another 50 lira, and she did the very same thing with it—bought doughnuts for herself and her brother. And so, every day I have seen her, and she has come over to my table, and each time I give her 50 lira.

  I really wanted to do something extra nice for this sweet child. I know she needs a new dress badly, and I think she must need shoes. So last Sunday I thought I would tell her I wanted to take her to a fine store to buy a few things.

  But she didn’t come last Sunday. I looked for her, I waited for her, I even crossed the street and went down the alley, where she lives, but I couldn’t find her. And she wasn’t there this morning either. Now I’m worried. Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she moved away. The next time I write to you, I will tell you if I saw her again. I don’t even know her name, so I don’t know how to find her.

  Love from Daddy

  {Letterhead} Hotel Prince de Galles

  33, AVENUE GEORGE V

  PARIS

  JUNE 25, 1959

  Honey:

  I finished my draft of the script late this afternoon. It is being typed and Zanuck will get it tomorrow. I imagine he will read it over the weekend. We will then have a conference and do the final polish. It really can’t amount to much work—no more than a day or two. After that I am presumably through with Zanuck’s operations, unless he has something else to offer.

  I an waiting for the script from DeLaurentiis. It was supposed,[?? 430] to have been mailed from Rome Tuesday, meaning I should have received it by yesterday. I imagine it will come tomorrow. As you know, I am supposed to go down to Rome this weekend to talk about the script with DeL.

  I am living a very quiet life, but this fucking hotel noise out in the plaza is horrible. I just don’t get to sleep at night, not until three or so. Next morning I am half-dead with exhaustion, circles under my eyes, and a bad point of view for the new day.

  Last night it was simply unspeakable, sounded like half of Paris was down there pushing furniture around, shouting and laughing. At 28 bucks a night it would seem that the cheapest thing they could provide here is a little quiet, but as you know, everybody over the plaza has to put up with it. I don’t think the hotel cares because the guests are all transients and they figure to rob and disquiet them just once anyway.

  Bill Saroyan came aroundwith his kids for a moment yesterday afternoon during a lovely rain. His boy Aram is a nice looking lad, as tall as Bill and very amiable. Lucy is quite small with a large mouth and quite a big nose. She resembles Carol. She is really a very sweet child. I wish she had a more pleasing face.

  I usually go to dinner with Guido Orlando. He keeps telling stories, wild and preposterous. But he is very good company. I haven’t seen Zanuck at all since you left. Dorothy is doing the typing of the script. She still calls me Clang Clang. [Elvis] Presley is still here. Orlando introduced me to him. He is quite a nice kid. Every afternoon at this time (7 pm) the street is jammed with kids carrying his picture, waiting for him to come out and autograph.

  Wish I had more news but it’s pretty quiet. I’m relieved to be finished though. Saroyan wants to sell me his Carmen-Ghia for 1400 dollars. It only has l2,000 miles on it, a little red job with leather bucket seats. It would cost about 400 to ship it home—but I just don’t need it.

  Love to all,

  jf

  {1960}

  Honey—

  I think this is Tuesday, August 16. Nick and I are finally settled in a wonderful old house where Raphael used to live. It is very close to the Vatican, in old Rome. I am at long last settled down and happy, but the road has been long and hard.

  The place at Via Giacinto Pizzana was impossible. There were fleas in the beds. There was no hot water (out of order), and there was a lot of noise. It was far away from everything. The nearest restaurant was a mile away. The rent was 80 thousand lira a month, about $116 a month, plus lights and gas and a cleaning woman.

  Now we are at Via Rusticucci 14. We each have a bedroom in this very old house. Across the alley is a great ancient Roman wall over which (or through which, because there is a corridor) the popes used to flee to Castel San Angelo. Beyond this wall are enormously ancient dwellings of poorer people. The whole area is the property of the Vatican and carefully preserved.

  At the moment Nick is off somewhere walking around. It is 4:00 pm of a warmish day. He has walked a great deal. I imagine he is looking for a girl, and I think I shall get one for him myself very soon now. Coletti has a sister-in-law, a 19 year old, who is simply ravishing. I want Nick to meet her. He seems rather restless. The language barrier is of course a terrible burden—bad enough for me too, though I am fast learning to say things and be understood.

  The lady who owns this apartment is a sweet old signora named Emelia. Her husband died three months ago. She speaks no English but is utterly charming and very glad to have us. The rent is 50,000 lire a month.

  It has certainly been hectic so far. I am way behind in the script, but it can’t be helped because really it is a very bad thing they gave me, and I have to think it out carefully.

  Life in Rome so far has been a journey through the stomach. God, how we eat! No denying I’ve gained weight, but I am going to get it off. Nick has put on considerable too. He is wild about the food. In this area of the Vatican there are dozens and dozens of small trattoria, or little cafes where the food is exquisite. We plan to try them all out.

  I am reasonably healthy—always a bit tired—sleep comes slowly and doesn’t last long. The place is terribly noisy everywhere and one must get used to it. As for all that I have seen, I have not quite reacted to anything. I get the odd feeling of walking through post-cards—a one dimensional contact with the past. None of it moves me with any force. But the sky is always exquisite, dazzling white clouds rolling past. The nights are warm and eerily unreal, almost too perfect. I would say this is a more beautiful city than Paris, but somehow it is not charged with the electricity of Paris. It is useless to try and see everything. I am told it is the job of a lifetime and I believe it.

  At last a permanent address! VIA RUSTICUCCI 14, Rome.

  All my love—

  JF

  SEPT 2, 1960

  Honey—

  I am here one month today. Over 100 pages finished—none of which anybody likes, I think. It’s a most complicated business. I had to cut down a 220 page script, so I cut hard. Now the director thinks I cut too deeply, also that I don’t understand Neapolitans. Maybe. But I don’t think they are nearly as complicated as Coletti likes to believe, and I do understand them, and I furthermore understand only too well what constitutes a good story. Me worried? Honestly I am not. The whole matter will gradually work out, with compromises.

  Giuliano, the grave-digger, is going away to Greece to work for 20th Century-Fox. (Isn’t that a mad sentence!) He’ll be gone five months, leaving his English girl in Rome. She is 28, a dancer, very cute, and got along wonderfully with Nick. I think something will brew here.

  Nick has found out there is (Oh, God) a bowling alley in Rome. He will probably be there tonight. He usually goes to a movie at night, coming in about 2 am, always finding me sound asleep. Herb Tobias is here now and may take Nick to Madrid for a couple of days, just for company. Nick (and this is the last item about him) may also go to Milan to watch some automobile races.

  This is a haunted house. I think the ghost is Raphael. He does only one enigmatic deed. In the middle of the night, he flushes the toilet. It seems to happen every night. […]

  There are two wonderful female bargains in Rome, both of which I want to use for you. Gloves and sweaters. Send me your size in both. I think I know, but I want to be sure. Also, send me Vicky’s sweater and skirt (dress) size. The Frederick’s purchase intrigues me, even from 5000 miles. All my love …

  your affectionate slave,

  Johnny

  {To his son Dan}

  SUNDAY

&
nbsp; SEPT 3, 1960

  Dear Danny:

  I was very glad to get your letter. Thanks for taking the time to write your beat-up old man. You write a very nice letter, by the way—clean, clear statements, direct and to the point. Maybe you’re a writer too, like myself. Think about it … […]

  I keep working, but that’s about all. I don’t get into any trouble, or get drunk, or blow my dough. I hate to say it, but I’m stiffening up like all old clods. I see lots of broads I’d like to bed down, but it’s just a kind of dreamy notion which quickly passes. I’ll take your Mother any day. […]

  Lots of love …

  Dad

  {To Carey McWilliams}

  OCTOBER 10, 1966

  Dear Carey:

  The other night on the Mort Sahl show, Mort declared that Carey McWilliams, editor of The Nation knew all the unrevealed truths of the Kennedy assassination and found them so perilous, so calamitous that he refused to publish them.

  Can this be true? Certainly I can imagine you not publishing a piece for reasons of libel, or bad taste, but I find it hard to believe that you would stint about the truth. This is a very disturbing business, and it is conceivable that the truth about the assassination could have terrible consequences if, say, LBJ had been a part of the conspiracy to gun down JFK, which of course is one of many current rumors on the subject, and one which I don’t believe. But pray tell me—are you silent on the subject for the reason Sahl mentions, or is he just sounding off?

  Well, Nick finally did it. After living with half a dozen Afro-American females, he finally took one for his bride. We haven’t met the unfortunate young lady, but she seems to be uncommonly bright, a graduate of Univ. of Indiana, with an excellent position at General Motors. […]

  Danny lives in the Bronx, is wedded to a sweets maternal Jewish girl who has fattened him so that he looks just like the little pig who built his house of bricks. He drives a cab and is getting ready to go back to school at Hunter College. He is 1A in the Draft, but he has declared himself a Conscientious Objector, and every now and then hoists a picket in peace marches. My children … oh, my God!

  Our daughter Victoria is a ravishing little thing, seventeen now, a truly great beauty […]. This Summer we had as many as 20 boys around here day and night. They were like mongrel dogs sniffing every tree. But now she has found a steady guy[…]. They surf tandem style on every beach from here to San Diego. One of the joys of being a father is to witness your daughter held aloft by some jerk riding an eight foot surf on a tandem board.

  Finally there is Jimmy, now almost sixteen, my best hope for an unworried old age. He surfs a lot and smokes a lot, but he gets good grades and stays out of trouble. I couldn’t ask for more.

  I am suddenly and without explanation writing again. One day two weeks ago I made up my mind to abandon pictures and to my astonishment it was easy. Last week I wrote a 25 page short story-and it was easy. I feel reborn. Now, if my money will only hold out. …

  Best regards,

  John Fante

  28981 W. Cliffside Drive

  Malibu 3, Calif.

  FEB. 1, 1971

  Dear Carey:

  Remember, in “Roughing It,” that crazy letter written to Horace Greeley. Every time Greeley read it he got a different interpretation until the thing made no sense at all …

  I get the same reaction to your letter regarding my novel. I don’t know if you like the book or not. I think you want to like it but you have reservations. Which is fine. I feel the same way. Sometimes it sends me into utter despair. But I am sure it will be a very successful book. My Hollywood agent is wild about it and has 15 copies in circulation around town. The story editor at Warner’s hated it, but the story editor at Universal is crazy about it, and so is the editor at Bing Crosby’s. So who knows about these things. It gets down to the simple truth that one must please one’s self above all. And except for an occasional shudder of doubt I am pleased with what I wrote.

  My New York agent has always been Elizabeth Otis, and she is of course handling the novel from there. I am writing her today and telling her to contact you by telephone. If it’s not too much trouble you can suggest her sending the manuscript to the people you mention in your letter […].

  My daughter Vicky is taking unto herself a spouse in two weeks and I shall be present in a tux with striped pants to give the bride away. The orgy is wiping me out, but totally. I never thought it would happen to John Fante, but it will. After that only Jimmy will be at home, though not for long. Then we shall be alone, Joyce and I, and I am sure we shall discover some interesting things about one another.

  All the best to you and Iris.

  Regards

  John Fante

  APRIL 21, 1971

  Dear Carey:

  The rejection by Grove Press is dismal news of course, but I am not discouraged. Somewhere in that publishing jungle my little book will surely find a home. […]

  My lawsuit against my neighbor is proceeding to a climax. His lawyers have asked for an account of all medical expenses in connection with the dog bite and my attorney Sam Newman (former screenwriter and a brute of a lawyer) expects a settlement soon.

  My oddball son Nick is now a preacher of the gospel. Seems that a Hungarian minister of the Church of Universal Light and a machinist at the factory where Nick works has ordained him for the sum of five bucks. The thing is actually legitimate. Nick is now empowered to perform marriages and baptismal services. He gets a 15% discount on airline tickets and, should he be arrested, is entitled to a private cell in jail. He thinks it’s a bargain. Incidentally, his black wife is a pretty good country-and-western singer and has signed a contract to record a couple of songs. My little black and white granddaughter is now three, a very beautiful child. She was here Easter and we hid eggs all over the yard for her to find. She is an aggressive little creature and my fearless dogs run and hide in terror at the sight of her.

  Many thanks for your help with the book.

  Sincerely,

  John Fante

  APRIL 25, 1974

  Dear Carey:

  Many sincere thanks for the two fine, persuasive letters you sent to Peregrine Smith and the U. of Washington Press. I have already heard from Gibbs Smith in Salt Lake City asking for a copy of Ask The Dust, and it is in the mail to him as of yesterday.

  Today in the mail I had a letter from The Nation rather—rather, an empty envelope, dated New York, April 22. The flap was only lightly glued, so I presume it came open and the contents spilled out. I don’t know if it was a letter from you or not. Maybe all your girls have dry tongues, which, as you know, can be very painful.

  I’ll keep you informed on what happens to Ask the Dust. Robert Towne, who wrote the screenplay of The Last Detail, has had it optioned from me for the past three years and is supposed to be writing the screenplay. Would you believe that the option dough he has paid me so far (about $4500) is more than twice the money I got for writing Ask the Dust, and that includes royalties, of which there were absolutely none? The combined revenue I have had from

  Wait Until Spring Bandini, Ask the Dust and Dago Red (in book form) wouldn’t purchase a lawnmower on today’s market, and man, what I really need today is a good mower.

  Which reminds me. I am growing garlic. I have a small patch which is doing so well I may put the whole place in garlic next Spring. An Italian growing garlic sounds like the most natural combination in the world. A friend of my son Jimmy is living in a tent in the back of my acre, and he is growing pot. My wife has found a secluded place among the trees, quiet and invisible, and she plans to build a gazebo where she can meditate. Lots of action around here, as you can see. Meanwhile I sit in my dirty little room sucking my thumb and trying to write a novel. I’ve got close to 30 thousand words, and I’m calling it The Brotherhood of the Grape—the story of four old Italian wine drunks from Roseville, a tale revolving around my father and his friends.

  Have a nice summer. Love to Iris.

  Regards,<
br />
  John Fante

  {To his distant East Coast cousin Mary Rose Fante Cunningham}

  SEPTEMBER 17, 1981

  Dear Mary Rose:

  I am sorry not to have answered your letter of last June, but there have been so many changes in my life that letter writing is now a grave problem, for I lost my eyesight two years ago due to the complications of diabetes, which brought on glaucoma and total blindness. Now my wife assists me in my writing, which is difficult and tedious. I have also survived double amputation of my legs because of gangrene. I live in a wheelchair now, and my activity is curtailed. I hate to inform you of these dreadful circumstances, but frankly there isn’t very much beyond my misfortunes that I can speak about.

  I am not bitter, but I am discouraged. I have begun a new novel and it progresses with considerable difficulty. The worst result of blindness is its effect upon memory. I forget things. I dictate a sentence and in five minutes I can’t remember what it was. In the course of filling out a novel you can see the problems I have to face, but I blunder on. My latest novel, an autobiographical fragment called Dreams from Bunker Hill will be published by Black Sparrow Press of Santa Barbara this fall.