“Well, I really do love A Dance to the Music of Time,” I said, not ceding my position. “I think it has changed my life. Makes me notice how everything repeats: my feelings, people, events. Powell often refers to Nietzsche's theory of eternal recurrence. I haven't read Nietzsche, but I think I get what he's saying—”
“Are you homosexual?” asked Kenneth, cutting off what could have been my dissertation defense.
This really was the Homosexual Question of all Homosexual Questions, not that there's necessarily more than one Homosexual Question, but you know what I mean. I hesitated a moment, not knowing if I should answer, but to not answer seemed worse, so I said, “No, I'm not homosexual.”
I felt this was a true response, but there was also something untrue about it, and I wondered if Kenneth would perceive this and say that I was lying. After all, could I be an utter card-carrying heterosexual if, over the years, I'd had a recurring—speaking of Nietzsche—fantasy about life in prison? It all came from reading Papillon during my adolescence, right around the time that Krafft Ebing was putting its mark on me. The author, Henri Charrière (nickname: Papillon), describes a love affair between two prisoners on the island where he was held, and how one man had taken the rôle of the wife, and something about this had aroused me mentally and erotically and been plaguing me, periodically, ever since. Here I was, as an adolescent and in adulthood, completely attracted to females, but somewhere lurking in my psyche was a desire to be imprisoned and forced to play a feminine rôle.
“I hope you don't mind me asking,” said Kenneth. “Whenever I meet a young man, I like to get that out of the way. Usually, I can tell one way or the other, but with some people, like you, it's less clear. You're all beaten up and bruised, but besides that your signal is strange. I didn't think you were gay, though it's hard to read that mustache of yours and you dress eccentrically…. I, of course, am completely homosexual. I don't like the word gay, but I use it when I have to.”
“I don't mean to give a fuzzy signal,” I said. “I was hoping with my mustache to convey a Douglas Fairbanks Jr.-Errol Flynn look. Also, William Powell, now that I think of it.”
“William Powell wasn't a bad actor, he could be quite comedic, but Fairbanks Jr., like most actors, had no talent. But he had a face. That's all you need for movies. A good face … So you're a little bit off, like everyone else here, but I believe you when you say you're not homosexual.”
“I'm not saying I'm one hundred percent heterosexual…. Doesn't Jung contend that we're all essentially bisexual?” I think I was hoping to win Kenneth's approval—one always wants the approval of charming people—by acknowledging some possibility of homosexuality for myself, but my remark didn't quite have the desired effect.
“Everyone is always saying Jung, Jung, Jung, and this bisexual bullshit. I haven't had a single sexual thought about a woman in my life. I'm the least bisexual person there is. I've always been entirely homosexual, even before puberty…. I was defiled when I was twelve by a man in his thirties. We were in a park. In Chicago, where I grew up. He took me in some bushes, and I loved it. I still love it. Psychologically, anyway. I can't do it physically. Hurts too much. But I'm still looking for that man who raped me. Seventy-eight and still looking. Don't think I'll find him.”
I was silent. There was something very sad and human about what he had said. For a moment, I wondered idiotically if that man in the park was still alive, and somehow he and Kenneth could be reunited.
“I went back to that park for years,” he continued, “but I never saw him again. He was dark. Have always liked men with dark hair ever since. But I did meet other men in that park…. And I always wanted the same thing: to be defiled … that's when I was happiest. Went on for decades, but in my fifties, I quit sex. No point to it anymore. I had piles. It's very painful. I didn't have sex for twenty years, but then last year I was in England lecturing and I met a young man about your age. He came back with me to the States; he didn't have a job. I gave him blow jobs for eight months. That was it. But I enjoyed it. A substitute for what I really like. We did try it once, but I couldn't do it.”
As Kenneth spoke, I had something of an intellectual breakthrough, a glimpse of understanding about my own sexuality, and it all hinged on the word defiled. I wanted to get back to my room and write it down before it slipped away from me, but it would have been rude to leave Kenneth at that moment, though I didn't know how to keep the conversation going.
I was pretty sure before this talk with Kenneth that everyone at the Rose Colony was sex-crazed, but this confirmed it. I mean they were as sex-crazed as the regular human population, as sex-crazed as I am, but something about the place compelled people to confess to me about their erotic lives almost immediately upon being alone with my person. First there was Beaubien with her insinuations of incest, then Tinkle with his water-pistol problem, and now Kenneth.
“I've silenced you,” he said.
“I just feel bad that you've never found that man again,” I said, and I thought of how Kenneth must have been a very pretty boy when he was in that park, all of him as fine and as beautiful as his nose.
“Don't feel too bad,” he said. “I don't think anybody finds that man.”
Rather than say anything, I stood up and put my foot in the water, testing it. Testing the water, that is, not my foot. Though maybe it was my foot I was testing—whether it could tolerate the water's temperature. Oh, God, I don't know what's more difficult, life or the English language.
“Cold?” asked Kenneth.
“A little cool, but sort of nice,” I said. “I think I'll go for a swim. Be good for my nose.”
Kenneth nodded sympathetically, and through the trees the track announcer mutedly called for the start of another race. I got into the pool and did ten laps, racing only against myself. It was good to exercise and the aqua therapy was healing for my nose; I could almost sense the swelling going down. When I came out, Kenneth watched me towel off. I felt like Tadzio to his Aschenbach.
“You have a nice slender physique,” said Kenneth. “Muscular but thin.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I do a little yoga.” I didn't mention that heavy drinking seemed to have had a dissipating effect on me, but in a positive way, stripping off any fat. Some people get heavy on booze and some people disappear.
“You have bruises on your body,” he said. The marks on my shoulder and stomach were fading but still visible.
“I had a fall.” I picked up my book. It seemed okay to leave now. “I'm going to try to get some work done,” I said, still mentally holding on to my breakthrough. “It's been nice talking to you.”
“Nice talking to you,” said Kenneth, smiling at me seductively. I knew from his smile that all his life he'd had power over people and could induce them to try to destroy him. Maybe it was the way he had kept his ego in check. And it hadn't completely sailed over my head that Kenneth had perhaps mentioned giving blow jobs to a young man my age as a veiled sort of offer. But it was an offer that didn't appeal. So his smile didn't seduce, it only made me feel like I couldn't save him. You see, I didn't want to defile him; it would have killed him to hear me say so, but there wasn't much left to destroy.
CHAPTER 27
I spell out for Jeeves my breakthrough with the Homosexual QuestionThanatos and Eros are touched uponMore whining on my part about not having read Freud and JungA contemplation of the loneliness of being a Siamese twinEven if I'm a little bit defeated, I show a plucky spirit and press on with my work
Jeeves had returned from his nature romp, and I changed out of my wet bathing suit and glued back on my seersucker jacket and khaki pants.
Feeling lively and gregarious after my swim, I invited Jeeves to come sit with me in the writing room. I thought that if I orally ventilated my mental breakthrough, this would facilitate my turning it into prose, with the hope of finding a place to slip it into the novel.
I was arranged at my desk, and Jeeves was on his cot. We had a fan blowing on us, w
hich was quite delightful. I had picked up my lunch pail and thermos in the mudroom on my way into the Mansion, and so I sipped some coffee, to further excite my intellect.
“Jeeves, you're not going to believe what I've been through in the last two hours,” I said.
“Indeed, sir?”
I quickly told Jeeves of my interview with the frightening yet civilized Hibben. But this already seemed like back-page news, compared with my discussion with Kenneth. I then outlined that discourse for Jeeves. I told him how Kenneth had desired all his life to be defiled.
“A frank admission, sir.”
“Well, when he told me that, I had a breakthrough with the Homosexual Question.”
“A happy occasion, sir.”
“But before I spell it out for you, let me ask—how were the woods?”
“Lovely, sir.”
“You weren't working on an out-of-body experience, were you?”
“No, sir.”
I was a little disappointed but I didn't let on. “So you had a good time, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'm glad. I want you to be happy, Jeeves…. We'll have to go to the track one day, and if I ever get a moment's rest, I'll go for a spin on the forest trails myself. But this Rose Colony really keeps a person busy.”
“It is a stimulating environment, sir.”
“Especially since everyone is on sexual red alert. I don't know if anyone here is actually having sex, but they certainly have it on the brain…. Wait a second, those two fellows are having sex, I forgot about that; here I am intellectualizing the whole Homosexual Question and those two are quite literally burning up the sheets…. Well, to each his own. They do it, I think about it…. So the thing with the H. Question is that I've never really known what the Question is. I'm not sure there even is one, but I once heard someone say the ‘Homosexual Question,’ so I assumed there must be one. It could be like the Jewish Question: Why are homosexuals hated? But I don't think they're as hated as Jews, though they're certainly up there. I wonder if Jewish homosexuals had to wear a pink triangle to go with their gold star in Germany? Or was one decoration enough? … Maybe they wore a pink star? … Anyway, what I've realized, Jeeves, is that the Homosexual Question is primarily, for me anyway, a personal question: Why do I have homosexual thoughts? And what do they mean? … Is it all right if I talk about this?”
“Perfectly all right, sir.”
“Thank you, Jeeves … you're very kind…. I've been learning so much about myself today, it's incredible. First the nose-fetish business and now this homosexual breakthrough. One can go years without any insights and then in one day several mysteries are cleared up…. I'll try to make this coherent, Jeeves…. You see, ever since I read this book Papillon when I was about fifteen, I've had this occasional fantasy of being in prison and forced to play a feminine homosexual rôle…. It embarrasses me to tell you this … but I'm going to be brave…. So I'd have this fantasy usually when I was feeling low and self-hating, and as I often feel this way, this homosexual fantasy would recur with some frequency. But the thing is, it's not easy or desirable to get one's self thrown in prison, so the whole thing was quite impractical. And not being able to act it out, it sort of plagued me. I couldn't demystify it, couldn't find out whether or not it was really for me. So for years, it's had me somewhat wondering if I was homosexual. I knew it was unlikely, since I don't find men attractive and that seems to be a key component to male homosexuality, but nonetheless, I did have my doubts. And I'd really rather not have doubts, especially now that I'm on the verge of a romance with Ava…. So when Kenneth said he wanted to be defiled, I realized that's what I've wanted, at least in those low moments. Follow me, Jeeves?”
“At some remove, sir.”
“Well, we're almost there … I'm trying to make sense…. Anyway, as you know, I haven't really read Freud, but I read a novel where some characters were talking about Freud's theories, one of which is that there are two draws on the human spirit: Thanatos and Eros. Death and sex. Destruction and creation. Kind of like the north and south poles for explorers…. We see it in children early on: the-building-of-the-sand-castle-and-then-kicking-it-down motif. … Well, when I'm low, I'm drawn to both! Sex and death. So I combine the two! I'm thinking of calling it Thanateros. Death through sex. Death of my self. By taking on the female rôle—in prison!—it's been a way for my psyche to punish myself and kill myself. To be defiled! To kill my self as I know myself, or is it ‘my self’ again?”
I spelled out for Jeeves the two versions—“myself” and “my self”—that were confusing to me.
“In this instance, sir, it would seem that both word combinations could apply.”
“Thank you, Jeeves…. Now the thing is, I most loathe myself when I feel weak and helpless and inadequate. And for better or worse, I must think of the female as the weaker of the two sexes, and so when I'm feeling weak and low, I fantasize about playing the female rôle. This is denigrating to me, but I want to be denigrated because I don't like myself…. So the breakthrough is this: I now realize that this prison fantasy has actually been a positive and not something to be ashamed of. You see, my mind had sought out a scenario where I would be loved even if I was a weak, helpless thing. Because in Papillon the man loves his wife. They were happy on the island, even though it was a prison. That's what was so moving…. Eros also means love, which is important to consider…. So I want to die but I also want to live, and my fantasy has been a way for me to do both. Thanateros. To live through being loved, but to be loved by having my self killed, defiled, erased. But a new self is created, a female self…. Is any of this understandable, Jeeves?”
“A good deal of it, sir, though not all of it.”
“You're right, Jeeves, I haven't fully worked it out…. I think my main point is that my homosexual thoughts are almost entirely psychological and metaphorical, which explains why I haven't, at age thirty, ever really needed to physicalize them…. And they're not bad, these thoughts, since at the root of them is a desire to be loved. You see, my mind is always working on that angle, even when I hate myself.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I should read Freud, though, to make sure I'm not botching everything. And I probably should read Jung. I read a novel that was all about Jungian analysis. Mostly it discussed the male's search for his anima, which sounds too much like enema. But the anima is the female self or something, which is probably what I'm looking for in Ava, but I'm supposed to find it in myself. And women are supposed to be looking for their animuses, I think. But nobody finds these things. We spend years searching for them by screwing around and a lot of babies get made by mistake, which probably keeps Darwin happy, and then we lose our looks and can't screw around anymore and we haven't figured anything out…. Oh, it's just a great big mess, actually.”
“I would agree that it is a mess, sir.”
“But it keeps me busy.”
“Undoubtedly, sir.”
“Keeps everyone busy…. But we're all so lonely due to our mass confusion. It's very frustrating.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I wish it weren't so, but there's no way around it. I think even those two-headed Chinese fellows felt alone. One of them was alcoholic, which I can appreciate, and the other was what they called in rehab a codependent. So even Siamese twins have it rough. Don't you think?”
“It's not something I had considered, sir.”
“Probably a good thing. Your brain doesn't seem to get cluttered up with things, the way mine does. I envy that, Jeeves.”
“You have an excellent mind, sir.”
“Thank you, Jeeves…. But I guess my breakthrough wasn't such a breakthrough, after all. But it was nearly a breakthrough, which is pretty good. For some people it doesn't even occur to them to have breakthroughs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I'm going to put this partial breakthrough into my novel. I'll inhale the rest of this thermos of coffee and type until I'm arthrit
ic.”
“Very good, sir.”
CHAPTER 28
The StepsI try my hand at scriptwritingA wedding celebrationWe're all chastisedAn interesting story about teacups and urineAlone with Tinkle and MangroveAnother tale of a decimated heartBeaubien is on fireMangrove, the heroTalk of transubstantiation
The Steps of Alcoholism that I was following went like this:
(1) Have honest intentions to stay sober.
(2) Do nothing to stay sober.
(3) Drink.
I didn't call AA as I said I would in the library, and when I was offered a glass of white wine on the back terrace, I immediately caved in.
Here's what the screenplay version would look like:
BACK TERRACE MANSION. DRINKS BEFORE DINNER—FRIDAY NIGHT.
FELLOW ROSE COLONIST
Would you like a glass of wine?
ALAN BLAIR
No …. Yes!
Alan drinks.
Similar lighting and costuming as the night before. Similar quantities of white wine available. Same cast, with camera spending time on more significant cast members, such as Mangrove, Tinkle, Murrin, and Kenneth. Notably absent: Ava and Beaubien. Diane, the feral photographer, is observed by Alan and her beauty is admired, but his heart belongs to Ava.
As Alan continues to rapidly sip several plastic cups of wine, becoming drunk, his eyes happily scan the wine-drinking crowd—his fellow artists. It's as if he's always been here. He's joined by Mangrove and Tinkle.
I had only been at the Rose Colony for two days, but there was already a familiarity with everyone that was quite striking. Have a few meals and social gatherings with people and you feel like you know them.
Along with behaving alcoholically, what was happening to me at the Rose Colony is the exact phenomenon that takes place during a wedding celebration which spreads itself over a few days—you become very close to certain people and you can't stand certain other people, but in either case you know them, you're intimate in some way that is lacking in your everyday life.
Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel Page 23