by Gore Vidal
Paul was surprised to find that people took Amelia seriously. He could hardly be critical; he had married her. But when they first met she was different. A quiet, thoughtful girl, she had worshiped him until it was plain that a physical relationship was impossible. Then, defensively, she had grown masculine and aggressive. It was all his fault, he decided, or at least the fault of the way he was, and this racketing woman was the result. Did nothing turn out well?
Sullivan finished his drink and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, Amelia, I must cut class.” Though he said this amiably enough, he was pleased to see that he still had the power to hurt her. She stopped in midsentence: the needle had been lifted from the record. He said good night to the correspondents and left the bar. As he entered the lobby, he could hear Amelia beginning again.
At the desk Sullivan got his mail and took the lift to his room, hoping there would be no air-raid warning to break his sleep. He was weary. Not until he was in bed did he notice Jim’s letter on the night table. He read the letter twice and was both disappointed and pleased. Jim was going to be discharged from the Army and he would like to see him again. Nothing more. No mention of Maria. Did that mean their affair would continue, if it was an affair? During the months Sullivan had been in England, he had thought of Jim often, dreamed of him, wanted him. Could they resume? That was the question.
It was morning before Sullivan fell asleep. During the long night he thought mostly of the books he had written, and he was filled with gloom. He had succeeded at nothing. He had no lover, no family, and H. G. Wells had never heard of him. But then as he grew sleepy, he comforted himself. After all, he was young and there was still time left in which to write a masterpiece, as well as to recapture Jim. Meanwhile, first thing in the morning, he would send Mr. Wells one of his novels, autographed.
* * *
—
Jim’s letter made Maria Verlaine sad and somewhat embarrassed. She had been a fool to love a child incapable of response. She had deserved to suffer, and she had, for a time. Now she wanted only normal men and uncomplicated attachments.
In New York, despite the austerities of wartime, she dined out often, met strangers, made love. In constant motion, she ceased to think of herself as a tragic figure. Now this unexpected letter reminded her of that strangely lowering season she had spent in Yucatán with a boy and his lover. Did she want to see him again? She thought not. She was at an age when she did not care to be reminded of old defeats. Yet at the same time she was sorry for Jim. More to the point, was it not a proof of her own power that he had again turned to her? and of her own maturity that she could receive him as a friend? Yes, she would write to him. They would meet when he came to New York. After all, she had nothing to fear, nothing to gain. The worst had happened.
* * *
—
Everyone agreed that Bob Ford looked remarkably handsome in his Merchant Marine uniform. First mate aboard a Liberty ship, of all the hometown youths at war, he was considered the most successful. Of course, the Merchant Marine was not exactly the Army or Navy, but still it was quite an achievement to be a first mate and not yet twenty-five. His homecoming was something of a triumph, although, properly speaking, he had no home since his father had been committed to the insane asylum the year before, and the family home was now a boardinghouse. The new owner, however, was willing to rent him his old room at half price, and here he stayed during the two weeks of his leave, while he wooed Sally Mergendahl, the reason for his return. They had written one another for five years. During that time, Sally had grown into a quiet pretty woman, no longer “wild.” As a child, she had made up her mind that she was going to marry Bob, and nothing had ever caused her to change her mind. Now her patience was rewarded. One evening, while walking her home from the movies, Bob spoke of marriage.
“Are you sure that you really want to be married? Could you be married and still be a sailor?”
Bob looked at her. They were standing beneath a tall elm tree; his face was in darkness, hers in the light from a nearby streetlamp.
“I’m sure I want to marry you. But I love the sea. It’s the only thing I know.”
“I talked to Daddy,” said Sally slowly, “and he thought you would do very well in the insurance business, in his business, and he thought it was a shame that someone with your personality was away at sea all the time when you could be in business with him, selling insurance, as a partner.”
“You think he’d give me a job after the war?”
Sally nodded. She had already won that battle.
“Then if it’s all right with you, let’s get married right away.”
“I think,” said Sally Mergendahl, “that that would be a very good idea.”
* * *
—
The morning of the wedding was a Sunday. Church bells rang, and most people slept an hour late. But Bob was up early. He shaved carefully, put on his newest uniform, and went downstairs for breakfast. His landlady was ecstatic.
“What a lovely day for a wedding! Though any day’s a good day to get married. I made pancakes. There’s nothing like a full stomach to start you off with. Oh, by the way, here’s a letter for you. It came Friday, but in the excitement I forgot all about giving it to you. I’m sorry. It was addressed to you in care of old Mr. Ford here, which means it’s from somebody out of town. Well, enjoy your breakfast. I’ll see you at the church. I wouldn’t miss this for anything!”
Bob opened Jim’s letter. He was surprised to hear from him after so many years; he also felt a bit guilty for not having answered those early letters Jim had written him. Sally occupied what little talent he had for correspondence.
The letter was simple enough. Jim was getting out of the service and he hoped to see Bob soon, perhaps in New York. That was all. Something disturbed Bob as he crumpled the letter. He frowned and tried to remember what it was. But his mind was a blank. As he tossed the letter neatly into a wastebasket, he made a vow that he would answer Jim’s letter the moment he got back to ship.
CHAPTER
9
I
JIM WAS NOT DISCHARGED immediately. Instead he was sent to a hospital in the San Fernando Valley of California, where he was treated and observed. In the hot sun his arthritic condition improved but, because he was now eager to get out of the Army, he said nothing of this to the doctors. He continued to limp in a most distinguished way.
Jim visited Hollywood often, but he did not go to see Shaw since he had received no answer to his letter; he assumed that Shaw was still living with Peter and not interested in a reconciliation. But he did meet the director named Cy, in a bar, sitting too close to a sailor, drunk. When Cy saw Jim he shouted, “Well, if it isn’t the tennis boy!” He was exuberant. “So what’s new? In that butch uniform yet! Been to see America’s Sweetheart?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Where you stationed?”
Jim told him.
“A hospital? What’s wrong? A rosy chancre? The dread disease that dare not tell its name?”
“No, arthritis.”
“Serious?”
“Not very.”
“Well, let’s have a drink.”
Jim shook his head. “I’m not drinking.”
“Then I’ll have one.” Cy ordered himself gin. “So why haven’t you been to see Shaw?”
“Because I don’t think he wants to see me, do you?”
Cy took a swallow of his new drink and wiped his mouth with a hairy paw. “Oh, you know Shaw. He’s such a ham. Who was the one who came after you? I’ve forgotten.”
“Peter, an actor.”
“That one!” Cy beamed with malice. “Well, I’m responsible for that breakup. In a way. I put the kid in a picture and, believe it or not, he was good. So the studio offers him a term contract, he takes it, and walks out on Shaw, who, by the way, got me to put him in the picture in the first place
. Isn’t that a hoot? But hell, I don’t blame the kid. After all, he wasn’t even queer. He’s shacked up with a broad at this very moment, at Malibu. Saw them myself this afternoon, on the beach.”
“Who’s with Shaw now?” The story of Peter was not entirely surprising.
“Everybody. Nobody. He hunts the bars and the studio is worried as all hell. And…oh, by the way, he’s going in the Navy. Now that’s a real hoot!”
“But I thought he was supposed to be too valuable or something to go.”
Cy chuckled. “You got to go to war if you want to make pictures. He’ll be commissioned and sent overseas to maybe Honolulu and we’ll take a lot of pictures of him being one of the boys and then, if the Navy doesn’t lock him up for raping their personnel, he’ll come home with a couple of ribbons and a new contract from the studio. Last few months they’ve been working him hard, so there’ll be plenty of Shaw pictures while he’s gone. The idiots won’t be allowed to forget him.”
“When’s he going in?”
“As soon as the Navy gets the go-ahead from Life.”
“Nice deal,” said Jim. The bartender began to move ominously toward him: nondrinkers were unpopular. “Well, I’ll see you around.”
“Why don’t you come on up to my place tonight…” Cy began.
“No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.”
* * *
—
The routine of the hospital was a relief after Colorado, and Jim enjoyed himself. He played tennis for the first time in two years. He gained weight and soon his illness was a barely remembered nightmare, like the cold white mornings on the Colorado desert.
In April his mother wrote to tell him that his father had died. Jim felt no regret. Almost the contrary: a weight was lifted in his mind, a hatred ended. Jim sat in the sun and looked across the green lawn, where patients in maroon Army dressing gowns were wandering back and forth.
Death seemed impossible in the sunlight. Yet Jim wondered what it was like. He himself had been close to death but he could recall nothing. Now, in the sunlight, he pondered death and his father. He did not believe in heaven or hell. He thought it most unlikely that there was a special place where good people went, particularly when no one was certain just what a good person was, much less what the final repository was like. What did happen? The idea of nothing frightened him, and death was probably nothing: no earth, no people, no light, no time, no thing. Jim looked at his hand. It was tanned and square, and covered with fine gold hairs. He imagined the hand as it would be when he was dead: limp, pale, turning to earth. He stared for a long time at the hand which was certain to be earth one day. Decay and nothing, yes, that was the future. He was chilled by a cold animal fear. There must be some way to cheat the earth, which like an inexorable magnet drew men back to it. But despite the struggle of ten thousand generations, the magnet was triumphant, and sooner or later his own particular memories would be spilled upon the ground. Of course his dust would be absorbed in other living things and to that degree at least he would exist again, though it was plain enough that the specific combination which was he would never exist again.
The hot sun warmed him. The blood moved fast in his veins. He was conscious of the fullness of life. He existed in the present. That was enough. And perhaps in the years ahead he would have a new vision, one which would help him, somehow, to circumvent the fact of nothing.
In May Jim went before the medical board. Since X rays showed a mineral deposit in his left knee joint, it was the decision of the board that James Willard be medically discharged from the Army of the United States, with a pension for disability. To his delight, all this came to pass. Papers at last in order, he was given a railroad ticket to New York. On the train he read in a newspaper that Ronald Shaw, the actor, had enlisted in the Navy.
* * *
—
In New York Jim rented a room on Charles Street in Greenwich Village and looked for work. After some time he found what he wanted. Near the East River there was a vacant lot which had been converted to tennis courts. Here Jim met Wilbur Gray, who, with his partner Isaac Globe, owned the courts. Eventually a new building would go up on the lot but, according to Mr. Globe, that was at least five years away, and in the meantime, business was excellent.
Jim visited the courts every day. He became friends with both Gray and Globe. Finally, he offered to buy part of their business and to be an instructor as well. After many conferences and much examining of books, the men, who knew nothing about tennis, agreed to allow Jim, who knew nothing about business, to become their partner.
Jim worked for the rest of the year, giving lessons on good days, and since there were an unusual number of good days that summer and fall, he made money. Outside of work, he saw very little of his partners. They were both devoted family men and had no interest in the outside world. Neither did he while he was working. He saw no one. He did call Maria Verlaine’s hotel once, but she was not registered.
* * *
—
One winter afternoon, on Fifth Avenue, Jim saw Lieutenant Shaw, looking rather wistfully at a display of Christmas toys in the window of F.A.O. Schwarz’s.
“Ronnie!”
“Jim!” They shook hands warmly. Shaw had been at sea in the Atlantic. He was now on leave, living at the Harding Hotel. Would Jim like a drink? Yes.
The suite in the Harding was vast, with rococo mirrors and spindly gold-encrusted furniture. Shaw ordered a bottle of Scotch and then they stared at one another, each wondering how to begin. At last Shaw remarked that a lot of water had gone under the bridge since they last met. Jim agreed. Then the conversation stopped for a long time until Shaw said, “Are you living alone?”
Jim nodded. “I worked pretty hard all summer; I don’t really know anybody yet.”
“You’re better off playing the field. I know I am. Ideally, of course, a relationship is best, but then how many people are capable of deep feeling? Practically none.”
Jim put an end to that familiar dirge. “How’s the Navy?”
Shaw shrugged. “I’ve had to be careful. But then I’ve always had to be careful. By the way, what’re you doing tonight? I’ve been invited to a faggot party, very chichi. I’ll take you. It can be your coming-out party in New York. They’ll all be there.”
Jim was surprised at how little Shaw seemed to care for appearances. In the old days he would never have gone to such a party. But now he was indifferent, even defiant.
The party was given by Nicholas J. Rolloson, heir to a notorious American fortune. Rolly, as he was known, had two passions, modern art and the military. Both were well represented in his apartment overlooking Central Park. Paintings by Chagall and Dufy hung on stark white walls. Mobiles tinkled from the ceiling. A huge Henry Moore nude dominated one end of a long drawing room in which at least one chair resembled a wrecked armadillo. Through these startling rooms a full company of soldiers, sailors, and marines wandered, awed by their surroundings if not by Rolly and his friends, who were perfectly familiar to them.
There was a hush when Shaw entered. Although there were other famous men at the party—painters, writers, composers, athletes, even a member of Congress—Shaw was most glamorous of all. Eyes watched his every move. He was a legend here, and that made him entirely happy.
Rolly welcomed them enthusiastically; he wore a scarlet blazer with a crest. As he moved, breasts jiggled beneath a pale yellow silk shirt. The handshake was predictably damp. “My dears, how lovely of you to come! I was so afraid you wouldn’t, Ronnie, and I would have died of disappointment, but now my evening is made, but absolutely made! Now come with me. Everybody’s just about out of their minds to meet you.” Shaw was borne away, and Jim was left on his own. A waiter gave him a martini. Cocktail in hand, Jim went exploring, somewhat excited by the servicemen, conscripts in Rolloson’s army.
In a corner of the dining room, Jim was
hailed by an effeminate man with a hairpiece. “Come on over, baby. Join the party.” Without alternative, Jim sat down on the couch between the hairpiece and a set of bifocals. Opposite sat a gray-haired man and a bald young man. They had been talking earnestly and both the gray-haired man and the bifocals were irritated at being interrupted.
“You came with Shaw, didn’t you?” asked the hairpiece.
Jim nodded.
“Are you an actor?”
“A tennis player.” Jim ground out the phrase in his deepest voice.
“Oh, how thrilling! An athlete! I adore body men,” said the bifocals. “Teutonic and primitive, not like those of us who are simply frustrated and inhibited by a society grown too complex to understand. This young man is the true archetype, the original pattern of which we are neurotic distortions.” The bifocals examined Jim as if he were some sort of moderately interesting experiment.
The gray-haired man objected. “Why are the rest of us necessarily the result of a distortion? In any case, you are being taken in by an appearance. We don’t know his reality. He could be most neurotic of all. By the way”—he turned to Jim with a smile—“we speak of you not as yourself but as a symbol. We’re not being impertinent.”
“But there is something,” said the bald man, “in this Teutonic theory. In Germany, isn’t it the army, the athletes, the most virile men, who are homosexual, or at least bisexual? And God knows Germany is primitive enough. On the other hand, in America and in England we find that effeminacy is one of the signs of the homosexual, and of course neurosis.”