by Gore Vidal
“Five years ago we might have thought that true,” said bifocals. “But I’m not so sure now. Of course there have always been normal-appearing men who were homosexual but never or seldom practiced, while the other type (what you call Teutonic) was not so much in evidence and we knew very little about them and thought they were just trade, you know, the truck driver who enjoyed being had but pretended that he was really interested in women and money. But I think the war has caused a great change. Inhibitions have broken down. All sorts of young men are trying out all sorts of new things, away from home and familiar taboos.”
“Everyone is by nature bisexual,” said the gray-haired man. “Society, early conditioning, good or bad luck—depending on how you were told to look at it—determine the result. Nothing is ‘right.’ Only denial of instinct is wrong.”
Across the room, Shaw motioned for Jim to join him. Jim excused himself.
Shaw and Rolly were surrounded by sailors, who regarded Jim jealously as he joined them.
“I thought you looked bored with those intellectuals,” said Shaw.
“Who were they?” asked Jim.
“Well, the gray-haired one is a professor at City College and the one with glasses is a journalist—you’d know his name if I could remember it—and the other one is a perfect bitch,” said Rolly, patting his thick lustrous hair. “They were probably talking politics. So dreary! I say, why worry? Let them eat cake and all that sort of thing. I mean, after all, really, isn’t live and let live the best policy?”
Jim agreed that indeed it was and Rolly pinched his thigh. Shaw was suddenly carried off by the sailors and Jim was left with Rolly, trapped.
“I understand from Ronnie that you’re a tennis player. Now I think that’s terribly exciting…I mean to be an athlete and work out of doors. I’ve always thought that if I had my life to live over, which fortunately I haven’t, I would have spent more time alfresco, doing things. As it is, I do nothing. You know I do nothing, don’t you? I hope you don’t hate me. Everyone’s so snobbish about working these days. It’s the Communists, they’re everywhere, saying people must produce. Well, I say that there must be somebody who knows how to appreciate what’s produced. Which is why I’m really quite a useful member of society. After all I keep money in circulation and other people get it and I do so believe in everyone having a good time….Oh, there’s that butch Marine, isn’t he something? He was had five times last Sunday and still went to Mass, so he told me.” Jim looked at this celebrity, who turned out to be a rather tired-looking young man in uniform.
“You know, I loathe these screaming pansies,” said Rolly, twisting an emerald and ruby ring. “I have a perfect weakness for men who are butch. I mean, after all, why be a queen if you like other queens, if you follow me? Luckily, nowadays everybody’s gay, if you know what I mean…literally everybody! So different when I was a girl. Why, just a few days ago a friend of mine…well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say a friend, actually I think he’s rather sinister, but anyway this acquaintance was actually keeping Will Jepson, the boxer! Now, I mean, really, when things get that far, things have really gone far!”
Jim agreed that things had indeed gone far. Rolly rather revolted him, but he recognized that he meant to be kind and that was a good deal.
“My, isn’t it crowded in here? I love for people to enjoy themselves! I mean the right kind of people who appreciate this sort of thing. You see, I’ve become a Catholic.”
Jim took this information in stride.
“It started with Monsignor Sheen, those blue eyes! But of course I needed Faith. I had to know just where I’m going when I shuffle off this mortal thing, and the Catholic Church is so lovely, with that cozy grandeur that I adore. One feels so safe with the rituals and everything and those robes! Well, there just isn’t anything to compare with them. They have really the most beautiful ceremonies in the world. I was in St. Peter’s once for Easter—I think it was Easter—anyway, the Holy Father came riding in on a golden throne wearing the triple tiara and the most beautiful white robes you’ve ever seen and the cardinals all in red and the incense and the beautiful marble and gold statues…absolutely yummy! Anyway, then and there I became a Catholic. I remember turning to Dario Alarimo (he was a dear friend of mine of an extremely old Neapolitan family, his father was a duke and he would have been a duke, too, but I believe he was killed in the war because he was a Fascist, though all the best people were Fascists in those days, even though we all realized that Mussolini was hardly chic). What was I talking about? I was about to make a point. Oh, yes, about becoming a Catholic. So I turned to Dario and I said, ‘This is the most splendid thing I’ve ever seen,’ and he turned to me and said, ‘Isn’t it, Rolly?’ All my friends call me Rolly. I hope you will, too. So, right after that I took instruction. Oh, my poor head! It was so difficult. There was so much to memorize and I’ve a perfectly wretched memory, but I did it. I don’t like to seem carping or to be finding fault with the Church but if they would only cut out all that memory work, things would be a lot simpler and they might pick up all sorts of really nice people, not that I’m implying they don’t already have the best people. Good evening, Jimmy, Jack, Allen. Enjoying yourselves? But as I was saying, except for that awful memory work at the start, it’s been thrilling. I go to confessional once a month and I even get to the Sunday-morning Mass, the one at ten, and really I think I’m something of a model convert.
“Of course it will probably be years before I die; I certainly hope it will be years. But when I go, I want to be prepared. I’ve picked out the nicest crypt at the Church of St. Agnes in Detroit. That’s where my family makes those awful motorcars. And I shall be buried there. I expect the cardinal will officiate at the funeral. He better, considering the money I’m leaving them in my will. Going so soon, Rudy? Thank you, good night. I understand that the Pope is thinking quite seriously of giving me a decoration for the good deeds I’ve done. I’ve given them rather a bit of cash, you know. It’s the only way to defeat Communism.
“I do hope I’ll go to Heaven after doing so many good works on earth. I think sin is terribly fearsome, don’t you? It’s practically impossible not to sin a little, but I think it’s the big sins that are the ones that can’t be forgiven, like murdering people. A few lies, white lies, and an occasional infidelity, that’s really the extent of my personal falls from Grace. I have such hopes for the afterlife. I see it as a riot of color! And all the angels will look like Marines. Too gay! The party is going well, don’t you think?”
Jim agreed, weary of the flood of talk.
“If you’ll excuse me I must make my rounds. The work of a hostess is never done. You wouldn’t like to spend the night, would you?”
As Jim started to say no, Rolly giggled. “So few people do anymore, that’s one of the horrors of age. Well, I’ve enjoyed this little chat with you immensely, and I hope you’ll come by some evening when we can have a quiet dinner together.” Rolloson patted Jim on the buttocks and plunged into his menagerie.
Jim found Shaw drunk and surrounded by sailors.
“I’m going home.”
“But it’s early. Come on, what you need is a drink.”
“I’ll call you up in a day or so.” Jim departed. It was a relief for him to breathe the fresh air of the street.
* * *
—
Winter passed swiftly. Jim saw Shaw occasionally and Shaw was friendly and amusing and introduced him to a number of people who had money and nothing to do. There were many different homosexual worlds in New York, and each usually had some knowledge of the others. There was also the half-world where hetero- and homosexual mingled with a certain degree of frankness; this was particularly true of theatrical and literary groups. But in the highest society, the homosexual wore a stylized mask in order to move gracefully, and often convincingly, among admiring women who were attracted to him because his understanding was as great as his demand
s were few. Occasionally two homosexuals might meet in the great world. When they did, by a quick glance they acknowledged one another and, like amused conspirators, observed the effect each was having. It was a form of freemasonry.
From all over the country homosexuals had converged on New York. Here, among the indifferent millions, they could be as unnoticed by the enemy as they were known to one another. Yet for every one who lived openly with men, there were ten who married, had children, lived a discreet, ordinary life, only occasionally straying into bars or Turkish baths, particularly at five o’clock, that hour between office and home when the need for relief is particularly urgent. These masculine, rather tense men appealed to Jim, who disliked the other sort he met through Shaw. Yet he learned a great deal from the bold homosexuals. Like jazz musicians and dope addicts, they spoke in code. The words fairy and pansy were considered to be in bad taste. They preferred to say that a man was gay, while someone quite effeminate was a queen. As for those manly youths who offered themselves for seduction while proclaiming their heterosexuality, they were known as trade, since they usually wanted money. Trade was regarded with great suspicion; in fact, it was a part of the homosexual credo that this year’s trade is next year’s competition. Jim was thought to be trade by most of Shaw’s friends, and inaccessible trade at that.
All during the winter Jim saw a good deal of the Rolloson world. Though he was repelled by the queens, he had no other society. Furtive encounters with young married men seldom led to anything. For a time, he hoped that if he saw enough of the queens, he might begin to like their society and be happy in it. But this was not possible, and so when Shaw went back on active duty, Jim dropped out of the gay world, preferring to haunt those bars where he could find young men like himself.
On an impulse one afternoon, Jim telephoned Maria Verlaine’s hotel and to his surprise he found her in. She invited him to come to see her. Maria embraced him at the door. “You look so well!” She led him into the sitting room. Her eyes were luminous; she was vivacious; she laughed often. Then Jim noticed that her hands shook as she smoked her cigarette, and that she was ill at ease. He wondered why, but she gave him no clue. “Where have I been? Well, let me see. Everywhere. Nowhere. The summer in Maine. Then Jamaica. But New York is the center where I touch base between excursions.”
“You haven’t been happy, have you?” Jim was direct.
“What a question!” She laughed, eyes not meeting his. “It’s hard to say what being happy is. Absence of pain? In that case, I have been happy. I suffer no pain. Feel nothing.” But she mocked herself as she spoke.
“Then you still haven’t got what you want?”
“No, I haven’t. I live entirely on the surface, from day to day.” She was suddenly grave.
“Will you ever find him?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps not. I’m not young. I won’t live forever. I simply go on. And wait.”
“I wonder if any man wants the complete thing that you do. I don’t think men are capable of so much feeling, that’s why so many prefer one another to women.” He was immediately sorry that he had said this. Yet he was convinced that it was the truth.
Maria laughed. “You don’t leave us much hope, do you? One must be what one is. Besides, at times I have been very happy.”
“Maybe we’d all be better off just having friends and forget about lovers.”
Maria smiled. “That seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?”
They talked then of other things until it was twilight and Jim got up to leave. Maria had told him that she was expecting a friend at five.
“I’ll see you again. Soon,” she said.
“Soon,” said Jim. They did not embrace when he left.
Jim went straight to a Times Square bar frequented by soldiers and sailors. He studied the room carefully, like a general surveying the terrain of battle. Then he selected his objective: a tall Army lieutenant with broad shoulders, dark hair, blue eyes. Jim squeezed in beside him and ordered a drink. Jim’s leg touched the lieutenant’s leg, a hard muscular leg which returned the pressure.
“You in the service?” asked the lieutenant. His voice was slow, deep Far Western.
“Yeah, I was in the Army, too.”
“What outfit?”
They exchanged information. The lieutenant had served with the infantry during the invasion of North Africa. He was now stationed in the South as an instructor.
“You live around here?”
Jim nodded. “I got a room downtown.”
“I sure wish I had a place. I got to stay on a sofa with this married cousin.”
“That sounds pretty uncomfortable.”
“It sure is.”
“You could,” said Jim, as though he were thinking it over, “stay at my place. There’s plenty of room.”
The lieutenant said no, he couldn’t do that; they had another drink together and then went home to bed.
II
IN THE SPRING, JIM returned to the courts. According to his partners, it might be ten years before the lot was built on; meanwhile, it was a gold mine and Jim worked hard, and he made money.
New York was full of servicemen, coming and going. Jim moved to a larger apartment, though still in the Village. He now knew a number of people but none well. It was easier to have sex with a man than to acquire a friend.
Jim saw Maria Verlaine once or twice, but, since it was obviously painful for her to be with him, he stopped telephoning her.
That summer Sullivan returned and Jim went to meet him at his club. They greeted each other in a gruff, offhand manner. Sullivan was thinner than Jim remembered and his sand-colored hair was beginning to go gray. He wore civilian clothes. “Yes, I’m through with being a correspondent.” He grinned. “I quit before they fired me. I just don’t have the vulgar touch, unlike my angel wife.”
“Amelia?”
Sullivan nodded. “She’s a great success. She started out by telling the Ladies’ Home Journal what it was like to be a British housewife during the Blitz, and now she’s graduated to the higher politics. Everyone quotes her. The Dark Ages continue.” Sullivan ordered another drink for himself. “Have you seen Maria?”
“A few times. Not much. She’s out of town.”
“Too bad. I wanted to see her. You know she’s almost the only woman I’ve ever really liked as a person. She’s so un…pressing.”
“I think she’s all right now.” Jim was tentative.
Sullivan waited.
“Interested in some man or other. I don’t know who,” Jim continued doggedly, not certain why he was lying except that he did not want to hurt Sullivan again.
“Well, that’s nice for her. She deserves good luck.” He changed the subject. “What about your business?”
Jim was proud to be able to tell him how well he was doing. Boasting to a friend is one of life’s few certain pleasures.
“That’s good news.” Sullivan paused. “Are you alone; are you living alone?”
Jim nodded. “I just play the bars. I like strangers, I guess.”
“It’s better to have one person…isn’t it?”
“Maybe for some people. But not for me,” he lied. “Sometimes I never even know their names. Sometimes we never say more than a few words. It all happens so natural, so easy.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“Isn’t everything?”
Sullivan sat back in his chair and looked about the old-fashioned bar with its dark heavy wood. Several club members sat drinking quietly at a corner table. “You’ve changed.” Sullivan was casual.
“I know.” Jim was as casual. “When you almost die, you change. When you’ve been a soldier, you change. When you get older, you change.”
“You seem a little more…definite, now.”
“About some things. But I still don’t know how to get what I want.”
Sullivan laughed. “Who does? Change is the nature of life.”
“But that’s not true,” Jim continued, intent on his own thought.
“What?”
“There’s someone I knew in Virginia. Someone I grew up with.” It was the first time Jim had ever mentioned Bob to anyone. He stopped immediately.
“Who was he?”
“It was a long time ago.” Jim said no more. But it gave him a sense of power to realize that he could one day recapture his past simply by going home. He made a vow. As soon as the work of the summer was done, he would go back to Virginia and find Bob, and complete what was begun that day by the river.
Jim was conscious that Sullivan had asked a question and was waiting for an answer. “What? I’m sorry.”
“I said”—Sullivan was awkward—“that I was alone, too, and if you wanted to, we might…again.”
Jim was flattered but not greatly moved. He responded amiably. Their affair was resumed. And since it was no longer of much importance to either of them, their life together was rather more pleasant than it had been the first time around.
In June, Paul’s new novel was published and his publishers gave a cocktail party for him. The day was hot. Jim was bored and ill at ease, but Sullivan, immaculate in a new gabardine suit, was almost happy.
In the stifling room, the talk was loud as the flower of New York publishing got drunk together. Jim drifted from group to group, eyes smarting from cigarette smoke, puzzled by what conversation he did hear. “Henry James revival? It won’t last. It’s the British, you know. They’re responsible. During air raids, people need to be comforted, so they read James and Trollope. Return to a safe golden self-contained world, with no bombs in it.”
“I suppose there will be war novels. The real horror of war is the novels which are written about it. But don’t expect anything good for at least a decade. I wouldn’t publish a war book for the world. Harry Brown of course is an exception. John Hersey, too.”