But here’s where I need your advice. He wants to bill me as “The Little Red Thrush.” I’m worried it will remind people of Senator McCarthy’s committee. What do you think? I can’t go back to Winnetka.
Hoping all is well with you.
Your friend,
Ronnie Gilchrist
Roy M. Cohn, Esq.
Office of the Hon. Joseph McCarthy
Senate Office Building
Washington, DC
March 20, 1953
Davey,
It looks good for the Senator being able to keep you out of the draft. But we need to make sure that the world knows you’re an important part of the Senator’s crusade against the Communist Menace. I’m thinking of a fact-finding trip to Europe, which will give us high visibility (at least in the daytime). What facts, you ask? I don’t know, but we’ll find some!
Anyway, haven’t I been promising you we’d take a vacation, just the two of us? The Europeans are a bunch of immoral pigs, but they do have some nice hotels. Don’t forget to pack your purple briefs--you know the ones I mean. And that torn T-shirt, my little Stanley Kowalski! Ooh la la!
Love, Daddy
G. David Schine
Hay-Adams Hotel
Washington, DC
Sunday, March 22
Dear Christine,
Congratulations on the operation. But I have to admit I’ve got mixt feelings. You were such a cute boy.
“Daddy” is taking me to Europe! He says they’re a bunch of immorral pigs over there--I can hardly wait! Not sure where we’ll be--Germinny, I know, and Paris. Have you got any good French connections? I’d say let’s get together but I don’t think so. You know how jellus “Daddy” gets. (Anyway you’re not my type any more, ha ha!)
Davey
PS. We’re looking for REDS. Know any?
Ronnie Gilchrist
Martha Washington Hotel
New York City
March 22
Dear Mr. Carraway,
Just a quick note to tell you something I overheard last night at Mr. Sheinbloom’s apartment when he was talking on the phone. That horrid little Mr. Cohn from the McCarthy Committee is going to Europe to look for Communists or something. Mr. Sheinbloom laughed and said, “He should be able to find some Communists in Europe, for God’s sake. But if he really wanted a challenge, he’d go to Russia.” I’m not sure where he actually will be going, but I did hear Mr. S mention Paris, where you are. I know it has nothing to do with you, but you be careful just the same. I don’t like that Mr. Cohn!
Mr. S has arranged for me to open for Josh White at the Village Vanguard next week. I’m scared to death! But I’ve been working like mad, and I have learned some new songs, like “Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream,” which is pretty and has a real message. Mr. S has found an apartment for me on MacDougal Street, which is right in Greenwich Village, so I won’t be at the Martha Washington any more. I’ll miss Jackie and the other girls, but Mr. Sheinbloom says it will be more comfortable and private having a place of my own. Anyway, I’m feeling a little funny about the pills Jackie gives us. I really worry about Carole Landis and Barbara and especially Judy, sometimes they’re so fun, and then all of a sudden they just seem to go so ... oh, I don’t know, I guess I’m being silly, and I know Jackie says there’s no harm in the pills, but maybe I’m better off moving. If you want to write me, the new address is Apartment C, 14½ MacDougal Street, New York 12, New York.
I am so nervous about where my career is going, and this whole “Little Red Thrush” thing . . . it is the last thing in the world I ever imagined myself doing, living in New York City and being a part of the whole folk music scene. But I don’t know what else to do.
Anyway, you watch out for Mr. Cohn.
Your friend always,
Ronnie
Robert Cohn Associates
1853 M Street NW, Suite 830
Washington, DC
Tuesday, March 24th
Roy,
Attaboy, go get those lousy Commies! And listen, when you get to France, there’s a son of a bitch in the press corps I’d like you to stick it to big time. Guy by the name of Jake Barnes, who I used to know way back when I was living in Paris. He’s arrogant, thinks he’s G-d’s gift to women, and I’m damn sure he’s a subversive.
I’m sending a note to my old friend Maurice Chevalier asking him to show you boys around when you’re in Paris. I think you’ll like Maurice--he’s the sort of guy who’s comfortable in any situation. He’ll show you the real Paris, not the one the tourists and French people see.
Your uncle,
Robert
Robert Cohn Associates
1853 M Street NW, Suite 830
Washington, DC
Tuesday, March 24th
Mon cher Maurice,
My nephew Roy Cohn is coming to Paris on some business for Senator McCarthy. Maybe you’ve heard. He’s traveling with a friend, David Schine. They’re bookish boys, and will be spending a lot of time in libraries. I want you to see to it that they get out a bit. Show them a good time. My nephew’s the possessive sort, and I suspect there’s something more than meets the eye to his interest in his friend. I’d like to try a little experiment. Lay on the charm, especially with Schine. You know how to be charming, don’t you, Maurice? I want to see how Roy reacts when he’s hot under the collar.
My file on you is safe in my cabinet. I keep it under C, for Collaboration--I mean, for Chevalier. Thanks Maurice, I know I can count on you.
Robbie
Nicholas Carraway
Hotel Odeon
Paris
March 26, 1953
Dear Miss Gilchrist,
I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. Your earlier letter and this one reached me at the same time. European postal delivery can be charmingly quirky. You ask for my advice about Mr. Sheinbloom’s plan to bill you as the Little Red Thrush.
My advice is this: Get back to Winnetka on the next train! Beware of your friend Jackie and her pills, and Greenwich Village, and folk music, and above all Mr. Sheinbloom! You’re a sweet young girl, and there are men who will take advantage of that.
I appreciate your warning to me to watch out for Roy Cohn. If he will leave me the Deux Magots, I am perfectly willing to give him the rest of Europe. The Deux Magots, I should tell you, is one of a cluster of cafés on St. Germain des Prés (others are called Flore and Lipp and such, but what can compare with the name Deux Magots!) where everyone seems to wind up sooner or later. It is a fascinating place for watching people.
My instincts about them are almost invariably wrong. I sat enthralled the other day watching a craggy fellow dressed in black velvet, smoking harsh yellow cigarettes, and scribbling in a notebook. He turned out to be an insurance salesman totting up actuarial charts. I paid no attention to a couple at the next table, a tall woman made taller by a bun of dark hair piled on top of her head, and a short, round-faced man blinking behind owlish spectacles. When my friend Jake Barnes arrived to join me, he identified them as the famous writers and existentialist philosophers, Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre!
To my intense mortification, Barnes introduced me as “Nicholas Carraway, the American author.” Mr. Sartre was very gracious, and asked me if I knew Nelson Algren, which seemed to annoy Miss de Beauvoir. She leaned over and whispered something to Mr. Sartre. Imagine my surprise when his face brightened and he said “Ah, Trimalchio in West Egg!” This is a man who is probably the most important thinker in Europe today, and he remembered my book! My “situation” seems to open more doors than it closes. McCarthy and his hysteria are more a joke over here than anything else and the intellectuals assure us patronizingly that they don’t believe he represents “les vrais Americains.” People are openly involved with Communism, but nobody gets too worked up about it, considering how much closer they are here to the grim specter of the Iron Curtain.
I am going to love the pace of Paris--the Deux Magots, the afternoon apéritifs
with Jake, the sense that the world is both a larger and a more intimate place than I had ever imagined.
Your Friend,
Nick Carraway
Hotel de l’Odeon
Paris
Hotel Majestic
1 Dong Khoi St
Saigon
Vietnam
27 March
Barnes,
Two-week holiday due me, and I’m on my way to Paris. You can fill me in on what kind of awful imperialist lunacy the bloody Yanks are up to these days. I swear, a few of them are even starting to filter into Saigon. Mostly, though, I just want to hit the nightspots and hear some good American jazz. I was hoping Philby could get over and join us for an old-fashioned pub crawl, but our old chum Kim has funked on us. Busy time at the Home Office, he claims, Lord knows what sort of bloody Yank fat to be pulled out of the fire this time. Thank the bloody heavens we British have never gone in for this imperialist nonsense, what?
Hope you appreciate the posh Majestic stationary. I cribbed some sheets while I was soaking up a pitcher of their gin rickeys, the best in Indo-China.
Regards,
Fowler
Hotel D’Angleterre
KONGENS NYTORV 34
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
3 April
Dear Jake,
Tell me more about your Mr. Carraway. He interests me. You know I’ve always been attracted to men of your generation--dare I say, without risking bruised feelings, “older men”? Of course, I wouldn’t ever lump you in with any generalization. You’re my Jake, and always will be.
This will amuse you. A boy I used to know, Davey Schine, dropped by to see me here in Copenhagen. Does the name ring a bell? He’s on a rampage through Europe with his friend Roy Cohn, Joe McCarthy’s hatchet man. (“Daddy,” Davey calls Roy-sweet, isn’t it?) Perhaps you’ve run into them? Apparently they’re kicking up quite a ruckus in your neck of the woods.
I met Davey and Roy through Clyde Tolson and his friend, He Who Must Not Be Named, back when I was exploring the conventionally unconventional avenues of sexuality. Davey’s a nice boy, maybe a little too full of uncritical enthusiasm for his own good. It’s a quality that’s taken him down some peculiar alleys. He’s not the brightest sparkler in the packet, but he listens well, and he’s mentioned a few rather startling tidbits that may have rolled off the pillow, and that could be classified as Hot International Stuff. (It all has to do with that Mossadegh fellow you were writing about recently.) I have impressed upon Dear Davey that he is not to talk about these things with anybody but his Uncle George--excuse me, his Aunt Christine--but to tell me everything!
I will discreetly pass it all along to you, my darling newshound, when I see you in Paris next week.
Much love,
C.
Hotel de l’Odeon
Paris
Mr. Alden Carraway
c/o American Consulate
Kathmandu, Nepal
April 4
Dear Alden,
I have no idea whether this letter will find you. If it does, it’s a better man than I. I’m writing this from Paris, where I came at least in part to find you, and seem to have missed you by a matter of days. The other part of my visit, I guess, was to try to find myself, as I suppose you’re doing in your monastery or ashram.
It’s amazing the things you can see when you step back a few paces. Some of the picture is not very pretty. There are parts of it that make me despair; other parts fill me with an enormous patriotic pride. I have always imagined myself a “good American”; but I think I’m only just beginning to understand what that means.
I saw Chaplin’s “Limelight” last night on the Champs-élysées with Jake Barnes, who’s taken me under his wing since I arrived in Paris. He has wonderful things to say about you, which makes me very proud. Anyway, it was a marvelous movie. One of my first official acts in Washington was to sign off on a recommendation to Attorney General Brownell that Chaplin’s expulsion from the United States not be reviewed. I thought it made sense from that side of the Atlantic. Now I wonder. America is a great country, Alden, the greatest experiment in liberty the world has ever seen. Whether an artist’s views are the same as mine or Dorothy Kilgallen’s or Joe McCarthy’s, we ought perhaps to have room for their expression. In fact, I’m beginning to think we must make that room, if we are to survive.
I’m so sorry to have missed you here in Paris, Alden. I have your general whereabouts from Jake. Don’t blame him for telling me where you are. There was and is a lot I have to say to you about you and me and the missed opportunities and the lost years. I have a feeling you and I can bridge those gaps, but we’ll need to sit down together for a few long afternoons. Please write and let me know how you’re doing. I am longing to see you.
Your loving father
Jacob Barnes
Paris Herald Tribune
38, rue de Berri
Paris 16, France
April 5th, or thereabouts
Fowler,
Well, get your gin-soaked ass over here! How the hell are you? How the hell have you been? If you see any Americans in Saigon, shoot them. With my permission. That’s the only goddam language they understand. It’ll be damn good to see you. Fuck Philby, it’s his loss. Bud Powell is playing at Le Bar Negre--not that sort of watered-down oompah music you Brits call jazz, but something damn honest and true. The kind of thing you need to hear, before you jump to too many conclusions about America.
I’ll introduce you to my new pal Nick Carraway. You may remember--I sent you his novel years ago, the one about the gangster who falls in love with the rich dame. Since he’s been here he’s been coming in for a good dose of your damn old-Europe Yank-bashing, which is doing him some good. The Europeans are sore as hell over Chaplin, and I think a few scales are beginning to drop from Carraway’s eyes. He still has too many illusions about America, and we can’t cure what’s wrong with America with illusions. Damn fine writer though, and a good man, though he can’t always hold his liquor.
Don’t try to get him to any of your favorite bordels, although he could use it. He’s tied up like a knot below the belt. Anyway, he’s got this idea his wee-wee is too small. Told me the other night when he was tight. Tells everybody when he’s tight, I hear. He’ll tell you if you get him tight.
Just as glad Philby won’t be here. I don’t want to get in the middle of that. Spender doesn’t trust him worth a damn, but he’s been sucking up to Kristol like nobody’s business, and they’ve gotten to be thick as thieves.
Anyway, we’ll have entertainment. McCarthy’s Two Stooges, Cohn and Schine, hit town tonight, fresh from a boffo engagement in Frankfurt. You must have read a word or two about it, even out there in the fucking Orient. So come!
Yr. loyal partner in depravity,
Barnes
Apartment C
14½ MacDougal Street
New York
April 5, 1953
Dear Mr. Carraway,
That sounds so formal, now that we’ve been writing each other back and forth like this, and you’re not married anymore. (Oh, goodness--I don’t know what I meant by that!) I remember a lot of the people on the show used to call you Nick, and I always called you Mr. Carraway, and one of the Snicklekids--do you remember Mary Richards?--used to tease me about it. She said when she grew up, she wasn’t going to let anyone push her around, and she would always call her boss by his first name. Anyway, I hope I’m not sounding too much like a small-town girl from the Midwest. I’m trying to be a real New Yorker now. I wear black leotards and peasant blouses and eye makeup, just like all the other kids who come out to Washington Square Park on Sunday to sing folk music. This week a few people even recognized me. Some of them even took my picture--a couple of men in suits and snap-brim hats and dark glasses--I guess they were tourists, they didn’t look like the Greenwich Village types.
But you really are my best friend, you know. Whenever something important happens to me, or I find myself really thinking
deeply about something (not that I’m saying my thoughts are so terribly deep or anything), I always wish you were here. New York can be a lonely town, and I sometimes think how good it would be to have a shoulder to cry on, and someone to say, there, there, Ronnie, you’re going to be all right.
Oh, I know I’m being silly. I hope you won’t think I’m just a silly girl and stop writing to me altogether.
Your friend always,
Ronnie
Hotel George V
31 Avenue George V
Paris 8eme
France
Roy Cohn
Suite 7A
April 7
Dear Uncle Robert,
Thanks for your note of encouragement. That’s right, you lived in Paris for a few years in your reckless youth, didn’t you? When you were writing your pinko novels. Don’t worry, your books are safe!
Davey and I have been having a ball on this trip. You wouldn’t believe the European press. They’re really spazzing out over us, but they’re dumb enough to jerk around--it’s like throwing a bone for a dumb dog and you throw it over the fence and the dog smashes into the fence chasing it. Really funny! Davey wrote a poem I think you’ll like. Here it is:
Europe is a fucking whore Parlay-voo francais Why we saved ’em in the war Is more than I can say The Frenchies kissed our G.I. ass Voulay-voo Paree Now they give us frogs and gas, The men are slow, the girls are fast, Well I for one will take a pass Who gives a fart? Not me!
Is this a talented kid or what? I made him sign it and then I grabbed it and posted it at the concierge’s desk. Davey went bananas! He chased me through the lobby of the Georges V trying to swat me with a rolled-up magazine! I was yelling “Commie swine” and ducking for cover. It was a hoot! The snooty hotel manager tried to put a damper on us, but I dropped Senator McCarthy’s name and he left us alone. What a dork!
Nick and Jake Page 5