Speaking of people who seem to think a lot of themselves, your pal Barnes showed up at the press conference we had the day we got here. You’re right, he’s an arrogant sonofabitch. He asked what kind of books we were trying to weed out of the USIA libraries. I said, “What kind of books do you think, Mr. Barnes?” He said, “If I were fighting communism, I don’t think I’d give people any books at all.” I’m not sure what he meant by that, but I’m going to pass his name along to our staff.
I can see why you liked Paris. There’s something going on every minute here--no bull!!!! Maurice is taking us to a nightclub tonight--a “boat,” they call them here. I’ll keep you posted when I can grab a moment to write. We’ll be here a few more days, and then heading home to file a report for the Senator.
Love to Aunt Frances.
Roy
Submission to the Herald Tribune
Music Review
Francis Paudras
April 7, 1953
Attn: M. Barnes
PARIS--The great American pianist Bud Powell played what turned out to be two solo sets at Le Bar Negre last night. Hampered at first by a sluggish rhythm section of Parisian locals, M. Powell soon left them behind. First the drummer, then the bass player trailed off, and stood watching M. Powell in disbelief. They did not return to the bandstand for the second set.
Powell took familiar standards like “Tea for Two” and newer bebop compositions like “Ornithology,” and led them through a series of runs up and down the keyboard, in and out of time and melody, crashing up against chords that seemed to have positioned themselves at unexpected junctions around hairpin turns, then emerging unscathed on the other side, but for a few distinguishing wisps plucked from the chord, much like other American geniuses such as les Keystone Cops or Messrs. Abbott and Costello driving their flivvers into a barn and coming out the other side. There is no hayseed on M. Powell, but he exhibits the same consummate skill and timing masked as utter recklessness.
On the night this reporter ventured out to review M. Powell’s performance, the audience included Messrs. Roy Cohn and G. David Schine, the associates of the American Senator Joseph McCarthy, at a table with the Vichy collaborator Maurice Chevalier. They left during the first set, as M. Powell was negotiating a breathtaking passage of “You Brought a New Kind of Love to Me.” At another table, nearer the bandstand, was a group that included M. Jacob Barnes, managing editor of the Paris Herald Tribune, M. Thomas Fowler, Asian correspondent of the Times of London, M. Nicholas Carraway, an American novelist, and Mlle. Christine Jorgensen, best known for her recent medical procedure in Copenhagen.
At the end of the second set, M. Powell joined this latter group, and it was then that the evening took a bizarre and very nearly a tragic turn. After a round of drinks, M. Powell’s behavior began to change. He seemed to take offense at a remark by M. Carraway. Then, without warning, he leaped up from his chair, grabbed the bottle, and smashed it against the table, cutting his hand in the process. The white tablecloth was quickly drenched in blood.
M. Barnes took M. Powell by the arm and calmed him, guiding him to the next table where he deftly removed the sliver of glass from M. Powell’s hand. All this time he was speaking quietly, revealing a surprising knowledge of the Harlem of M. Powell’s boyhood. The great musician visibly relaxed as they discussed shops and street corners and small nightclubs, and musicians like Willie “The Lion” Smith and James P. Johnson. Their conversation turned to Kansas City, where M. Barnes was raised. M. Powell’s eyes lit up. “Did you know Lester Young and Count Basie?” he asked. “Did you hear Bird play back in KC?”
“I left Kansas City before the war,” M. Barnes answered. “Before the great jazz clubs opened. But I did hear Scott Joplin play in Sedalia, when I was a kid. His music had dignity and truth, the truth from which all music must start. Your playing has that truth, too. I visited New York a number of times in the Thirties. But then the war started, and I did not leave Europe in those years. I heard stories, though, about the after-hours sessions at Minton’s Playhouse, and the greatness of Thelonious Monk.”
M. Powell’s eyes grew dim, and he seemed to be somewhere else. “Minton’s,” he said. “I was there, you know, the night they raided the place. They went after Monk. They came after him with clubs, and they put the cuffs on him.”
“I heard about that,” M. Barnes said. “You wouldn’t let the cops take him. You told them, ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re mistreating the greatest musician in the world!’”
“That’s what they say,” M. Powell said. “I don’t remember nothing.”
“They hit you,” M. Barnes said. “They clubbed you on the head with a nightstick.”
“Me,” M. Powell said proudly. “Not Monk. Me. I stopped them from hitting Monk. I know, because when I woke up, we were in a cell together, and Monk was all right. They arrested the greatest musician in the world, but they didn’t hit him. Me. Not Monk.”
There are rumors that M. Powell suffers from nervous disorders, as a result of that blow. It is apparent, however, that his mistreatment at the hands of the iniquitous American justice system has not affected his genius.
--Francis Paudras
Hotel de l’Odeon
Paris
April 7, 1953
Dear Ronnie,
I’m afraid that I have a lot to learn about life, and am just beginning to find out how much. Earlier tonight Barnes took me out to a bistro to hear some jazz. At least Barnes said it was going to be jazz, but it’s a far cry from what my generation danced to, in those halcyon days we called the Jazz Age. Afterward, the pianist--an American Negro named Powell--came over to our table, and I managed to insult him. I was trying to be friendly, and I said, “Is that what you hepcats nowadays call beep-bop? Like that Thelonious Monkey and all those other strange musicians who wear those outlandish sunglasses and goatees?” I realized even as I was saying it that I was making a total ass of myself and trying to pretend to know something I know nothing about, but I wasn’t prepared for what followed.
He came at me, with intent to kill. He smashed a bottle and brandished it in my face, his hand bloody from the flying glass. It was truly frightening. But Barnes stepped in between us, and I don’t know how he did it, but without raising his voice or using any physical force, he gently steered Mr. Powell away. He sat him down at a nearby table, and talked to him for maybe half an hour. Ronnie, he was marvelous!
After that, Mr. Powell and I shook hands and made up. I apologized, and he patted my shoulder and said, “I get crazy sometimes, man.” We walked him back to his hotel, to see that he arrived safely--and to make sure that he didn’t drink any more--and I found myself looking at his eyes, deeply troubled and profoundly calm at the same time, and wishing I could talk to him the way Barnes can. My experiences are starting to seem awfully shallow to me. There’s tragedy in that Negro’s eyes, and I suspect that behind every tragedy there’s a hero.
Your devoted friend,
Nick
Hotel Danemark
21, Rue Vavin
Paris 6e, France
April 8
Dear Helen,
An added surprise on my Paris trip. You’ll have read about the notorious Christine Jorgensen--the American soldier who recently went from a him to a her? It turns out she’s a close pal of Barnes’s, and she joined us on our Paris pub crawl (incognito, to evade my journalistic brethren--or perhaps they stayed away out of deference to Barnes). She turns out to be a very attractive woman--the photographs don’t do her justice. And quite feminine ... no, womanly might be a better word. She has a maturity about her that one does not always encounter in one so young, and rarely if ever in Americans.
Speaking of which, Barnes is top drawer. Hard to believe he’s a Yank. I saw him defuse a situation between an American writer named Carraway and a nigger piano player last night. I would have simply tried to get us all out of there, but Barnes sat down and talked to the fellow. Had him telling us his life story
. Carraway, Miss Jorgensen and I listened spellbound. The four of us ended the evening by seeing the nigger chap home to a small flat in the 5th.
Not sure what to make of this Carraway-mostly, I believe, because he’s not sure what to make of himself. I believe he’s someone who has always lived through others. Perhaps that’s what made him such a good novelist, although he’s only written one book. Barnes sent it to me years ago--I believe he’s sent it to everyone he knows --and I understood why he liked it, but I’m afraid it was too American for me. At any rate, Barnes has quite taken him under his wing.
Perhaps one had to have lived through what Barnes and Carraway and his man Gatsby lived through in their war. Barnes is fond of saying “one of us,” a phrase which he tinges, however, with irony. He includes me when he says it, for better or for worse, but I don’t belong. There’s something that always set that generation apart. Certainly my crowd at Oxford thought so. We never got over being the generation that didn’t go to war. Which meant, of course, that we also were not the generation that didn’t come back. And that often seemed to be the hardest part. Barnes represents something to us, and that may be part of the reason he is held in such high regard. That, and of course the fact that he’s a damned good journalist and a damned good drinker.
Spender and Auden and Isherwood, when they weren’t talking about revolution, were talking about the coming war. They started anticipating it by about 1922, I’d say. I suppose anything was better than looking back at the classes just before us at Oxford, which essentially didn’t exist. It was eerie.
Well, the coming war came, did it not? And I can’t say we’re the better for it. I don’t know that I like being “one of us.” I’m tired of having to choose up sides, and I suspect many of my friends feel the same way. “Taking sides” these days means either being for or against America, and both positions grow more and more untenable. Still, it must be very strange for those veterans of what they used to call The Great War, to suddenly no longer be numbered among the happy few.
Now, about that divorce ...
Sincerely yours,
Thomas
Hotel D’Angleterre
KONGENS NYTORV 34
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
9 April
Dear Jake,
Thanks for the evening. Paris was wonderful.
How have you stayed away from America for so long? Were you trying to prove something? To yourself? Because you’re American to the core, darling, and you love the damn country. Always have, always will. I know, because I don’t.
I don’t hate America. It’s like my male equipment. Painful to admit, even to myself, that I didn’t need it, because everyone said it was the greatest thing in the world. But easy to shed, once I’d made up my mind. I don’t hate men (at all), but I hated myself, being a man, and I’m still learning to separate myself from that self-hatred. But the physical parts themselves ... it’s strange but true. They’re gone and forgotten. No nostalgic backward glances, no regrets.
So I know what it’s like to leave something and not miss it. And if that was how you were when you talked about America, I’d recognize it in you. But you’re not like that. Something else is inside you.
And I like it, you old bear.
Love,
C
Dr. Christian Hamburger
Director of Special Surgery
Royal Hospital
Copenhagen, Denmark
April 9, 1953
Dear Mr. Barnes,
Miss Christine Jorgensen has related to me your correspondence with her regarding your condition.
Without a physical examination, of course, it would be impossible for me to venture an informed evaluation of your candidacy for the kind of procedure we can offer here. However, I must say that on the basis of Miss Jorgensen’s descriptions, I am intrigued by the possibilities. Medical science has made enormous strides in the decades since you suffered your disability, and I flatter myself that here at the clinic we have been at the forefront--dare I say the cutting edge?--of the technology from which you might hope to benefit.
Copenhagen is a day’s journey from Paris. While it would be unprofessional of me to dangle expectations, I am optimistic enough to encourage you to make the trip.
Very Truly Yours,
Dr. Christian Hamburger
Director of Special Surgery
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ALLEN DULLES
TO: IRVING KRISTOL
CAN’T ALLOW STRONG FIGURE LIKE DEGAULLE TO CONSOLIDATE POWER IN FRANCE. OPERATION DESERT RAT READY TO ROLL, AND THAT’S OUR OUT-OF-TOWN TRYOUT, THE NEW HAVEN OF OUR STRATEGY. IF IT’S A HIT, OPERATION ELBA OUR BROADWAY OPENING. DOMINO THEORY. IF IT PLAYS IN IRAN, NO REASON IT WON’T WORK IN FRANCE. OPERATION ELBA SWINGS INTO GEAR. EUROPE ROLLS OVER LIKE CIRCUS POODLE. NEED TO KEEP FRANCE WEAK AND CONFUSED. DULLES
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ALLEN DULLES
TO: ROBERT COHN
DO YOU REALLY HAVE THAT NEPHEW OF YOURS UNDER CONTROL? HAVE DOUBTS ABOUT THE WISDOM OF THIS STRATEGY.
DULLES
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: IRVING KRISTOL
TO: ALLEN DULLES
I HAVE A PLAN FOR FRANCE. WE’RE BUILDING UP ONE OF THEIR POLITICIAN-OF-THE-MONTHCLUB CIPHERS, PIERRE MENDES-FRANCE, TO GIVE THE ILLUSION HE’S A FIGURE OF STRENGTH. BUT WE’RE SECRETLY INDOCTRINATING HIM TO BELIEVE THAT WINE IS SAPPING THE FRENCH MORAL FIBER. WHEN THE MOMENT IS RIGHT, WE’LL HAVE HIM PHOTOGRAPHED DRINKING MILK--THEN THE WHOLE GOVERNMENT SHOULD COLLAPSE AGAIN.
KRISTOL
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ALLEN DULLES
TO: IRVING KRISTOL
BRILLIANT. YOU’VE GOT A FUTURE AS A TROUBLEMAKER, KRISTOL. NOW ABOUT THE COHNSCHINE JUNKET. NOT COMFORTABLE WITH LEAVING THIS IN CARRAWAY’S HANDS.
DULLES
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ROBERT COHN
TO: ALLEN DULLES
I HAVE A PLAN FOR ROY. OF COURSE THAT FAGGOT NEPHEW OF MINE WILL FUCK THINGS UP. WE TURN IT TO OUR ADVANTAGE. YOU NEED TO BE MORE CREATIVE IN YOUR THINKING, DULLES. SEMPER PARATUS. REMIND ME SOME TIME TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY THEORY OF USING DIFFERENT SIDES OF YOUR BRAIN.
COHN
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ALLEN DULLES
TO: ROBERT COHN
THIS IS A GOVERNMENT SERVICE. PLEASE WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE. DO NOTHING WITHOUT CLEARING WITH ME.
DULLES
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: IRVING KRISTOL
TO: ALLEN DULLES
YOU KNOW HOW ROBERT COHN IS. IF HE ENTERS THE PICTURE, WE NEED TO THROW ALL OUR PLANS OUT THE WINDOW. BUT WE’VE IMPROVISED BEFORE, WE CAN DO IT AGAIN. MEANWHILE, IF WE WANT TO INCLUDE BARNES IN THE PICTURE, WE NEED TO BRING HIM INTO FOCUS SOON. THE COHNS APPEAR TO HAVE A GRUDGE AGAINST HIM. BARNES AND CARRAWAY HAVE BECOME THICK. I’D SAY IT’S TIME TO MOVE THE CARRAWAY PAWN FORWARD, OPEN UP THAT GAMBIT. OF COURSE, THIS COULD MEAN THROWING YOUR MAN TO THE WOLVES, IF WE GO TO IMPROVISATION MODE. PROBLEMS WITH THAT?
KRISTOL
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ALLEN DULLES
TO: IRVING KRISTOL
DON’T WASTE WORDS. THESE CABLES COME FROM OUR BUDGET. CAN THROW CARRAWAY TO WOLVES IF NEED BE. BARNES TOO?
DULLES
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: ROBERT COHN
TO: ALLEN DULLES
ALLIE--DON’T WORRY ABOUT A THING. TRUST ME.
ROBBIE
(ENCRYPTED AND DECODED)
(4/9)
FROM: IRVING KRISTOL
TO: ALLEN DULLES
I’M AN INTELLECTUAL, REMEMBER? TO ME, THIS IS BEING CONCISE. NO PROBLEM IN THROWING BARNES TO THE WOLVES. IF WE CAN USE HIM, ALL TO THE GOOD. BUT I’VE BEEN TALKI
NG TO PHILBY, AND HE TELLS ME THERE’S SCUTTLEBUTT OVER IN MI-6 ABOUT ENCOUNTER HAVING TIES TO THE COMPANY. I’M THINKING IF COHN ENDS UP MAKING BARNES THE SCAPEGOAT, WE CAN DISTRACT ATTENTION AWAY FROM CERTAIN OTHER ENCOUNTER EDITORS, SUCH AS YOUR HUMBLE SERVANT.
KRISTOL
Apartment C
14½ MacDougal Street
New York
April 9, 1953
Dear ... Nick ... ?
There, I said it. Do I seem like a forward, brassy girl? I hope not. It sounds strange ... but nice.
I guess you did make a mistake with Mr. Powell about Mr. Monk, but how could you know? I wouldn’t have, either, just a few days ago.
The thing about Mr. Monk is, he’s a genius and he’s been so terribly mistreated that his friends feel really protective of him. I found that out when a couple of Mr. Sheinbloom’s friends (a very gentlemanly Turkish man named Ahmet Ertegun, and his partner, a real Noo Yawker named Jerry Wexler) took me to a club in Greenwich Village where they said Thelonious Monk would be playing. It was a secret, because they couldn’t advertise it, because Monk-that’s what they call him, Monk--do I sound like a sophisticated New Yorker?--isn’t allowed to play in any clubs in New York. Mr. Wexler told me why. It’s because jazz is a blow for freedom, and The Establishment wants to wipe out freedom. So Monk was arrested on some trumped-up charge, and now he can’t get a cabaret card, which means now he can’t play his music anywhere in New York, and that’s about the most unfair thing I ever heard, next to what happened to you.
Anyway, the musicians were already playing when we got there, and suddenly there was a hush over the whole room, and I looked up, and the kitchen door opened, and out walked Monk. He has an aura about him that makes you tingle. He started playing, and at first nothing seemed to fit. All these notes--they weren’t exactly chords, they were more like jammed together as if he was squeezing them into a ball in his fist instead of playing them. But then I started to hear them differently, and suddenly bit by bit they started to come together, as if these were the harmonies of the angels from the heaven of whatever strange world it was that Monk lives in, and all I could think was, “I wish I could sing that.” Sometimes I get so tired of “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.”
Nick and Jake Page 6