One True Sentence: A Hector Lassiter novel (Hector Lassiter series Book 1)

by Craig McDonald

  Hector said, “Pardon my interruption, Ford, but have you met the marvelous French poet Fargue?” Not waiting for an answer, Hector raced ahead: “Non? Let me introduce you.” Hector waved and said, “Here you go, Monsieur Fargue…please, take my seat. We met the other day — Hector Lassiter. I was just leaving. But first, have you met Ford Madox Ford and Ernest Hemingway?” The French poet shook hands with Hem and then with the English novelist.

  Hem picked up his own coat and hat. He said, “Yes, Hector and I have some things to attend to before first Thursday — let alone second Thursday — arrives.”

  Shaking hands, appraising one another, the two older writers seemed oblivious to Hector and Hem. Ford said to Fargue, “I’ve read much of your poetry.”

  “Stop there,” Fargue said, urgently squeezing Ford’s right forearm. “Opinions are for the mediocre, and you — the Leviathan of the Quartier Montparnasse — are not mediocre. Here,” Fargue said to Ford, taking Hector’s chair. “We’ll sit before more see me. Look at them, the bourgeois rabble. Don’t they have some lesser Fargue and Ford of their own class to stare at?”

  “It is…the thing we…cope with,” Ford wheezed in commiseration. “I remember…Henry — James, that is — saying, ‘Ford…’”

  Hem took Hector’s arm and pulled him to the door. “Lasso, swear to me — if I get like that, you have to promise to put me down. The writing life — fuck all that. Jesus wept.” Hem suddenly swung Hector around and ducked down behind the taller Hector.

  “Holy Christ, Hem,” Hector said, flustered. “Now what?”

  Hem rose, spun Hector back and around and practically dragged him through the door. “That was Tristan Tzara coming in…with Man Ray,” Hem said. “Now this dump is the perfect train wreck, Lasso. We’re getting out just in time.”

  “We still have to kill some time waiting for Brinke,” Hector said.

  Hem shrugged. “There is always another café.”

  31

  “What will your landlady, the nun, say?”

  Hector’s head rested on Brinke’s thighs. She raked her fingers through his hair with her left hand and fed him and herself bits of cheese with her right. They were sprawled across the wreck of her bed, nude, bathed in sweat from their lovemaking and from the fire crackling in her small, rustic fireplace.

  It was the first time that Hector had been in Brinke’s apartment. He had been surprised upon entering. He’d envisioned something a bit more…haughty. A boudoir or something more in the salon vein, perhaps. But Brinke’s apartment was a rustic garret…exposed rafters and two unfinished, uninsulated walls. Frost had formed on the inside of the glass panes of the windows on those two walls. It was an impersonal space, too: no photos of her mother or father…no art or mementos.

  Brinke had watched Hector wandering her room…looking around, checking the spines of the few books in an amateurishly built bookshelf, and had said, “It’s a way station, Hector. An engine to live in. A cheap and good place to write because there are no distractions. I really only sleep here.” Several racks on wheels held her clothes. The dresses and coats all looked expensive to Hector. Brinke seemed mostly to wear whatever money she was earning. A couple of large steamer trunks doubled as armoires.

  Now she popped another cube of cheese in Hector’s mouth and said, “My landlady is a moot point after tomorrow. And she’s out of town for the next few days, anyway. Her sister is ill and lives in the country…a train’s ride away. Farther than even her ears can hear.”

  Hector smiled, chewing his cheese. Brinke had been right — far from what she evidently considered other prying ears, Brinke was indeed loud in her love-making…uninhibited groans…lewd urgings in Hector’s ear.

  “Besides,” Brinke continued, “it would be worth the risk, anyway. Your place isn’t safe for so many reasons. Leek, for one. And Molly could show up at any time. Speaking of your place, did you get word to Germaine about going away tomorrow morning?”

  “She’s on the page.”

  “I adore her.”

  “Hem picked up our train tickets for us, too,” Hector said, stroking her thigh. “While he did that, I packed, pretty hastily, but as it’s Italy, and the country, I figure I won’t need much. I’ll arrange to have my bags delivered here later this evening.” He turned his head and kissed her belly.

  Brinke sighed and pressed his face against her belly, cooing and giggling as he thrust his tongue in her navel. “We should bathe and dress, soon,” she said. “It’s getting close to time for dinner with Hem and Hadley. Then on to Nicole’s place. Where are we eating with Hem and Hash, by the way?”

  “Place Hadley and Hem favor and nobody else much does,” Hector said. “Vélodrome d’Hiver. Should keep us safe from uninvited dinner guests.”

  “We’ve not talked about children,” Brinke said suddenly. “You’ll want some someday, I suppose.”

  “Not necessarily.” He figured that was the safest answer for the moment. “What about you?”

  She shrugged. “Time will tell. Hell, a week ago, I would have sworn I’d never marry. ”

  ***

  They finished dinner early and wandered next door to a bal musette for a couple of dances.

  Hem and Brinke were cutting up the floor. Hector, nagged by his ankle, sat with Hadley, sipping wine and watching their partners together. He said, “This might be the craziest thing I’ve ever done. Marrying that woman.”

  Hadley smiled, her freckled nose crinkling. “The ‘craziest thing’? That covers a lot of ground. Hem’s told me stories about you, Hec.”

  He nodded, said, “But this matter of Molly…”

  “I heard of course, from Hem, about what happened between you three,” Hadley said. “That was most unfortunate. But putting that aside — if it can be put aside in any way…” Hadley searched for words, settled on, “I mean, if it hadn’t happened, I would say to you that you can’t bend or live your own life in some way to save someone else’s. You can’t feel you have to do that just because this other person has gotten it into their head you’re the only one for them. Frankly, I don’t think you and Molly would last a week, Hec.”

  “And Brinke and I?”

  “Should be quite an adventure for both of you,” Hadley said, stroking his cheek with the back of her pale hand. “But you two are more alike than different. And more alike than I think either one of you realizes or is capable of seeing.”

  Hector pressed her hand to his cheek. “Sure there aren’t any more like you at home, Hash?”

  She shrugged and gave him a half smile. “Don’t be daft. You and a woman like me together would be a disaster.”

  ***

  Hector spotted Molly across the room as they entered Joan Pyle’s apartment. Molly merely smiled and waved…no reaction to the fact that Brinke was very much on Hector’ arm — albeit sans engagement ring.

  His gaze drifted to the ancient Oriental rug spread across the entryway. There were small holes burned in the rug here or there from the acid that had been thrown in Joan’s face.

  Nicole looked drawn and haggard…years older. Hector thought he even saw some gray suddenly crisping Nicole’s blond hair. She thanked the four of them for coming. Hem gave Nicole a bear hug and she awkwardly patted his back. He said, “Anything at all, Nicky…”

  “You being here is all that’s needed, Hem,” Nicole said. “Grab some wine and some seats. We’ll be starting in just a moment. I have to get this finished. I have to.”

  They moved to the main room. Hector nodded and said hello to Sylvia and Adrienne Monnier; to Gertrude and Alice. Ford was there, still very much with Fargue. Ford was going on about something D. H. Lawrence had once remarked to him.

  Hector shook William Carlos Williams’s hand. The doctor-poet nodded at Hector’s leg and said, “You seem quite better, Hector.”

  “Quite. Thanks to you.”

  Nicole held up her hands and Hector, Brinke, Hem, and Hadley hastened to sit.

  “I want to thank you all for
coming on such short notice,” Nicole said. “I’ve made a decision about the fate of Intimations. I’ve created a trust to continue funding of the magazine for at least the next three years — ample time for its new editor to secure alternate, further funding.”

  Sylvia said aloud, “New editor?”

  “That’s right,” Nicole said. “I’m relinquishing all editorial responsibilities, all affiliation with Intimations, effective immediately.”

  Some chatter ensued. Hector smoked a cigarette, watching reactions…listening to the others wonder aloud or make guesses as to who the new editor might be. To Hector’s mind, being given control of a literary magazine in the present climate was no great favor — not with so many of the Left Bank periodicals’ key figures being slain.

  Nicole said, “I could never have imagined doing this, not even a few days ago. Our magazine and its mission — finding new voices and showcasing promising writers, providing outlet to daring young poets — was a dear dream of ours.” Nicole’s chin began to tremble. She sipped some sherry, then pressed on. “Frankly, with Joan gone, I can’t imagine continuing. So I’m not going to try. I’ve spent the past two days talking with some writers whose work Joan and I have both admired and published. I’ve been talking to the writers and poets I feel most share our sensibilities and vision for Intimations.”

  Hector continued watching the room…several strangers there. Obvious poets in bohemian or shabby dress; drunken literary writers Hector knew by face and reputation. Hem was looking around, too, Hector noticed. Little magazines were a good bit outside Brinke’s realm, and so she struck Hector as looking a bit bored by it all, her gaze constantly returning to Molly.

  For her part, Molly was attentive, kneading her fingers and licking her lips and closely watching Nicole. Hector focused his attention squarely on Molly.

  Nicole said, “So, I have made some decisions, difficult decisions. Some that are yet to be made clear. But this one decision that I’m about to share with you came relatively easily to me. And so, the new editor of Intimations has been chosen. Please support the new editor as she settles into her role. She’ll need much help. She’ll eventually need contributors — financial contributors. And she’ll need good friends. Friends such as those whom Joan and I so valued during our time with you. Please, join me now in congratulating Intimations’ new editor, Margaret Wilder. Come up here, Molly.”

  Molly, beaming, put down her glass and rose, hugging Nicole. Gertrude and Alice, after scowling at one another, clapped politely with the more exuberant applause of Sylvia and Adrienne. Fargue, standing, put his hands together, shaming Ford to his feet. Fargue said out of the side of his mouth to Ford, “I’ve followed her career for some time now,” — Hector rolled his eyes — “and early identified her as a comer.”

  Ford, nodding, said, “I’ve been after her…after Millie…for the longest time…to write a little something…for the Transatlantic.”

  Hem stood and helped Hadley up. Brinke and Hector were the last to stand. Hem and Brinke looked at Hector — looking at him as though they somehow expected him to have known what was coming and had kept it from them. Hector shrugged his shoulders, putting his hands together.

  ***

  Hem cornered Hector at the bar. “You really didn’t know?”

  “Hadn’t a clue.” Hector handed Hem a whisky soda. “It’s a little like hanging a target on Molly’s back, though. I don’t like it. Not under these circumstances. And can she edit? Can Molly balance books? I dunno.”

  “When it comes to literary magazines,” Hem said, “I don’t think accounting skills are paramount concerns, Lasso. Main thing there is just out-running the creditors.”

  “Suppose.”

  Hem clapped Hector’s back. “Well, if she’s anything like Ford, or Hunt, or any other of these little review editors of my experience, then I think we can safely say that you’re back to one girl, marriage or no. Molly’s days and nights are now spoken for. She’ll practically live at that little magazine’s goddamn office. Gets into their blood and pushes out everything else.”

  Hector poured himself another drink. “That been your experience with the Transatlantic? If it is, you’ve been hiding it well, ’cause you haven’t seemed too scarce, Hem.”

  Hem sucked on an ice cube. “Well, if I had autonomy — any real say — I might, Lasso. But Ford directs his magazine as if he’s still running the English Review. He’s actually dug up some geezer who’s writing his meandering memoirs. Ford’s slated an excerpt in the next number. Honest to Christ, it opens, ‘I first met Whistler…’”

  Wincing, Hector said, “So quit. Leave Ford to the tender mercies of the nihilists.” Hector’s stomach kicked: Brinke had pulled Molly off into a corner. It seemed a very intent exchange…no smiles, but many nods from both women. Hector watched them, only half-hearing what Hem was saying.

  “Yeah, well, I doubt even that murderous crowd has the patience to kill Ford,” Hem said. “But it’s the game, too — making the connections. We both know that. Making those connections, tending to the career. Kissing ass. And I think I’ve just about gotten the Master broken down to the point of publishing Gertrude’s Making of Americans. And…”

  Brinke opened her purse and handed something to Molly. Molly nodded a last time, smiled uncertainly, then embraced Brinke. They kissed one another — more like sisters. Then Molly smiled and put out a hand to Fargue as he stepped around Brinke and bowed before Intimations’ new editor.

  Brinke slipped over and confiscated Hector’s drink. She took a slug, then whistled low through the burn. “Not smooth stuff,” she said. Brinke feinted a punch at Ernest’s jaw with her left hand and said, “Heard any good jokes lately, Hem?”

  He shrugged. “Haven’t talked to Ford in the past couple of hours,” Hem said.

  Looking puzzled, Brinke took Hector by the arm. She smiled at Hem and said, “I’m stealing your friend for a bit.”

  Hem nodded, “He’s yours now to do with as you please.” Hem drifted toward Sylvia.

  Brinke said to Hector, “You as pole-armed as I am?”

  “Every bit.”

  “I’m happy for Molly, make no mistake there.”

  “Me too. But frightened for her, too. The timing could be better.”

  Brinke pulled Hector down on a couch next to her. She said, “If the timing were different — circumstances different — Molly probably wouldn’t have this opportunity. Have to take the rough with the smooth, Hector.”

  He was watching Molly work the literary crowd. Molly was vivacious, smiling. Molly was chatting with Sylvia and Adrienne and Hem…reaching out to touch their arms in confidence. She seemed much more like the old Molly.

  Brinke, watching Hector watch Molly, said, “Even it we weren’t leaving tomorrow, you’d likely have lost her for at least the coming few weeks. Suspect Molly’ll submerge herself in this new role.”

  “You been talking to Hem, Brinke?”

  “His prediction, too?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Hem reads people well. Molly intimated that was her intention to me when we spoke a few minutes ago.”

  “About that — what did you and Molly just talk about?”

  Brinke said, “I apologized for the drugs and liquor and what followed. Didn’t say I regretted what happened, but rather the way it happened. Said that I was sorry everything was made awkward and that your friendship with her has become warped and unclear.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She agreed it’s unclear. Then I told her we’re leaving town for a few days. Going to Italy.”

  “How’d she take that?”

  “Well enough. Said she’d look forward to catching up when we get back. Said her next few days were to be spent racing a deadline for her magazine’s printer.”

  “You didn’t tell her we’re engaged?”

  Brinke shook her head. “Incrementally, we’ll bring her to that truth. We’ll perhaps say things escalated between you a
nd I in Italy, deepened into love. We’ll come back having decided in Italy to marry, so far as she’s concerned. I think it’s best that way. If Molly knew what’s happened between you and I now, well, it would be terrible for her, despite this other thing that has happened for her. This way, the blow will be softened a good bit.”

  “I hope that’s the truth,” Hector said, hating himself more than a little.

  “You should steer clear of her the rest of the night,” Brinke said. “When we leave, which we should do momentarily, I think, you should give Molly a big hug and hearty congratulations. Kiss her — on the cheek — and we’ll bolt. Start acting like her big brother again, yes?”

  “It’s what we’ll do,” Hector said. “Though I can’t help thinking Molly is going to need watching. You know, because of Leek.”

  Brinke squeezed Hector’s hand. “Will she? Need watching, I mean? Really? Because it seems to me that perhaps the nihilists just assumed control of that little magazine they’ve been hankering to ‘buy’ or to ‘steal.’”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you, Brinke?”

  Brinke brushed a comma of hair back from Hector’s forehead. “I’ll answer your question with another, Hector.”

  “Okay…”

  “Did you tell Molly about that brothel on the Rue Quincampoix, Hector?”

  Brinke looked away from him. “You did.”

  Thinking about that, Hector said, “Not the exact location. You passed something to Molly. What was that?”

  “Molly’s having her period,” Brinke said. “Just started. It was something to help with that. At least we dodged that bullet. You making her pregnant, I mean. What a calamity that would have been.”

  Hem was suddenly there next to them with Hadley. He said, “Lasso, we’ve agreed you should wish Molly well and we should go now. Go while things are calm with Molly and she’s surrounded by well-wishers. Let’s all go get properly smashed somewhere with real liquor.”

  “Yes,” Hector said. “It was Brinke’s thought, too. I’ll—”

  Hector took Hem’s arm, pointed. Hadley and Brinke turned to see what Hector was pointing at.