by Edmund White
He said to Palmer, “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Jack Holmes, an old friend of your parents from the seventies and even earlier, right, Will?”
Palmer turned a bright red—I knew it was just from being scrutinized by a stranger, but I was afraid Jack would think it was from embarrassment at talking to someone “notorious.”
In point of fact Alex and I never mentioned Jack.
“This is my partner, Harry Diamondstein. Harry, this is Will Wright and his son, Palmer.”
Harry and I shook hands. I made certain not to be too hearty lest I hurt him, so bedizened was his hand.
“Harry, what line of work are you in?” I asked, and immediately regretted my rudeness.
Jack looked astonished and said, as if I’d not heard correctly, “Harry Diamondstein, the theater director. The Hamlet Affair—you’ve heard of that surely? The Met’s new production of Andrea Chénier?
I looked up and saw the same disapproving woman studying us—three older fags preying on an innocent boy. Harry’s flashing rings and gestures only confirmed her suspicions.
“Shouldn’t we go somewhere nearby for a cup of coffee or something? Get out of the way and off the staircase?” I said.
Ordinarily, I knew, Palmer would bitterly resent any time spent with people his father’s age, but today he’d heard “theater director.” Palmer hoped to be an actor.
When we started out together for the coffee shop, Jack and Harry led the way. Palmer and I followed in silence for half a block until he bubbled over.
“How come you never mentioned these guys? I mean, with my career and all. They’re rad.”
“I only know Jack.”
Palmer said, “It’s not exactly like any of us—you or me or Peggy or Mom—has that many friends. And no really cool ones like them. Actually we just have each other. That guy Harry is famous.”
I smiled at him.
“At your age it’s hard to believe, but you’ll find out that in the end that’s all anyone has, family.”
Palmer said, “That’s the most depressing thing you’ve ever said.”
He put his arm around me and gave me a big squeeze and grinned. Another first.
“You walk with Harry and let me talk to Jack,” I said.
“Dad!”
“Do it!” I ordered. “It’s for your career.”
We were headed to an Italian coffee shop five blocks away that Jack knew about. I thought, I realize it’s hard for you to walk with Harry Diamondstein, Palmer, old man, but think of it as your first audition.
Jack looked young still but lined, as if the pottery had been fired too hot and had broken into a fine crackling just below the smooth porcelain surface. He moved with such energy that I wondered if he was nervous.
“So Harry’s your partner?” I asked, not sure if he’d meant business partner or mate.
“Yes, we met very soon after you went back to Alex. I took seriously what you said about settling down. I thought, Enough kids! I should find a nice older guy, someone who would be capable of fidelity. So I went to a great piano bar, and there I met Harry. He’s not exactly my type, I know, but we hit it off right away. We talked for hours and hours. He’s the most interesting man alive. We have sex at a nice regular clip, three times a week. Like clockwork. He loves that, and I like our life together. He’s enormously successful—he has two hits on Broadway right now, I can get you guys house seats—and we have a house in Amagansett and a wonderful, rambling prewar apartment on Central Park West.”
“Still at Newsweek?”
“Lord, no. Harry made me give up journalism so I could devote myself full-time to our AIDS charity, which preserves the texts and images of thousands of gay writers and painters who have died during the plague. It’s very exciting—we’re about to join forces with Princess Di and Marguerite Littman. And then we travel a lot. We were just in Gstaad, where we rented a chalet. We saw a lot of Valentino and Liz Taylor and of course Amin Aga Khan.”
“And your own health?”
Jack lowered his voice. “Never quote me on this, but tops don’t get it. Tops? The active partners? Oh, I know they do in Africa, but that must be for some other reason. And heterosexuals—non-drug-taking white American heterosexual men—don’t get it either, though don’t quote me. So,” he went on and smiled, “we both gave up sex for no good reason, though I must say I’m glad I changed my life. It was so empty before.”
“What about Rupert?” I said. “Ever get any news—”
“Dead,” Jack said tonelessly. “He’s dead.”
We walked a block in silence.
“And Pia?”
“She lives mostly in Rome. She drinks a lot and has put on a few pounds. She’s helped us a lot with our charity—she knows everyone. Charity work is very, very social, as you must know. I love that aspect of it. I’ve always liked little old ladies, but when I was a libertine, I scarcely had time to meet any.”
Then he looked over at me. “How’s Larchmont? Your work?”
“Well,” I said, “when I moved back in with Alex, she made me promise I’d stop seeing you, and I made her promise we’d move into New York and have a bedroom of our own far from Palmer’s. By the way, he’s outgrown his asthma. We live twenty blocks north of here in the East Sixties. I’m like you: I don’t work anymore. My business went belly-up. Alex’s father died and left us some money. I’m in the charity business too. We have a foundation to protect those wild white horses in the Camargue.”
“Where?”
“In the South of France.”
“Oh.”
“And I published a second novel.”
Jack said, “Hey! But oh, I’m sorry I—”
“Never heard of it? Join the crowd. It was called The Camargue, though it had nothing to do with the region. It was another fantasy deal, more mimsy-whimsy, and it didn’t get reviewed. It sold five hundred copies, and the other fifteen hundred were pulped.”
“You’ll have to give me one. I’d love to read it.”
I said, “Sure. There is one novel I’d love to write, but you’d never give me the necessary lowdown—the story of your childhood.”
Jack smiled and said, “No one writes Gothic horror stories anymore. But tell me before we get to the restaurant: is Palmer gay?”
“Wouldn’t that be premature to say? For god’s sake, he’s only seventeen. But yeah. Is it that obvious?”
“What a beauty. Listen—if he ever has any questions about AIDS, send him to me.”
“Sure. He wants to be an actor. I may send him to Harry and you both for advice on that.”
“You’d better check that out with Alex first.”
We had our coffee together. I was proud of the way Palmer opened up around them. I knew he was excited about meeting two gay friends of mine, one of them a famous director.
When we all said good-bye, I took Jack’s hand in both of mine and held it for a moment, but then Harry raised an eyebrow and said in his booming, trained voice, “Oh for Chrissake, Jack, we’re late for our meeting with Cecilia. She’s pledged a million to the AIDS Archive, and we can’t keep her waiting, can we?”
Harry made a fuss over Palmer and handed him his card, saying, “You must promise me you’ll call.”
“Deal,” Palmer said. “And thanks, Mr. Diamondstein.”
“Harry. Call me Harry.”
I watched Jack button up Harry’s jacket with a proprietary air. Jack seemed so relentlessly animated now, as though he’d been entirely absorbed by his role as a “social” maven. And as the younger partner to a famous man. Jack was no longer the mysterious sleepwalker from the Midwest nor the shy boy who’d been in love with me—nor the sleek libertine of the 1970s. Now he was smiling and nodding as they walked down the street but toward no one in particular.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my friends Rick Whitaker and Greg Pierce for reading every word of this book and suggesting significant changes. John Irving and I started new novels and fini
shed them at the same time and encouraged each other all along the way; his energy and enthusiasm are unique. My partner, Michael Carroll, did a careful first edit and has encouraged me at every moment, day in and day out—without him, nothing. He was the one who suggested to me a new way of writing a novel. My agent, Amanda Urban, remains my friend and protector; her energy and loyalty and acumen helped me through a very difficult moment with this book. Anton Mueller is my brilliant and totally reasonable editor; his final edit helped me give the novel more coherence. Beatrice von Rezzori opened her house in Tuscany to me—the ultimate paradise for a writer. For a month I was a resident of Bogliasco, near Genoa. Joyce Carol Oates was a first and invaluable reader. George Pitcher, Will Evans, Yaron Aronowicz, and David Russell sustained me and advised me while I worked on this book. David Ebershoff has always urged me on to write it. Paul Muldoon, the director of the Lewis Center for the Arts at Princeton, graciously gave me leave from my teaching duties, which allowed me to pursue this project.
Keith McDermott and Zachary Pace typed the manuscript and made many suggestions along the way. Gary Mantello corrected a few mistakes I made about foxhunting, though I alone am responsible for any that remain. Bill Tucker helped me out with medical information.
A Note on the Author
An esteemed novelist and cultural critic, Edmund White is the author of many books including the autobiographical novel A Boy’s Own Story; The Flâneur; a biography of the poet Arthur Rimbaud; Hotel de Dream, a novel; and two memoirs My Lives and City Boy. Edmund White lives in New York City and teaches writing at Princeton University. He is an Officier of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres and a recipient of the Award for Literature from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
By the Same Author
Forgetting Elena: A Novel
The Joy of Gay Sex (coauthored)
Nocturnes for the King of Naples: A Novel
States of Desire: Travels in Gay America
A Boy’s Own Story: A Novel
The Beautiful Room Is Empty: A Novel
Caracole: A Novel
The Darker Proof: Stories from a Crisis
Genet: A Biography
The Burning Library: Essays
Our Paris: Sketches from Memory
Skinned Alive: Stories
The Farewell Symphony: A Novel
Marcel Proust
The Married Man: A Novel
The Flâneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris
Fanny: A Fiction
Arts and Letters: Essays
My Lives: A Memoir
Chaos: A Novella and Stories
Hotel de Dream: A New York Novel
Rimbaud: The Double Life of a Rebel
City Boy: My Life in New York During the 1960s and ’70s
Sacred Monsters: New Essays on Literature and Art
First published in Great Britain 2012
Electronic edition published in January 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Edmund White
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
www.bloomsburyusa.com
Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin, New York and Sydney
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
White, Edmund, 1940-
Jack Holmes and his friend: a novel / Edmund White.-1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
1. Male friendship-fiction. 2. Male homosexuality-Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3573.H463J33 2012
813'.54_dc22
2011014728
ISBN: 978-1-60819-724-8