This contrast between the two approaches to writing—professional expertise gained from long practice as opposed to amateur improvisation depending upon flashes of insight—was painfully apparent to Rattner, who heard me mention Yoder’s name frequently, and always in a sense that seemed to denigrate him, Rattner. Unintentionally I would wound him by saying that Yoder was now reading the galleys of his forthcoming novel, which contrasted with the fact that Rattner was still far from having a manuscript in good enough shape to send to the printer, a fact that irritated both him and me. In fact, every reference I made to Yoder was so inescapably to Rattner’s disadvantage that one day he snapped: ‘I don’t care to hear any more about your goddamned Dutchman and the swill he turns out.’ I wanted to reply: ‘You’ll be lucky if you can turn out anything half as good,’ but I controlled my irritation with this handsome, talented man who was struggling so honestly if ineffectively to solve his problems.
This difference between the staid middle-aged Yoder and the tempestuous young Rattner was further heightened by the fact that I had fallen deeply, deliriously in love with Benno. This was an experience completely unlike my mild romantic speculations about Sigurd Jeppson and Professor Cater; this was a total involvement with a young man who was wonderful in every respect. He was handsome, intelligent, dedicated, stimulating to be with, and outstanding in any group. I had never fantasized that anyone like him could be interested in me, and sometimes in class I would look at some of the other young women editors—they were a classy lot—and wonder: Which one of these beauties will take him away from me?
I remember as if it were yesterday our first kiss. We’d had a great lecture by Cater, followed by an informal seminar in a Washington Square bistro, at which Benno was nothing short of brilliant as he held forth on one of his idols, Stendhal, and the magical way in which the tortured Frenchman could reveal people caught up in diverse emotions. Afterward Benno walked me to the Eighth Street subway station, where he had several times before said good night to me with apologies: ‘Wizard girl, I simply cannot take that long ride up and back just to bid you farewell. You’re worth it, but I’m not equal to it. Mr. Rattner sends his regrets.’ This time he was about to throw in some extra persiflage when he suddenly caught me in his arms and kissed me passionately: ‘You are worth it! You’re something wonderfully special,’ and I was so breathless I had not the words to tell him how special he was to me.
On the dreamlike ride north, my basic insecurity overwhelmed me, for I began to torment myself with doubts: Why should he be interested in me? How could a man as sophisticated as he possibly want to continue talking with me rather than with one of the more educated and worldly women? My self-esteem fell so low that at work the next morning I phoned Miss Wilmerding to ask if I might see her to discuss an important personal problem. She said rather primly: ‘That’s my job. Come on down,’ and I think she must have been surprised when she heard how banal my worries were: ‘I’m self-conscious about never having finished college. As you know, I tried to catch up. But am I learning enough, I mean doing well enough in my studies, to tie down a job as a permanent editor?’
She laughed: ‘Miss Marmelstein! The night courses you’ve been taking under our sponsorship, and the reading I know you’ve been doing on the side—goodness, I’m sure you’ve given yourself much more than an ordinary master’s degree in literature. Believe me, you’re miles ahead of some of the most successful editors here in New York.’ She smiled warmly and added: ‘And even some of the men or women on our own staff. Brains you have, I assure you. Experience in the trenches, that comes later, for all of us.’
As I left, feeling more than reassured, she walked with me to the door: ‘What I’m about to say is outside my bailiwick, but you’re to be commended on your improved personal appearance. I wish I weighed what you do and looked as good in my clothes.’ Giving me a motherly pat, she sent me back to work, and all that day, whenever I passed a door or a wall whose glass provided a reflection, I tried to catch a glimpse of myself, and what I saw I did not dislike.
That Friday night, at the close of our class, Evan Cater asked me to remain behind a moment: ‘I understand that you’re a full-fledged editor at Kinetic. That’s quite wonderful for one so young.’
‘I feel very young—inadequate really. You see, I had only one year of college.’
‘My dear young lady, the way you conduct yourself in my class, you already have a doctorate in what really counts. You’re one of the best.’
I must have blushed, for he said quickly: ‘That was a horrible thing for me to say, just before asking you for a favor. But in one of my other classes, the one for beginners that you took, there’s a young woman with enormous talent, if I’m any judge, and I wondered if you might take a look at her manuscript, nine-tenths finished in my opinion, and help her escape the junk pile.’
‘I’d be honored to help, Professor Cater. Your classes are lifesavers. Also, I trust your judgment.’
‘I’d hoped you’d say something like that, and on that chance I brought the manuscript with me.’ That young woman, as gifted as someone like Sylvia Plath, proved to be my find for the year.
So when I saw that Benno Rattner had waited for me while I talked with Professor Cater, I joined him with more confidence than I had before. I was competent, I was educated, I had a secure job, and I was, if I said so myself, not bad-looking. To have those attributes and to be twenty-four and at the center of the intellectual life of New York—what a magnificent experience, especially since I had proof that a young man was interested in me.
That night when we reached the Eighth Street station we lingered near the entrance for almost half an hour, at the end of which he said casually: ‘My apartment’s just over there,’ and we both knew that on this night I would not accompany him there, but that on one of these Friday nights I would.
Three Fridays later, when my affection for Benno had exploded in directions I had never before experienced or indeed contemplated, firm decisions were reached. He had been brilliant in his adaptation of Cater’s ideas and when the subsequent bull session lasted till two, he suggested as we took our customary walk toward the subway: ‘It’s silly of you to ride all the way to the Bronx at this time of night, isn’t it? Why not take it easy at my place? And go up in the morning?’
My reply came so quickly that it could have been rehearsed: ‘That’s a good suggestion. I’ll check your place out tonight and think about it for next week.’ When we reached the subway entrance we continued past till we reached Bleecker, where in a newly erected building Rattner occupied an apartment his parents had purchased for him, and as soon as I saw the Persian rug, resplendent in white and blue and gold, the two filled bookcases, the Fisher hi-fi and three big Monet reproductions, I thought: How wonderful that he has tastes like mine.
Locked in Benno’s arms, I did not even think of leaving. But when I finally got up to take the long subway ride home, something strange happened. I reached for the doorknob to go, but it was as if some powerful force prevented me from grasping it. Turning to Benno, I said in a whisper: ‘Oh, Benno, it’s so wonderful here with you. I can’t go.’ Running forward to take his hands, I met him with such force that he fell backward onto his bed, dragging me down with him, and there was no further thought of going home that night.
The next Friday morning when I left for Kinetic I took with me two large suitcases, which I kept with me when I attended Cater’s seminar. Benno, seeing them as I entered, raised his eyebrows questioningly, and I nodded. That decision to live with him was one of the most satisfying I would ever make.
The year 1970 brought a series of niggling little problems, none major in itself, but premonitory when combined with the others. I worked at fever pitch to get three of my books to press on time, then spent extra hours with Yoder helping him make last-minute adjustments to his text, for we both realized that how this book fared was vital. At the same time, Benno was struggling with a complete rewrite of his novel, retitled Green
Hell at my suggestion, and the labor was proving its own special Gehenna, one known by writers whose efforts are becoming so tangled they often feel they are doubling back on themselves while dragging behind them some fearful incubus that will not break loose. Composition at the initial stage can sometimes be a soaring experience, when all the birds of heaven accompany the writer on his flights, caroling as they rise with him; undirected rewriting is aimless slogging in the trenches, and four times out of five it is unproductive.
But Benno and I did know nights of joy, as on Fridays, when we would catch some of the holy fire that Evan Cater shared so generously. When he finished his seminar we would invite selected students to our apartment for drinks and a continuation of the debate, and on two occasions Cater joined us, elaborating essential points till one or two. On one such night, when Benno and Cater were sitting side by side, I had a fleeting memory so preposterous that I almost burst out laughing: it was a memory of that winter when I dreamed about luring Cater into my bed! Look at him, a waning old man, brilliant though he is, and then at Benno, a young tiger with the entire future before him. Well, girls have to grow up, but it’s amazing the crazy paths they sometimes follow in doing it.
On other nights I attended some technical class relating to publishing at N.Y.U., and when the class ended I would almost run through the streets to get back to the apartment, where Benno would be waiting with cold drinks and warm affection. At such times going to bed was sheer joy, and I could imagine myself with no other man, so perfect was our relationship.
It would be difficult, even now, for me to explain why we did not marry. I had acquired an imaginary portrait of ‘the liberated woman,’ and to tell the truth, I did at times vaguely realize that I was better adjusted to the modern world than Benno and sensed that in marrying him I would be adopting a burden that might in time prove worrisome or even destructive. Put simply, I was stronger than he, and an instinct that protects women warned: ‘Beware of that one.’
Why he did not insist on marrying me is more difficult to explain, but I caught glimpses of his fear that since I was an established performer, he could not hold his own with me until he had successfully written and published his novel. We would then compete on equal terms. But the irony was that the agent who must help him finish his job was the very person who was a threat to him. This made each of us wary about solidifying our relationship by marrying.
However, we were by no means incompatible. We enjoyed arguing about books and analyzing what Evan Cater said in his seminars. We had equally exalted notions as to what a really fine book could accomplish. And we looked forward to jumping into bed. We were a happy pair, the only visible difficulty on the horizon being that neither his parents nor mine would accept our living together.
With a chain of carefully calculated disclosures I had prepared mine for what they would consider ‘the awful truth,’ the fact that I was living not in my own apartment but in his. They had not yet met Benno, and when they finally did they asked bitterly: ‘If he’s so wonderful and has what you call “a God-given talent,” why don’t you marry him?’ and I replied: ‘I’m fighting to establish myself first.’
And when Benno explained to his parents that a girl named Shirley Marmelstein was sharing his apartment, his mother said: ‘That’s a funny name to go with your fancy apartment. Sounds like a salesclerk at Bloomingdale’s.’ He assured them that I was one of the ablest young editors in New York and a genius. ‘Good,’ his mother said. ‘So marry her and have genius children.’ He promised that he would think about that, but in the meantime he made no effort to introduce me to his parents.
It seemed that our idyllic love affair could be relied upon to produce one tempestuous moment each month, such as the time when Lukas Yoder’s The Farm was totally ignored by the important journals of opinion and given faint praise by the daily press. When Benno was callous enough to say: ‘I see your world-famous Dutchman has fallen flat on his ass again,’ I screamed: ‘At least he had a finished book with which he could fall on his ass.’ A bitter row ensued, and for two days neither of us spoke to the other. But in the morning of the third day I said: ‘Darling, remember. When you ridicule Yoder’s failure, you ridicule me, too. It’s my book as much as his, and I’m desolate that it’s been ignored.’
I spoke with such feeling that he reached for me and kissed my fingers: ‘I was a shit, wasn’t I?’ And then he flashed that million-dollar smile. As I descended in the elevator on my way to work I thought: At least we care about books, and Benno sees things so clearly he’ll whip his problem. But it does drag on.
The next three-year stint, 1971 through ’73, saw me nail down my position at Kinetic with a series of solid books that I had personally discovered and nursed to success. Word circulated at Kinetic that ‘Marmelstein has the three essentials of a fine editor. She can spot the flashy novel that people will want to read. She can pick current subjects for strong nonfiction books and find the writers to do them. And best of all, she can produce a book that people will still want to read fifteen years down the line.’ One afternoon in 1972 Mr. MacBain came out of his way to stop at my desk: ‘Miss Marmelstein, some of your books already show signs of having legs. Steady sales are what keep us going. Keep snooping in corners.’
It was this vote of confidence from the head of our company that emboldened me to combat the entire editorial board when they wanted Kinetic to drop Lukas Yoder because of his two failures. I ranted: ‘The successful books I’ve found and published prove I have a moderately keen sense of what a good book is. Trust me, my author is going to break through one of these times because he does a solid job.’
‘You mean stolid.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, forcing a smile ‘He is stolid, like Dreiser. And one of these days he’s going to write his American Tragedy.’
‘Never in a hundred years.’
Without rancor I pressed on and with such knowledge of the trade that by sheer force of will I persuaded my colleagues to give Yoder another chance, and another advance to demonstrate their faith in him. I received grudging approval for only eight hundred dollars and had to be content, but when I accepted I had to make a little speech: ‘One of these days we’ll agree that this was the best eight hundred dollars we ever invested.’
Since it was generally known throughout Kinetic that I was emotionally involved with Benno Rattner, my fellow editors did not badger me about his nonperformance as a writer, nor did they even ask whether he proposed handing back the small advance our company had given him.
But Sigurd Jeppson, who had served in Vietnam and who closely followed events related to that war, had some thoughts that were potentially helpful to Benno. Sigurd had been outraged by the hideous events at Kent State, where young soldiers of the National Guard had, in his impassioned words, ‘murdered four innocent students in cold blood’ while they were protesting the war. During one editorial meeting he said: ‘I believe the nation’s ready for a hard-hitting exposé of the whole Vietnam fiasco. It could head in either of two directions: a devastating assault on the horrors of field combat or a kind of Dos Passos’s 42nd Parallel, in which the author looks at the impact of the shameful war on a selected chain of American towns, ending with four villages in Vietnam itself.’
When other editors said they would welcome either of those two approaches, predicting success for whichever author got to the market first, Jeppson volunteered: ‘I’d be interested, Miss Marmelstein, in talking with your writer about either concept that might catch his fancy.’
Defensively, I replied: ‘Mr. Rattner does not wait for things to “catch his fancy.” He has a most vivid imagination—like most good writers.’
Jeppson was not deflected by my dismissal; he had served in Vietnam and knew the field and its ramifications: ‘I thought that if he was bogged down in one direction, a fresh start might break him loose—set him free.’
‘He’s on a powerful track of his own devising, from what I’ve seen recently of his progress.’
&n
bsp; ‘Good. But if he ever comes by the office, I’d be pleased to exchange notes with him,’ and he said this so generously and without animus that when I returned home I told Benno: ‘You might want to hear what he has to say. Different view of your war.’ But this simple suggestion so agitated him that for the first time I saw a decidedly dark aspect of his personality, almost frightening, for he growled combatively: ‘I refuse to traipse through Kinetic for your friends to commiserate with me over writer’s block. Invite him here.’
I did, and only Jeppson’s determination to be helpful prevented the evening from being a social disaster. But philosophically it was a terrible disaster, for Jeppson, unlike Benno, represented the new type of American veteran returning from an overseas war: he was bitter about the contempt being shown the Vietnam veterans and angry at the politicians who had allowed, or, as he said, ‘encouraged’ the debacle to occur. He made every accusation that the Vietnam veterans would voice in the years ahead, and pleaded with Benno to write a novel that would ‘expose this shameful episode in our history.’
Benno affected not to understand what Jeppson was talking about: ‘You make it sound so complex … filled with cabals … treason. I didn’t see it that way at all. We were sent overseas to do a job against the Commies, kill gooks before the slant eyes killed us. But we were so badly outnumbered and led by such stupid doozies that we got the crap kicked out of us and came home.’
The Novel Page 16