During the photographer’s absence, Karen, egged on by a raucous crowd, attempted to open a magnum of domestic champagne. When the cork flew out, Karen was soaked by a jet of foaming champagne, and the caterer couldn’t resist snapping a few pictures of her with the camera left in his care. When the Life photographer returned, the caterer handed him his camera without a word about the pictures he had taken.
Soon the fetching picture of Karen soaked in champagne appeared on the cover of Life, and certain critics called it the most successful cover in the magazine’s long and distinguished history. The caterer then came forward and said that if Karen would testify on his behalf, the credit for the picture would launch him in a photographic career and fulfill his life’s dream.
In most arts, the artist remains physically detached. The writer starts with words, the composer with sounds, both of which, by nature, are abstract, yet which can trigger in the reader or listener concrete images or emotions. But a photographer starts with the concrete; in the immediate confrontation between his camera and his subject, the abstract is yet to be born. Thus, one can easily understand the caterer’s frustration and grief at being denied the truth of the existence of that confrontation.
Nevertheless, the Life photographer categorically insisted that he and he alone had taken all the pictures of Karen that evening. And because neither Karen nor any other guest seemed—or wanted—to recall seeing the caterer take the now famous picture, the matter was put to rest, and with it the caterer’s prospects for a career in photography.
Karen’s Life cover led to a thirty-second spot TV commercial, in which she opens a bottle of California champagne and, as we all watch, gets soaked by it. As a result of the success of that TV commercial, she was also offered a small role in Totem Taboo, a Hollywood movie.
Even though I had no doubt that it was the caterer who had taken the Life cover photograph of Karen, I knew that his chances of proving it were nil. “I have always wanted to own a photography studio,” I said to him. “If I were to acquire one and finance its operation, would you be willing to accept a contract that would guarantee your employment and creative independence?”
He looked at me in disbelief. “But why—why would you do such a thing? That’s a lot of money. It will take a lot of planning, and I might never be able to pay you back.”
“So what?” I said. “My plans for the future have always turned out to be made for the past.”
A month later I owned one of Manhattan’s better-located studios, and the caterer ran it with the sureness of an old pro. The word that big money was behind him spread through the city, and soon customers were flocking to him. Thanks to the secrecy I insisted on, nobody, not even Karen, knew the studio was mine. The proof of the caterer’s success came when Karen, recalling that I had once met him, asked me whether I could introduce him to her. The man was on his way to becoming the best portrait and figure photographer in the business, she said, and inasmuch as she was the best model, it was time the two of them got to know each other.
• • •
“I’m so glad to see a fine young man like you, Jonathan, coming to pray at your father’s grave, God bless his soul. But you know, Jonathan, even cemeteries aren’t what they used to be. I mean yesterday there was this broad putting the make on this guy right here in a graveyard. Since I started working around here, I’ve seen a lot of different folks with a lot of different feelings, usually crying or just plain sad, but that broad was just plain horny. And there she was, I don’t know, about twenty, beautiful body, long hair, with this dude about twenty-five, maybe not even that. They weren’t mourning, let me tell you. And then right there, next to your father’s grave, God bless his soul, he’s got one hand on her tit and the other on her ass. I couldn’t believe it. Like it was really sexy seeing this chick worked up, you know? I kept wondering what those boobs felt like. I felt like jerking off myself right then and there, and I hope your father would forgive me for saying this. It’s the truth.”
• • •
The other day Karen remarked that while no profession could make me any richer, becoming a professional gambler could certainly render me poorer. I know that Karen likes gambling, and I know that some of her better-to-do friends occasionally stake her to her little games of chance in the casinos of Atlantic City and Las Vegas, in the Bahamas, in Europe.
For me, however, the gambler remains as unskilled as the assembly-line worker: he can no more influence the outcome of the cards or the wheel than the man on the assembly line can alter the design of the product. All either one can do is repeat a short activity which is meaningless in itself over and over again.
In the eighteenth century it was mainly aristocrats who gambled; given their adventurous and unpredictable lives, the very repetition involved in gambling probably provided them with some sense of reliable patterns. Today, however, gambling is primarily the domain of the working class, who feel comfortable because the game is as familiarly repetitious as their work, but who at the same time seek in it an easy escape from their own existence to a less predictable one.
• • •
These days I manage the details of my life in an orderly, almost predictable fashion. I eat regularly, either at my hotel or in the best restaurants; I exercise in the hotel gym and swim in the pool; and I’ve gotten rid of my acne. I note all my appointments on my calendar, along with lists of things to do and to buy, and neatly cross off chores as I complete them.
I now control my entire inheritance and meet with half a dozen lawyers regularly to settle the details of my affairs. At our first meeting I realized that these vassals of my payroll provided me with equal representation of the Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish faiths. At a time when nearly one-third of America’s youngest children live in families earning less than the median income and never receive such basic medical care as immunization and other simple treatment for the prevention of disease, these lawyers from Yale, Harvard, and Princeton were still sufficiently indoctrinated by their Ivy League education to view me as the quintessential product of the work ethic rather than as merely the inheritor of millions—that is, an aberration of the working of this ethic. Nevertheless, familiar as they were with the details of my past, I could also see that they had difficulty hiding their curiosity about how ethically Protestant the child of Horace Sumner Whalen had turned out to be.
As we sat eyeing each other politely, I was reminded that the prime function of these lawyers, like that of company managers, is to represent this country’s business elite.
Calvin Coolidge, a lawyer and a president, once quipped that “the business of America is business,” and my father was known to say that his company was known by the men it kept. However, a recent nationwide survey of American business managers suggests that business—the heart of America—is ailing. Half of all the businessmen polled asserted that they found their work utterly unsatisfactory; one-third said that the strain of day-to-day business hurt their physical and mental health; and over seventy percent admitted that in order to conform to the standards established by their corporate superiors they frequently had to compromise their personal principles. No wonder, then, that in order to escape such growing business pressures, the average American watches television almost seven and a half hours a day.
So much for the work ethic of our success-oriented business elite. Equally revealing were the findings of other polls. Even though hypertension affects millions of Americans and heart disease is the nation’s number-one killer, only one percent of the public is aware that the control of high blood pressure is a necessary step in combating heart disease.
I was tempted to ask my lawyers what they thought about the state of this nation, but all I said was “Well now, gentlemen, let’s talk about something that’s a real high.” I paused and glanced at their well-cut suits, and they all froze, fearing I was about to mention opium. “My income,” I blurted, and they all chuckled, those six clean-shaven college kids put at ease by their unpredictable master.
• • •
Glancing through an illustrated magazine, I ran across a picture of Karen posing naked in a full-page advertisement for some hygienic preparation; her arms were crossed in front of her breasts, and her hands were folded between her thighs.
When I voiced annoyance to Karen about the ad’s demeaning nature—” Antibacterial” was written next to her face, “Antipruritic” next to her neck, “Anti-inflammatory” next to her breasts, and “Antifungal” next to her belly—she angrily told me that her job was to model for the advertisers, not to question their taste. I countered by pointing out that although she often censored what she considered to be my antifeminist attitude, yet she found no fault with this ad, even though it used only a woman as the host of various body pollutants which, after all, affect both sexes equally. The incident made me aware of how proud and determined Karen is. She insists on working even though, if she would agree to share my income, she wouldn’t have to. Ironically, her independence is one gift I cannot buy her.
Maybe because she insists so on her independence, I don’t feel overly sympathetic when Karen claims to be exhausted from her work, or when she says she doesn’t feel well. Several times when I’ve been at the bank settling my estate, surrounded by people who were obviously eavesdropping, she’s called to break our date for the evening. In such circumstances I haven’t been able to express my indignation freely. On two occasions I had been looking forward to spending a couple of days with her, and both times she called it off only a few hours beforehand. This erratic behavior I know to be habit with her, but still it suggests that other people and events are more important to her than I am. Is our being together so exhausting that we can see each other only when we are both well rested? Must we assume that after each meeting we have to go back into our private lives to recuperate? Yesterday when she called to cancel another date, I was unresponsive once again. Karen’s rejection sets off torments within me. Instinctively I retreat instead of exploding, however, lest I obliterate my chances for whatever may happen next.
• • •
“I was vacationing with my family in the Adirondacks, Mr. Whalen, when Dr. Frederick, your mother’s physician, telephoned me. He asked if I could interrupt my holiday and join Mrs. Whalen in Spain right away. Apparently your mother had radioed him from the yacht during the night, and the doctor could tell by her tone that an attack was imminent. As your mother’s nurse, I was qualified to be with her during such an emergency, so I promptly flew to Madrid. From there your family’s company arranged for a private helicopter to ferry me to the yacht, which was anchored near the island of Formentera.
“Your mother was in a bad state: incoherent, flushed, possibly drugged. Apparently, just before I arrived, one of her guests, a middle-aged American art gallery owner, had invited one of the sailors—a teenager—to his cabin, where he had given him a powerful narcotic. While the boy was under the influence of the drug, the guest repeatedly assaulted him sexually. The boy was then moved to another cabin, where crew members found him hallucinating from the drug and bleeding badly. The whole crew had taken the boy’s side, and they were threatening to radio for the police unless your mother, as well as the gallery owner, immediately paid substantial damages to the boy. Fearing an international scandal, the captain sided with the crew. Your mother, feeling threatened, became a bit paranoiac and difficult to handle. She was furious that I had come, and she wanted the helicopter to take me back. When I refused, she ordered the crew to detain me in a cabin. I showed the Spanish captain Dr. Frederick’s instructions, as well as the medications I’d brought with me, but the captain refused to cooperate with me. Most of her guests, too, even though they realized how sick she was, took her side. Finally she became hysterical and locked herself in her cabin. From outside we could hear her throwing herself around the room, and only then was I allowed to intervene. I tried to talk her into coming out, but she wouldn’t.
“Finally I persuaded the captain to force the cabin door open, and when we entered your mother attacked us with hairbrushes, gin and vodka bottles, vials of drugs, books, even her brooches and necklaces. Screaming obscenities at the captain and me, she threatened us with a marble letter opener, and she would not allow me to get close enough to give her an injection.
“Even though I was accustomed to dealing with Mrs. Whalen’s violent outbursts, I began to think that I would need assistance. But eventually your mother weakened. Pale and bruised from falling, she began to tremble and vomit. Like a sick child, she asked for help, and when I went to her with the injection she no longer fought me. Worried by her condition, the captain radioed your family’s company for help, and the helicopter soon returned to pick us up. I packed some of your mother’s belongings—among them a photograph of you standing next to your father—and we flew to Madrid, where a chartered jet was waiting to take us to Pittsburgh. A private ambulance took us from the airport to the hospital, and a day later I returned to the Adirondacks to continue my vacation. I was quite exhausted.”
• • •
“It’s no different from operating any other large gadget, Mr. Whalen, and for a young well-to-do man like yourself flying a glider could be a lot of fun—or, as they say today, good therapy. Gliders are just big fiberglass ballast tanks equipped with all kinds of easy-to-read instruments. It takes no time to learn which levers are for flaps, which for gear retraction, tow release, and landing parachute. Then there is an altimeter, a compass, oxygen gauge, and so forth. It’s not as complicated as it looks.
“When you first get going behind the tow, you feel like a heavy bird that can’t quite make it into the air. Then, when you are only a few feet off the ground, the wings bend up at the ends like a bow and lift the fuselage into the air. Finally, you pull the tow release and retract the landing gear. Now all you hear is the wind, and all you see are clouds puffed up around you like cotton balls.
“You swoop up and down, and clouds swirl as you rush toward them. The glider, as it gets up to a hundred and forty miles an hour, begins to tremble—but you do not; you nose up and everything’s peaceful again. The best part of all is that perfect mixture of feeling safe yet knowing that just one little thing going wrong can shake you apart.”
• • •
Having realized that to practice a sport is to turn ordinary experience into personal drama, I once became a sponsor in an international sand-yacht race in East Africa. I watched the dozen yachts take off as if catapulted from a single slingshot. Slender kayak-shaped plywood bodies with tall masts and bright sails, they moved on three wheels that were fitted with treadless tires, the front wheel linked to a tiller that fell neatly between the racer’s knees. As the yachts sped along the strip of hard-packed Ukunda beach, the flutter of their sails stirred up birds and monkeys that were hidden in the dense bush. Reaching the far end of the beach one after another like pale dots of color dissolving in the heat, the yachts turned back, into the wind now, askew to the ground, one side wheel skidding over the shallows, the other high up in the air. Sails close-hauled, the yachts tacked diagonally, rushing at the wall of the jungle, making the monkeys shriek with fear and dive deep into the bush and the frightened birds fly off. Then the yachts turned again toward the ocean, side wheels going up over the shriveled roots of the bush, then touching the sand, and once more the monkeys returned to their watching posts.
Just before the finish, the racer I sponsored lost control. During a sharp jibe his yacht overturned and one wheel broke off, rolling into the bush and striking a snake that was wrapped around a tree trunk. The thin ribs of the smashed cockpit pierced the man’s chest; his blood seeped into the sand and onto the yellow sail. The snake slithered across the beach, circled the wreck, then coiled itself around the broken mast.
After the race, a European racer on his way overland to Zanzibar agreed to let me join him. We took off in his old safari-rigged jeep for Dar es Salaam, but at dusk we left the roadway and drove along narrow jungle trails toward the ocean. In the rapidly de
scending darkness our headlights picked up the glowing eyes of jungle cats. While the sand was still warm, we stopped on the beach and spread out our blankets beside the car.
Before retiring, the racer turned on a bright carbide lamp, opened a small plastic bag, and removed a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a thin glass vial, a tiny disposable syringe, and some cotton pads. I watched him disinfect his left forearm and fill the syringe with white fluid from the vial. Running the short needle carefully up under the skin’s surface, he slowly injected the fluid into his arm. He explained that he was using a vaccine to counteract a rare virus that was damaging the optic nerves in both of his eyes. The virus could cause blindness, so a vaccine was required to counteract it, and since there was no commercially prepared remedy effective enough to kill the virus without severely damaging the eye itself, the doctors had recommended a vaccine made of his own virus.
The vaccine was prepared for him by a researcher in the laboratory of a well-known New York hospital. When I asked if there was a risk in taking such an untested vaccine, he answered casually that if for any reason his organism failed to develop defenses against the virus, the same virus might also attack other organs; suddenly stricken, left without prompt medical attention, he could die. Nevertheless, each week he increased the vaccine dosage, hoping his body would combat the virus and thus save his eyesight.
The Devil Tree Page 6