Liberation: Diaries:1970-1983

by Christopher Isherwood

  October 8. One more day of the thick smoggy fog which has wrapped itself around the area throughout the time we were away in New York. At the moment, Darling is (I suppose) in Cleveland, drawing a wealthy and domineering old lady because one of her sons offered him the job—there are to be three drawings at a thousand dollars each. But to continue my narrative of our stay in New York—

  The afternoon of September 29 was spent largely at Bob Miller’s gallery, where Nick Wilder was supervising the hanging of Don’s pictures. I wondered if Bob and his partner [. . .] John Cheim19 minded Nick’s interference. They didn’t seem to and they expressed great enthusiasm for the work. However, the larger half of the gallery was occupied, as we’d known it would be, by the geometrical abstractions of Nabil Nahas—a quite sympathetic and handsome man with a foreign (Egyptian?) accent20 who seemed to be gay himself—or maybe he acted that way around us out of politeness.

  In the evening we had supper with Mike Van Horn and Brian Campbell. Mike, who seemed to be his usual sweet devoted friendly self—quite unchanged—had actually postponed a trip to Puerto Rico in order to be at Don’s opening the next day. Brian did seem to have changed and become faggier—preoccupied with his jewelry made of gilded fishbones. I’m fond of him too and their union seemed solidly domestic but not restrictive.

  Don made his opening on the 30th into a typical marathon event by taking us first to spend the whole afternoon at the Picasso show. This was its last day—we had to use Kynaston McShine’s power to get admitted;21 but actually the crowds weren’t any bigger than when we saw it in late June. Perhaps my greatest impression was of the massiveness of the two young men reading the letter—that monumental hand on the brother’s shoulder.22

  Darling’s own show drew a satisfactory crowd. No sales, but about fourteen of our October books were pre-ordered. (Later Miller spoke handsomely to Don, saying that he was proud to exhibit his work anyway. It was its own reward, sales or no sales. So now I love Miller dearly—unless he makes a wrong move later.) The new paintings made me prouder of my angel than ever.

  No drinks at the opening—just as well. Drub stayed on his feet throughout, as was his duty. But afterwards, at the party at Miller’s surprisingly sumptuous home, they served 100-proof vodka and Drub drubbed out.

  I think it was next day, October 1, that the New York glooms closed in around me. Paul Sanfaçon’s apartment has its charms—the Maurice Grosser paintings of Morocco and the South of France. They lead you away into far distances—some of them are at least five miles deep. But they can’t distract you for long from the skylessness of the walled-in streets—the oppressive sense of neighbors all around.

  So I began to sulk and scowl. Darling was patient at first, but he had lots to do—portraits of famous fags for the collection Bruce Voeller has commissioned23—and he really could not be expected to endure Old Drag without protest; especially as he doesn’t much like city life himself. (I think it was our first morning that some workmen, being lowered or hauled upwards on a suspended platform, looked in and saw us lying in the same bed, and laughed and made jokes.)

  Don was also repelled by the circle of Gay Elite in which he had to move—Voeller and his friends. They all seemed to be psychiatrists, either professional or amateur, and were archly knowing about the problems of gay married life. You were made immensely conscious, however, that at least one out of each pair had money— lots. And that this, and not psychology, was what ultimately settled all the marriage problems. That’s bitchy and simplistic, of course. But what I’m trying to describe is an atmosphere.

  (I forgot to mention a rude shock I got at Don’s opening—the totally unexpected appearance of The Downer. He had decided to surprise Don by coming to New York for the show. So, after this, he had to be invited to come along with us to several dinners, parties or openings. I think I behaved correctly.)

  On October 2, Paul Sanfaçon came by the apartment in the morning, to pick up letters, etc. I was taking a bath. He asked wouldn’t I like to have my back scrubbed. I said yes—feeling pretty sure what this would lead to and reflecting well hell it’s a return for hospitality and who is a seventy-six-year-old Drub to complain that Paul isn’t the most beautiful of mortals? Drub gave satisfaction, I think, by the vigor of his response. Paul said, “Don’s very lucky.”

  On October 3 we had lunch with Alan Stern and talked about writing a screenplay for “Paul.” I realize that I shall have to take all the initiative in doing this, although I know Darling will become most supportive, once I have something down on paper.

  On October 5, I managed to leave New York—just. Although I set off for the airport one and a half hours early, I picked a Latin taxi-driver who was pretending to understand English. I told him I wanted to go by way of the Triborough Bridge; he drove me clear up to the George Washington Bridge; then admitted that he was lost, turned around and came right back down and around, through the most crowded streets available. Finally, having reached the airport, he couldn’t find the United Airlines terminal for about twenty minutes. . . . And then, having gotten myself and my bags unloaded, and having paid this maddening but innocent creature about thirty-five dollars, I found myself at the end of a line of some three hundred people, waiting to board a plane for England; they all had to pass through the same electronic barrier; it was the only one functioning. Without consciously deciding to cheat, I wandered up to the head of the line and joined it without getting any protest—I suppose because of my vulnerable senior citizen appearance. When I passed through the barrier, the control signal buzzed. I gave them my keys; passed through it again. It buzzed. One of the guards tested my clothing all over with a hand device. It didn’t buzz. On the plane, I ordered double scotches until I buzzed.

  (Again I forgot something important— Just before I started for the airport on the afternoon of October 5, we went to see Vera Stravinsky. Ed Allen had warned us on the phone that her condition varies from day to day. As we were leaving, Ed and Bob Craft sadly admitted that she had been much worse than usual. Since her strokes, last February, Vera has been subject to periods of confusion, loss of memory, acute anxiety. Our first glimpse of her, that afternoon, was reassuring. She no longer wears a wig but her own hair is still pretty and her face hasn’t greatly changed; it still has some beauty. She smiled charmingly but it was clear at once that she wasn’t sure who we were—me she dimly remembered, perhaps, but not my name. Don she seemed less sure of.

  The way we were sitting painfully crisscrossed the lines of our attention—I on one side of Vera, Ed on the other, Don beyond Ed, Bob at some distance beyond Don, over near the door. Ed, who seemed more than usually female and nurselike, felt it necessary to keep Vera interested in us and to make her aware of our identity. I felt it necessary to keep kissing Vera and holding her hand while regarding her with that beaming switched-on empty smile, like the headlights of a car, which one always finds oneself using on such occasions. Bob Craft, meanwhile, was competing for my attention, just as he used to in the old days, when he talked, as it were, behind the Stravinskys’ backs, although in their presence. Bob was telling me that Vera could still enjoy smoking and drinking, that she was still a good hostess, smiling charmingly at her guests without knowing who they were, and pressing them to eat. (The cook they now had was marvellous.) She also went out, went to shops, bought things, etc. etc. Bob is working on a new project—a volume of letters to (and from?) Stravinsky. As with all his projects, he had a martyred air about this—he was utterly exhausted—but now this seemed only natural, because he and a nurse are exposed to Vera’s condition almost without respite. Ed can only get to join them at weekends.

  As this exquisitely painful interview continued, Ed created a new kind of tension by telling Vera about Don’s show at the Miller Gallery. Whereupon Vera complained that she hadn’t been told about its opening. Ed evaded this by saying that the show was still open. Vera said they should go to it at once—and bring people with them, important people, who would make propaganda for it.
All her acquired know-how about organizing such events when her own paintings had been shown made her seem quite lucid and sensible for a moment. But she wasn’t lucid, alas—she wasn’t for one moment herself—she was her own ghost—a pathetically anxious ghost, anxious because she was confused, and on the verge of being scared. I insisted on leaving as soon as we decently could. When saying goodbye to Bob and Ed, I suddenly shed tears.)

  October 19. Yesterday morning, toward midday, I was working on the outline of the “Paul” screenplay, when I heard someone outside in the passage. I came out of my room and two Spanish youths came running up to me, asking, “Where is the money?” One of them held a slim-bladed knife in his hand—and yet, they weren’t altogether alarming; at first they seemed more like cabdrivers or porters bothering a passenger at a foreign airport. It took me an appreciable moment to realize that this was a holdup. When I did, I foolishly began to shout, “Help! Help! Don!”—not because I was in a panic but because I consciously wanted to scare them. Don was in fact in the studio with Don Carr, hopelessly out of earshot. Now they grabbed me and one of them hit me in the face, making my upper lip bleed. They tied me up with the belt of my bathrobe. By this time I was adjusting to the situation and thinking sensibly. I decided that it would be wise to let them have the money in my billfold—it was between 100 and 200 unfortunately—because one is always warned to give burglars something and because the billfold was lying on top of the bureau in the closet, exposed to their view. (Some money still remained hidden between the pages of Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le Noir; Darling’s little hideaway.) In addition, they took my rings and my watch but mercifully didn’t go off with the billfold itself and all my identification cards.

  Now they had me down on the floor of my room beside one of the big bookcases—tied up, gagged with a sock. They also wrapped my light Japanese robe around my head. The gagging was unpleasant, of course, but I could actually breathe quite well. My situation seemed to me corny in the extreme—something which only belongs in a book. Instinctively I began playing up to it, fretting like a baby and groaning like an old man. I even tried to worry them by crying “O mi corazon!”24 in the hopes I’d seem to be having a heart attack. I repeat, they were never really alarming. One of them told me, in accented but educated-sounding English, “If you are quiet we won’t hurt you.” I had the impression that they were nervous, however. It was only their nervousness which was dangerous, like the nervousness of a snake.

  After a short while, they went into Don’s little room, where they hunted in drawers but didn’t take anything. Then there was silence; they had left the house through his open window. I managed to get my feet out of their bonds and then shuffled out to the studio and banged on the door with my elbow. As ill luck would have it, Darling and Don Carr hadn’t finished fucking. Darling came to the door naked, followed by Don Carr pulling on his pants. Darling cried out in dismay when he saw Dobbin all bloody—all the rest of the day he was so sweetly concerned. Then the police came. Don Carr was impressed by Dobbin’s sangfroid; not having seen the old ham perform before.

  Today I have a sore rib—not much other damage.

  October 22. Talked to Bill Scobie on the phone this morning. He now feels pretty certain that Tony Sarver will die soon. He can’t have any more surgery, although he has a new malignant growth. He is very thin but in fairly good spirits. Oh God, these awful dreary long-drawn-out deaths, with their respites of false hope! And then, when it’s over, what will Bill do? Is he really rooted here? Or will he go back to England? His life seems so horribly lonely—I may be wrong but I don’t feel he has any other real friends—certainly no one to take Tony’s place. Oh the poignancy of these separations! And of course this keeps bringing me back to the impending separation from Darling. My encounter with the burglars, I know, has given him a much greater shock than it gave me. He has been so loving, since that happened; we’re very close now, almost painfully so.

  Last night we had supper with Paul Sorel. The Internal Revenue Service has now presented its ultimatum—if he can’t pay his arrears of taxes by the end of this month (and of course he can’t, possibly) they will sell Chris Wood’s house by auction, not caring how much it goes for as long as the taxes are paid. All Paul’s friends are urging him to put the house up for sale through an agent before this deadline; in which case, he might not only get money for the taxes but as much as a hundred thousand for himself.

  Paul declares that he won’t do this. It would be against what he calls his “mystique.” His mystique makes him certain that he mustn’t do the prudent thing, mustn’t provide for himself, because this would disappoint Chris Wood who, while he was alive, always expected Paul to behave recklessly, imprudently, out rageously. Such behavior, says Paul, was what kept Chris fascinated and amused by him. If Paul sells the house through an agent, he will cease to amuse Chris. If, however, Paul refuses to sell and lets the IRS auction it, Chris will be amused and will be compelled to help Paul in one way or another.

  Paul got quite excited and aggressive as he announced his decision to us. He seemed a bit crazy but one was aware of his cunning, too. Even if he half believed that he could work on Chris’s feelings in the land of the dead, he was also working on our feelings—trying to amuse us. And indeed he later admitted that one of his rich friends, who found his recklessness amusing, had offered him an arrangement—the friend would buy the house and let Paul live in it for the rest of his life. Paul said, however, that he didn’t trust this friend, feeling that there might be strings attached to his offer. Don himself is rather interested in this possibility of our buying the house—he even said jokingly to Paul that his offer was to pay Paul’s taxes—no more—in payment for the house. But today Don says that he would never get into any such deal with Paul because he knows how bitchy Paul would be about it, later.

  October 26. A week after the event, one of my ribs is still sore but nothing else. The small wound on my upper lip shrank to a scab and then peeled off, leaving no trace.

  Mary Miles Minter O’Hilderbrandt phoned—seemingly to ask me about our robbery, actually to tell me about hers; she never saw the robbers, being in bed upstairs. But they had left a jar (?) containing muriatic acid25 which presumably they were planning to throw over her. Her narrative was confused by references to an incendiary bomb which had been used, on a different occasion, to cover up a “much larger theft.” But she broke off the explanation of this because her housekeeper had arrived, and I haven’t heard from her since.

  Yesterday, Jim White phoned, having just returned to his house with Janice and discovered that it had been burglarized—the television set, etc. etc. And then Old Jo called to say that the residents of the Uplifters26 have been forced to band together and subscribe to a private security guard, because robberies have been so frequent, there.

  October 31. My rib is still sore. The weather was so hot yesterday that I felt no pleasure in going down to the beach and returned exhausted. While we were down there, a couple of young men, quite presentable though no great beauties, began lip-kissing while gently stroking each other’s backs, hair and arms. They were lying only a few yards away from us, with other beachgoers all around. Although the young men were nearly naked, in swimming trunks, this didn’t appear to be merely an audience-conscious scene of exhibitionistic lust. It was romantic, and that was what made it odd. Public romance is embarrassing, public lust isn’t.

  I was reminded of it yesterday evening by two of the Alexanders’ cats. They lay on the couch beside me, head to head, and kept touching each other on the mouths with their tongues—just like kissing.

  We managed to get up Tuna Canyon, which is bumpy but just passable, and thus avoided the long detour to the Alexanders’ house. They have added a great deal to it, but the place still makes me feel uncomfortable, exposed to the elements. The big windows are all naked to the darkness; I would hate to be in it during a windstorm. Peter and Clytie were very sweet as usual, but we both felt that they and their two daughters were un
happy, stuck there in the hills, far from the bright lights and the people.

  November 2. On the evening of the 31st, we went to a dinner party given at the Corcoran Gallery for Laddie Dill’s opening. I was given a seat at table next to a youngish man and his girlfriend—I don’t remember their names but will try to find out.* The man reminded me that we had talked while I was signing copies of My Guru at Brentano’s bookstore in Beverly Hills on June 14, and that he had told me that they had bought a house where I had once lived, 333 East Rustic Road. I had said to him, then, “Call me after you’ve been there a while, I’d like to talk to you about it.” “And now,” he told me, “we know what you meant.” They keep hearing voices—two people in conversation. So I told them about the various psychic happenings which we’d experienced while living there. And I added, “As long as you love each other, you’ll be quite all right.” Yes, alas, I was drunk when I said that—and getting rapidly drunker. I thereby missed some fascinating confidences which Don was receiving. Guy Dill told Don that Laddie had told him that he mustn’t bring his wife to the party—[. . .]. In addition to this situation, Peter told Don that he wanted to come by and have a talk with us, and Don is sure that Peter wants to discuss the unsatisfactory state of his marriage with Clytie.