by Erica Heller
TALLULAH (tossing her tawny mane of hair, savoring a sip of bourbon, and settling back in the banquette)
What brought me back? As best as I can make it out, this brief visit with you is rather like Carousel without the score. It wasn’t the furniture, although I’m thrilled you’re still using it. No, it was you. I felt I never finished raising you completely. Did I set the right examples, or was I too self-centered to have had a child entrusted to me? God, even up there we still worry about these things. We are allowed one trip back for a final wrap-up, soul cleansing, whatever you want to call it. Frankly, I wasn’t even certain if you would show up today.
BROOK
Oh, Tallulah, there isn’t a day that I don’t think about you. You taught me everything I know about fair play, liberal politics, and the New York Giants. I’m sorry, I hate baseball, but everything else stuck. I didn’t even mind being the only child in kindergarten with an “All the Way with Adlai” button, because you showed me how to fight for what I believed in.
DOLORES gives a slight squeak of indignation, and TALLULAH raises the Maltese so that they are face-to-face. TALLULAH kisses DOLORES’s black gumdrop of a nose and addresses the tiny bit of fluff with mock severity.
TALLULAH
Yes, Dolores, Brook’s point about the omnipresent cigarettes has been noted, and I’ve already apologized to you profusely for that slight conflagration you were involved in.
BROOK (looking from DOLORES to TALLULAH)
Tallulah, does Dolores actually speak to you?
TALLULAH
Of course. It’s one of the greatest benefits we get up there. Dolores has a divine sense of humor. She once pointed out that since dogs have been bred for every conceivable purpose—from truffle searchers to hand muffs—it wasn’t too farfetched to consider her destiny as an ashtray to a legend.
BROOK
What was that “slight” conflagration she referred to?
TALLULAH
Oh God, it was the night that the New York Daily News immortalized with the headline “Tallulah Is Hospitalized. Hospital Is Tallulahized.”
DOLORES watches intently, as TALLULAH continues.
TALLULAH
According to Dolores—and do remember this is her version—she and I went to bed that night without any other company except for my lit cigarette and a few speckled sleeping pills. As she phrases it, sometimes it was a bit “sauve qui peut” for a tiny dog when I had athletic companionship in bed, and she was delighted to have me to herself. I, of course, was only wearing my cropped cashmere sweater—you know how I loathe underwear. Dolores and I were both sleeping soundly when her very efficient nose detected that the tips of her fur were smoldering. She let out a heart-piercing “YIP!” and I woke up screaming, “Oh God, Dolores is on fire!” I grabbed a pillow and began beating at the flames in the dark, somehow managing to shatter the ceramic bedside lamp, which carved an impressive slice out of my arm. Dolores says that I bellowed basso profundo like a rutting musk ox, which seems a wild exaggeration, but it was certainly loud enough to alert the staff. They raced downstairs to save me—darling Robert, who sometimes brought you home from dancing class, arrived in the nude—and then an ambulance, the police, the fire department, and the press were suddenly swarming through the house. It was profoundly disorienting, and perhaps I was a bit dramatic in refusing medical attention, but I only wanted to be certain Dolores was unharmed. They prised her out of my grasp and an adorable fireman pronounced her perfectly fine as the medics—absolute thugs—escorted me to the hospital under extreme duress.
TEDDY the waiter arrives with the first course, and TALLULAH motions for him to grind the pepper mill until her smoked salmon is obscured under a thick layer of grit indistinguishable from an asphalt road patch. DOLORES sneezes over TALLULAH’s plate, and TEDDY puts an eggcup of steak tartare in front of the little dog, whispering, “Compliments of the chef, sweetheart.”
TALLULAH finishes her appetizer, takes a long swig of bourbon, accepts another cigarette from TEDDY, and leans in closely as she takes BROOK’s hand.
TALLULAH
Brook, darling, this show is running a bit late, and you know I’ve always had impeccable theatrical timing. I need to find out if, God forbid, I damaged your impressionable psyche while you were under my care. Did the—how do I put this—unconventional and sometimes rather flexible gender situations you observed with me and my guests confuse you? Was it an amusing French farce with the cast flitting between various bedroom doors, or was it a Hieronymus Bosch night terror?
TEDDY places the main course of Jumbo Shrimp Sardi in front of BROOK and TALLULAH and an artfully arranged mound of diced chicken next to DOLORES. The Maltese is the only one of the trio to try her food.
BROOK
Tallulah, everything I experienced in your home was enlightening. I was so young that it was like learning a second language without even trying to. Whatever I saw, whoever was doing the flitting between bedrooms or flirting by the swimming pool—it just seemed natural to me. Remember how you told me to go naked if I wanted to and I spent the summer running around wearing nothing but my favorite woolen hat with the pompom? And the hat was only because Gayelord the parakeet loved to ride on my head. Really, the only moment of gender confusion was the evening Gayelord surprised us all by laying an egg, but we still kept referring to the bird as a “he.”
TALLULAH
Well, that’s a relief! What about the afternoon we stuck pins in the picture of Senator Joe McCarthy? I suppose it could have been construed as an inappropriate activity to indulge in with a four-year-old, but that bastard had destroyed the lives of so many of my dear friends. (wistfully) If my mother hadn’t died at my birth, I might have had better guidelines for parenting. . . .
BROOK
I loved doing that with you! No other child I’ve known has ever been given a hands-on voodoo lesson. Besides, it was part of the continuing message you gave me to fight injustice and oppression. I know you spoke out publicly against McCarthyism and the House Un-American Activities Committee at a time when others were denouncing their friends just to save themselves, and I’ve done my best to follow your political path.
TEDDY comes to the table and softly taps his watch twice. TALLULAH nods and kisses TEDDY’s hand before bringing it to her cheek. He clears away BROOK’s and TALLULAH’s untouched plates. The spotlight on TALLULAH and DOLORES begins to dim as TEDDY returns and places a silver serving boat filled with Profiteroles Au Chocolat in front of BROOK. He blows a kiss toward the table as he backs away and exits stage left.
BROOK (anguished)
Tallulah, don’t go yet! There’s so much I want to ask you! Are you happy up there? What do you do?
TALLULAH (faintly)
Do? We act. What did you think we would do, darling? Run around with harps? There’s a perpetual run of Private Lives—Gertrude Lawrence thinks her performance is the definitive one, but I know that Noël prefers mine. He just won’t hurt Gertie’s tender feelings. I had to die to get a decent run in Streetcar, which is rather ironic, as Tennessee wrote it for me, for God’s sake! Now, of course, I have to let dear Jessie Tandy play it on alternate nights.
BROOK (as TALLULAH becomes increasingly transparent)
Do you remember the final lines from your role in Midgie Purvis?
TALLULAH
Darling Brook, did you think I could possibly forget them? Or you?
BROOK reaches out to touch TALLULAH, but there is nothing solid left for her to hold on to. Both TALLULAH and DOLORES are barely visible.
TALLULAH (reciting from Midgie Purvis as she fades from view and into a voice-over)
Do you see those stars up there? When I go I don’t want people standing around quietly saying, “We’ll pretend she’s just stepped out of the room—that’s the way she’d want it.” Well I don’t want it that way! When I die I want there to be caterwauling and wailing. I want one of those stars to go out and NEVER SHINE ITS LIGHT AGAIN!
The scene fades to
black as a bright star appears over the spot where TALLULAH was sitting. A moment later, an equally bright but much smaller star pops up in DOLORES’s place. The only other illumination comes from TALLULAH’s abandoned cigarette as it burns a scorch mark on the Sardi’s tablecloth.
CURTAIN
Brook Ashley is Tallulah Bankhead’s goddaughter and spent much of her childhood as a participant and observer in the circus of Miss Bankhead’s New York home. Brook made her Broadway debut at the age of seven. After the performance, Tallulah rushed to Brook’s dressing room, clutched her godchild so fiercely that the hairs on her mink coat went straight up Brook’s nostrils, and proclaimed, “Get out of your costume, darling. We’re going to Sardi’s to celebrate!”
— 4 —
“Do people remember my paintings?”
AL DÍAZ (FRIEND, COLLABORATOR) AND JEAN-MICHEL BASQUIAT
It was a few days after my fifty-ninth birthday. I found myself in Reykjavik, Iceland. I was traveling to Basel, Switzerland, and had missed my connecting flight due to delays. Needless to say, I was exhausted and a bit pissed off.
The next available flight was not until the following morning, so I had no option other than to spend the night. I took a room at an airport hotel. It was 11:00 p.m. when I checked in and still broad daylight outside (Iceland is far enough north to have the midnight sun). I crashed onto the welcoming bed the minute I got to my room. About two hours later I woke up, feeling famished. After a quick shower I put on the same clothes I’d been traveling in and went down to the restaurant in the hotel lobby.
The place was two-thirds empty and you could pretty much sit anywhere you wanted. I found a table by a large window and admired the view of the architecturally ambitious airport, with its acutely slanted concrete slabs and precariously leaning curtain walls. I ordered a sparkling water and looked at the menu. Not quite ten minutes had passed when I was spooked by an unlikely yet unmistakable chuckle.
I was slightly delirious from lack of proper sleep, but this was no hallucination. Jean-Michel had already slid into the chair facing me. Disbelief is too inadequate a word to describe what I felt.
We both laughed and made eye contact, an accepted form of greeting between old friends, as if picking up a briefly interrupted conversation. He wore a beret and a US Air Force–issue trench coat that had a rather odd blend of primary and springtime pastel-colored paint spattered all over the lower section. He had on a scuffed-up pair of white bucks. His loose-fitting and weathered pants were held up by a leopard-pattern fabric belt that was way too long.
“Fancy meeting you here, bro,” I said jokingly. I was still trying to absorb what was transpiring.
“I must have made a wrong turn back there,” he said sarcastically.
“Damn, dude, you haven’t aged a bit. Must be treating you right up there, huh? Fuck, I got a shit ton of questions for you.” I was feeling slightly overwhelmed.
Jean-Michel assumed a grin I recognized from long ago. An expression of both guilt and defiance. Defiance was a quality that we both held on to stubbornly, and at a very high cost.
“Well, you might as well eat some of this airport hotel food while you’re here,” I added.
We both checked through the menus for a minute or two. I looked up a few times—as if to confirm that this encounter was actually occurring. A rather pale, thin young fellow appeared at the table and asked in perfect English, “What will you gentlemen be having?” This affirmed Jean-Michel’s presence, and I was finally able to begin processing the unfolding scenario. I felt a bit sad, but it was mixed with some mild anger. I had long awaited an opportunity such as this, although I never imagined it would be realized. I guess I was still pissed about the abrupt abandonment of what I always thought was a strong friendship as he became more and more famous. The feeling had never been so clear to me until this very instant.
And so I began.
“Seriously, though, when I watch those old video interviews, it seems like you really didn’t want to be there.”
He seemed disappointed and looked away. “People hang around because they need something you have. They’ll squeeze you dry if you let them.” His cynicism was evident. One thing his friends would agree on about Jean-Michel (as he became more famous) was how he developed a universal distrust for everyone.
The waiter brought us two plates of haddock with French fries, lackluster portions of a garden salad, and some small dishes with various dips. One was just plain ketchup, and the other appeared to be some sort of tartar sauce.
“Papitas,” he said, with a goofy grin as as he held up a stubby French fry.
He pulled the plate closer to him and ate slowly, periodically studying the shape of his fry or chunk of battered fish. At one point I noticed some light-colored food flakes at the corner of his mouth, which enhanced his childlike presence. It was difficult for me not to find the charm and humor in this.
People have often asked me throughout my adult life, What was Jean-Michel Basquiat like? There were so many contradictions and facets to his personality, which makes that question difficult to answer in a few sentences. Sitting there with him had transported me to a time when we could share nearly anything—obscure facts, feelings, and thoughts. A comparison came to mind. “I was watching a documentary on Quincy Jones. . . . You share parallels with Q. He was very ambitious, very young, also very talented. He was a player, a crazy prolific superstar—but he’s still alive. Did you know his mother was schizophrenic?”
Jean seemed to be processing this information and stared into the void for a few more seconds. Then he replied, “I always secretly liked those Frank Sinatra records. . . . Do people remember my paintings?”
“Frank Sinatra was cool. He opened it up for black acts in Vegas, so they wouldn’t have to eat in the kitchen anymore. You are as famous as Quincy Jones. Probably not as famous as Sinatra. People think of you as some sort of folk hero. They often refer to you as a ‘graffiti artist.’ ” This made both of us laugh.
I could not help but think about how, when I first met Jean-Michel, he was a sort of homebody who had a few books about MGM films and a crawl space under the stairs for a bedroom. Set against the contrast of Frank Sinatra playing faintly in the background.
Half smiling, he said, “Maybe I should have had Q as my manager. Then I would have been as famous as Sinatra.”
I thought to myself, Enough small talk. I had real questions. For example, why did he diminish the depth of our graffiti campaign/collaboration in an interview after he’d become very famous?
“Cocaine is a helluva drug. . . .” This was obviously a loaded remark. As well as dismissive. Although we would both separately become heroin addicts, we shared cocaine quite often during the early eighties—and it strained our ability to actually have meaningful conversations.
At this point I knew that I had to pull my reins in, remembering that Jean-Michel was always prone to shutting down in the face of confrontation. Unless of course it was him doing the confronting. Softening the tone of my interrogation, I continued.
“But why now? What brings you around here, to Reykjavik? Here and now, in motherfuckin’ Iceland?!”
“I was looking for my mom.”
The subject of his mom had always been a conversation stopper. He was deprived of a mother early in his teenage years when she was placed in a psychiatric institution. It became apparent to those of us who were close to him that he hadn’t ever recovered from this, or developed any sort of coping mechanism. Instead, he’d act as if he were stalling out when confronted with the subject. The one time I actually met and interacted with Matilde was on a Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1978. She was permitted to leave the institution where she resided for the day, as long as Jean-Michel assumed the role of guardian. She seemed heavily medicated and somewhat confused. His protectiveness and unquestionable love was clear and visible. I am quite certain this pain would forever remain deeply lodged in his soul.
“So much for the concept of heaven. You d
on’t see anyone out there, do you?”
“Heaven? Is that some sort of Nordic mythology? After the lights go out, it takes a while before you realize it’s over. Eventually it becomes evident just how alone we always have been.”
A long silence followed. I stared out the big window. I thought about the times we had spent at the after-school “drop-in” center called the Door. We’d go there for free meals or to bring girlfriends who needed birth control. I remembered how we lived back then. Free of any worries, responsibilities, and commitments. Just a couple of street urchins, meandering through the universe. Wild-eyed and filled with a lust for living. Believing only in the moment.
The conversation resumed. “People loved you and still do. You were the one who fucked that up.”
He looked away once more. “Everyone always lets you down.”
I responded with my usual optimism. “Yeah, sometimes we fail each other; nobody’s perfect. But we try better next time.”
“Better to leave an indelible mark; you don’t always get another chance,” he said didactically.
“Anyway . . . you should know that you are appreciated. You changed the game. A whole generation of creative and ambitious young blacks, Latinos, Asians, Eskimos, Cossacks, those whirling-dervish mofos, misfits, queers, freaks, and what have you . . . they all feel a little more as if they might have a chance at the game. Since you came and went.”
“I can’t see myself as a guru or like some charismatic-leader type. People should just be inspired from within themselves. It’s too much of a responsibility. I don’t know. . . .” The obligatory pause and pensive moment followed. There was a brief silence, and he smirked again. “Heh-heh, whirling dervishes . . .”
We finished eating almost simultaneously. After using up the last napkins and pushing the plates aside, we sat back in silence for the remainder of the time. Then, as if like clockwork, the colorless waiter reappeared and cleared away our dishes. I ordered two coffees. Jean-Michel stood up, looked at me, and smiled a knowing smile. I reciprocated with a nod of approval. In an instant he was gone. I looked around a few times to see if he was still there. I stared at his untouched coffee cup as it gradually turned cold. I wished that I had more time to ask the questions we always think of after it’s too late, but it was just that. Too late.