I was anyway for these many moments at least enjoying being utterly transported celestial distances out of my own cares and woes. With only the worry now that this desperate pilgrimage to find the Sayerses, in being in vain, was also slightly unbalancing me mentally, and perhaps an omen that Paris should as quickly as possible become a forgotten chapter in my life. But I was thinking too that the French for some strange reason never seemed to be rude to me. However, I had never encountered nor expected such marvelous courtesy and manners as this good gentleman displayed in intrepidly facing the impossible. And in itself, a triumph of patience. Indulged only by those whose compassion could embrace an outsider trespassing among their fellow man. One could also see by the elegant vellum of diplomas, citations and testimonials that monsieur was most distinguished by considerable achievements, which alas, by my intrusion, only made one to feel even further acute embarrassment.
“Ah, monsieur, now I know. I well and truly know. Yes. Yes. It was Tuesday two months ago exactly that I was in here and that I had come to place the address and to put it exactly where I knew it could be found. Ah. Yes. Now if I could only remember exactly. But I am convinced. Absolutely convinced that I have put it somewhere on this desk. And that it has somehow become obscured.”
Had I been obtuse enough I would have now ventured to suggest to this courteously kindly man that one might have added or substituted the word “buried” to that of his use of the word “obscured.” But never mind, for more than a few moments I had totally forgotten the Olympia Press and the name Girodias. And that by bowing deeply enough, I could show my appreciation for something that would be done for a desperate stranger by few other Frenchmen in all the wide breadth of France. But had, however, been done by Gainor for the man of the unknown language and his blind dog at Gare St.-Lazare. Through my desperate mind now went thoughts of Gainor Stephen Crist and blessed Oliver Plunket, to both of whom I did not feel I could rightly pray, being an atheist idolater, and not even in my extreme crisis did I think it fair that an exception could be made. In spite of this gentleman, still with his back bent and poring over yet more stacks and documents and now with a magnifying glass raised.
“Ah, voilà. Presto. Passez muscade. Here it is.”
I did not believe my ears. Nor my eyes. As a tiny torn little scrap and slip of paper was unearthed and pulled from beneath a mountain-high stack of documents and newspapers at the corner edge of his desk. This gentleman’s face wreathed with a satisfied smile as he made his way around to me, sidestepping the piles of books and other papers on the floor. His arm raised, to triumphantly show fluttering from his fingertips, a scrawl on a small slip of notepaper.
“Ah, but of course I will write the address out for you. It is in fact a hotel, quite a good one, the Montalembert, near the rue du Bac.”
I could not believe how delighted I was. The Sayerses now had most definitely become a serious quest and mission. And they had already provided, even if only for these minutes, a wonderful relief from contemplating my life’s ruin. To have within my actual fingers now this address and somewhere to go, somewhere to be. And to have this erudite and scholarly gentleman in his robe, pajamas and slippers delighted too to see my pleasure and to now give me a little bow and smile as I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and from all the bottoms of all the hearts I could think of. And indeed if anything was true. It was that Gainor Stephen Crist in Spain and his cohort in heaven, the blessed Oliver Plunket, had between them wrought a miracle. Because idolater that I was, I did nevertheless secretly madly pray to both of them.
As I now left this strange cloister in the company of this man and crossed his garden under the leafless apple trees, he gave me another little bow as I departed back out his door onto the streets of Paris. He seemed indeed as we said our good-byes to have thoroughly enjoyed himself. And my whole vision of the future seemed to have changed with this address that I now carried with me. Later I was to learn that I had spent the last half hour in the company of the descendant of another man who wrote much to change the thinking of the world. And whose great-grandson had now just given me hope once more.
And the name
Of whose
Great-grandfather
Was
Karl Marx
43
BUT THE QUEST for the Sayerses, I was to find had only just begun. I went dutifully back first-class on the Métro to the Latin Quarter to find the Hôtel Montalembert concierge helpfully informing me that the Sayerses indeed had been staying there but had now moved at least three or more weeks ago. And to yet another hotel. I looked up the address in my atlas of Paris and figured the shortest route across the interwoven confusion of all these streets. Walking instead of using the Métro, for then at least I would know step by step where I was going.
I set out across the boulevard St.-Germain and along rue du Bac, crossing rue de Grenelle and rue de Varenne. Feeling now the first sense of tiredness accosting one’s legs and feet, and disgruntlement when taking a wrong turning and having to find my way again. But at last to go correctly down a quiet little street. The Sayerses must suddenly have decided they wanted peace and tranquility. An iron gate. And a path beneath an arbor to the entrance door of a quiet, well-starred and sedate little hotel which one might find tucked away in the English countryside. To make my inquiry yet again for the elusive Madame and Monsieur Sayers, who, clearly, one was learning, liked a frequent change of scene.
“Ah, yes. We have their address. They have left a week ago.”
Another address. Another hotel. Another perusement of my little red Paris atlas. More rues, avenues and boulevards. Another mile. Another wrong turning. Another half mile. And then this four-star hotel. The afternoon fading. Now feeling desperate. It could not possibly be that I hadn’t now at long last tracked them down. Having moved only a week ago. Again into the lobby. Less English spoken. But surely they would have found exactly what they were looking for and settled in nicely in this most comfortable-looking and fairly luxurious establishment.
“Ah, yes, Monsieur and Madame Sayers. They have left. Just the day before yesterday.”
“Oh, I was just wondering if you might have their new address.”
“One moment and I shall look, monsieur. But I do not believe we have.”
My elbows came down to rest on the hotel counter. As I now waited, it seemed as good a time as any to choose to give up. Before my legs folded up underneath me. There was no question but that with such erratic moves and such romantically elegant people, that they were next planning to travel to London or New York, or Hollywood. And that all finally packed would have been heading toward Le Havre and were this very morning boarding ship and taking up comfortable residence in their stateroom. It also seemed the more recently someone had left a hotel, the longer it took to find a forwarding address. But having embarked so purposefully on my mission and pursued it without pause, it was as if this hotel had become a suitably appropriate place to end it. A nice little bar with palm shrubs and a few comfortable leather chairs. Even the Paris Herald Tribune. Knock back a quick cognac, or better still, two cognacs. And just a short distance away along rue de Vaugirard, I could go, in my abject despair, sit in the Luxembourg Gardens.
“Merci bien, mademoiselle.”
“Ah, wait, monsieur I have found it, a forwarding address. 172 rue de l’Université.”
I went anyway to rest my weary legs in the Luxembourg Gardens, where the lonely didn’t seem to mind remaining alone. And sharp-beaked seagulls became white specks on the green lawns. Strolling past the pale gray stone statues which peer over all from the past. Students chewing sandwiches. Old men playing chess and cards in the chill. At least Paris hadn’t stopped being what it was since I was last there. And one goes to take a long pee in the pissoir. And an even longer sit on a bench. Where I looked again at the new street address scribbled and added to all the other previous addresses in my notebook. Except for the first time, this wasn’t a hotel. And maybe, who knows, the elusive S
ayerses could finally be found somewhere. I gathered my wearying legs once more beneath me. And just as did the boatswain mate in the navy at six A.M. in the morning, say, “Let’s go, up and at them.”
I proceeded down rue Bonaparte past a large police station taking prisoners in handcuffs out the door. Opposite and across the square, the church of St.-Sulpice. As I passed by this somber edifice of worship, one remembered the strange afternoon of Sacré-Coeur. And Girodias in his Citroën. That black vision all now a reality. With an indication of a man, who, assuming one was weak and vulnerable, was stimulated to the attack. Inspiring one to fight. And to now plow on to find a friend. Even though there seemed no doubt that the Sayerses were gone from Paris and probably France. No one moving so much could have been contemplating anything else. But go I must still in search to this last address.
In the familiar rue des Canettes, it was near the bar where Gainor visited his favorite little bistro, presided over by his Spanish patrón. My legs most severely now tiring. But only a short distance to walk down rue des Sts.-Pères and turn left to reach rue de l’Université. And having duly done exactly that, I commenced what was for me to become the longest walk of my life. Anticipating first that number 172 would only be one block over, then in the next street, then over the next avenue or boulevard. And I walked and walked. Westward across Paris. On what seemed now this endless street. Passing the Ministère de la Guerre. The Chambre des Députés, the Ministère des Affaires Étrangères. And still onward across the esplanade of the Hôtel des Invalides.
I stopped briefly to find I was still not disabled and still on my own two feet. Taking a citron pressé. Then up again and ever onward. In the distance now I could see the actual very end of rue de l’Université crossing avenue Bosquet and just a little further on to avenue Rapp. I knew this was going to happen and that the last building would be numbered 171 and there would be no 172! But suddenly there it was. A grand old venerable structure. Which looked to be housing anciently elegant apartments. I entered the porte cochère. Looked about, all seemed empty. A locked door admitted to a further vestibule and to what must be the staircase to the building’s residences. Then, as I was contemplating to leave, a door of an office opened to reveal a diligent lady concierge. In my limited French, I inquired after Monsieur and Madame Sayers. She looked at me and shook her head. She had never heard of them. She even looked at a list of names and again shook her head. At least this was it. My day of walking and tracing was over. I could head back out through the gloom and shadows to the daylight of my nightmare again. Go back to my hotel, lie down and try to cure the tiredness of my legs, knowing I had tried my best. But a voice now was calling. The concierge had come out of her little office after me.
“Monsieur, monsieur. Deuxième étage. Monsieur and Madame Sayers. They move in only yesterday.”
I went up the two flights of stairs. Stood in the gloom of this large hall and knocked on the door. It opened quickly. And it was Sylvia. Who could not believe her eyes, às they had not yet made known to their friends where they were and had just taken up residence in these commodious and grand apartments. Invited in, we chatted. Michael, her husband, whom I had not yet met, was working in his study, writing. She was on her way out to shop and said, can you come and have dinner here with us tonight. Yes. I could. About seven. My ordeal was over. The dismalness and much of the despair gone. I fairly skipped and danced and trotted all the way back to my hotel on this the nearly longest street in Paris.
A long soak of my legs in a minuscule hot bath and promptly at seven I was back. Magnificent smells pervading these vast chambers. Champagne poured in the grand salon. Normandy butter on whole-wheat bread. Lemon juice squeezed to anoint the slivers of smoked salmon. Michael Sayers and I sitting to talk about Dublin. From where he had gone to Monte Carlo as a young man to live in the Hôtel de Paris in order to attend nightly at the casino tables and to enjoy a fortune he’d inherited. He chuckled as he told this story of youthful imprudence. We talked about London. And about Paris. He had read The Ginger Man. As many had, he said, in Paris. The book was talked about. I mentioned the trouble with Girodias. He said in reply that with a book like The Ginger Man, I had no real worries. It would defeat those who would exploit or attempt to damage it. So have another glass of champagne.
In the large dining room in the candlelight we had oxtail stew and vegetable delectables with Clos de Vougeot 1947 and Romanée-Conti 1949. These stunning velvety wines descending the throat as one had second and third helpings from a magnificent steaming tureen set center of the table. Brie and salad. And an ice cream of stunning ingredients. But all now was explained as to the Sayerses’ impatient and nervous wait to move to the splendor of these apartments. Where, heels clicking on the parquet, we repaired back from the dining room to the grand salon. Furnished with such as Louis the Sixteenth secretaries, the kingwood, tulipwood and marquetry all gleaming under an eight-light Louis the Fourteenth chandelier. On the gilded chairs we sat to listen to records and drink an elixir of apricot brandy. The songs we heard were sung by workers in the Pennsylvania coal mines. Michael Sayers able to trace and compare the origins of the words and melodies. And listening to the truth of all this sadness, they sounded indeed as if they had come out of the grief and sorrow of Ireland. And they had.
For the first time in this battle of The Ginger Man and in this grand salon of Paris, here was another writer telling me I had written a fine novel, which had already been circulating hand to hand across the various arrondissements. And that it would inevitably, as any good work did, produce some battles. And that the book, having readers talking about what they had read, I had the war already won.
And no day
And no night was
Ever to be as memorable
As this one
In my life
44
THE BOW plunging through the still rough gray waves, I sat solitary below decks, meditating upon the defeat I now faced in London as the cross-channel steamer made its way from Calais back toward the white cliffs of Dover. The ship finally no longer pitching and tossing in the great gray swells as it glided at last into the peaceful water of the harbor. The disappointing trip somehow at least had softened the aspect of the future, now knowing that the book had already found sympathetic readers in Paris, such as Michael Sayers.
The next day in Fulham, and on the last day left till publication, I waited till early afternoon to relate the most gloomy news of my visit to Paris to Armstrong, already realizing that he would no doubt be in his office staring at a notice of an injunction stopping publication and recalling the book from booksellers. My destination, as it was on many of these afternoons, was Bishop’s Park along the river Thames where Philip could run while Karen, in her pushchair, and I could stroll under the tall, hauntingly somber plane trees. And where also on the way, in the comparative privacy of a country lane, I could stop to telephone Neville Armstrong at his office.
The route one walked took one past a housing estate and an adjoining athletic field, where once there had been a polo field. But still this area strangely seemed to retain its rural atmosphere from long ago. And at one end of a slightly crooked alley joining Peterborough and Hurlingham roads, there stood a red telephone kiosk posted like a sentry. At least it was just past lunch and, avoiding the likelihood of ruining someone’s appetite, and Neville Armstrong following my pennies clanking was immediately on the line. And who, having listened to my voice convey my dismal news, sounded surprisingly cheerful and asked me did I otherwise enjoy Paris. When I said it hadn’t been too bad, I found it difficult to believe his chirpiness or the words he was saying or the words that he now went on to say.
“We’ve had counsel’s opinion. Norman Shine was right, there was indeed something not spelled out in the agreement you have with Girodias based on the exchange of letters with him, as no document exists signed by you in which you state that you convey the right to the Olympia Press to print and sell in all countries. Such a right can only
be conveyed under the written signature of the proprietor and copyright owner, which you are as the author, and therefore Girodias without this right conveyed to him can’t obtain an injunction and stop the book. Frankly I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes. Publication will take place as planned.”
Although I wasn’t as sanguine as Neville Armstrong, knowing Girodias could still sue for damages and in my judgment would remain an enemy who still existed across the channel and who showed little or no regard for an author’s work but whom I knew would show much regard for any money or profit such an author’s work might bring, it was nevertheless bliss at last to hear for the first time that an author somehow had rights hidden buried in the technicalities of the law that could, even though by accident, result to his benefit. Walking along now, my step was lighter. And even though such information was hard to comprehend, it was, after all the months not to mention years, most welcome that now, when least expected, straight out of the blue, good and positive news had struck without warning.
And as Armstrong predicted, this last day did quietly tick by without a writ and without an injunction. And the day December 7 struck. Publication. The Ginger Man at last free and out on its own. But had not this victory come and the book achieved its freedom from its undeserved yoke of pseudonymous pornography imposed upon it by the Traveller’s Companion Series, there is no question but that I would have been arise with a rage so great, Girodias’s life would have been at stake. And as indeed it turned out The Ginger Man would anyway inextricably wind around and haunt the every future day of his existence.
Reviews came. Mixed, as they say. But the best of the praising ones overwhelming the dissenters. It seemed I had crawled up out of a bleak, black abyss of encroaching jurisprudence to the brighter sands of moral hope on the beach. And on a day shortly following publication, I called on Neville Armstrong, busy as a bee in Fitzroy Street, from which he was already planning to move to a larger premises. Behind his desk, he was pretending a little that all was proceeding as routine and as was to be expected of a highly successful publisher. Nevertheless, he was beaming. He had the reviews laid out and had quotes selected for back of the jacket of the second printing, and which he now handed across to me to read.
The History of the Ginger Man: An Autobiography Page 59