Bruce Chatwin (77 page)
Authors: Nicholas Shakespeare
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Literary, #Literary Collections, #Letters, #Literary Criticism, #General, #Diaries & Journals, #Personal Memoirs
When he had no reply, he wrote again. Where was she, why hadn’t he heard from her, what was going on? Unknown to Bruce, Petronella had moved to Bloomington to take a master’s degree at Indiana University. The card did not reach her for another four years. On 17 September 1988 she sent him a letter: “I have wanted to write to you, but didn’t know if you’d remember me. I have just come in from a trip out bush, suffused by a sense of magic and life that is the gift of the desert in bloom. And on re-reading your letter I am reminded of the wonder in you, that so struck me on our first meeting.” Since that time Bruce had stood out for her “as a source of inspiration”. She ended: “I’m reminded of the words of Rainer Maria Rilke: ‘That at bottom the only courage that is demanded of us: to have courage for the most strange, the most singular and the most inexplicable that we may encounter.’ I’m glad to have met you.” Bruce was too ill to reply.
Their paths would not cross again, yet Bruce had never forgotten Petronella. After his second visit to Australia, in March 1984, Bagshaw wrote to her: “Bruce Chatwin has come and gone. He asked to be fondly remembered to you. If you ask me, I think you’ve quite taken his fancy.”
In
The Songlines
Petronella is Marian, the inaccessible, idealised and elusive lover of Arkady who dresses in a skimpy, flower-printed dress and takes showers in the desert. “Then she strolled back, silhouetted against the sunlight, glistening wet all over, the wet dress flattened out over her breasts and hips and her hair hanging loose in golden snakes. It was no exaggeration to say she looked like a Piero madonna, the slight awkwardness of her movements made her that much more attractive.” At the end of the book, she marries Arkady. “They were two people made in heaven for each other. They had been helplessly in love since the day they met, yet had gradually crept into their shells, glancing away, deliberately, in despair, as if it were too good, never to be, until suddenly the reticence and the anguish had melted.”
The Songlines
Petronella is Marian, the inaccessible, idealised and elusive lover of Arkady who dresses in a skimpy, flower-printed dress and takes showers in the desert. “Then she strolled back, silhouetted against the sunlight, glistening wet all over, the wet dress flattened out over her breasts and hips and her hair hanging loose in golden snakes. It was no exaggeration to say she looked like a Piero madonna, the slight awkwardness of her movements made her that much more attractive.” At the end of the book, she marries Arkady. “They were two people made in heaven for each other. They had been helplessly in love since the day they met, yet had gradually crept into their shells, glancing away, deliberately, in despair, as if it were too good, never to be, until suddenly the reticence and the anguish had melted.”
Bruce returned to Sydney on 5 March. A very different person knocked at Penelope Tree’s door in Darling Point. He flung his backpack onto the dining room table and said: “I don’t care what you are doing, you’re just going to sit down and listen to what happened to me.” He then launched into an account of his adventures over the previous weeks. “It was like seeing one gigantic light bulb above his head,” says Tree. “I’d never seen him so excited or turned on. He’d not only been out in the wilderness, but he’d come back with a great idea. He talked for maybe two and a half hours and for the time he was speaking he made me understand the concept of songlines. He had it; he definitely had it, and he loved Australia because of that.”
XXXI
The Bat Cave
“Tous les anglais sont homosexuels.”
“Oui, tous.”
“Sauf que toi, mon chéri.”
—BC notebooks, Niger 1972
THE URGENT NEED TO MAKE DISCOVERIES ABOUT HIMSELF
which he communicated on Petronella’s doorstep soon dissolved. Two weeks after leaving her in Alice Springs, he picked up a boy in King’s Cross and, according to Gannon’s diary, spent the night out. Three days later he flew to Bali to meet Jasper Conran. Bruce had not involved him in his plans and during this time appears to have been unreachable.
which he communicated on Petronella’s doorstep soon dissolved. Two weeks after leaving her in Alice Springs, he picked up a boy in King’s Cross and, according to Gannon’s diary, spent the night out. Three days later he flew to Bali to meet Jasper Conran. Bruce had not involved him in his plans and during this time appears to have been unreachable.
Their fortnight together in Indonesia seems to have deepened Bruce’s feelings for Jasper. There were friends he had made in Australia who were shaken by how much he loved the young man. At the same time it appeared that Bruce had refused to accept that he was supposed to be having a relationship. “It must have had the feeling of being chilling to the other person,” said Wyndham, “but Bruce wouldn’t play that role.”
It was when he was with Jasper in Bali that Bruce entered the next phase of his illness. In the Bali Hyatt, they ran into Kynaston MacShine from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. “You got the feeling that Bruce was making Jasper pay the bills and at moments Jasper wasn’t too happy about that,” says MacShine, who hired a car for the three of them to tour around in. They looked for Indian textiles and in Barbadoor parked outside a bat cave. According to MacShine, Bruce did not enter the cave. “He didn’t walk in. He didn’t take a torchlight into a dark area. He didn’t get involved.” But three years later, when searching for the origin of his illness, Bruce dug up the memory of the bat cave in Barbadoor.
On 6 April, he flew back alone to Sydney with what he described to Rogers as “hideous food poisoning”. He had a high fever, with night sweats, and was bleeding. He recovered after a week, but already he felt an inkling that his food poisoning was something more. “He had an idea he wouldn’t make old bones, a presentiment,” says Jasper. “I once asked him: ‘Why are you so intense?’ Bruce said: ‘I
have
to be’.”
have
to be’.”
Bruce later told Elizabeth that on his return to Australia from Java, he picked up a copy of
Time
magazine. Inside, there was a photograph of him taken by Paul Kasmin and an article on the “gay plague”. He had the same response to the article as to Gertrude’s telephone call about Bobby. “His instant reaction was always right,” she says. “He knew he was in for it.”
Time
magazine. Inside, there was a photograph of him taken by Paul Kasmin and an article on the “gay plague”. He had the same response to the article as to Gertrude’s telephone call about Bobby. “His instant reaction was always right,” she says. “He knew he was in for it.”
He wrote to Petronella’s empty home in Alice Springs, explaining his illness: “I am terribly sorry for sloping off without warning and not coming back – as I fully intended. The truth was I got hideously ill in Java, with amoebas and all that – so ill, in fact, that for a moment they thought I had cholera. And though I did go back to Sydney for a week or two, I was in a considerably
lowered
condition.”
lowered
condition.”
In this condition, feeling “flat, dried-out, alienated,” he telephoned Elizabeth.
At a point when matters stood far from clear between him and Elizabeth, Bruce once telephoned the Levys in Long Hanborough, at whose marriage he had first met Donald. “He wanted to stay on his way to Wales,” says Paul. “He was keen to get to Penelope Betjeman, but not willing to go off into the night.” The Levys gave him pyjamas and a toothbrush and came in to his room to check all was well. Bruce, already in bed, appealed to them with a whisper. “I know this is an odd request,
but could you tuck me up
?”
but could you tuck me up
?”
Just as his books were reactions to each other, so each of his
personae
needed to play off against themselves. Without Elizabeth, he was liberated. Liberated, he was lonely. Lonely, he was a little boy who had to be tucked up.
personae
needed to play off against themselves. Without Elizabeth, he was liberated. Liberated, he was lonely. Lonely, he was a little boy who had to be tucked up.
On his second visit to Australia he drove to Ayer’s Rock with Salman Rushdie.
“You know, I’ve been very unhappy lately.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I’ve been very unhappy and for a long time I couldn’t work out why and then I suddenly realised it was because I’d missed my wife. I sent her a telegram to meet me in Katmandu and she sent a telegram back to say she would.”
This was the first time Rushdie had heard Bruce talk about Elizabeth.
“He was definitely missing her,” says Robyn Davidson. “He constructed this story that he was semi-estranged and wanted to see her. I was surprised by the way he talked about her: with tremendous respect and affection. I got the idea of this very special relationship that wasn’t necessarily sexual or was; but certainly was a deep affection of souls. When I first met her I thought, as everyone else did: ‘How is it possible, these two completely unmatched people, and why?’ And in a quarter of an hour I moved from being dumbfounded at this ultimate mismatch into seeing she was the only sort of wife he
could
have had. She’s so real. He’d surround himself with all sorts of people and she’d be the constant. I think he absolutely loved her.”
could
have had. She’s so real. He’d surround himself with all sorts of people and she’d be the constant. I think he absolutely loved her.”
The way they got back together did not in fact begin with a judicious exchange of cables but a telephone call. Elizabeth received his call in Homer End. “He rings up. ‘I’ve been offered by
Esquire
to go anywhere I want. Where do you think?’ We discussed Japan, the South Pacific Islands, Nepal. He said he wanted to go to the mountains. So I said Nepal. I’d never been there.”
Esquire
to go anywhere I want. Where do you think?’ We discussed Japan, the South Pacific Islands, Nepal. He said he wanted to go to the mountains. So I said Nepal. I’d never been there.”
He paid for his air fare to Katmandu by reading
In Patagonia
in six instalments for ABC radio. In the middle of April, Murray Bail drove him to the Blue Mountains outside Sydney. “I wanted to show him a world class view, seeing he had seen everything in the world. I stepped back for him to admire the view, as you do up there. He looked at it for a second and then turned to me: ‘What’s the date today? Next week I’ll be at the base camp of Everest’.”
In Patagonia
in six instalments for ABC radio. In the middle of April, Murray Bail drove him to the Blue Mountains outside Sydney. “I wanted to show him a world class view, seeing he had seen everything in the world. I stepped back for him to admire the view, as you do up there. He looked at it for a second and then turned to me: ‘What’s the date today? Next week I’ll be at the base camp of Everest’.”
XXXII
An Hour with Bruce Chatwin
Everyone – especially those approaching 35 – has an idea that kills him in the end.
—BC, Australian notebooks
Their month in the Himalayas marked the beginning of Bruce’s rapprochement with Elizabeth. “We walked off and on for about 20 days,” she wrote to Gertrude. “We did see wonderful birds and animals and even what could be Yeti tracks!” Accompanied by three sherpas, a cook and three dzos (“which are a cross between a cow and a yak”), they climbed to 15,500 feet. “It was the most relaxing holiday I think I’ve ever had.”
By returning to Elizabeth, Bruce would be able to write
The Songlines
. The next four years would be a dash to finish it against his gathering awareness that he was dying. He determined to complete the book before his illness was named and he incited everything in his character to work at double speed. “That book was an obsession too great for him, a monkey he carried around on his back,” says Rushdie. “His illness did him a favour, got him free of it. Otherwise, he would have gone on writing it for ten years.”
The Songlines
. The next four years would be a dash to finish it against his gathering awareness that he was dying. He determined to complete the book before his illness was named and he incited everything in his character to work at double speed. “That book was an obsession too great for him, a monkey he carried around on his back,” says Rushdie. “His illness did him a favour, got him free of it. Otherwise, he would have gone on writing it for ten years.”
Bruce returned from Nepal recovered from his “blood poisoning”, but with an unexplained lump on his hand. He fell sick again after his second visit to Australia in 1984. “He’s having a bad time with some horrid skin virus which attacks his face & his gums,” Elizabeth wrote to Gertrude. “I think it may be getting better now, but he’s not cheerful & says the book isn’t going well either.”
From childhood Bruce had been prone to bronchial colds. These new symptoms put a chill in his heart. Nin Dutton drove him from Adelaide to Brisbane and recalled how, on the last leg of their four-day journey, he fell into a fearful melancholy. “He wouldn’t utter and he grumped and so I said, ‘Stop the car, I can’t stand it. Let’s play some music.’ He suddenly announced his mother was ill, which I didn’t believe for a moment.” The illness was his.
Rushdie says, “He never allowed himself to be afraid in the company of his friends, but I saw it a few times in his face. He was so afraid of dying, he couldn’t speak his death sentence. He was in a state of great fear, shaking with terror.” Rushdie noted how, at the moment he became scared, Bruce went back to Elizabeth, abandoning homosexual activity and reconstructing the facade of family life. “He said to me he’d fallen in love with his wife. I felt it was genuine. How could it not be?”
Elizabeth shared Bruce’s foreboding. “From the early 1980s I had the recurring feeling, not necessarily to do with our separation, that we didn’t have very long. It was no more definite than that and it could have been either of us.”
Bruce’s presentiment of his mortality may explain his pressing desire to locate
for himself
the equivalent of an Aboriginal songline.
for himself
the equivalent of an Aboriginal songline.
“I come from the middle of England,” he said on a BBC programme. The people there might appear to be the most sedentary and entrenched in the British Isles, “but if you scratch their skin underneath you’ll find they’re burning wanderers”. On his return from Nepal, in June 1983, Bruce made a pilgrimage to Sheffield, Baslow and Stratford in order to reclaim parts of his childhood identity and the tracks he had followed with his grandfather. “I made the experiment of re-covering our walk to the Eagle Stone to tread a path I had not trodden for 40 years,” he wrote in his notebook. “But when I came onto the moor, I was
lost.”
lost.”
All his life he had longed for connection, yet he disliked ritual and ceremony and he rejected his own duties towards wife, family, territory. There was no way he could possess for himself the coherent identity he perceived in Strehlow’s Aborigines because something in him insisted upon a perpetual unravelling of horizons, a continual reshaping of self. He would have to create for himself a fully realised written version of it, and, typically, he now combined the search for his own beginnings in Derbyshire with his investigations in Australia and the very origins of the species. “To understand human nature, you have to know the circumstances under which we became our species.”
When in Kenya in 1982, Bruce had written to his parents of an encounter with Richard Leakey. “A few years ago he excavated the skull of a hominid – a near-man – dating from 1.5 million years together with his stone tools, and evidence of his camp-site. Leakey is a Kenyan MP, and even in the half talk we had – in between his visit to the Prime Minister and his work as head of the National Museum – I felt that we saw eye to eye on an astonishing number of points. The fact that he picked up on so many of the same references as I did with the nomad book encourages me to take it up again.”
It was in the course of his research that Bruce’s attention was drawn to a newly published book by the director of the Transvaal Museum, the palaeontologist and naturalist Bob Brain. “Bruce telephoned to say he had read
The Hunters or the Hunted?
and wanted to come and talk.”
The Hunters or the Hunted?
and wanted to come and talk.”
Once we were all nomads. Nomadic existence was peaceful. That is what Brain had proved at the Swartkrans cave, working at “the point where man becomes man”. His new book provided Bruce with the last piece of his puzzle. It had the same impact on him as
Songs of Central Australia.
Songs of Central Australia.
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