Foul Matter (37 page)

When Paul saw Jimmy drop his head in his hands, he ordered him a piece, too. “Make it two apples. Thanks. And more coffee. Thanks.”

“There must’ve been a dozen of these little cabins; when I was being shown to mine, one of the managers or whoever she was pointed them out, each one buried in among the trees. It was an idyll, really. I mean, it should have been. Mine, for some fucking reason, became the hub. And where were these writers getting their booze? There wasn’t supposed to be any drinking, I mean except at the main house just before dinner when they served cocktails.” Jimmy drew in breath as if he’d just surfaced and went on.

“Finally, these three left and I thought I might as well go to bed. Saturday morning I decide to skip breakfast in the main house and just write. So I make this sign on a piece of notebook paper: DO NOT DISTURB !PLEASE!! and scotch-tape it to the door—”

The apple pie arrived with more coffee. Jimmy shoved his pie aside and, with burning eyes, continued his tale:

“I’m finally getting close to four lines I’ve been grappling with—see, this poem is really hard because of its form; it’s analyzed rhyme—you know what that is.”

Around a big bite of pie, Paul said, “Sure.” No, he didn’t, nor did he want to. “I should have ordered this à la mode. Do you want a scoop of ice cream?”

Jimmy went on as if Paul were merely a recording device. “Around lunchtime, I hear this tapping on my windowpane, fingernails
rat-tat-tatting,
and I open the door, thinking it’s my lunch delivery. I’m
really
hungry because of no dinner, no breakfast. I open the door and here’s this girl—more of woman, she’s got to be in her thirties, trying to look like thirteen, you know, like gypsy clothes, head wrapped in a polka-dot scarf, big gold earrings—”

“You’re really good on details. You should write some fiction—oh, sorry.” Paul ducked his head toward his pie when Jimmy made a movement with his fist.

“She comes in as if my cabin is her cabin and plops down on my bed. She says, ‘Kee-
rist,
what a night! I keep reminding myself not to drink Eddie’s martinis. They’re lethal. Hi, my name’s Marie—’

“ ‘—and I’m an alcoholic,’ I say.”

Paul’s laugh sputtered around piecrust.

“Well, that surprised her. She chirps, ‘Oh, are you in the program, too?’

“ ‘
Too?
’ I manage to get some acid into my tone. ‘You’re saying
you
are? Ha. No, I’m not in the fucking program, what do you want?’ ”

“ ‘My, aren’t we tetchy this morning?’ As if I’d been drinking with her or fucking her the night before.

“ ‘I came here to
write,
that’s why I came.’ ”

“ ‘So did I, so did we all. But you gotta take a break sometime.’ ”

“ ‘This place is break heaven. That’s all you guys do here.’ ”

“ ‘
Um,
’ she says; a lot she cares. ‘Can I bum a ciggy?’ I tossed her the pack. She lights up and starts rattling on about her awful life, which is why she’s here because she’s writing a memoir about how she was abused as a child by her father, her brother, her uncle, her cousin—you know, your typical memoir—and what a great book it’s going to be—‘If you ever get around to writing it,’ I say. And she says, ‘Oh, I do. My self-discipline is legendary.’
Legendary!”
Even Jimmy had to stop being mad and laugh at that.

“She goes on. ‘So I guess you don’t want to fuck? Right?’ ”

Paul snorted out another laugh.

“ ‘You guess right. Actually,
leave,
will you?’ ”

“ ‘Awright! Awright!’ She hands me back the Winstons and I tell her to keep the pack. By now, it’s got to be two, three in the afternoon and I’m starving. I look outside and my lunch isn’t there, so I figure the DO NOT DISTURB !sign made them hesitate about even leaving it. Didn’t Hemingway say you could only write on an empty stomach?”

Paul didn’t know, nor had he any intention of finding out. “Are you going to eat that pie?”

Frowning over his cabin in the woods, Jimmy shoved it toward him.

“Thanks. Then what?”

“Finally, I get this stanza written, the analyzed rhyme. Do you know—?”

“Absolutely. Go on.”

“Seven or eight writers, so-called, including Marie and the Irish jerks—without the Montecristo because they know they’ll get drinks at the main house—come along and veritably herd me out of the door to go to dinner. I knew there was no way of avoiding all this because I
had
to get some food inside me even though I wasn’t particularly looking forward to a whole bloody woodsful of writers like these. Off we troop to the main house, where I’m pleasantly surprised—for all of five minutes—to see that the other fifteen or twenty people there are reasonably quiet and reasonably sober. I’m hanging around the drinks table and this really tall fellow who looks like your paradigmatic poet—long scarf, black hair, sleepy eyes as if he can hardly bear to listen to one more person not himself—and I ask him what he’s working on. Turns out he’s not a poet, he’s a sculptor. That pretty much stopped me cold, knowing as much as I do about sculpture, which is zilch. I say to him, ‘I’m surprised this place has, uh, sculpting materials.’ Brilliant, yes? He says, ‘Well, they
don’t,
do they? One brings one’s own, doesn’t one?’ and walks away.

“I tried a few more opening ploys with a woman with huge hair, so damned thick it looked as if she’d borrowed other people’s; it stuck out on both sides of her head like wings, and after a banal conversation, me providing the principal banality, I decided I was better off with the rum drinkers and Dylan sayers than the others who were either insufferably snotty or insufferably boring or both. There was another orgy that night to which I just succumbed and Sunday morning, I was out of there. I started back to New York and checked into a Red Roof Inn along the way and slept.”

Paul, finishing up Jimmy’s apple pie, wondered where the silence had come from. The air had fairly crackled all around him in Jimmy’s flow of talk—ah! He’d stopped! That was it. Paul, having grown unused to the sound of his own voice, then said: “So, I guess the six months at Yaddo won’t work for you.”

“You’ve got that right, boyo.” Jimmy drank his cold coffee, signaled to the waitress.

“I guess you’re thinking you’ve learned to appreciate your home more.” Paul was disappointed.

“Are you kidding? Hell, no. I appreciate it even
less.
It’s all part of the same thing. What I realized was how much I appreciated being
alone.
For those few hours right after I got there, I felt weightless. Privacy may be the fucking greatest gift you can find for yourself.” Jimmy moved his head backward. “Behind this booth I’ve got my suitcase and my typewriter. I moved out of the house. I told Lily—that’s my wife—I thought we should do a trial separation. All hell broke loose, which is one of the reasons I wanted a trial separation, come to think of it. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to stay in a hotel while I look for an apartment. All I need is a studio; probably I can find something in lower Manhattan or TriBeCa. My son’s fifteen. Mike. This way I won’t feel like I’m abandoning him because he loves Manhattan and can come to my new digs and sulk instead of just sulking at home. The only danger there is he might want to move in. At any rate, he’ll think he’s got enough to send me on a major guilt trip. Leaving his mother and the homestead, why, that’ll give him more ammunition to resent the hell out of me than he could ever hope for if I stayed. Lily, ditto. Imagine all the lunches and cocktail parties where she can run me down.” Jimmy grinned. “It’s a good move all around. Then I’m going to tell Mort I’ll work three and a half days, no more, so I can be your agent and agent for a few others I respect. If he doesn’t like that”—Jimmy shrugged—“then screw it, I’ll leave. I’ll leave and open my own agency with you as top client. I hope you’ll agree to that, but even if you don’t, I’ll manage with the few writers I think will go along with me.”

Paul shook and shook his head. “Wow.”

“So, have you seen it?”

Paul frowned. “Seen what?”

“How far I’d go.”

Paul grinned. “Far enough.
Way
far.”

P
aul Giverney sat down in Clive’s office without removing his coat.

Just to let me know he’s hardly got time for me, Clive thought.

“So?” said Paul.

Clive surprised himself by saying, “Look, I just had a very rough weekend. Take it up with Bobby.”

“I’d sooner take it up with a turnip. Bobby’s always had a very rough weekend. Bobby lives for rough weekends.”

Clive frowned, thinking Paul Giverney more familiar with the Mackenzie-Haack mode of operation than would be expected of a writer not yet one of Mack-Hack’s own. But of course Bobby’s love affair with Glenlivet and the wines of Puligny-Montrachet was no secret in publishing circles.

Giverney was waiting for an answer. Clive could hardly tell him about the weekend followers, so they sat for endless seconds, silence soaked.

Clive broke it; he had never mastered the art of silence as a tool or a weapon. “Paul—” He paused. Were they on a first name basis?

“Clive?”

Apparently they were, though Clive seriously doubted they shared wavelengths. If only the arrogant bastard would take his shielding hand away from his mouth. The bastard did so.

Paul asked, “How long can it take to nullify a fucking contract, Clive?” He mimed the act of tearing up a sheet of paper and tossing the invisible pieces over his shoulder. That done, he took up a pugilistic position with his arms crossed over his chest. He stationed the sole of his shoe against the edge of Clive’s desk. That was
really
taking liberties!

Relieved he could at least speak to this point, Clive said, “It’s not that simple. You know his editor is Tom Kidd. We can’t afford to lose Tom—not just for himself alone, but for the writers he edits. You know they’d follow him to kingdom come, and that means another publisher. I’ve told you all this before. Look”—Clive spoke in his best conciliatory tone—“why do you want this?”

“I told you, you don’t need to know. Anyway, Tom Kidd’s a throwback, a ‘literary’ editor. There aren’t that many left. Replace him with a sharp young acquisitions guy, someone who can pull in commercial writers like me.”

“We don’t want that many commercial writers. Mackenzie-Haack has always been known for its literary books. We have more NBA’s, Pen/Faulkner, Critics Circle awards than any other publisher.”

Paul Giverney looked pained. “Stow it, Clive. Your reputation rests on Bobby Mackenzie’s uncanny gift for turning dreck into spun gold on his say-so.”

“That’s a gross exaggeration.”

“So is the truth. Take, for one example, Rita-fucking-Aristedes. Black hair, olive eyes, white skin, Greek. The Greeks are in. It used to be Latinos, Central Americans, Portuguese, et cetera. Rita’s been spreading this offal around for years and the one you published isn’t any better than the others—”

Clive frowned. “How do you know—?”

“I know it all, Clive. You forget how often I’m asked to spill a little cat sick for the back of the jacket. Rita’s agent sends me this tome for a blurb. Rita’s agent couldn’t sell emeralds in Oz. Now why does this drivel get snapped up by Mackenzie-Haack? Because the man foretold forsooth that
Greece
is
in.
Greece hasn’t been in since Larry Durrell.”

“That wasn’t Greece, was it? The Alexandria Quartet?” Wasn’t it Egypt? Paul Giverney made him uncertain of everything.

“There’s no question but what Bobby’s a fucking genius, a reader of everything under the sun, and a double-dealing cunt. The only writers this man respects are dead. Shakespeare, Aristophanes, Joseph Conrad.” Paul spouted a few more names that had been included in a classic line they’d just started publishing.

“That’s why you want us to—”

“No, that’s not why. I don’t need a fucking genius.”

Clive’s smile was a sliver, a remnant of moon. “But you want to align yourself with a literary—”

“No, I don’t. I shouldn’t have got off on this literary tangent.”

Clive toyed with a knifelike letter opener, beating back the desire to plunge it through Giverney’s heart or at least to torture him until he talked. Then, suddenly, he was startled to hear Paul say, “Okay, get the contract together and I’ll sign. You can tell Mort.”

Clive dropped the letter opener, stunned. “What? But you just—”

“Oh, just
do
it, Clive. Never mind my reasons. Don’t try to understand it.”

“All right, all right. I’m absolutely—”

“Thrilled.” Paul rose and bade him good-bye. But at the door, he smiled and asked, “Has Bobby ever gotten into the Old Hotel?”

“No.” Clive stood behind his desk with that slivered-moon smile. He remembered Bobby’s white-hot rage when he couldn’t make a reservation. He’d tried a dozen times, tried giving a different name and address. Still no. The twelfth time he’d gone there in a little pool of hopeful people, watching a few admitted, a few turned away, including himself and a woman in pavement-touching sable. (They were red in the face, they were outraged, they swore they were going to call the mayor—who, it was rumored, hadn’t got in, either. But no one knew this for a fact.)

Paul Giverney said, “Me neither.”

“I have.” Clive felt smug. “I could get you in.” It would be chancy. Clive would be compromised if it was discovered his guest was someone who had tried repeatedly to get in on his own. He had taken a chance with Mort Durban. But he certainly wasn’t going to take another with Bobby.

“Thanks, but that’s one of those things you gotta do on your own or it doesn’t count.”

Clive was a bit taken aback by Paul Giverney’s modest admission he had never gotten into the Old Hotel. People had tried to circumvent the Old Hotel’s rules, which was difficult because no one knew what they were.

The two of them, Clive and Paul, stood silent for a few moments turning this over. What were the rules? It might have been the only time they did share a wavelength. It wasn’t wealth or social position; it wasn’t who your ancestors were. Politics? No. There was sometimes a prominent politician, sometimes a sleazy one, sometimes both. The burning question during Clinton’s siege was not, Should the Big Creep be impeached, but had the B.C. ever got into the Old Hotel. It was rumored that he hadn’t.