Lost Years (49 page)

    Still, the fact remains that Chaplin did stop inviting Christopher. He was reported to have said, “I can't stand a man who can't hold his liquor.” Many years later, Christopher tried, through Salka Viertel, to arrange a reconciliation with him. Salka went to Oona Chaplin, who went to her husband; but Charlie was firm—so firm, that Oona told Salka she believed Charlie must have some other, much more serious motive for his refusal. The mystery is still unsolved.

    (Talking of making messes in public—or rather, of
not
making them—reminds me of a scene which took place sometime in 1951, while Christopher and Caskey were living at Laguna. They had gone to a queer party at the home of an excessively houseproud male couple and Christopher had fallen asleep, drunk, on the floor. One of the hosts saw this and begged Caskey to remove Christopher “before he throws up all over the carpet.” To which Caskey—as Christopher was later told—replied with blazing scorn, “What do you think he is—
a queen
?”)

¹⁸
In the Stravinsky—Craft
Dialogues and a Diary,
Igor is quoted by Craft as saying: “On Christopher's first visit to my home, he fell asleep when someone started to play a recording of my music. My affection for him began with that incident.” Igor's memory (or Bob's) may be inaccurate here, but I can easily believe that Igor found Christopher sympathetic because (a) he was always ready to get drunk and (b) he offered Igor a friendship which was quite uncomplicated by maestro worship. On the same page of
Dialogues and a Diary
, Igor is quoted as saying, with reference to Christopher: “We have often been drunk together—as often as once a week, in the early 1950s, I should think.” This is, to put it mildly, a wild exaggeration, but the note of approval is clear. Christopher's appetite for good wine and liquor and food, his lack of pretense about his sex life and indeed also his preference for a devotional form of religion may well have seemed to Igor agreeably “Russian.” Much as he loved and admired Huxley and Heard, Igor must sometimes have found their intellectual power chilling and their Britishness alien. With Christopher, he could be more relaxed. As for Christopher's deficiency in musical appreciation, Igor was too great a king in his art to feel the lack of one extra courtier. Christopher actually did like a lot of classical music, including some of Stravinsky's, but he never told the Stravinskys so—the gross compliments of their courtiers disgusted him. Maybe Igor understood this about Christopher and respected him for it.

¹⁹
It was this quality which caused Christopher to begin to think of Igor as belonging to a trio with Prabhavananda and Forster. Both Igor and Swami had an animal smallness which made Christopher want to touch and hug them protectively. Forster was larger and less animal, but he had something in him of the ageless, innocently trustful baby, so it was natural to want to hug him too. Christopher did frequently hug Stravinsky and Forster. His reverence for Prabhavananda as his guru inhibited him, but he was deeply happy when Prabhavananda occasionally hugged
him
. In most of Christopher's dreams about Prabhavananda, there were situations of physical (but altogether asexual) closeness—for example, they would be sharing a bedroom in a hotel, or Christopher would be helping Swami dress.

    Christopher was never conscious that his familiar behavior toward Stravinsky caused any offense. But Lillian Libman suggests that perhaps it did, to a slight extent. (She was his press representative and personal manager from 1959 onward.) In her book,
And Music at the Close,
she claims that Christopher's customary greeting, “Hi, Igor” (according to her, Christopher pronounced it “Eager,” but he didn't), brought to her ears, and Bob Craft's, “an echo of disrespect,” and that “it always startled the composer as much as it did the rest of us.” She adds that Christopher and Don Bachardy (who was of course merely following Christopher's example in this) were in a tiny minority; only two or three other people called Stravinsky by his Christian name. These statements by Libman may be mere bitchery. If true they are interesting as a demonstration of two opposed mental attitudes. From Christopher's point of view, calling Stravinsky “Igor” expressed loving respect, just as continuing to call him “Mr.” or “Sir” or “Maestro” (Christopher
never
could have used that word except in fun) would have expressed a polite refusal to become more than an acquaintance, and hence a
lack
of respect and of love.

²⁰
On September 29 of that year, Craft wrote to Christopher from Kingston, New York, where he was staying with his parents. Christopher had just sent him a copy of
The Condor and the Cows
: “It is radiant, full of love and peace. There is a new quality in you in these last three years. After three rapid readings it seems to be the best writing I know, whatever.” This suggests something more than literary admiration [. . .].

²¹
There was a story about one of Brando's bar visits which later found its way into gossip columns and became famous. It was certainly true in substance; Christopher heard it from a patient who had been present. Here is, more or less, the patient's version:

    While they were in the bar, a woman came in who was a fanatical evangelist—and maybe drunk, as well. She started haranguing the wheelchair boys, telling them that, if they had faith in the Lord and would pray to Him with her, they could arise out of their chairs and walk. The paraplegics at once realized the comic possibilities of the situation. They waited eagerly to see how Brando would handle it.

    Brando began by disagreeing violently with the woman: “That's a lot of bullshit! I don't buy that crap!” Then, gradually, he let himself be persuaded—okay, he still didn't believe, but she could pray over him if she wanted to. So the woman started to pray. For a long time, Brando remained absolutely still. Then he began to writhe, twist, strain, groan and try to heave himself out of his chair. He half succeeded, slumped back, tried again, staggered to his feet, seemed about to fall—then suddenly became his normal self, dropped all pretensions, did a short buck and wing routine and ran out of the bar. The woman fainted.

    There was another version of the ending to this story—untrue but better: The woman didn't show the least surprise at Brando's apparent healing. Turning to the paraplegics, she said: “What did I tell you, boys? All you need is faith! Come on now, who's next?”

[
²²
The man was Argentine, not French; he says that he was not a professional journalist and does not recall the interview.]

²³
Christopher's talks with Huxley must have been about the Latin American film story which they later wrote and named
Below the Equator
. I suppose Christopher called Samuels in as a consultant on this, but he can't have thought much of their idea for he didn't collaborate. As for Samuels himself, one of the stories he discussed with Christopher was almost certainly
No Way Out
. My memory is very weak on this point, but my impression is that the story had been entirely invented by Samuels and already partially written. Nevertheless, Samuels urged Christopher to work on it, saying that he liked having Christopher as a partner. Christopher was discouraged by the failure of
The Easiest Thing in the World
and altogether in a lazy pessimistic state of mind. So he refused, excusing himself by pointing out that Lesser didn't need him and could easily finish the story outline alone. Lesser agreed that this was true but he renewed his offer and added that of course he would split fifty-fifty with Christopher in the event of a sale, as before. Again, Christopher refused. Not long after this,
No Way Out
was finished and promptly sold for a good sum—I believe $75,000 or over. Christopher cursed his stupidity and vowed that, in future, he'd collaborate on any story Lesser proposed.
No Way Out
was shot and released in 1950, with a screenplay by Lesser Samuels and Joe Mankiewicz, its director. Linda Darnell and Richard Widmark were its leads, but it is chiefly remembered as the film which made Sidney Poitier (like it or not) a star.

[
²⁴
Not his real name.]

²⁵
In actual fact, Christopher only managed to make six journal entries during the remaining fifty-three days of that year. Of the three articles he mentions, only one was written at that time; his contribution to the Klaus Mann memorial volume, which he finished on December 1. He did write about Santa Monica Canyon in the article called “California Story,” but not until 1951. (
Harper's Bazaar
got it, not Lehmann.) The projected article for Gerald Heard on Vedanta and Christianity was never written. I can't even remember why Gerald wanted it. The novel continued to give Christopher trouble and he couldn't make any real progress with it. I suppose he kept the Patanjali book going, at its customary snail crawl, because he had to produce installments of it for the Vedanta magazine.

²⁶
Additional details: “He has the weary face of a young officer—a boy prematurely saddled with responsibility. When women are around, he puts on a knitted wool tie and laughs with his front teeth. He grunts in the morning—surly. But likes it when I say, ‘You old cow' or, ‘Okay, Miss Nosey.'”

²⁷
In the journal, Christopher writes: “Names—Waldo Angelo, Hank Burczinsky, Hanns Hagenbuehler, Nicky Nadeau, Victor Rueda, Leif Argo, Russ Zeininger, Ted Baccardi, Amos Shepherd. American names.” In
The World in the Evening
(part two, chapter five) this list is partially repeated, with Nadeau changed to Naddo (probably to make it sound more exotic) and Baccardi corrected to Bachardy (in 1949, Christopher didn't even know how to spell the name which in 1953 was to become his household word!)

    It must have been quite a long time before this that Christopher first noticed Ted Bachardy on the beach—maybe the previous spring, maybe as early as the fall of 1948. Ted was then in his late teens; January 16, 1949, was his nineteenth birthday. He was a dark good-looking boy with a well-made brown body; Christopher found his legs outstandingly sexy. Ted had many admirers, but he didn't flirt, didn't eye other people. If you talked to him, he didn't snub you but he didn't open up. He had quiet modest good manners.

    By November 1949, Christopher knew two things about Ted. One was that he now had a lover, a self-assertive [. . .] young man named Ed Cornell. The other was that he had recently had a severe mental breakdown, from which he had now apparently recovered. During the breakdown, Ted had become violent and had had to be hospitalized. Christopher had been shocked when he heard the news; he now saw Ted as a touching, threatened figure—all the more so because Ed didn't show much sympathy for him (though, as a matter of fact, Ed had behaved quite well while Ted was sick). Christopher wasn't seriously interested in Ted, however—merely a bit sentimental about this attractive boy menaced by insanity, and merely eager to have sex with him if this could be arranged without drama or too much exertion.

    A few days before November 22, Christopher happened to meet Ted on the beach and impulsively invited him to the party. If Christopher hoped he would thus get an opportunity to date Ted alone later, he was disappointed. Ted arrived with Ed (whom Christopher had been obliged to invite also) and remained close to him throughout. When the two of them danced together, Christopher could see that Ted was very much in love. Christopher never asked Ted to the Rustic Road house again; no doubt because it seemed wasted effort to go on pursuing him. During the next three years, they saw each other only occasionally. Nevertheless, a weak link of acquaintanceship had been formed between them—a link which was just barely strong enough to draw its attached chain of beautiful and incredible consequences into Christopher's life—the first of them being Christopher's meeting with Ted's four-years-younger brother, Don.

²⁸
Writing in the journal on July 3, 1951, Christopher notes that he has started another attempt to give up smoking, ten days previously, and he recalls this earlier failure: “. . . last time I quit I ran into what seemed a hopeless block—I had to get the article on Klaus Mann finished, and I just couldn't. So I restarted smoking, and it came like magic.”

²⁹
In the next journal entry, December 6, Christopher writes:

The utter brutality of those cops, the night before last, and my guilt that I didn't handle them properly—wasn't wonderful and poised and mature. I ought to have called their bluff, insisted on being locked up, hired a lawyer, taken the case to the Supreme Court, started a nationwide stink. Why didn't I? Because I'm cowardly, slack, weak, compromised. My life at present is such a mess.

³⁰
In a journal entry on December 13, Christopher writes that he is stuck again, because “Stephen can't narrate, and yet, if he doesn't, I can't say half the things I want to.”

    However, Christopher was continuing to work on the novel from another angle. In the large thin notebook (first referred to on
see here
) there are some notes which Christopher made that same day, concerning his minor characters. He was still intending to describe Sarah's house, “Tawelfan,” as a hostel for European refugees, whose characters would be based on some of the real refugees at the Haverford hostel. He lists thirteen of them. He also gives a list of the bedrooms at Tawelfan with their occupants and a diagram showing where they all sat at the tables in the dining room. (Christopher much enjoyed this kind of planning.) The large thin notebook contains two drafts of openings for the novel, both probably written on December 21 though only one of them is dated. Both are fragments of a letter to Jane which Stephen is writing or composing in his head as he flies east from California to visit Sarah. The narration of the first fragment is in the third person. The second fragment is all letter, but its narration would probably have been in the third person also, if Christopher had continued writing. I'm pretty sure of this because the next two fragments, written on January 4 and January 20, 1950, are both in the third person.