Salinger's Letters (15 page)

‘Who else would I be?'

‘How should I know? A clone? A double? A con artist? A Dan Moller impersonator?'

Salinger doubled up with laughter like a little kid. I could feel myself turning red, all the way to the tips of my ears.

‘Take it easy, Dan. Don't punish yourself. You've been imagining me as a crazy madman who'd defend my privacy to the last drop of blood. That's what's made me rich and famous, the myth of being the only writer in the world who doesn't give interviews. It turned out to be the most profitable career move I ever made. That little word ‘no' packs a greater wallop than a thousand interviews.'

‘You make it sound very cold-blooded.'

‘It wasn't. It was just an idea I had. I didn't feel like giving interviews, that's all it was. I just didn't feel like it. But that little idea got me more publicity and recognition than I'd ever imagined in my wildest dreams.'

‘I don't believe you,' I said.

‘Of course you don't. Because what would there be left to admire? An old man and a couple of books. The world's full of books.'

‘Does that mean you sat down coldly and thought out a crafty long term career strategy?'

‘Of course not! It was just a thought, a feeling. I realised I could simply say no. No one else did, except me. Later it turned out to be a brilliant move.'

‘Whose idea was it?'

‘It was more a feeling, the desire to politely refuse. It seemed completely innocent, even a bit childish. I wanted to mind my own business. Just because I've written a book about a disturbed young man doesn't mean I have to bare my personal life to the entire world, does it?'

‘No.'

‘If I'd hired an advertising agency to come up with ideas for marketing my work they couldn't have done a better job! Agreed?'

‘Yes.'

‘And I wasn't even the one that thought it up.'

‘Who did?'

‘My girlfriend, Claire. The one I married and had kids with.'

‘What did she say?'

‘She said she was fed up having journalists calling all the time, journalists knocking on the door. We were young and in love. She was married to somebody else at the time and was feeling terribly guilty towards her husband. If her husband read those interviews with me, the great, successful author, it would add insult to injury and break the man's heart, she said. He wanted to be a writer himself. So one evening when we were lying in bed at a hotel in Concorde and were pretty plastered she hit on it. Never say a word to the press!'

‘And you kept that promise?'

‘Yes, on the whole. Even though it hasn't been easy. All that hush-hush stuff. It would have been much easier to behave normally, just like all the other writers. But . . .'

‘But?'

‘But then I would never have had such a terrific career. I've made millions of dollars on that little no. I've been short listed for the Nobel prize any number of times. Why? Because of one disturbed boy called Holden Caulfied? Definitely not. Simply because of a no. And because you can make a man who never gives an interview into any myth you like, you can interpret it any way you want.'

‘May I quote you on that?'

‘Of course. It's the truth. But nobody believes the truth. The myth of the Greta Garbo of literature is much too potent. People don't like it when their idols are knocked down.'

‘May I ask you a couple of things people are curious about?'

‘Of course.'

‘Do you still write?'

‘Five days a week. Six hours. Like I've always done.'

‘You haven't published anything in 40 years.'

‘Who says so?'

‘I do.'

‘And you know that for a fact, do you?'

‘What do you do with what you write?'

‘Publish it.'

‘Publish it? Where?'

‘Under a pen name.'

‘I don't believe it!'

‘Of course you don't. But if you read very carefully you can tell which books are mine.'

‘Can't you just mention one title?'

‘Why not just enjoy a book or a short story in the New Yorker without worrying about who wrote it?'

‘Do you write short stories for the New Yorker too? Why don't you just use your own name?'

‘Because I like living in peace. I'm a man who enjoys life, Dan. I like going to the post office. I like shopping at the supermarket. I like driving and biking and taking the bus and the train. But preferably without being noticed.'

‘How many books have you written under a pen name?'

‘You'd have to ask my agent.'

‘Dorothy Ober?'

‘Yes.'

‘Ha! Try getting something out of her!'

‘Dotty Ober has sworn that when she dies all the letters I wrote her throughout the years will be destroyed.'

‘How are your books received, the ones published under another name?'

‘Fine! I've even won prizes.'

‘Which you haven't accepted?'

‘Which my publisher accepted on behalf of one of my aliases. Don't you think I learnt anything from Kierkegaard?'

‘What time do you start work in the morning?' I asked.

He laughed. ‘Oh, so we're doing one of those Paris Review interviews, are we? The writer-in-his- workshop thing. I've read them all. Faulkner's advice to kill your darlings. Hemingway's advice to stop every day before the well runs dry. And Francoise Sagan, that well-brought-up 17-year-old girl living at home with her parents one summer and writing Bonjour Tristesse in a notebook in pencil. I eat it all up!'

‘Do you write by hand too?'

‘OK, let's play Paris Review. I go to the office every morning just like any other office worker. I clock in at 9 and clock out at 3. I work lying on the sofa, and I write by hand. I use yellow, lined paper that I always buy at a certain shop. I use a wooden slab my son Matthew once made me for my birthday as a solid base. I have lots of rituals when I write, but it doesn't bother me if they break down because I love writing. Writing is my joy and my delight. I've never suffered from writer's block. A lot of what I write is crap but I'm good at crumpling it up and throwing it in the waste paper basket. When I've finished something by hand I type it up. I used to use a Corona because I knew that was what Hemingway used. Now I use a computer. I love my little laptop.'

‘What are you working on now?'

‘I've always been very fond of Hans Christian Andersen. I'm trying to write a collection of fairy tales.'

‘What are they about?'

‘I don't know before I begin. I just don't want them to seem like fairy tales. If Andersen were alive today he would have done it differently. Maybe I'm trying to write what Andersen would have written today. That's why I go to Denmark so much.'

‘You go
where
?'

‘Well, you know how much I love Kierkegaard and Karen Blixen. It's obvious in my books. I even quote them. So I had to see their country, and Andersen's.

‘Where did you go to in Denmark?'

‘Oh, all over. I've even been to the street where you live.'

‘Holy shit, Salinger! Are you having me on?'

‘Why should I be? Why shouldn't I take a trip to Europe? Why shouldn't I stroll down that tree-lined path in the King's Garden and have the thrill of seeing him at the end of it? My idol! My friend! My confidant! Andersen. Andersen with his hand raised as if he were saying, ‘Welcome to Denmark, Jerry. This is where I was born.'

‘Why didn't you ring the bell when you there?'

‘I saw your name downstairs in Nansensgade and at the Factory in Gothersgade, but I didn't feel right about just barging in and disturbing you.'

‘
Disturbing
me!'

‘I know you're busy.'

‘Who told you that?'

Salinger unzipped his windbreaker. He reached into an inside pocket and took out a large envelope. The envelope was made of some kind of thick, grey paper. He handed it to me.

‘Here they are,' he said.

‘What are they?'

‘The letters.'

‘What letters?'

‘Your letters.'

‘
My
letters?'

He nodded. ‘The letters you wrote me.'

I felt like a complete idiot. I hadn't given a thought to the letters I had written to Salinger back then. At that moment I had absolutely no recollection of anything I had ever written him.

‘I really enjoyed your letters,' said Salinger.

I suddenly felt like jumping off the head of the Statue of Liberty. Salinger looked as though he understood how I felt. He patted me kindly on the shoulder and said: ‘I get lots of mail from admirers, but your letters were special. Also, they came at a time in my life when I was having a lot of problems and I felt like I was just a second-rate scribbler without any talent. You hailed me from the land of Kierkegaard and somehow that comforted me. He was an expert on all the schemes we human beings devise to avoid complications in our relationships. Kierkegaard is family. He's a friend. And from the very first I felt you were too. So I'm returning your letters now with thanks. Including the letters from my friend Ib. And please give his daughter Beate my very best.' I took the grey envelope and put it in my back pack. Then I quickly handed him his letters.

He took the letters, glanced at me, and nodded.

Then he was gone.

 

 

I didn't have to re-read the letters I had written Salinger to know what was in them, but Ib's letters were new to me. I read them at one stretch that night after Beate had fallen asleep in our double bed at the hotel.

Reading Ib's letters to Salinger was like hearing his voice, like being reunited with a member of the family. Ib had changed my life. I shudder to think how things would have turned out if I had never met him. Or not turned out. Probably the latter. His letters were written by hand. I could hear his voice. The correspondence had taken place over a period of years and the letters were in English. They always began the same: ‘Dear Jerry.' All except two of Salinger's letters to Ib were typed on the same model typewriter his friend Hemingway used, as he explained.

I knew Salinger's letters by heart, and my own letters held no surprises, but when I read Ib's letters all the pieces fell into place.

The Salinger Syndrome as it stood was the result of Ib's and Salinger's combined efforts, and they had taken it as far as they could. Now Ib was dead and Salinger had certainly written his last letter to Denmark. If anyone was going to delve deeper into the theory it would have to be me.

I was on my own now, Ib Schroder and Jerry Salinger had bade me farewell and sent me on my way. I fell into a deep depression; I could feel it engulfing me. Fortunately I was completely exhausted so I fell asleep.

I opened my eyes, turned over in the bed and saw, not my wife, but Amanda. She was lying on her side and looking me straight in the eyes. She was so close that I could feel her breath in my mouth.

‘Where's Beate?' I asked.

‘She's been up for hours. She's visiting an old school friend who lives out in Larchmont.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘She left a note.'

‘When did you get here?'

‘Dan, I work for you. I come when you call.'

‘Who gave you permission to lie here with no clothes on?'

‘How do you know I'm not wearing any clothes?'

‘I can feel it, I can see it.'

‘You've never looked at me before, Dan.'

‘Well, I'm looking at you now. I can feel you.'

‘I'm a woman. You did know that, didn't you?'

‘Yes, but not like that.'

‘Like what?'

‘Amanda, keep your hands to yourself!'

Amanda edged closer to me and whispered: ‘Just keep looking at me the way you are now.'

I pushed her away. ‘You're not wearing any clothes. What do you want?'

‘I just want you to look at me, Dan. Look at me for the first time. We've lived together for so many years.'

I closed my eyes and kept them closed, feeling the heat emanating from Amanda's body.

She whispered: ‘You knew I was in New York with you, didn't you?'

‘Of course I knew.'

‘So
look
at me Dan!'

‘You're much younger and more beautiful than I had imagined.'

Amanda slid a hand between my legs.

‘What are you doing?' I squawked.

‘It's not that hard to understand.'

‘Are you out of your mind?'

Amanda bent over me and started licking my ear lobe.

‘Amanda?' I said, trying to make my voice sound calm. ‘You're not my girlfriend. We're not man and wife.'

‘No, but I could become your mistress.'

‘You're way out of line. Move away please.'

‘No I won't move away please. Not unless you move closer please.'

‘No. I won't.'

‘Look at me, Dan. For the first time, really look at me and keep on looking at me.'

She pushed aside the blanket to reveal herself lying naked beside me.

‘Look at me, Dan,' she ordered.

I faced the wall and closed my eyes.

She whispered: ‘Dan? Dan? Open your eyes and look at me. Do it!'

I opened my eyes and saw Amanda, all of Amanda. Amanda's body from head to foot.

She asked, ‘Aren't you going to thank me?'

‘What should I thank you for?'

‘Don't you realize what's happening?'

‘No, Amanda, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me.'

‘You're seeing me for the first time.'

‘I'm going to close my eyes now and you're going to get out of bed and get dressed.'

‘Not until you've thanked me.'

‘For what?'

‘Don't you even know that?'

‘OK, thanks, Amanda. I have no idea what I'm thanking you for. Or how to go about it.'

‘You can thank me by going out with me and meeting some of my friends here in New York.'

‘You have friends here?'

‘Let's go see them. I have a right to have some fun too. I've been your traveling companion for so many years, now it's my turn to be the main character for a while.'

Amanda pulled off the rest of the blanket and started tugging at my pyjamas. I resisted. She used force. I defended myself as well as I could. Although I tried to fight her off, a moment later I was naked.

‘Goddammit , Dan, you're not 7 years old anymore! Grow up. You have a body. Your depression is part of that body.'

‘So?'

‘Use your body, man. Give yourself over to it.'

‘I don't believe what I'm hearing. Are you suggesting we have sex?'

‘Why not?'

‘That would be incest or masturbation or some other kind of perversion. You don't have sex with your
depression
!'

‘Why not?'

‘Amanda, you've got a sick mind. A sick mind in a sick body.'

‘You knew that all along, you hypocrite.'

‘Yes, but I didn't know you were so beautiful.'

‘So tell me I'm beautiful and you want me.'

‘If I do, will you promise to leave me alone?'

‘Yes, I promise.'

‘Amanda, you're beautiful and I really want to have sex with you.'

‘Dan, you're beginning to have your own eyes. It only took 45 years. Congratulations!'

‘I'm halfway through life.'

‘Are you counting on reaching 90?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, you won't unless you stay on my good side.'

‘I know.'

She said: ‘That's why I think I have the right to have some fun too.'

‘What did you have in mind?'

‘Come with me, you'll see.'

Amanda got out of bed. She stood there naked on the floor.

She opened the closet and started going through Beate's things. ‘Your wife has good taste in clothes.'

‘Does Beate know you're here?'

Amanda put on a pair of black panties and smiled. ‘Not unless you told her.'

‘I didn't.'

‘Don't you think it's about time?'

‘I'll have to lie and say you're old and ugly.'

Amanda was putting on Beate's bra. ‘Do you think I'm old and ugly?'

‘Amanda, you're flirting with me. It's embarrassing. Did Nora put you up to this?'

‘Hey, loosen up. I'm a woman, get that through your head.'

‘Did you always look like this?'

‘Dan, your questions are getting stupider and stupider.'

She pulled a striped dress down over her head.

I got out of bed and turned my back to her.

She chuckled. ‘I know all about you, kid. You can't hide anything from me. Hurry up and get dressed so we can go out.'

‘Where are we going?'

‘On an adventure. Amanda's adventure.'

‘Where does Amanda's adventure lead ?'

‘Where do you think?'

‘I don't think anything.'

‘You know what my name means, don't you?

‘Yes.'

‘Say it then.'

‘Why?'

‘Because that's where my adventure leads.'

‘Amanda means she that shall be loved.'

‘Exactly.'

‘Exactly what?'

‘Dan, pull yourself together intelligence-wise, otherwise it'll just get too boring.'

‘Who's supposed to love you?' I asked.

‘Who do you think?
You
are, Dan.'

‘Why should I? You can't make somebody love you by force.'

‘Dan, I find it difficult to believe you're as stupid as you sound.'

‘What's so stupid about me?'

‘You think all I am is your enemy. I'm not. I'm your friend, too. I've given you everything!'

‘All you've given me is depression.'

‘You're
nothing
without me, Dan. Face it. Do you really think Boris, Nora and Puk would have anything to do with you without me? Without me you would never have met Ib, you would never have met Salinger, and you wouldn't have Beate.'

She hurled herself at me through the air, knocking me over backwards onto the bed. She pinned me down and lay on top of me, a triumphant smile on her face.

All I could do was smile back.

‘OK, Amanda. You win. Tell me what to do and I'll do it.'

‘Simple. I've faithfully accompanied you on all your journeys. It's time you paid me back.'

‘How.'

‘Take a journey with me. Amanda's journey.'

We left the room and went downstairs. There was such a crowd on Broome Street it was impossible to take a single step. It took a while to realise they were all journalists and photographers. Suddenly I realized that it was me they had all come to see; they wanted to interview, film and photograph me, Dan T. Moller. I just managed to catch a glimpse of Amanda nodding at me when I was besieged on all sides with questions and flashes.

‘Is it true you've discovered a cure for depression?'

‘No, it isn't true.'

‘What's all this about the Salinger Syndrome then?'

‘The Salinger Syndrome is just one way of describing one specific form of depression.'

‘Was it invented by the American writer J.D. Salinger?'

‘Yes, by him, my father-in-law and myself, based on work by the Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard in 1840.'

‘Is it true you've discovered a drug for that type of depression?'

‘Not a drug. A treatment.'

‘A treatment called the Kierkegaard Cure?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is it true that hundreds of people suffering from that type of depression here in New York have been trying to contact you?'

‘I hope not. I want to be an anonymous tourist in New York.'

‘How much do you charge for a treatment?'

‘I don't know yet.'

‘How does it feel to be suddenly famous?'

‘It's just happened so I don't know.'

‘Is it true that you've come to New York to treat Andy Warhol for depression?'

‘Does Andy Warhol suffer from depression?'

A big black limousine was inching its way through the crowd.

It came to a halt in front of where Amanda and I were standing. I immediately recognised the man who got out, Andy Warhol, Mr. Pop himself, as he was called: the inventor of pop art, artist, movie director, cultural icon. He had once paid a brief visit to Denmark. His Danish hosts were acquaintances of Puk and Nora. Warhol knew that our Factory in Gothersgade had been modeled on his own Factory in New York. Warhol visited our factory. It was the only time in the entire history of the Factory that we received a visit. Warhol showed up with a small entourage consisting of Margit and Erik Brandt, Ellen and Jorgen Norgaard and Niels Barfoed. Warhol had already spoken with Puk whom he had met several times in New York. Warhol was the only person I had ever seen Puk admire unconditionally and fanatically. Warhol had a Danish dealer called Hansen, who sold Warhol's work in Denmark. Hansen was a passionate Kierkegaard aficionado. He got the idea that someone should write a play about Soren Kierkegaard and approached a number of Danish authors about it. He put up a fair amount of money, regardless of the result. In Hansen's opinion Warhol was a modern-day Kierkegaard. I was present at a discussion of the subject between Hansen and Puk. It took place one late afternoon on the pedestrian crossing on the corner of Norre Voldgade and Gothersgade at rush hour.

‘Pure nonsense,' said Puk to Hansen when he compared Warhol to Kierkegaard.

‘Why is it nonsense?' Hansen wanted to know.

Puk replied: ‘Warhol is a sphinx without a secret, a mirror. Behind it he's a vacuum.'

‘Precisely,' said Hansen. ‘So was Kierkegaard. Kierkegaard is the greatest pop philosopher in history.'

‘Kierkegaard is a religious philosopher,' countered Puk.

‘So is Warhol. He goes to mass every morning. He's deeply religious.'

‘Hansen, for Christ's sake! Warhol takes pride in never reading a book. Kierkegaard was an intellectual, he attended Hegel's lectures in Berlin.'

‘Come on, Puk. Andy Warhol has read Kierkegaard more carefully than you have. Warhol and Georg Brandes agree that Kierkegaard was the greatest psychologist before Freud, that his studies of the nature of depression were the best ever.'

Hansen and Puk were now standing in front of the Rosenborg castle barracks. They were getting in the way of passing pedestrians, but were so involved in their discussion that they ignored the angry comments.

They were yelling so loud they seemed to be fighting. Hansen was enjoying it. So was Puk.

Hansen shouted: ‘Warhol's theories on monotony are straight out of Kierkegaard. Warhol's theories on the hidden God are more Kierkegaard than Kierkegaard.'

‘Hansen, you've got rich marketing Warhol in Denmark, but you don't know a thing about Kierkegaard.'

‘Listen, Puk, I've read your essays on boredom and stupidity so carefully I know them forwards and backwards.'

‘What's
that
supposed to prove?'

‘It proves you stole half of it from Kierkegaard and the other half from Warhol.'

That was the first time I'd ever seen Puk at a loss for words.