Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald (37 page)

Best love to all—

Z~

*   *   *

I think it was the painter Henri Matisse who’d told us about the Beau Rivage hotel in Nice. Scott, though he had no interest in Matisse’s work, hated to miss anything grand, so he booked us rooms for two weeks in March, as a landing point for our journey from the States. We’d go on to Paris from there.

Who Scott spent his time with during those two weeks I can’t begin to say. I hardly saw him between sundown and sunup, except for the night the police detective phoned to say they’d arrested Monsieur for assault and public drunkenness, and did Madame wish to come post his bail?
Non,
Madame did
not
wish to—Madame
wished
she could leave him there until such time as he would somehow regain some self-control, not to mention self-respect; she had a seven-year-old daughter asleep in her suite. Madame put a nice young bellhop into a cab, francs in hand, on a reconnaissance mission to the jail.

“No more,” I told Scott when I let him into the suite two hours later. His right eye was swollen half-shut and turning all sorts of shades of purple. Blood had caked along his hairline and was spattered on his shirt. Thank God Scottie wasn’t seeing him like this.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, and looked it. “But the son of a bitch said he wouldn’t read my work no matter what, that he had no interest in anything written by a fairy. Goddamn McAlmon.”

I felt for Scott, I truly did. “Aw, Deo, that’s rotten.” There was no lower blow for Scott than someone dismissing his work, especially for such a wrongheaded reason. “I don’t blame you for giving him what for.”

Scott’s face bloomed with surprise. “Thank you.” His grateful smile was an amusing contrast to his beat-up face.

“Of course. Now come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Paris tomorrow, all right?”

He nodded, and when morning came he was in good spirits again. He told Scottie, “Look at this—I went out for cigarettes last night and had a run-in with an orangutan.”

“Daddy,” she scolded him. “Orangutans live in Asia.”

“They do, but they have very long arms.”

*   *   *

In Paris, we took an apartment on the rue Palatine, in the same neighborhood as our last place, which made it feel like home. The lovely stone-and-iron Gothic building, the kind Paris does so well, was right by the remarkable Église Saint-Sulpice—one of those churches I’d once imagined might exist after I’d first seen St. Patrick’s.

Here, it was a five-minute walk to Natalie’s on rue Jacob, another five to the Seine, and a short cab ride to Madame Egorova’s beloved, timeworn studio. Perfect geography, if not perfect circumstances.

No surprise, the Hemingways were also back in Paris. What was surprising, to Scott anyway, was that he had written Ernest for his street address and gotten no reply. Then he’d written Max, who, gentleman that he is, delicately explained that Hemingway had asked him to keep his location private. Something about avoiding late-night serenades that could wake little Patrick or, worse, get Hemingway evicted.

Even knowing this, Scott wanted to pay Hemingway a visit first thing. So while I was once again immersed in unpacking and contacting agencies for household help that Scott would then approve or reject, Scott went out in search of Hemingway or a friend who’d lead him to Hem, whoever he found first. “It’ll be fine,” he said when I asked whether he ought to wait for the great man to find him. “He doesn’t mean anything serious by it, he’s just making a point.

“And anyway,” he added just before he left, “I’m certain it was Pauline who made him hold back the information. He’s still pretty torn up about his father’s suicide, you know. He’ll probably do anything she says.”

44

I’m sure Hemingway was indeed distressed that his father had put a revolver to his head and taken his life. Anyone would be. Hadley sure had been when her father had done the same—though she’d been young when it happened, so when she told me how awful it had been, she’d described it all with a quiet detachment and gentle regret.
Gentle regret
described her attitude about her divorce, as well, by all accounts. The woman didn’t have an excitable bone in her. Her ex-husband, on the other hand, needed to express himself in a wide variety of ways—one of which was a new book.

“Ernest channeled a lot of his grief into the story,” Scott said one evening in May, laying a copy of
Scribner’s Magazine
on the sofa next to me. “He’s calling it
A Farewell to Arms,
but I’m not wild about that title.”

I had a notebook in hand and was writing what would be my third short story for
College Humor
magazine, “Southern Girl.” Following the sale of my essays to them, we’d sold the first story of the series in March, and I was looking forward to its July appearance.

I glanced at the magazine, then said, “You know, this joint-byline business is making me cranky. I’m going to tell Harold to make ’em change it to just my name after the first two stories are out.”

“But they’re all joint efforts. You rely on my critiques and my connections to get them publishable and published.”

“If that’s so, why isn’t Hemingway’s first book also by you? Why isn’t Peggy Boyd’s?”

“You and I are a team.” Scott looked surprised that I didn’t know this answer. “You’re using our joint experiences, and what are essentially my ideas—or my themes, at least.”

Thinking of all the ways I’d assisted with his work, I said, “Then why isn’t
my
name also on
your
stories and books?”

“That’s not the same thing at all.”

“No? You tell me what the difference is, ’cause I sure don’t see it.”

“It’s the difference between the amateur and the professional. I’m a writer, it’s my profession, how I earn my living. Whereas you dabble at it, the same way you dabble in painting and dance.”

“So all those times when you wanted my help to work out a plot or—”

“I was trying out ideas on you. Thinking out loud, or surveying opinion. I didn’t
need
your help.”

He was so convinced of his view that there was nothing more I could say. And there was no one I could go to on my own; what agent would be willing to cross a woman’s husband—especially when her husband was
F. Scott Fitzgerald
? Like it or not, if I wanted to see my stories in the world, I had to dress them in Scott’s clothes.

I picked up the copy of
Scribner’s,
which had Hemingway’s name on the cover. They were serializing the book ahead of its publication. “Far as I’ve seen, Hemingway has put his energy into boxing, liquor, and hauling his most faithful drinking partner all around the Left Bank.”

“It’s his right to enjoy himself, now that—”

—
his novel’s done
.

Scott couldn’t say that, though, knowing that my retort would surely be
Then what’s
your
rationale?
So he said, “The first installment’s there in the magazine. Read it for yourself.” He went to the window and looked out, up the street toward the church. “Granted, the serialization leaves plenty to be desired. I told him to give me the manuscript and I’ll help him shape it up before the book goes to print.”

Another way of avoiding work on his own novel while asserting his role as mentor—which I suspected Hemingway was beginning to resent. In this, Hemingway and I had something in common.

Even with my resentment, knowing that Scott was struggling with his novel troubled me. It was a dilemma: his drinking habits prevented him from working on anything that required more than a day or two’s attention, while his inability to do more than produce more short stories demeaned him in his own eyes—which made him want to drink more. Getting tight soothed the insecurities that Hemingway had cued into so quickly and so well; but they came raging back if he indulged too much. I felt bad for Scott in one way, impatient with him in a whole bunch of others. Where was the man I’d married?

“Maybe I’ll read it when I’m done with this,” I said.
But don’t hold your breath
.

Scott turned. “I’m going to have a bath. We’re meeting the Callaghans tonight, don’t forget.”

“I did forget, and I intend to forget again. I’m tired, Deo, and I need to get this story done. Harold’s expecting it next week, latest.”

Scott held his hand out for mine. “All work and no play makes Zelda a dull wife.”

A dull wife
. Like Hadley. Who was now a divorced wife, a replaced wife, a possibly happier but possibly destitute former wife, who now had to share her little boy with the woman who’d replaced her.

“Dull, huh? I’m going to go, but only ’cause I don’t appreciate that adjective.” I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet.

At Deux Magots, we ate dinner with Morley and his pretty new wife, Loretto. They’d gotten married in the spring and were still shiny with newlywed gloss—lots of hand-holding and sweet smiles and meaningful looks. Though he was short and stocky and had small teeth and a receding hairline, Morley was no question Adonis to his more attractive bride. Watching them made me sad for what Scott and I had lost.
Not lost; misplaced,
I decided.
If it’s real, it must exist
somewhere.

“Is your food all right?” Loretto asked.

“What? Oh, it’s fine, I’m sure. You’re real sweet to ask. Guess I’m just not hungry tonight.”

After the dishes had been cleared, Scott took the copy of
Scribner’s
from his pocket, saying, “Morley, you’ll want to hear this—it’s from Hemingway’s latest,” then read a short passage using full theatrical technique:

The town was very nice and our house was very fine. The river ran behind us and the town had been captured very handsomely but the mountain …

On Scott went, and then after he was done, he said to Morley, “Pretty damned impressive, isn’t it? Bet you never thought the Ernest you knew back in his Toronto days could produce anything like
that
. I’ve been working with him since, gosh, ’25—four years, now, and I think this shows how far he’s come.”

Morley shrugged. “Some might say so.”

“It’s in
Scribner’s,
” Scott said, with the air of superiority he often assumed when he was about one drink past jolly but still several away from fully obnoxious. “They only publish top work.”

I rolled my eyes. Probably everybody in the place did the same.

Morley said, “Well, ‘top’ is a matter of opinion, you should know that.”

Morley was seven years younger than Scott and had only one novel in print at that time, so Scott gave him a dismissive look. “You’ll learn.”

“I don’t need to ‘learn,’ I already
know
. It’s too deliberate, too forced. He’s trying to be something he isn’t.”

I said, “See, that’s just what I’ve been saying all along! What Hemingway really ought to be is an actor. Well, in my opinion he
is
an actor, and Bob McAlmon says—”

“That’s enough, Zelda,” Scott said, and told them, “She’s not good at holding her liquor.”

I said, “Don’t be stupid.
I’m
not drunk—and even if I was, my opinion would be the same.”

“You’re hardly qualified to judge—”

“I’ve had nearly as many things published as he has, not to mention my nine years of marriage to someone who never stops talking about writing, so how am I not qualified?” To the Callaghans I said, “Right now I’m working on a story for
College Humor
—they’re taking six of ’em, it’s a series, they’re about different girls who find themselves in all sorts of unusual situations and have to try to figure out what’s right and best—and they don’t always, but—”

Scott put his hand on mine. “You’re being a bore, don’t you think, all this talk about yourself?”

“What I
am
is bored with you trying to act like I’m boring,” I said, pulling my hand from beneath his and turning to the Callaghans. “Whatever you two do, make sure you avoid using the Fitzgeralds as role models. We used to be sorta like you, and then, wow, we just lost control; it was like flying a kite in a windstorm. So let that be a lesson. Now, what do you say we all go roller-skating over at—”

“I think you ought to call it a night.” Scott grabbed my wrist. “You’re obviously tired.”

“I’m not—” I began, and then, realizing he was handing me my escape, said, “Actually, yes, yes, I am, I’m purely exhausted—I just run on like this when I’m tired, and nice as it’s been to see you—and meet you, Loretto—I believe my dearest darling husband is right.”

“I’ll get you a cab,” Scott said, then signaled for the check. “Morley, Ernest’s sparring with some fellows over at the American Club. Why don’t you send your lovely wife home and we’ll join him there?”

“Another time,” Morley said.

We were all outside at the curb awaiting our cabs when a light rain began to fall. We opened our umbrellas while, fifty feet away, a boy no older than Scottie took a newspaper from the stack he was attempting to sell and held it above his head. The rain fell harder, fast becoming a deluge that turned the paper into a soggy hat.

Scott said, “Hang on,” and he went running off with the umbrella, leaving me in the rain.

I ducked in with Loretto and Morley, and we watched while Scott handed the boy his umbrella, then took out his wallet, withdrew some bills, and gave the money to the boy. Then Scott picked up the whole stack of soggy papers and said, “There, you did a great job tonight, go on home.” Whether or not the boy understood English, he understood that he’d been freed. Off he went into the wet Paris night.

As Scott started back toward us, Morley asked me, “Was that for the kid’s benefit, or ours?”

“Honey,” Loretto scolded, “now really, what a thing to say!”

Morley looked at me.

“I wish I knew,” I said.

*   *   *

Some hours later, a crashing noise woke me and I bolted upright, ears straining in the darkness.

“Shit!” Scott muttered from somewhere in the living room. Then came Scottie’s voice from down the hall, “Mama?” and the sound of Delplangue’s door opening, and then another crash as I was hurrying into the hall.