Authors: Hortense Calisher
On Friday night went to Command performance of the play the USIS staff was giving—
Teahouse of Aug. Moon
with mixed cast. Not at all a bad performance for amateurs—they were afraid that Sukini, the part of Okinawan interpreter, might blow his lines because of the presence of the King—but he hammed beautifully.
The Sanfords and I sat in the second “diplomatic” tier, slightly to the right of and behind the Royal Box—two armchairs set in a small enclosure and several feet from each other. I was so placed that I cd see the right eyeglass lens of the King from behind—as if I too were looking thru it. Very thick and cloudy. He has one glass eye—a boyhood accident. (This is of course the King whose brother-King was found shot dead in bed.) He seemed absolutely reactionless thruout—this, I am told, is his usual demeanor. Loves jazz, however. Queen is as lovely as I had been told—movie-star caliber—with one of their incredibly narrow-beautiful torsos. (Mary said almost all of them have this, but invariably bad legs, same as Chinese women. Well, I’ll settle for torso—as long as legs are not fat, don’t seem so bad to me, though are no Dietrich’s to be sure.)
The royal Siamese procedure is that all servants, even other princes, approach on knees—saw his secretary, etc., do this, some of the prince’s old men, knee-shuffling forward. Gave me an extraordinary feeling—my blood ran the other way. We listened to national anthem—everybody facing the box. All Westerners bowed as they passed it; ladies curtsy. In front of us sat Chinese Amb. and wife—he an exceedingly handsome man, a scholar—he and wife both delightful, said M., “in spite of being Republic of China.” Saw Prince Dhani again in his navy blue pakata (like plus-fours)—he the elder statesman who cannot be bought—Prince Chumpot (sp?) the disappointed, (might have been King) stalking around in black, with a big cigar. A Royal Prince cannot be approached nearer than 3 ft. by those of lesser rank. Kind-hearted M. greeted him from this distance, since nobody else wanted to, and Grant Mead, the ranking person near him (this in intermission) can’t bear him and avoided him. Lovely, lovely intrigues of all kinds in this country. A toy kingdom I thought—the S.’s said I was just.
After left R., on Sat., had free day without appointments—wandered in Monogram shop here—saw a tiny reclining Buddha that I will regret not buying. People buy heavy gold bracelets and necklaces here as investment and saving—the servant class as well—no Thai wore costume jewelry until we came.
Sunday at 6:30 we were off to Royal dock to meet Gen. Partridge and his boat. Since we cdn’t decide which dock, had wonderful dawn-tour of markets, docks—all inadvertently. The city was still gray—against it the monks—most of them still boys, were beginning their morning pilgrimage for food—in their orange robes against the gray, carrying their bowls. They eat at 8 and 11, not after that. At some of the big houses, servants stood waiting to feed them. My heart ached—since they seem about Pete’s age—but apparently they all get fed—a Buddhist “makes merit” by feeding them. Pariah dogs everywhere, even in portico of hotel. Cannot kill animals here—tho am told Siamese police secretly trying to round them up. Profusion of fruits and veg. in markets, constant impression of gaiety and sweetness of people. Far cry from the Japs. No doubt “Mai ben rai”—the Buddhists “makes no difference” phrase, can be trying for Westerners to live with. (Alex MacDonald’s book, on his paper,
The Bangkok Post
, very helpful on all this. 1949.)
Finally met up with General (Richard Partridge) bluff, pink-faced man, very nice, hearty and intelligent, about to retire. Embarrassed, since this boat had never disappointed before—and he is undoubtedly an efficient gent—but this boat disappointed nevertheless. Went home to his villa—wife in States—had enormous hooker of whiskey—a fine but dangerous way to begin morning—the others had gimlets, but gin in morning is not for me—and huge breakfast rustled up by his “boy.” Again Maugham flavor—the military villa, set in a compound of others, all crisp and beautifully shrubbed and tended. Will try for boat again Tuesday.
Then Sanfords took me to the Temple of the Emerald Buddha, Wat Praker—like Wat Po but much more so. Took off our shoes and sat in the shrine among the faithful—Sunday families all around. Shrine has governmental presents in front of it—many 19th century—a huge ugly clock from Queen Victoria—marble group, from Italy no doubt, in between the innumberable Oriental guardian figures of every height. Chinese tiles line the steps and bottom of side-walls. In palace, the wall paintings of the Ramayana, strung out “comic-strip” fashion, legend of the monkey-people, etc., scene after scene, constantly retouched since they fade in this climate. Outside, the wonderful profusion—incredible gold pagodas rising, Ceramic pagodas—“boudoir pagodas” I called them, made of ceramic flowers, like French ribbon or like the insides of glass paperweights. Enormous. multicolored god-figures, gilt guardian figures—the garuda—a sort of monkey-faced dragon with serpent tail, the canellas (kinellas?) gilt figures half animal-half not—some with tails like cocks, dragon feet, some with great curved dragon-tails—I loved these—on the sidewalls, reliefs of women dancers, hands in the Siamese dancing positions—a few with faces like Sienese paintings. Wd like to have a book on this palace—colored. Nothing like it anywhere. Scale model of Angkor Wat—everybody horrified I am in part of world where is and not seeing—and this I regret but no time. Two-day trip. Say it is vast and unbelievable. I love these temples, in fact, all the gay S. rooflines—if one could put Chartres next to Wat Praker one would not have to say any more about East vs. West. Great coiled serpents, studded with colored glass, sinuate up either side of most of the steps to the pagodas. Many shrines, because one “makes merit” building same. Even the hotel here has one with a large gold Buddha, surrounded with cheap vases, joss, flowers, etc.—in back of the traffic policeman’s post, and with a few pariah dogs handy.
Then went to Sports Club with Mary, long afternoon of swimming and relaxation. More Maugham. This is the Club where the love affairs start—saw the “Rita and Einar” to whom MacDonald dedicated his book—story runs she had been violently in love with MacDonald but he md a rich girl and is now in States. Pakistani Ambassador came over and asked to be introduced—great Don Juan, and very handsome indeed, but if only wdn’t talk—keeps up constant flow of hammy badinage—as if he had learned the “French” style of flirtation—to which one must reply in kind. Asked where I was staying and for how long? Mary said he will undoubtedly call—am busy thank goodness. M. says flirtatious, but means business—this she had to learn. Lots of other people—Jim Thompson, who wanted to sit with us but had to sit with the Harveys—typical country-club set—MG and a brilliant sportshirt of Siamese silk—which will out-brilliant any on earth—ass of a man to look at him, and name-dropping wife. M. said she wd be dropping mine tomorrow. I get fonder of M. who has such a nice sharp wit, and is such a warm, thoughtful person. We get along so well. Asked Cecil once in car how he managed to wear all his “hats”—he has several distinct jobs and functions—SEATO, USIS, Embassy—M. laughed and said “One for each head.”
Had curry for lunch, served by “boy” to reclining sahib-ladies in swim suits, then pigged it at hotel with tea and a pastry at the tea-shop—so elegant with satin sofas, embroidered linen—America cd use an occasional one of these. Then out to the Prems for dinner at 8. Dull affair, too many people, buffet-style supper, took the Siamese food (they had Western also) but not as good as at Jim’s, though loved a kind of leaf they fry stiff—they use all sorts of plants and flowers—even fry lotus and frangipani. Prem nice really, she too. House large, with ugliness typical of Westernized anything, in Orient.
From now on it will be a whirl—rather a senseless one. Today, shopping, lunch at Rachel McCarthy’s, who wants me to see her Thai-style house in afternoon, cocktails at Braces (Br. Council). Tomorrow we try boat again, then dressmakers, then Fulbright affair which, Cecil informed me, has burgeoned into three—we have to go from there to the Br. Amb, then to a USIS dinner at Casanova’s, wherever that is.
Wed., Nilawan is gathering some author-ladies (the women are the better writers here, I’m told). Tonight we go to the Ungers (Deputy Ambassador) for dinner. Seni Premo (phonetic sp.) will be there—former Foreign Min., etc. Met his wife at a luncheon—her name “Usna”—either a Princess or a Momrajahwong, or a Luang—think the latter, title recently awarded.
Time for me to get out of here. I shall no doubt regret the lovely bathroom—(in the Tabriz one described by C), and maybe the swimming pool—and certainly the Sanfords. But I long for a quiet life with C. Hope have seen the end of the R. business—he may not tell her until I’m away. Or not at all? This unlikely, since to tell wd be to his advantage with her. Still think he’s nice, but terribly fuzz-minded in some way. In this way they probably are suited. If he does tell her, shd not be surprised to hear from her. Luckily, am dated up, God knows.
Am to get up at 6:30 to have a try at the General’s boat again, but must write down tale of a fairly exciting diplomatic evening, for Bangkok. This morning went to J. Thompsons and bought cerise material for suit, then took Mary to lunch at Mizu’s. Long talk with Victor Jansen, married to Puckpring, divorced wife of prince. V. born in Tashkent, speaks 8 languages, including Walloon. Seen better days, now on the drink, works for KLM. One of those charming, sad, unhelpable souls, very intelligent. Thence to siesta. Thence to cocktail reception at the Braces (Br. Council) for a new recruit to the council, appropriately named Mr. Tongue. Just in from Ghana. Inquired about Polly Humphrey, but no news. Large reception—at first lighted by spotlights, since electric power was weak, as it has been all past few days—then lights went up—there were the R.’s—he opposite, so I nodded, she behind. She saw me, but I managed not to catch eye—was embarrassed—shall have to do so if we meet again.
We left early to go to lingers—Senator Fulbright there, as well as Amer. French and Chinese Ambassadors and wives, etc. Our table—Ambassador at one end (Amer.), me at other, flanked by M. Breale the French Amb., Conte Pontecorvo the Italian Amb., Mme Han-Lih Wu, the Chinese Amb. at Breale’s left. Lively conversation mostly upheld by Breale—from opium-smoking to cinema. At Braces, had heard that Quemoy bombing resumed 8 hrs. before.
By time we got to the Ungers however, more pressing news—a coup in Bangkok—a new one. Our Amb. left at once—did not reappear, and Unger left shortly after. Most exciting guest Seni Premo—former Amb. to U.S. during war, Foreign Min. and Premier here at various times—a lively versatile man—lawyer, violin-player—recited S. poetry asking me to note internal rhymes, and translating. Brother of the famous Kukrit. Wife (Lady Usna) had met at lunch and drove me home a few days ago—had a nice chat. (Correct title KunYing Usna.) Also nice Dutch-English couple—Vixteboyses—6 yrs. in N.Y. She had read my book.
So leave me there, at the abrupt end of my only journal, in the midst of the only time I have been “present,” or with the inside bystanders, at an international “coup.” One so tame, that hindsight on that part of the world—and on the U.S. there—makes one weep for it. There had been a show of tanks in the streets, no blood. At the end, I am left sitting at table with our hostess, Pontecorvo, and Senator Fulbright, all the diplomats having hurried to their offices. (The British Ambassador, invited to dinner, hadn’t turned up; very smart man, I was told; no doubt had wind of it.) Neither Fulbright nor I can know that seven years later—when C, now legally my husband, using his journal to me as notes, publishes his memoir of an American in Persia—he, Fulbright, will write him an admiring letter on it (perhaps in answer to some in Washington who were disturbed at C’s now prophetic remarks on the U.S. role abroad).
So the lights go out, and on again all over the world—and I have had my small taste of it. And I will get to Persia.
I leave now.
W
ELL, SCATHED OR NOT
, I get there—for a few remarkable weeks. Then the children’s father cables through the consulate: Our daughter, who had had a breakdown at seventeen and is now twenty-one, has again dropped out of college—he cannot cope. I return to the States, taking her to live with me in New York, since the old homestead up the river is barred to me; until the divorce is final her father and I cannot share even a twelve-room residence without nullifying same, and he will not leave.
In the school holidays, my son joins us in the pleasant enough flat I have found us; he is a bracing boy, but fresh from the close, eupeptic life of a big New England school, and a country boy before that, he finds this New York gray and depressing, though he does not say. I have no way of letting him into the delights of a youth-in-New-York I remember, and his own friends are elsewhere—we three are off the family circuit, and know it. I begin to understand the life of women so situated—a story called “The Scream On Fifty-Seventh Street” dates from that time. I am not teaching. Purposefully I sink myself into the role of mother; it is lonely. Now my daughter is healthy again and dating, and difficult; my jollier second child is again away at school. Sundays, those cold Sutton Place winter Sundays, are the worst. The trip down the block to the stationer’s is the event. Tabriz and I correspond, in faraway voices; we shall meet again of course. But for me, with my family as it is, motherhood is the waiting-game. Christmas, with such kind guests as let me scrounge them, has been grim. I re-learn a lot, even that city loneliness has its savor—one that a mind like mine, however, has to be wary of. I don’t remember working.
Then, in the New Year, my friend writes asking that we marry. He suggests I fly over during Nan Rooz, the long Muslim holiday, during which he can be absent from the university, to meet him and marry in some country where we have never been before, perhaps Greece. A mad idea, I decide, knowing how mad it would be, not to. It is a case of the pearls all over again—I know my answer. And then, only then, I am free to remember Tabriz—in words. I write them—from memory. The “husband” is of course C.