Landscape With Traveler (9 page)

 

40

I

Knew

Something

was

Amiss

By the following summer I knew something was amiss with Jim. I hadn't heard much from him in the interim, and when I had it was no more than a mysterious postcard or hastily scribbled note. As it turned out, he had fallen in love with another woman, and it occasioned what became an extremely difficult time for him, and, to the small extent I became involved, for me as well.

Jim left his wife and went to live with his new lady. What ensued, as I say, was a difficult period. During the next two years he moved back and forth between Jean and Laura several times, and except for a three-week visit with me in New York, our contact was erratic.

If I had pretended to be either pleased or indifferent about Jim's domestic situation I'd have had to be less than honest. On the other hand, I couldn't very well pretend any disapproval or such like either. It was his business, to be sure, and it was a situation in no way foreign or new to me. That such things seem just a little silly to me at this stage of my life, however, alters not a whit their seeming urgency when I, too, was experiencing them. Though in the end they mattered little, they change a lot of things nonetheless. But time alone does that.

When Jim was in New York during that time he was distinctly uncomfortable. He was using the visit in an attempt to gain perspective on the situation and to separate himself from both women. I was glad to provide him a temporary haven, but he was terribly confused and guilt-ridden about having “abandoned” his family. He was convinced, too, that though I was sympathetic in general, I was disappointed in him personally.

I tried to explain how silly that was, how foolish he was to entertain the notion that I would allow myself the luxury of disapproving of what anyone else does and, secondly, doubly foolish to care a fig if I should do anything so silly. Disapproval, I explained, is simply not a valid reaction, at least so far as other people's emotional knots are concerned.

I do disapprove of lying, I suppose, but not from any moral point of view. It's just so wasteful and destructive. If I had anything at all to tell Jim it was just that—that he was lying. That he was lying to Jean and Laura (and me) was only incidental to the fact that he was lying to himself (not that he was doing it deliberately). He refused, when he was staying with me, to accept that suggestion, but it became evident to him not long after when he resolved the matter by going to live by himself for several months.

There are always all kinds of reasons for self-deception, but in the end none of them is very good. Facing up to how one really feels saves lots of time and what is usually called “heartache.” I realize that one is not born conscious of these things, but I believe Jim has learned them now for good, if he'll swallow it.

At his age I would not have accepted this kind of pronouncement from anyone, which is doubtless a valid reaction since one can never really know or accept such things simply on faith. At best they are to be believed because one trusts the person who says so, but somehow it's difficult to believe that they can apply to oneself. Until they do.

Throughout this pas de trois Jim was certain I “disapproved of” or “disliked” the “other” woman, which doubts approached being insulting. I explained that I am not so fanciful as to have such feelings—or their opposites, for that matter—about a person I'd never met. At one point during his stay with me Jim mentioned that Laura was coming to town, and I asked him not to have her come to stay at my house. I explained to him then that this had nothing to do with my completely blank feelings about the lady, but rather that I didn't want to become a part of the lie of the moment.

As it turned out, after his enforced “isolation” period, Jim returned to Jean and the children (by this time there were two), and all has, apparently, been resolved. I did not wish, necessarily, that Jim and Jean stay together, only that he be able to see things clearly, which is the same as wishing him happiness.

Such events seem so strange even to think about now, so unreal. No wonder, I suppose, that
Genji, Ada,
and Proust's researches have replaced
Treasure Island
in my affections. The most fascinating thing there is, perhaps, is the passing of time.

 

41

An

Invitation

Jim and I spent a bizarre evening with a couple I'd met when I was working for Sylvia Fowler. For the longest time Jason and Sara had been asking me over to dinner and, for one reason or another, I'd been unable or unwilling to accept their invitation.

After I left Fowler's, Jason went to work there, and whenever I visited the shop I'd see him and he'd ask when I was going to come over for supper and to see his and Sara's paintings. Both he and Sara were artists—though I had no idea what their work was like—and finally, one day I decided it would be really impolite to refuse any longer, and I told Jason I'd come. Jim was staying with me at the time, however, and I told Jason that, but he just said to bring him along, one more wouldn't be any problem. If Jim wanted to come, too, that was fine.

I told Jim I had no idea what to expect, except that both Jason and Sara seemed very nice people, and it would probably be fun. Jim agreed to accompany me, and at the appointed time we arrived at their door.

We rang the bell several times, but there was no answer. I was certain I'd gotten both the address—they lived in a loft on Broome Street—and time correct, and I couldn't imagine where they could be. Jim and I went over a couple of blocks to a bar and I telephoned them, but there was no answer.

Jim thought they might be out at the store buying groceries, and, since it was freezing outside, suggested that we wait awhile in the bar, have a beer, and check back again in a half hour. We had a beer and played a pinball machine—the first time I'd done that since I could remember—and in a half hour I called again.

This time Sara answered. When I told her it was I she sounded very cheerful, and asked what was up. I explained that Jim and I had been there when Jason told us to be and there'd been no answer. That was too bad, Sara said, Jason hadn't mentioned anything to her about our coming. They had been to a local gallery to see a friend's new paintings.

I didn't know quite what to say, so I asked her how they had looked to her. “Not very interesting, I'm afraid,” she said. “He's hung up on boxes.” Then she asked if I'd like to speak to Jason, and I said yes.

They kept me waiting for at least five minutes before Jason came to the phone. “Sorry, Francis,” he said, “Sara forgot all about the dinner. Where are you?”

Well, Sara's forgetting about dinner did not explain Jason's presence at the gallery at the time he was supposed to be home expecting us. We were at a bar a couple of blocks away, I told him.

“We?” Jason said. “Who's ‘we'?”

“My friend Jim and I,” I said. “My friend who's visiting from California. You said it would be all right to bring him along.”

“Oh,” said Jason, “of course, of course. Tell you what, Sara and I'll just get ourselves together here and meet you up at the bar. Where did you say it was?”

I told him.

“We'll be there in a jiffy. Hang on and we'll take you out to a really good place for dinner. Bye.”

I hung up and told Jim the news. Neither of us cared particularly, but the situation seemed strange, nonetheless. We waited, drank another beer or two, and in about an hour Jason came in alone.

“Sorry about Sara,” he said. “She has an awful time of it once a month, and this is the time.”

I introduced him to Jim, who by now was wondering just what I'd gotten him into, and I was beyond wondering. It was a bad situation, one I'd endeavor not to repeat, but now there was nothing to do but carry off the evening as best we could.

“Well, where would you like to go?” asked Jason.

I reminded him that he had mentioned on the phone that he knew a good place.

“Oh, Fiorelli's,” he said. “We'd never get in there at this hour. Besides, it's full of tourists. Why don't we go to a Mexican place around the corner?”

I said that I didn't know a decent Mexican restaurant existed in New York.

“Well, come on,” said Jason, “it's not far.”

He led the way. It was getting colder and windier and after four or five blocks I asked Jason just how much farther around the corner was the place.

“I hope it hasn't closed down,” he said. “I'm sure it was right here somewhere. I haven't been for a while.”

We walked on. I was embarrassed and furious, and I was certain Jim was getting angry, but he didn't say anything, so I kept quiet, too.

“There it is!” Jason said, suddenly, pointing to a dimly lit doorway across the street. We crossed over and of course it was closed.

“Well, that's too bad,” said Jason. “It's a really good place. Look,” he said quickly, before I could say anything, “let's just go back to my place and fix something up.”

“What about Sara?” Jim asked. “I thought she wasn't feeling well.”

“Oh, it'll be all right,” he said. “She's probably already eaten, and we can make our own dinner. I'm a good cook.”

By this time I was frozen and I couldn't argue. We followed Jason back to Broome Street. Once we were upstairs in their loft, while Jim and I huddled around the living-room heater, Jason disappeared into what I assumed was the bedroom to talk to Sara. Pretty soon we could hear loud voices and the door to the living room slammed. It was Sara who came out.

“Would you like some wine?” she asked us, and disappeared into what I assumed was the kitchen.

I looked around. There was a hideous green painting that took up an entire wall and a hideous gray painting that took up another wall. Then a young, bearded guy came into the room bouncing a basketball. He looked at us and bounced the basketball into the kitchen. Sara came out with three glasses filled with red wine on a tray. She offered the tray to each of us, took the third glass for herself, and sat down on the only chair in the room. Jim and I took our coats off and sat down on the floor.

“Don't lean against that wall,” she said, “it might still be a little wet.”

We moved forward a bit and turned and looked at the wall. It was a dark pink with light bulbs sticking out of it at various angles. I could hear the bearded guy bouncing the basketball in the kitchen.

“Charles!” Sara shouted, and the pounding stopped. “He's a genius,” she said. “He could be a great painter but he won't paint anymore, or can't. I don't know. I'm losing patience with him.”

“Does he live here, too?” Jim asked.

“He used to. He's here a lot.”

Jim and I sipped the wine while Sara prattled on ridiculously about “minimal,” “semi-minimal,” and “seminally minimal” art. I was truly horrified. More than horrified, I was insulted. Jason did not appear.

After several minutes of this, I arose and announced that we really had to go. I couldn't imagine how Jim was managing to keep his cool. I'm sure it was only out of politeness to me, but he needn't have bothered. I'd never experienced anything like it before.

“Oh, but I want you to see my paintings!” Sara cried.

“Aren't these—” I said, waving at the living-room walls, “yours?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “A friend did these as a wedding gift for me and Jason. Mine are in my studio.”

Jim didn't—or wouldn't—return my look, and I followed her into another room.
Why
was I doing this?

It was worse than I could have imagined. The canvases—huge, giant stretches of
real,
very expensive canvas—were almost entirely blank. There were only a few very tiny blood-red spots on off-white backgrounds. Most of the dots were located near the bottom of each canvas. There were dozens of them. I was actually frightened that she would ask me what I thought of them.

“What do you think of them?” she asked.

“Yes, well . . . I've never seen anything quite like them,” I said.

We stood around for a minute and then Sara covered them over affectionately, and we went out. Jim had his coat on. He handed me mine.

“I hope you'll come over again,” said Sara, “when Jason is feeling better.”

 

42

I've

Bogged

Down

in

Malory

I've bogged down in Malory. He's great, but I find I'm not in that mood right now. I keep thinking about Proust, and now that I have the two new Pléiade volumes with absolutely everything—published and unpublished—other than
À
la recherche and the letters, I may just go on a Proust jag. Longtemps je me suis couché de bonne heure. How I envy him!

I'm tired of winter, though it's been an excessively mild one, and grow more and more impatient for spring. Actually it's been a wonderfully cozy day—pouring rain, fog, cool, and me all snug inside. Happily, the leaky roof is fixed.

 

43

We

Are

Born

Knowing

Everything

I do most firmly believe that we are born knowing everything there is to know though we may not be conscious of it. Everything that's really important, anyway. Socrates says so, after all. There are practical things that one finds out about much more easily by studying how to do them and all that, but on a philosophical, anthropological, etc., level, I believe that people
know
what's right and good and know that any man is just like any other in the way that he thinks and feels.

I don't, on the other hand, advocate that people stop studying and reading. It's a great pleasure and a wonderful luxury and has given me many beautiful hours. Besides, in our society it has become an accepted necessity, though reading has been overromanticized and perverted, also. I know very few people indeed who read a book by Tolstoy, say, and have any idea at all that this is a
real
man and that he's talking to them. Mostly people seem to think of art with a capital A and equate it somehow with cleverness and/or talent, whatever that is, when it's nothing more than giving in to one's sensitivity and opening up about it—no more to be amazed about than a conversation between friends.

I realize, of course, that some are more willing than others to do this, to open up, that is. We seem to be living (for the past few centuries) in the Age of Bashfulness, and people vie with one another as to who's the more inadequate, except in certain accepted fields such as sports and the performing arts, where competition is considered “all right.” Before we know it, no one will sing anymore, that being the province of singers. Or perhaps we'll shut up altogether and let the birds do it.