Liberation (109 page)

Today I have a sore rib—not much other damage.

 

October 22.
Talked to Bill Scobie on the phone this morning. He now feels pretty certain that Tony Sarver will die soon. He can't have any more surgery, although he has a new malignant growth. He is very thin but in fairly good spirits. Oh God, these awful dreary long-drawn-out deaths, with their respites of false hope! And then, when it's over, what will Bill do? Is he really rooted here? Or will he go back to England? His life seems so horribly lonely—I may be wrong but I don't feel he has any other real friends—certainly no one to take Tony's place. Oh the poignancy of these separations! And of course this keeps bringing me back to the impending separation from Darling. My encounter with the burglars, I know, has given him a much greater shock than it gave me. He has been so loving, since that happened; we're very close now, almost painfully so.

Last night we had supper with Paul Sorel. The Internal Revenue Service has now presented its ultimatum—if he can't pay his arrears of taxes by the end of this month (and of course he can't, possibly) they will sell Chris Wood's house by auction, not caring how much it goes for as long as the taxes are paid. All Paul's friends are urging him to put the house up for sale through an agent
before
this deadline; in which case, he might not only get money for the taxes but as much as a hundred thousand for himself.

Paul declares that he won't do this. It would be against what he calls his “mystique.” His mystique makes him certain that he mustn't do the prudent thing, mustn't provide for himself, because this would disappoint Chris Wood who, while he was alive, always expected Paul to behave recklessly, imprudently, out rageously. Such behavior, says Paul, was what kept Chris fascinated and amused by him. If Paul sells the house through an agent, he will cease to amuse Chris. If, however, Paul refuses to sell and lets the IRS auction it, Chris will be amused and will be compelled to help Paul in one way or another.

Paul got quite excited and aggressive as he announced his decision to us. He seemed a bit crazy but one was aware of his cunning, too. Even if he half believed that he could work on Chris's feelings in the land of the dead, he was also working on
our
feelings—trying to amuse
us
. And indeed he later admitted that one of his rich friends, who found his recklessness amusing, had offered him an arrangement—the friend would buy the house and let Paul live in it for the rest of his life. Paul said, however, that he didn't trust this friend, feeling that there might be strings attached to his offer. Don himself is rather interested in this possibility of our buying the house—he even said jokingly to Paul that his offer was to pay Paul's taxes—no more—in payment for the house. But today Don says that he would never get into any such deal with Paul because he knows how bitchy Paul would be about it, later.

 

October 26.
A week after the event, one of my ribs is still sore but nothing else. The small wound on my upper lip shrank to a scab and then peeled off, leaving no trace.

Mary Miles Minter O'Hilderbrandt phoned—seemingly to ask me about our robbery, actually to tell me about hers; she never saw the robbers, being in bed upstairs. But they had left a jar (?) containing muriatic acid
²⁵
which presumably they were planning to throw over her. Her narrative was confused by references to an incendiary bomb which had been used, on a different occasion, to cover up a “much larger theft.” But she broke off the explanation of this because her housekeeper had arrived, and I haven't heard from her since.

Yesterday, Jim White phoned, having just returned to his house with Janice and discovered that it had been burglarized—the television set, etc. etc. And then Old Jo called to say that the residents of the Uplifters
²⁶
have been forced to band together and subscribe to a private security guard, because robberies have been so frequent, there.

 

October 31.
My rib is still sore. The weather was so hot yesterday that I felt no pleasure in going down to the beach and returned exhausted. While we were down there, a couple of young men, quite presentable though no great beauties, began lip-kissing while gently stroking each other's backs, hair and arms. They were lying only a few yards away from us, with other beachgoers all around. Although the young men were nearly naked, in swimming trunks, this didn't appear to be merely an audience-conscious scene of exhibitionistic lust. It was romantic, and that was what made it odd. Public romance is embarrassing, public lust isn't.

I was reminded of it yesterday evening by two of the Alexanders' cats. They lay on the couch beside me, head to head, and kept touching each other on the mouths with their tongues—just like kissing.

We managed to get up Tuna Canyon, which is bumpy but just passable, and thus avoided the long detour to the Alexanders' house. They have added a great deal to it, but the place still makes me feel uncomfortable, exposed to the elements. The big windows are all naked to the darkness; I would hate to be in it during a windstorm. Peter and Clytie were very sweet as usual, but we both felt that they and their two daughters were unhappy, stuck there in the hills, far from the bright lights and the people.

 

November 2.
On the evening of the 31st, we went to a dinner party given at the Corcoran Gallery for Laddie Dill's opening. I was given a seat at table next to a youngish man and his girlfriend—I don't remember their names but will try to find out.
^*
The man reminded me that we had talked while I was signing copies of
My Guru
at Brentano's bookstore in Beverly Hills on June 14, and that he had told me that they had bought a house where I had once lived, 333 East Rustic Road. I had said to him, then, “Call me after you've been there a while, I'd like to talk to you about it.” “And now,” he told me, “we know what you meant.” They keep hearing voices—two people in conversation. So I told them about the various psychic happenings which we'd experienced while living there. And I added, “As long as you love each other, you'll be quite all right.” Yes, alas, I was drunk when I said that—and getting rapidly drunker. I thereby missed some fascinating confidences which Don was receiving. Guy Dill told Don that Laddie had told him that he mustn't bring his wife to the party—[. . .]. In addition to this situation, Peter told Don that he wanted to come by and have a talk with us, and Don is sure that Peter wants to discuss the unsatisfactory state of his marriage with Clytie.

Old Drub got messily drunk, spilling wine over his pants and having to be helped to leave the premises by Darling, with everybody watching. “I played the scene very well,” Darling told me, “but I know they were all thinking, ‘How awful it must be for Don.'” So Drub swore to reform.

Old Jo reports that two black boys tried to mug a young man and a girl right on Channel Road, a few days ago, but the young man shouted and they ran away. The same pair tried to hold up The Golden Bull, but one of the employees went for them with a knife, and again they ran away.

 

November 4.
Thick coastal fog tonight, suitable for election day—although it seems clear already that Reagan will win. Last night at supper Gavin Lambert declared that this would be better than Carter—partly because it will force us gays to make a stand and show the forces of reaction that we won't be bullied—partly because Reagan is a realist, he will always modify his political attitudes and retreat from them altogether if he sees it's necessary. I wish I could accept Gavin's optimistic view that the gays are now firmly established and can't be pushed around. A pessimistic voice whispers in my ear, “It's all very easy for him to talk like that—he doesn't live in this country.”

Also at dinner were Joan Didion and John Dunne, about to leave on an Asian tour paid for by lecturing. I really quite like them both, though Joan's look of misery gets me down. Don Carr was again a social success; he had brought one of Joan's books for her to sign, and he was charming to Marsh Ahunt
²⁷
and Marilyn Goldin. And Darling was so beautiful, and in such control of the situation. Don's eyes kept fastening on him admiringly, as well they might.

As for Drub, he was in the dry doldrums. Resolved not to drink, he nevertheless had a bellyache and was so bored he could have neighed with anguish. He simply isn't meant for parties, only intimate encounters. And, perhaps because of his general condition, the meat and vegetables seemed quite tasteless. It was scary—a sort of blindness of the palate.

Today is the first day in about a week that I haven't dictated a rough draft of scenes for our “Paul” screenplay to the tape recorder. I mustn't falter.

When you are getting senile like Dobbin, any assertion of the will seems valuable and cheering. For example, I felt sure that I would never be able to follow the instructions for using a waterpik, but now I use it, though I still spray water all over the bathroom.

Then, yesterday, I realized that I'd lost the most recent bank statement, together with my cancelled checks. At the bank they agreed to send me a copy of the statement but added that the checks, couldn't, of course, be duplicated. I had a nagging feeling that I might have thrown out the statement in its envelope unopened. Today is trash-collection day, so I had to hunt all through the garbage yesterday afternoon—and I found the statement. This was a real triumph of the will. It raised my morale absurdly high.

 

November 10.
Morale low again—Reagan's victory, sad sea-fog, something the matter with my right (better-seeing) eye, and the horrible murder of poor pretty foolish Mark Bernolak, who seems to have gotten himself in wrong with the dope-dealing underworld and was tortured before being killed; neighbors heard his screams. ( Jim Bridges told me about this a couple of days ago.)
²⁸
And yesterday was a downer—two huge parties, one given by the Michael Yorks, the other by Barney Wan for Michael Childers, up at the Schlesingers' house. During the first party, Don discovered that Pat had put his two drawings away off in an uttermost corner, where the damp is getting to them. I am utterly utterly bored by myself as a party celebrity. I don't want to hear what I am about to say—and neither do most of the people I'm about to say it to. Also, I spilled some bright red syrup on my suit—only a silly pretentious cunt like Pat would have served such an unmanageable dessert at a buffet lunch. I don't know which I hate more—getting drunk in order to endure such a party or having to endure it anyhow, sober. Yesterday I was sober. The only good thing that happened—David gave me one of his blue-faced comic watches—it has a comic-strip character
^*
on it—also some little smears of Hockney paint on its wrist strap, which make it into a relic. He is one of the people I get fonder and fonder of. There aren't many.

Darling is outside all of this. I just want to be with him always, every minute. (Though I don't fret when I'm alone). Yesterday he got us out of the second party in record time—about five minutes. We slipped out by the back way, leaving our glasses on the terrace, but having already been photographed, so we could
prove
we had been there—like an alibi in a murder mystery.

 

November 28.
Yesterday morning, Ted Bachardy called and said, in his characteristic tone of gloomy satisfaction: “They're dropping like flies”—this referred to the recent deaths of Mae West and George Raft
²⁹
—“Now it's Rachel Roberts.” Very soon afterwards, Gavin called, bubbling with details: how Rachel had been to see Rex Harrison and had then announced to Darren Ramirez that she would like to move back into their house and kill herself there. She followed this by telling Darren that she was leaving for New York, where she'd been offered a play. Then she packed a bag (to make this seem convincing, I suppose) and went into hiding up the hill behind the house. There she took a big dose of drugs. Having done this, she got scared, it seems, and hurried back to the house hoping to get help of some sort. But she collapsed, falling through a plate-glass window, cutting herself, and died sometime later. The coroner was able to avoid saying that this was suicide; officially the cause of death has been called a cardiac arrest.

I've probably got some of these details wrong, but the sum of them is that this poor miserable woman seems, consciously or unconsciously, to have attempted to deal Rex Harrison's morale a death-blow on the eve of his opening in
My Fair Lady
tonight.
³⁰
Good old Rex, the nicest man's man you could hope to meet, has probably always been a selfish bastard with women; but Darren, who brought Rachel so much Latin charm and devotion in her early middle age, didn't deserve this final whack.

I never saw this side of Rachel very much—my clearest memory is of a long ago dinner party at which I was forced to sit next to her fearing for my best suit because she seemed about to throw a plate of soup at Rex. Most of my meetings with her were lively—she could be very funny.

A beautiful milky blue calm ocean this morning, with fishing boats dotted about on it in what you can imagine as being significant relations to each other, like chessmen.

Old-age pains, a girdle around my loins on waking. But oh, the wonder of the depths of Kitty's fur!

 

December 6.
Two days ago, Don and I had one of our sudden emotional openings-out to each other, prompted by a couple of light scotches. Don was saying how happy he feels in his work—which also means, in our life together. He spoke with intense, slightly incoherent excitement about the ways he glimpses of developing his drawing and painting: “forcing the same old tools to be versatile” was how he put it. Oh the
pride
of feeling that Kitty is airborne! He doesn't need Dobbin any longer. He can fly. (That reminds me how, back in the early 1960s, he used to say to me, “I wish I loved you more and needed you less[.]”)