Read Portraits and Observations Online
Authors: Truman Capote
MARY
(opening a closet crammed and clammy with sweat-sour laundry): Not a clean sheet in the house! And look at that bed! Mayonnaise! Chocolate! Crumbs, crumbs, chewing gum, cigarette butts. Lipstick! What kind of woman would subject herself to a bed like that? I haven’t been able to change the sheets for weeks. Months.
(She turns on several lamps with awry shades; and while she labors to organize the surrounding disorder, I take more careful note of the premises. Really, it looks as though a burglar had been plundering there, one who had left some drawers of a bureau open, others closed. There’s a leather-framed photograph on the bureau of a stocky swarthy macho man and a blond hoity-toity Junior League woman and three tow-headed grinning snaggletoothed suntanned boys, the eldest about fourteen. There is another unframed picture stuck in a blurry mirror: another blonde, but definitely not Junior League—perhaps a pickup from Maxwell’s Plum; I imagine it is her lipstick on the bed sheets. A copy of the December issue of
True Detective
magazine is lying on the floor, and in the bathroom, stacked by the ceaselessly churning toilet, stands a pile of girlie literature—
Penthouse, Hustler, Oui;
otherwise, there seems to be a total absence of cultural possessions. But there are hundreds of empty vodka bottles everywhere—the miniature kind served by airlines.)
TC:
Why do you suppose he drinks only these miniatures?
MARY:
Maybe he can’t afford nothing bigger. Just buys what he can. He has a good job, if he can hold on to it, but I guess his family keeps him broke.
TC:
What does he do?
MARY:
Airplanes.
TC:
That explains it. He gets these little bottles free.
MARY:
Yeah? How come? He’s not a steward. He’s a pilot.
TC:
Oh, my God.
(A telephone rings, a subdued noise, for the instrument is submerged under a rumpled blanket. Scowling, her hands soapy with dishwater, Mary unearths it with the finesse of an archaeologist.)
MARY:
He must have got connected again. Hello? (Silence) Hello?
A WOMAN
’
S VOICE:
Who
is
this?
MARY:
This is Mr. Trask’s residence.
WOMAN
’
S VOICE:
Mr. Trask’s
residence
? (Laughter; then, hoity-toity)
To whom am I speaking?
MARY:
This is Mr. Trask’s maid.
WOMAN
’
S VOICE:
So Mr. Trask has a maid, has he? Well, that’s more than
Mrs
. Trask has. Will Mr. Trask’s maid please tell Mr. Trask that Mrs. Trask would like to speak to him?
MARY:
He’s not home.
MRS. TRASK:
Don’t give me that. Put him on.
MARY:
I’m sorry, Mrs. Trask. I guess he’s out flying.
MRS. TRASK
(bitter mirth): Out flying? He’s always flying, dear. Always.
MARY:
What I mean is, he’s at work.
MRS. TRASK:
Tell him to call me at my sister’s in New Jersey. Call the instant he comes in, if he knows what’s good for him.
MARY:
Yes, ma’am. I’ll leave that message. (She hangs up) Mean woman. No wonder he’s in the condition he’s in. And now he’s out of a job. I wonder if he left me my money. Uh-huh. That’s it. On top of the fridge.
(Amazingly, an hour or so afterward she has managed to somewhat camouflage the chaos and has the room looking not altogether ship-shape but reasonably respectable. With a pencil, she scribbles a note and props it against the bureau mirror:
“Dear Mr. Trask yr. wive want you fone her at her sistar place sinsirly Mary Sanchez.” Then she sighs and perches on the edge of the bed and from her satchel takes out a small tin box containing an assortment of roaches; selecting one, she fits it into a roach-holder and lights up, dragging deeply, holding the smoke down in her lungs and closing her eyes. She offers me a toke.)
TC:
Thanks. It’s too early.
MARY:
It’s never too early. Anyway, you ought to try this stuff.
Mucho cojones
. I get it from a customer, a real fine Catholic lady; she’s married to a fellow from Peru. His family sends it to them. Sends it right through the mail. I never use it so’s to get high. Just enough to lift the uglies a little. That heaviness. (She sucks on the roach until it all but burns her lips) Andrew Trask. Poor scared devil. He could end up like Pedro. Dead on a park bench, nobody caring. Not that I didn’t care none for that man. Lately, I find myself remembering the good times with Pedro, and I guess that’s what happens to most people if ever they’ve once loved somebody and lose them; the bad slips away, and you linger on the nice things about them, what made you like them in the first place. Pedro, the young man I fell in love with, he was a beautiful dancer, oh he could tango, oh he could rumba, he taught me to dance and danced me off my feet. We were regulars at the old Savoy Ballroom. He was clean, neat—even when the drink got to him his fingernails were always trimmed and polished. And he could cook up a storm. That’s how he made a living, as a short-order cook. I said he never did anything good for the children; well, he fixed their lunchboxes to take to school. All kinds of sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. Ham, peanut butter and jelly, egg salad, tuna fish, and fruit, apples, bananas, pears, and a thermos filled with warm milk mixed with honey. It hurts now to think of him there in the park, and how I
didn’t cry when the police came to tell me about it; how I never did cry. I ought to have. I owed him that. I owed him a sock in the jaw, too.
I’m going to leave the lights on for Mr. Trask. No sense letting him come home to a dark room.
(When we emerged from the brownstone the rain had stopped, but the sky was sloppy and a wind had risen that whipped trash along the gutters and caused passers-by to clutch their hats. Our destination was four blocks away, a modest but modern apartment house with a uniformed doorman, the address of Miss Edith Shaw, a young woman in her mid-twenties who was on the editorial staff of a magazine. “Some kind of news magazine. She must have a thousand books. But she doesn’t look like no bookworm. She’s a very healthy kind of girl, and she has lots of boyfriends. Too many—just can’t seem to stay very long with one fellow. We got to be close because … Well, one time I came to her place and she was sick as a cat. She’d come from having a baby murdered. Normally I don’t hold with that; it’s against my beliefs. And I said why didn’t you marry this man? The truth was, she didn’t know who to marry; she didn’t know who the dad was. And anyway, the last thing she wanted was a husband or a baby.”)
MARY
(surveying the scene from the opened front door of Miss Shaw’s two-room apartment): Nothing much to do here. A little dusting. She takes good care of it herself. Look at all those books. Ceiling to floor, nothing but library.
(Except for the burdened bookshelves, the apartment was attractively spare, Scandinavianly white and gleaming. There was one antique: an old roll-top desk with a typewriter on it; a sheet of paper was rolled into the machine; and I glanced at what was written on it.)
Zsa Zsa Gabor is
305 years old
I know
Because I counted
Her Rings
And triple-spaced below that, was typed:
Sylvia Plath, I hate you
And your damn daddy
.
I’m glad, do you hear
,
Glad you stuck your head
In a gas-hot oven!
TC:
Is Miss Shaw a poet?
MARY:
She’s always writing something. I don’t know what it is. Stuff I see, sounds like she’s on dope to me. Come here, I want to show you something.
(She leads me into the bathroom, a surprisingly large and sparkling chamber. She opens a cabinet door and points at an object on a shelf: a pink plastic vibrator molded in the shape of an average-sized penis.) Know what that is?
TC:
Don’t you?
MARY:
I’m the one asking.
TC:
It’s a dildo vibrator.
MARY:
I know what a vibrator is. But I never saw one like that. It says “Made in Japan.”
TC:
Ah, well. The Oriental mind.
MARY:
Heathens. She’s sure got some lovely perfumes. If you like perfume. Me, I only put a little vanilla behind my ears.
(Now Mary began to work, mopping the waxed carpetless floors, flicking the bookshelves with a feather duster; and while she worked she kept her roach-box open and her roach-holder filled. I don’t know how much “heaviness” she had to lift, but the aroma alone was lofting me.)
MARY:
You sure you don’t want to try a couple of tokes? You’re missing something.
TC:
You twisted my arm.
(Man and boy, I’ve dragged some powerful grass, never enough to have acquired a habit, but enough to judge quality and know the difference between ordinary Mexican weed and luxurious contraband like Thai-sticks and the supreme Maui-Wowee. But after smoking the whole of one of Mary’s roaches, and while halfway through another, I felt as though seized by a delicious demon, embraced by a mad marvelous merriment: the demon tickled my toes, scratched my itchy head, kissed me hotly with his red sugary lips, shoved his fiery tongue down my throat. Everything sparkled; my eyes were like zoom lenses; I could read the titles of books on the highest shelves:
The Neurotic Personality of Our Time
by Karen Horney;
Eimi
by e.e. cummings;
Four Quartets; The Collected Poems of Robert Frost
.)
TC:
I despise Robert Frost. He was an evil, selfish bastard.
MARY:
Now, if we’re going to curse—
TC:
Him with his halo of shaggy hair. An egomaniacal double-crossing sadist. He wrecked his whole family. Some of them. Mary, have you ever discussed this with your confessor?
MARY:
Father McHale? Discussed what?
TC:
The precious nectar we’re so divinely devouring, my adorable chickadee. Have you informed Father McHale of this delectable enterprise?
MARY:
What he don’t know won’t hurt him. Here, have a Life Saver. Peppermint. It makes that stuff taste better.
(Odd, she didn’t seem high, not a bit. I’d just passed Venus, and Jupiter, jolly old Jupiter, beckoned beyond in the lilac star-dazzled planetary distance. Mary marched over to the telephone and dialed a number; she let it ring a long while before hanging up.)
MARY:
Not home. That’s one thing to be grateful for. Mr. and Mrs. Berkowitz. If they’d been home, I couldn’t have took you over there. On account of they’re these real stuffy Jewish people. And you know how stuffy
they
are!
TC:
Jewish people? Gosh, yes. Very stuffy. They all ought to be in the Museum of Natural History. All of them.
MARY:
I’ve been thinking about giving Mrs. Berkowitz notice. The trouble is, Mr. Berkowitz, he was in garments, he’s retired, and the two of them are always home. Underfoot. Unless they drive up to Greenwich, where they got some property. That’s where they must have gone today. Another reason I’d like to quit them. They’ve got an old parrot—makes a mess everywhere. And stupid! All that dumb parrot can say is two things: “Holy cow!” and
“Oy vey!”
Every time you walk in the house it starts shouting
“Oy vey!”
Gets on my nerves something terrible. How about it? Let’s toke another roach and blow this joint.
(The rain had returned and the wind increased, a mixture that made the air look like a shattering mirror. The Berko-witzes lived on Park Avenue in the upper Eighties, and I suggested we take a taxi, but Mary said no, what kind of sissy was I, we can walk it, so I realized that despite appearances, she, too, was traveling stellar paths. We walked along slowly, as though it were a warm tranquil day with turquoise skies, and the hard slippery streets ribbons of pearl-colored Caribbean
beach. Park Avenue is not my favorite boulevard; it is rich with lack of charm; if Mrs. Lasker were to plant it with tulips all the way from Grand Central to Spanish Harlem, it would be of no avail. Still, there are certain buildings that prompt memories. We passed a building where Willa Cather, the American woman writer I’ve most admired, lived the last years of her life with her companion, Edith Lewis; I often sat in front of their fireplace and drank Bristol Cream and observed the firelight enflame the pale prairie-blue of Miss Cather’s serene genius-eyes. At Eighty-fourth Street I recognized an apartment house where I had once attended a small black-tie dinner given by Senator and Mrs. John F. Kennedy, then so young and insouciant. But despite the agreeable efforts of our hosts, the evening was not as enlightening as I had anticipated, because after the ladies had been dismissed and the men left in the dining room to savor their cordials and Havana cigars, one of the guests, a rather slope-chinned dressmaker named Oleg Cassini, overwhelmed the conversation with a travelogue account of Las Vegas and the myriad showgirls he’d recently auditioned there: their measurements, erotic accomplishments, financial requirements—a recital that hypnotized its auditors, none of whom was more chuck-lingly attentive than the future President.
When we reach Eighty-seventh Street, I point out a window on the fourth floor at 1060 Park Avenue, and inform Mary: “My mother lived there. That was her bedroom. She was beautiful and very intelligent, but she didn’t want to live. She had many reasons—at least she thought she did. But in the end it was just her husband, my stepfather. He was a self-made man, fairly successful—she worshipped him, and he really was a nice guy, but he gambled, got into trouble and
embezzled a lot of money, and lost his business and was headed for Sing Sing.”
Mary shakes her head: “Just like my boy. Same as him.”
We’re both standing staring at the window, the downpour drenching us. “So one night she got all dressed up and gave a dinner party; everybody said she looked lovely. But after the party, before she went to bed, she took thirty Seconals and she never woke up.”
Mary is angry; she strides rapidly away through the rain: “She had no right to do that. I don’t hold with that. It’s against my beliefs.”)