Speedboat

RENATA ADLER
was born in Milan and raised in Connecticut. She received a B.A. from Bryn Mawr, an M.A. from Harvard, a D.d’E.S from the Sorbonne, a J.D. from Yale Law School, and an LL.D. (honorary) from Georgetown. Adler became a staff writer at
The New Yorker
in 1963 and, except for a year as the chief film critic of
The New York Times
, remained at
The New Yorker
for the next four decades. Her books include
A Year in the Dark
(1969);
Toward a Radical Middle
(1970);
Reckless Disregard: Westmoreland v. CBS et al., Sharon v. Time
(1986);
Canaries in the Mineshaft
(2001);
Gone: The Last Days of
The New Yorker (1999);
Irreparable Harm: The U.S. Supreme Court and The Decision That Made George W. Bush President
(2004); and the novels
Speedboat (
1976; winner of the Ernest Hemingway Award for Best First Novel) and
Pitch Dark
(1983).

GUY TREBAY
reports on culture for
The New York Times
. He was previously a columnist for
The Village Voice
and has written for
The New Yorker
,
Condé Nast Traveler
,
Travel and Leisure
,
Harper’s
,
Esquire
,
Grand Street
, and other major publications. His work, twice honored with the Meyer Berger Award, presented by the Columbia University School of Journalism, has received numerous other awards, been widely anthologized, and was collected in
In The Place to Be: Guy Trebay’s New York
.

SPEEDBOAT

RENATA ADLER

Afterword by

GUY TREBAY

NEW YORK REVIEW BOOKS

New York

THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

www.nyrb.com

Copyright © 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1976 by Renata Adler

Afterword copyright © 2013 by Guy Trebay

All rights reserved.

Much of the material in this book appeared originally in slightly different form in
The New Yorker.

Cover image: Tutti-Fruitti (detail), 1966; © 2013 by the Estate of Helen Frankenthaler / Artists Rights Society (ARS), NY; photo courtesy Albright-Knox Art Gallery / Art Resource, NY

Cover design: Katy Homans

The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:

Adler, Renata.

Speedboat / by Renata Adler ; afterword by Guy Trebay.

   pages cm. — (New York Review Books classics)

ISBN 978-1-59017-613-9 (pbk.)

1. Women—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3551.D63S66 2013

813'.54—dc23

2012044051

eISBN 978-1-59017-633-7
v1.0

For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit
www.nyrb.com
or write to:
Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

Biographical Notes

Title page

Copyright and More Information

Dedication

Epigraph

CASTLING

QUIET

BROWNSTONE

SPEEDBOAT

ISLANDS

WHAT WAR

THE AGENCY

Afterword

For A.

—EVELYN WAUGH,
Vile Bodies

Nobody died that year. Nobody prospered. There were no births or marriages. Seventeen reverent satires were written—disrupting a cliché and, presumably, creating a genre. That was a dream, of course, but many of the most important things, I find, are the ones learned in your sleep. Speech, tennis, music, skiing, manners, love—you try them waking and perhaps balk at the jump, and then you’re over. You’ve caught the rhythm of them once and for all, in your sleep at night. The city, of course, can wreck it. So much insomnia. So many rhythms collide. The salesgirl, the landlord, the guests, the bystanders, sixteen varieties of social circumstance in a day. Everyone has the power to call your whole life into question here. Too many people have access to your state of mind. Some people are indifferent to dislike, even relish it. Hardly anyone I know.

“It is only stupid to put up the sails when the wind is against,” the wife of the Italian mineral-water tycoon said, on the deck of their beautiful schooner, which had remained all the summer in port. “Because then you lose them.”

A large rat crossed my path last night on Fifty-seventh Street. It came out from under a wooden fence at a vacant lot near Bendel’s, paused for traffic, and then streaked across to the uptown sidewalk, sat awhile in the dark, and vanished. It was my second rat this week. The first was in a Greek restaurant where there are lap-height sills under all the windows. The rat ran along the sills, straight toward, then past me.

“See that?” Will said, sipping from his beer glass.

“Large mouse,” I said. “Even nice hotels have small mice now, in the bars and lobbies.” I had last seen Will in Oakland; before that, in Louisiana. He does law. Then something, perhaps a startled sense of my own peripheral vision, registered on my left, coming toward my face fast. My fork clattered.

“You were all right, there,” Will said, grinning, “until you lost your cool.”

The second rat, of course, may have been the first rat farther uptown, in which case I am either being followed or the rat keeps the same rounds and hours I do. I think sanity, however, is the most profound moral option of our time. Two rats, then. Cabdrivers can’t even hear directions through those new partitions, which don’t seem to me really bulletproof, although, of course, I’ve never checked it. Soundproof. One’s fingers jam, certainly, in the new receptacles for money. Well, somebody sold the partitions. Someone bought them. Crooked, clearly. There doesn’t seem to be a spirit of the times. When I started to get out of bed at an unlikely early morning hour, Will, who pitches into sleep as violently as his waking life is gentle, said, “Just stay here.
Angst
is common.” I did find a cab home, in the rain, outside an armory.

“To the Dow-Jones averages,” the father said, raising his glass. It was his sixty-eighth birthday. His hair and mustache were silvery.

“Each in his own way,” the son said with a little smile. He was not a radical. He had been selling short. They laughed. The entire family—even the grandchildren, at their separate table—drank. The moment passed.

Alone in the sports car, speeding through the countryside, I sang along with the radio station, tuned way up. Not the happiest of songs, Janis Joplin, not in any terms; but one of the nicest lines. “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.” In a way, I guess.

“There are no tears here,” the young construction worker said at the funeral, when the ancient union leader, with two strokes, three heart attacks, and a lung condition, died at last.

“True,” the priest said, surveying the mourners in the cathedral. “No tears. Either the wake went on too long or he was a hard, hard man.”

“The rest are never going to die,” a young black politician said with great bitterness. “You see them staggering out of their limousines. All Irish, all senile, all strokes. The union men. Even their wives have cardiac conditions. But I know it now. They are never going to die.”

“They’ll die, all right,” the priest said, judiciously. “There’s not one of them under seventy-six. You’ll see. Your time will come.”

“To the future, then,” the black politician said.

“Shall we go to your place or to Elaine’s?” the young man asked. It was 3 a.m. He was recently divorced. The same question must have been being put just then in cabs throughout New York. “To Elaine’s,” I said. That was where we went. To Elaine’s, to the Dow-Jones averages, to the future, then, to preserve the domestic tranquility. Freedom means nothing left; cab change receptacles are hearing aids in which one’s fingers jam—when the clips are coming in quite fast, it’s like waking up and trying to orient the bed. Which side can the wall be on, which side is uptown, downtown, which town is it, anyway? In some of the best motels, near airports, along highways, they have Magic Fingers, a device which, for one quarter put into a metal box, shakes the bed for sixty seconds and sends you quietly to sleep. There are no fingers about it. It is more like sleeping on a train when the tracks are good. A sticker on the metal box says that you can have Magic Fingers in your own home. I don’t know anyone who has.

I work for a tabloid, the
Standard Evening Sun.
Since I got this job, I have gone out with four sons of famous fathers, two businessmen with unfinished novels, three writers with a habit of saying “May I use that” when I said something that seemed to them in character, and a revolutionary editor who patted my hair and said “You’re very sweet” whenever I asked him anything. I have sat, shivering on cold steps, with a band of fifteen radicals of whom ten were in analysis and six wore contact lenses. Things have changed very much, several times, since I grew up, and, like everyone in New York except the intellectuals, I have led several lives and I still lead some of them.

For a while, I thought I had no real interests—no theater, concerts, museums, stamp collections. Only ambitions and ties to people, of a certain intensity. Different sorts of people. I was becoming a ward heeler of the emotional life. Now the ambitions have drifted after the interests. I have lost my sense of the whole. I wait for events to take a form. I remember somebody saying, “You’ve got to
steep
yourself in things.” So I
steeped
myself, in thrillers, commercials, news magazines. The same person used to write “tepid” and “arguable” all over the margins of what our obituary writers wrote. I now think “tepid” and “arguable” several times a day.

In the country, where I grew up, there were never so many events. Things never went quite so flat. The house was nearly always asleep and we spoke very low. When Father got up at six for his ride or his swim before breakfast, the children, having gone to bed well after midnight, were sleeping. When he came back from his office at noon, the children, pale and silent, joined him for his lunch and their breakfast. After lunch, Father had his nap, and at three Mother, having seen him off again to the office, went upstairs to rest for an hour. The family was awake and together only at supper, after which Father went to his room and Mother stayed downstairs a few minutes to talk to the children. Twenty hours out of twenty-four, in short, the hush of sleep lay over the house. Nobody thought of waking anybody. Sometimes a stupid child would tie a firecracker to a crayfish or a frog just once, and light the fuse. Or give a piece of sugar to a raccoon, which in its odd fastidiousness would wash that sugar in a brook till there was nothing left.

But here. I used to wonder why the victims of some small sensational tragedy—the parents of a little girl who had just been thrown from the roof of her tenement by a deranged older boy, or the family of a model son who had just gone clear out of his mind and murdered a friend—never shut the door in my face when I came for an interview. They never do. They open the door; they bring out the family album and the baby anecdotes. I used to think it was out of a loyalty to memory, or a will to have the papers get it right. I still think it’s partly that, and partly being stunned by publicity and grief. But now I know it’s mostly an agony of trying to please, a cast of mind so deep and amiable that it is as stark in consciousness as death.

In the matter of Doberman Pinschers, I like dogs that are large and hairy and friendly and sleep a lot, with sad eyes behind the hair. When I was young, there was a lady on our road who had a Doberman Pinscher, bred sharp, vicious, and streamlined, as they all are, like a honed wolf. It meant that whenever a neighborhood child was riding along the tar road on his bicycle, if the Doberman was out, there had to be an immediate leap from the bicycle, and a crouching on bruised knees behind a high stone wall, before the owner called her dog back. The dog was devoted to the lady, who, as it happened, did have cancer. For years, I thought of the devotion of Dobermans to their owners, and their savagery to others, as something almost in their favor. Almost. Then I read a newspaper story about a Doberman that had turned, after many years, upon its mistress, an old lady. When they found her the next morning, it turned out that the lady must have run from room to room, trying to shut the door before the dog got to her, just too feeble or perhaps unbelieving to escape it. A love story gone off the tracks, one could say in a disillusioned moment. Far off.