The Marriage of Sticks Read online

  “Do you still have that nice Stevens? I have a buyer. A Scientologist from Utah.”

  “A Scientologist who reads Wallace Stevens?”

  “Exactly. I’ve been out west, drumming up business. Bumped into some very interesting people. One man lived on a strict carrot diet and collected nothing but Wyndham Lewis. That’s why I haven’t been around. I don’t know about you, but books haven’t been flying off my shelves recently. That’s why I’ve been traveling. How are things for you?”

  “So-so. They go in waves. I sold a bunch of Robert Duncan in L.A. a couple of months ago. That put me back on track. Do you know who I saw when I was out there? Doug Auerbach.”

  “Ah, the Dog. What’s he been doing?”

  “Making commercials. He makes a load of money.”

  “But you said he wanted to be Ingmar Bergman. I can’t imagine making dog food ads satisfies that desire. Does he still miss you?”

  “I guess. I think he misses the time when his life had more possibilities.”

  “Don’t we all? Well, Miranda, I’ve come to see you, but I’ve also come on a mission. Have you heard of Frances Hatch?”

  “Am I going to be embarrassed saying no?”

  “Not really. She’s a well-kept secret to all but a few. Frances Hatch was a kind of Jill of all trades, mistress of none, in the twenties and thirties. Although she was mistress to an amazing number of famous people. She was a sort of lunatic combination of Alma Mahler, Caresse Crosby, and Lee Miller.

  “She came from big money in St. Louis but rebelled and ran away to Prague. She went at the right time to the wrong city. Things were going on there, as in the rest of Europe in the twenties, but it was nowhere near as interesting as Berlin or Paris. She stayed a year studying photography, then moved to Bucharest with a Romanian ventriloquist. His stage name was ‘The Enormous Shumda.’”

  “To Bucharest with The Enormous Shumda? I love her already.”

  “I know—a strange choice of geography. But she was always being towed somewhere by one man or another and willingly went along for the ride. Anyway, she left after a short time and ended up in Paris, alone.”

  “Not for long, right?”

  “Right. Women like Frances never stay alone long.” He opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. “Here’s a self-portrait she took around that time.”

  I looked at the picture. It was a beautiful black-and-white shot, reminiscent of the work of Walter Peterhans or Lyonel Feininger: angular, stark, very Germanic. I laughed. “This is a joke. You’re joking, right, Clayton?” I looked again. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a self-portrait? It’s wonderful. From the way you described her, I thought she’d just be a ditz. I’d never have imagined she was so talented.”

  “And?” He pointed to the picture and, eyes twinkling, started to smile.

  “And, she looks like a schnauzer.”

  “My first thought was an emu.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They look like ostriches.”

  “You’re telling me this emu was the lover to famous people? She is ugly, Clayton. Look at that nose!”

  “Have you heard the French phrase belle laide?”

  “No.”

  “It means ugly enough to be desirable. The ugliness adds to the sexiness.”

  “This woman is not belle anything.”

  “Maybe she was great in bed.”

  “She’d have to be. I can’t believe it, Clayton. Part of me thinks you’re bullshitting. Who was she with?”

  “Kazantzakis, Giacometti. Her best friend was Charlotte Perriand. Others. She lived a fascinating life.” He took the photo from me. After glancing at it once more, he put it back in his briefcase. “And she’s still alive! Lives on 112th Street.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Got to be way up in the nineties.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “Frances Hatch is rumored to have letters, drawings, and books from these people and others, the likes of which would make any dealer weep. Very important stuff, Miranda, just sitting there growing yellow. For years she made noise about wanting to sell, but never did till now. Her companion died a few months ago and she’s afraid of being alone. Wants to move into an expensive nursing home in Briarcliff but doesn’t have the money.”

  “It sounds great if you can get her to sell you the stuff. But why tell me?”

  “Because at age ninety-whatever, Frances no longer likes men. She had some kind of late-life revelation and became a lesbian. With the exception of her lawyer, she deals only with women. I’ve known her for years and she says she’s really willing to sell now, but only if it’s done through a woman dealer. If she’ll sell, I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.” He made no attempt to hide the desperation in his voice.

  “That’s not necessary, Clayton. I’m glad to help if I can. Besides, I’ve always wanted to meet an emu. When would we go?”

  He looked at his watch. “Now, this morning, if you’d like.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Before catching a cab, Clayton said he needed to find a market, but not why. I waited outside. In a few minutes he reemerged with a bag full of serious junk food. Things like pink Hostess Snowballs, fluorescent orange Cheetos, Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Devil Dogs, Yankee Doodles.…

  “Those aren’t for you?”

  “It’s the only food Frances eats. Anyone who visits her is expected to bring a bag full of this merde.”

  “No wonder she’s ninety! If she ate those all her life she’s probably eighty percent chemically preserved. When she dies, her body will have the half-life of plutonium.”

  He took out a package and looked at it. “When was the last time you ate a Ding Dong? They all sound obscene—Devil Dogs, Ding Dongs.…” He tore open the wrapper and we contentedly ate them as we rode uptown.

  Ms. Hatch lived in one of those beautiful turn-of-the-century buildings that looked like fortresses. It had outlived its neighborhood but was falling to ruin. There were gargoyles on the front facade and a long courtyard with a fountain in the center that no longer worked. It was the kind of building that deserved quiet and reserve, but as we walked across the courtyard, salsa and rap music swept down from open windows and crashed on top of us. Somewhere a man and woman yelled at each other. The things they said were embarrassing. As often happened in situations like that, it struck me how people feel no shame anymore talking publicly about anything. While riding the subway recently, I’d sat next to two women talking loudly about their periods. Not once did either of them look around to see if people were listening, which they were.

  When I mentioned this to Clayton, he said, “No one’s concerned with dignity today. People want either to win or to be comfortable.” He gestured toward the windows above us. “They don’t care if you hear. It’s like the TV talk shows: those idiots don’t mind your knowing they slept with their mother, or the dog. They think it makes them interesting. Here we are. This is it.”

  The hallway smelled of old food and wet paper. Illegible graffiti had been spray-painted big and black across the mailboxes. A yellow baby carriage without wheels was pushed against a wall. The elevator didn’t work.

  “What floor does she live on?”

  “Third, but she never goes out. Sometimes I wonder how many old people are prisoners in their apartments in this city. Too scared, or they can’t climb the stairs. There’s got to be a lot of them.”

  We climbed in silence. I noticed here and there signs of the onetime beauty of the building. The banister was bird’s-eye maple, the ironwork beneath it intricate and pretty. The stairs were made of dark green stone with swirls of black inside, like a frozen cyclone.

  There was lots of noise everywhere. Music, people talking, the general white noise from many television sets going full blast. It made me appreciate my own building, where the neighbors were unfriendly but quiet.

  On reaching the third floor, we walked down a long hall to the end. Unlike the others, which looked li
ke the police had periodically beaten them in, Frances Hatch’s oak door was immaculately preserved. There was a small brass plaque with her name engraved on it. It had recently been polished. Clayton rang the bell. We waited quite a while.

  The door opened and I think both of us took a step back in surprise. A short bald man with a moon-round face and no chin, dressed in a dark suit, black tie, and white shirt stood there. His face said seventy or eighty, but he stood so straight that he could have been younger.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Clayton Blanchard. Ms. Hatch is expecting me?”

  “Come along.”

  The man turned and walked stiffly back into the apartment, as if rehearsing for the march of the tin soldiers. I looked at Clayton. “I thought you said she only spoke to women?”

  Before he had a chance to reply, the soldier called out, “Are you coming?” We scurried in.

  I didn’t have a chance to look at anything, but my nose noticed how good it smelled in there. “What’s that smell?”

  “Apples?”

  “In here, please.”

  The man’s voice was so commanding that I felt I was back in high school, being summoned to the principal’s office.

  I saw the light before entering the living room. It was blinding and came through the door in a white flood. We walked in and I was in love before I knew it. Frances Hatch’s living room was full of Persian rugs, rare Bauhaus furniture, and the largest cat I had ever seen. The rugs were all varying shades of red—russet, cerise, ruby. Which mixed brilliantly with the stark chrome furniture. It softened the starkness but also made individual pieces stand out in their pure simplicity, almost as if they hovered over the varied redness below. High windows went all the way down the room, taking in as much light as the day had. On the walls were a large number of photographs and paintings. I didn’t have a chance to look at them before another imperious voice called out, “Over here, I’m here.”

  As if it knew what she had said, the cat stood up, stretched languorously, and walked over to where Frances Hatch was sitting.

  It stood looking up at her, tail swishing.

  “How are you, Clayton? Come over here so I can see you.” He walked to her chair and took the large bony hand she held out.

  “Cold. Your hands are always cold, Clayton.”

  “It runs in my family.”

  “Well, cold hands, warm heart. Who have you brought with you?”

  He gestured for me to come over. “Frances, this is my friend Miranda Romanac.”

  “Hello Miranda. You’ll have to come close because I can barely see. Are you pretty?”

  “Hello. I’m passable.”

  “I was always ugly, so there was never any question about that. Ugly people have to work harder to get the world’s attention. You have to prove you’re worth listening to. Did you meet Irvin?”

  I looked at the man with the big voice.

  “Irvin Edelstein, these are my friends Clayton and Miranda. Sit down. I can see you better now. Yes. You do have red hair! I thought so. Very nice. I love red. Have you noticed my rugs?”

  “I did. I love the way you’ve done this room.”

  “Thank you. It’s my magic carpet. When I’m in here I feel just a little bit above the earth. So you’re a friend of Clayton. That’s a good sign. What else do you do?”

  “I’m a bookseller too.”

  “Perfect! Because that’s what I want to talk about today. Irvin is here to advise me on what I should do. I have very valuable things, Miranda. Do you know why I’ve decided to sell them? Because all my life I’ve wanted to be rich. In one month I’ll be a hundred. I think it would be very nice to be rich at a hundred.”

  “What will you do with the money?” It was a rude question to ask, especially after having just been introduced, but I liked Frances already and sensed she had a good sense of humor.

  “What will I do? Buy a red Cadillac convertible and drive around, picking up men. God, how long has it been since I was with a man? You know, when you’re my age, you think about who you were all those years. If you’re lucky, you grow very fond of that person. The men I knew were silly most of the time, but they had nerve. Sometimes they even had the kind of guts you usually only dream of. Guts are what matters, Miranda. That’s what Kazantzakis told me. God gave us courage but it is dangerous music to listen to. That man had no fear. Do you know who his hero was? Blondin. The greatest tightrope walker who ever lived. He walked across a rope over Niagara Falls and halfway there stopped to cook and eat an omelette.”

  “Clayton said you lived enough for three normal lives.”

  “I did, but that was because I was ugly and had something to prove. I was a great lover and sometimes I had courage. I tried to tell the truth when it was important. Those are the things I’m proud of. Someone wanted me to write my autobiography, but it’s my life. I don’t want to share it with people who care less about it than I do. Anyway, by then I was too old to remember if I was telling the truth about everything, and that’s very important. But Irvin gave me this little gizmo and it’s a great comfort.” She reached into her lap and held up a small tape recorder. “I sit here and feel the magic carpets under my feet and the light through the window is warm and when an especially nice memory comes, all I have to do is press this button. I tell the machine something I haven’t remembered for a long time.

  “Just this morning, right before you arrived, I was thinking about a picnic I had with the Hemingways at Auteuil. Lewis Gallantiere, Hemingway, and mad Harry Crosby. Why those two men ever got along was beyond me, but it was a lovely day. We ate Westphalian ham and Harry lost three thousand francs on the horses.”

  Amazed, I looked at Clayton and silently mouthed, “Hemingway?”

  “I think of Hemingway a lot. You know, people never stop talking about him and Giacometti, but they always describe them in such distorted, frenzied ways. People want to believe they were wild and dissolute because it fits a romantic image. But Gallantiere said something before he died that must be remembered: All the great artists put in a good day’s work every day of their lives when we were all living in Paris. People want to think those books and paintings arrived out of the ether, whole cloth. But what I remember most is how hard they worked. Giacometti? He would have murdered you if you came to his studio while he was working.”

  Clayton gave me many wonderful things over the years, but the introduction to Frances Hatch was the most important. I will remember that first morning with her as long as I live. Afterwards we met frequently, both to settle the business of her collection and because I loved being in that room with her and her crowded memories. In college I’d read a poem by Whitman about an old man in a boat, fishing. He has lived a full life, but is tired now and waiting peacefully to die. Until then, he’s content to sit and fish and remember.

  Even as a kid, full of pepper and brass, I was enchanted with the idea of living so fully that at the end you had nothing left you wanted to do and were willing to die.

  When we left her apartment that day, I felt like I had been in a room with pure clarity and understanding, if such things are possible. As if they were concrete substances I’d been allowed to hold in my hand awhile and I’d gotten their weight and feel. It proved such things were feasible and it lifted me.

  I went back to my store feeling supercharged. I buzzed through the rest of the day wishing only that I had someone important with whom to share the experience. I was glad for the party that night, glad I could mingle and talk and hope for some of the common magic Frances had found all of her life.

  I’d been to Dagmar Breece’s home for several dinner parties. Frequently they were loaded with both interesting people and strange people. In contrast to Jaco, who didn’t like anyone stealing his thunder, Dagmar and her boyfriend Stanley had the modesty and good sense to invite an intriguing crowd and let them steer the evening. What was also nice was that you weren’t expected either to dress up or to perform. Showoffs were discouraged, and only if t
hey were engaging were egos permitted to flourish.

  I went home at five and changed. The phone rang while I was dressing. It was Zoe, calling to chat. We spoke too long and I barely had time to finish up. Luckily Dagmar and Stan’s building was only a few blocks from mine—although in a decidedly nicer neighborhood.

  One of the reasons why I liked living in Manhattan was that the city would share your mood the moment you walked out the door. If you were in a hurry, everything else was too, even the pigeons. You shared the same speed and sense of urgency to get wherever you were going.

  When you had time to kill, it was happy to give you things to look at and do that easily took up whole days. I didn’t agree with people who said Manhattan was a cold, indifferent town. Sure it was gruff, but it was also playful and sometimes very funny.

  All the way to Dagmar’s the traffic lights were green for me. When I got to her block, I said a little thank-you. Seconds later, a madman pushing a baby carriage heaped with junk wobbled by. Without saying a word, the man smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at me, as if he were the city’s spokesman acknowledging my thanks.

  On the back wall of the elevator was a large mirror. Riding up, I had a look. My hair was shorter than a month before. Why do women cut their hair shorter the older they get? Because they don’t want to be bothered? Because few faces can bear to be framed so luxuriously after a certain age? Looking more closely, I saw a lot more gray in my hair than I had been expecting by age thirty-three. The lines around my mouth were okay, but the beauty creams I used were getting more expensive because they were supposed to work that much harder. I held up both hands and turned them back and forth to see how they were doing. The elevator stopped. Dropping my hands, I turned around quickly.

  The doors opened and I stepped out into the corridor. To my surprise, Dagmar was standing outside their apartment with a champagne glass in each hand.