I do, Mr. Walker. We’re talking about quality . . . about fine, rarefied things. Art for the happy few.
Or, as Stendhal must have pronounced it: ze appy foo.
Stendhal and Maurice Chevalier. Which reminds me . . . Speaking of chevaliers, thank you for the poem.
The poem. I forgot all about it—
The poem you translated for me.
What did you think of it?
I found it revolting and brilliant. My faux ancestor was a true samurai madman, wasn’t he? But at least he had the courage of his convictions. At least he knew what he stood for. How little the world has changed since eleven eighty-six, no matter how much we prefer to think otherwise. If the magazine gets off the ground, I think we should publish de Born’s poem in the first issue.
I was both heartened and bewildered. In spite of my doleful predictions, Born had talked about the project as if it was already on the brink of happening, and at this point the prospectus seemed to be little more than an empty formality. No matter what plan I drew up, I felt he was prepared to give it his stamp of approval. And yet, pleased as I was by the thought of taking charge of a well-funded magazine, which on top of everything else would pay me a rather excessive salary, for the life of me I still couldn’t fathom what Born was up to. Was Margot really the cause of this unexpected burst of altruism, this blind faith in a boy with no experience in editing or publishing or business who just one week earlier had been absolutely unknown to him? And even if that was the case, why would the question of my future be of any concern to her? We had barely talked to each other at the party, and although she had looked me over carefully and given me a pat on the cheek, she had come across as a cipher, an utter blank. I couldn’t imagine what she had said to Born that would have made him willing to risk twenty-five thousand dollars on my account. As far as I could tell, the prospect of publishing a magazine left him cold, and because he was indifferent, he was content to turn the whole matter over to me. When I thought back to our conversation at the West End on Monday, I realized that I had probably given him the idea in the first place. I had mentioned that I might look for work with a publisher or a magazine after I graduated from college, and a minute later he was telling me about his inheritance and how he was considering starting up a publishing house or a magazine with his newfound money. What if I had said I wanted to manufacture toasters? Would he have answered that he was thinking about investing in a toaster factory?
It took me longer to finish the prospectus than I’d imagined it would—four or five days, I think, but that was only because I did such a thorough job. I wanted to impress Born with my diligence, and therefore I not only worked out a plan for the contents of each issue (poetry, fiction, essays, interviews, translations, as well as a section at the back for reviews of books, films, music, and art) but provided an exhaustive financial report as well: printing costs, paper costs, binding costs, matters of distribution, print runs, contributors’ fees, newsstand price, subscription rates, and the pros and cons of whether to include ads. All that demanded time and research, telephone calls to printers and binders, conversations with the editors of other magazines, and a new way of thinking on my part, since I had never bothered myself with questions of commerce before. As for the name of the magazine, I wrote down several possibilities, wanting to leave the choice to Born, but my own preference was the Stylus—in honor of Poe, who had tried to launch a magazine with that name not long before his death.
This time, Born responded within twenty-four hours. I took that as an encouraging sign when I picked up the phone and heard his voice, but true to form he didn’t come right out and say what he thought of my plan. That would have been too easy, I suppose, too pedestrian, too straightforward for a man like him, and so he toyed with me for a couple of minutes in order to prolong the suspense, asking me a number of irrelevant and disjointed questions that convinced me he was stalling for time because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings when he rejected my proposal.
I trust you’re in good health, Mr. Walker, he said.
I think so, I replied. Unless I’ve contracted a disease I’m not aware of.
But no symptoms yet.
No, I’m feeling fine.
What about your stomach? No discomfort there?
Not at the moment.
Your appetite is normal, then.
Yes, perfectly normal.
I seem to recall that your grandfather was a kosher butcher. Do you still follow those ancient laws, or have you given them up?
I never followed them in the first place.
No dietary restrictions, then.
No. I eat whatever I want to.
Fish or fowl? Beef or pork? Lamb or veal?
What about them?
Which one do you prefer?
I like them all.
In other words, you aren’t difficult to please.
Not when it comes to food. With other things yes, but not with food.
Then you’re open to anything Margot and I choose to prepare.
I’m not sure I understand.
Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. Are you busy?
No.
Good. Then you’ll come to our apartment for dinner. A celebration is in order, don’t you think?
I’m not sure. What are we celebrating?
The Stylus, my friend. The beginning of what I hope will turn out to be a long and fruitful partnership.
You want to go ahead with it?
Do I have to repeat myself?
You’re saying you liked the prospectus?
Don’t be so dense, boy. Why would I want to celebrate if I hadn’t liked it?
I remember dithering over what present to give them—flowers or a bottle of wine—and opting in the end for flowers. I couldn’t afford a good enough bottle to make a serious impression, and as I thought the matter through, I realized how presumptuous it would have been to offer wine to a couple of French people anyway. If I made the wrong choice—which was more than likely to happen—then I would only be exposing my ignorance, and I didn’t want to start off the evening by embarrassing myself. Flowers on the other hand would be a more direct way of expressing my gratitude to Margot, since flowers were always given to the woman of the house, and if Margot was a woman who liked flowers (which was by no means certain), then she would understand that I was thanking her for having pushed Born to act on my behalf. My telephone conversation with him the previous afternoon had left me in a state of semishock, and even as I walked to their place on the night of the dinner, I was still feeling overwhelmed by the altogether improbable good luck that had fallen down on me. I remember putting on a jacket and tie for the occasion. It was the first time I had dressed up in months, and there I was, Mr. Important himself, walking across the Columbia campus with an enormous bouquet of flowers in my right hand, on my way to eat and talk business with my publisher.
He had sublet an apartment from a professor on a year long sabbatical, a large but decidedly stuffy, overfurnished place in a building on Morningside Drive, just off 116th Street. I believe it was on the third floor, and from the French windows that lined the eastern wall of the living room there was a view of the full, downward expanse of Morningside Park and the lights of Spanish Harlem beyond. Margot answered the door when I knocked, and although I can still see her face and the smile that darted across her lips when I presented her with the flowers, I have no memory of what she was wearing. It could have been black again, but I tend to think not, since I have a vague recollection of surprise, which would suggest there was something different about her from the first time we had met. As we were standing on the threshold together, before she even invited me into the apartment, Margot announced in a low voice that Rudolf was in a foul temper. There was a crisis of some sort back home, and he was going to have to leave for Paris tomorrow and wouldn’t return until next week at the earliest. He was in the bedroom now, she added, on the telephone with Air France arranging his flight, so he probably wouldn’t be out for another few minut
es.
As I entered the apartment, I was immediately hit by the smell of food cooking in the kitchen—a sublimely delicious smell, I found, as tempting and aromatic as any vapor I had ever breathed. The kitchen happened to be where we headed first—to hunt down a vase for the flowers—and when I glanced at the stove, I saw the large covered pot that was the source of that extraordinary fragrance.
I have no idea what’s in there, I said, gesturing to the pot, but if my nose knows anything, three people are going to be very happy tonight.
Rudolf tells me you like lamb, Margot said, so I decided to make a navarin—a lamb stew with potatoes and navets.
Turnips.
I can never remember that word. It’s an ugly word, I think, and it hurts my mouth to say it.
All right, then. We’ll banish it from the English language.
Margot seemed to enjoy my little remark—enough to give me another brief smile, at any rate—and then she began to busy herself with the flowers: putting them in the sink, removing the white paper wrapper, taking down a vase from the cupboard, trimming the stems with a pair of scissors, putting the flowers in the vase, and then filling the vase with water. Neither one of us said a word as she went about these minimal tasks, but I watched her closely, marveling at how slowly and methodically she worked, as if putting flowers in a vase of water were a highly delicate procedure that called for one’s utmost care and concentration.
Eventually, we wound up in the living room with drinks in our hands, sitting side by side on the sofa as we smoked cigarettes and looked out at the sky through the French windows. Dusk ebbed into darkness, and Born was still nowhere to be seen, but the ever-placid Margot betrayed no concern over his absence. When we’d met at the party ten or twelve days earlier, I had been rather unnerved by her long silences and oddly disconnected manner, but now that I knew what to expect, and now that I knew she liked me and thought I was too good for this world, I felt a bit more at ease in her company. What did we talk about in the minutes before her man finally joined us? New York (which she found to be dirty and depressing); her ambition to become a painter (she was attending a class at the School of the Arts but thought she had no talent and was too lazy to improve); how long she had known Rudolf (all her life); and what she thought of the magazine (she was crossing her fingers). When I tried to thank her for her help, however, she merely shook her head and told me not to exaggerate: she’d had nothing to do with it.
Before I could ask her what that meant, Born entered the room. Again the rumpled white pants, again the unruly shock of hair, but no jacket this time, and yet another colored shirt—pale green, if I remember correctly—and the stump of an extinguished cigar clamped between the thumb and index finger of his right hand, although he seemed not to be aware that he was holding it. My new benefactor was angry, seething with irritation over whatever crisis was forcing him to travel to Paris tomorrow, and without even bothering to say hello to me, utterly ignoring his duties as host of our little celebration, he flew into a tirade that wasn’t addressed to Margot or myself so much as to the furniture in the room, the walls around him, the world at large.
Stupid bunglers, he said. Sniveling incompetents. Slow-witted functionaries with mashed potatoes for brains. The whole universe is on fire, and all they do is wring their hands and watch it burn.
Unruffled, perhaps even vaguely amused, Margot said: That’s why they need you, my love. Because you’re the king.
Rudolf the First, Born replied, the bright boy with the big dick. All I have to do is pull it out of my pants, piss on the fire, and the problem is solved.
Exactly, Margot said, cracking the largest smile I’d yet seen from her.
I’m getting sick of it, Born muttered, as he headed for the liquor cabinet, put down his cigar, and poured himself a full tumbler of straight gin. How many years have I given them? he asked, taking a sip of his drink. You do it because you believe in certain principles, but no one else seems to give a damn. We’re losing the battle, my friends. The ship is going down.
This was a different Born from the one I had come to know so far—the brittle, mocking jester who exulted in his own witticisms, the displaced dandy who blithely went about founding magazines and asking twenty-year-old students to his house for dinner. Something was raging inside him, and now that this other person had been revealed to me, I felt myself recoil from him, understanding that he was the kind of man who could erupt at any moment, that he was someone who actually enjoyed his own anger. He swigged down a second belt of gin and then turned his eyes in my direction, acknowledging my presence for the first time. I don’t know what he saw in my face—astonishment? confusion? distress?—but whatever it was, he was sufficiently alarmed by it to switch off the thermostat and immediately lower the temperature. Don’t worry, Mr. Walker, he said, doing his best to produce a smile. I’m just letting off a little steam.
He gradually willed himself out of his funk, and by the time we sat down to eat twenty minutes later, the storm seemed to have passed. Or so I thought when he complimented Margot on her superb cooking and praised the wine she had bought for the meal, but it proved to be no more than a temporary lull, and as the evening progressed, further squalls and gales came swooping down on us to spoil the festivities. I don’t know if the gin and Burgundy affected Born’s mood, but there was no question that he packed away a good deal of alcohol—at least twice the amount that Margot and I downed together—or if he was simply out of sorts because of the bad news he had received earlier in the day. Perhaps it was both in combination, or perhaps it was something else, but there was scarcely a moment during that dinner when I didn’t feel that the house was about to catch on fire.
It began when Born raised his glass to toast the birth of our magazine. It was a gracious little speech, I thought, but when I jumped in and started mentioning some of the writers I was planning to solicit work from for the first issue, Born cut me off in mid-sentence and told me never to discuss business while eating, that it was bad for the digestion and I should learn to start acting like an adult. It was a rude and unpleasant thing to say, but I hid my injured pride by pretending to agree with him and then took another bite of Margot’s stew. A moment later, Born put down his fork and said to me: You like it, Mr. Walker, don’t you?
Like what? I asked.
The navarin. You seem to be eating it with relish.
It’s probably the best meal I’ve had all year.
In other words, you’re attracted to Margot’s food.
Very much. I find it delicious.
And what about Margot herself? Are you attracted to her as well?
She’s sitting right across the table from me. It seems wrong to talk about her as if she weren’t here.
I’m sure she doesn’t mind. Do you, Margot?
No, Margot said. Not in the least.
You see, Mr. Walker? Not in the least.
All right, then, I answered. In my opinion, Margot is a highly attractive woman.
You’re avoiding the question, Born said. I didn’t ask if you found her attractive, I want to know if you are attracted to her.
She’s your wife, Professor Born. You can’t expect me to answer that. Not here, not now.
Ah, but Margot isn’t my wife. She’s my special friend, as it were, but we aren’t married, and we have no plans to marry in the future.
You live together. As far as I’m concerned, that’s as good as being married.
Come, come. Don’t be such a prude. Forget that I have any connection to Margot, all right? We’re talking in the abstract here, a hypothetical case.
Fine. Hypothetically speaking, I would hypothetically be attracted to Margot, yes.
Good, Born said, rubbing his hands together and smiling. Now we’re getting somewhere. But attracted to what degree? Enough to want to kiss her? Enough to want to hold her naked body in your arms? Enough to want to sleep with her?
I can’t answer those questions.
You’re not telling me you??
?re a virgin, are you?
No. I just don’t want to answer your questions, that’s all.
Am I to understand that if Margot threw herself at you and asked you to fuck her, you wouldn’t be interested? Is that what you’re saying? Poor Margot. You have no idea how much you’ve hurt her feelings.
What are you talking about?
Why don’t you ask her?
Suddenly, Margot reached across the table and took hold of my hand. Don’t be upset, she said. Rudolf is only trying to have some fun. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.
Born’s notion of fun had nothing to do with mine, alas, and at that stage of my life I was ill-equipped to play the sort of game he was trying to drag me into. No, I wasn’t a virgin. I had slept with a number of girls by then, had fallen in and out of love several times, had suffered through a badly broken heart just two years earlier and, like most young men around the world, thought about sex almost constantly. The truth was that I would have been delighted to sleep with Margot, but I refused to allow Born to goad me into admitting it. This wasn’t a hypothetical case. He actually seemed to be propositioning me on her behalf, and whatever sexual code they lived by, whatever romps and twisted dalliances they indulged in with other people, I found the whole business ugly, off-kilter, sick. Perhaps I should have spoken up and told him what I thought, but I was afraid—not of Born exactly, but of causing a rift that might lead him to change his mind about our project. I desperately wanted the magazine to work, and as long as he was willing to back it, I was prepared to put up with any amount of inconvenience and discomfort. So I did what I could to hold my ground and not lose my temper, to absorb blow upon blow without falling from my horse, to resist him and appease him at the same time.
I’m disappointed, Born said. Until now, I took you for an adventurer, a renegade, a man who enjoys thumbing his nose at convention, but at bottom you’re just another stuffed shirt, another bourgeois simpleton. How sad. You strut around with your Provençal poets and your lofty ideals, with your draft-dodger cowardice and that ridiculous necktie of yours, and you think you’re something exceptional, but what I see is a pampered middle-class boy living off Daddy’s money, a poseur.