The Lacuna

  "I'm sorry, my interest is not prurient. I'm just a curious man. Curiosity killed the cat, my wife used to tell me very often."

  "Anyway, this letter. You're advising me to ignore it?"

  "I am advising you," he said slowly, "that you are being approached by a snake. You could attempt to reason with the snake, or you could offer it a cash contribution. Most likely the snake is still going to bite."

  Grant's twelve-year-old whisky is a potent anesthetic. "Luckily enough, it doesn't matter, because I'm not looking for a job right now. I have the only job I ever wanted."

  "Luckily enough. You are a writer, employed by the American imagination. Your publisher does not have to answer to any sponsors, only to your readers."

  "Employed by the American imagination. I like that very much."

  "Are they really reading you in China?"

  "Goodness, no. Not even in France. Some reviewer said, 'Don't be surprised if this book shows up in China.' Something like that. They also said I was Chaplinesque."

  "Well, many artists are not so lucky as yourself. Mr. Chaplin among them. Film stars, directors, television scriptwriters. They all have to be produced, they require sponsors. It's becoming a lucrative industry for the likes of Aware Incorporated."

  Suddenly the girl was back, unsummoned. "You're the writer, aren't you? I'm crazy about your books."

  "What writer?"

  "Harrison Shepherd?"

  "That's so strange. You're the second person to ask me that."

  "Oh. Sorry, my mistake." She floated away, an unmoored skiff, and disappeared through a door at the back.

  Artie reorganized his sigmoidal curve against the bar, the better to stare at his dimwit companion. "What's wrong with you? She's a sugar pie."

  "I know it. I'm grateful. To all these girls, I really am."

  "So, you could sign a damn cocktail napkin. It would have made her day."

  "That's what I can't see, Artie. What thrilled her was a book--she wants a hero. Not some tin whistle double-gaiter on a barstool."

  "So. In a pinch, you stand in."

  "Do you know how that feels to me, to pass myself off as important? Exactly like passing counterfeit money. Look at her, she's magnificent. My name, some ink on a napkin. How could that be worth the gold-brick standard of her day?"

  Artie swiveled back to face the bar, fished a pack of Old Golds out of his pocket.

  "So. Matus the snake has contacted me because a motion-picture option got his attention. That's what you think?"

  "You know what they say. God wants to punish you, he answers your prayers."

  "Artie, I didn't pray for a motion picture. It makes me uneasy. I don't like attention."

  "You have a funny way of choosing your profession, in that case."

  "People think that. If a person is famous, he must have wanted to be in the public eye. But to me, writing books is a way to earn a living in my pajamas."

  Artie nodded thoughtfully. "I take your point. People think lawyers are a cutthroat gang, and me, I couldn't cut the throat of a fish. Margaret says I should take up fishing. And I think, an old softie like me? What would I do if I caught one? Apologize?"

  October 3

  Two airplane tickets purchased, air-coach to Mexico and back, at a cost of $191 each. A breathtaking sum, but all in the line of duty; Arthur Gold says it can be worked out for some reduction in the tax later on. He is helping Mrs. Brown with the passport applications. Apartment queries sent to Merida, and fair warning to Frida, expect a visit, though Diego is sure to be out of the country. Romulus will feed the cats and mind the house, eight weeks, I will have to remember to bring back a smashing present.

  Mrs. Brown stands at the ready, her suitcase already packed, though the trip is six weeks away. No price is too high for this joy. Her thrill for adventure is a thing I dearly wish I could learn by example. She makes me wish for the boy who once could swim miles underwater, looking for treasure.

  Today I teased her, asking whether I needed to look out for any fellow who might be angry with me for taking her off this way. She blinked, taken aback.

  "Well, it's not out of the question," I said. "I'm aware that you're an attractive woman. And I've noticed you're sprucing up, of late."

  She honestly blushed. No-nonsense Mrs. Brown. She said not to worry myself, if any man she cared for took an interest, I would be first to know it.

  The New York Times, October 23, 1947

  79 in Hollywood Found Subversive, Inquiry Head Says

  Evidence of Communist Spying Will Be Offered Next Week, Thomas Declares

  By Samuel A. Tower, special to the New York Times

  WASHINGTON, OCT. 22--Actors, writers and others in Hollywood were named today as members of the Communist party or as Communist sympathizers. The accusations were by Robert Taylor, screen actor, and by other movie figures as the inquiry of the House Committee on Un-American Activities into the extent of Communist penetration into the film industry went into its third day.

  At the same time the movie industry, reacting to a persistent committee criticism that no anti-Communist pictures were being made, charged through its counsel, Paul V. McNutt, that suggestions concerning films to be made represented "one method of censorship" and did "violence to the principle of free speech."

  The committee chairman, Rep. J. Parnell Thomas, asserted that the committee would produce at coming sessions evidence that "at least 79" persons in Hollywood had been engaged in subversive activity. After a noon executive session the committee announced that it would present next week evidence of Communist espionage activities, with a surprise witness, in developing further testimony that confidential data on an Army supersonic plane had fallen into Communist hands through a Hollywood literary agent.

  Mr. Taylor, arriving to appear at the afternoon session, was greeted with an audible "ah" by the spectators, mostly women, who filled the hearing chamber. Outside the chamber there was a mob scene as those unable to get in swirled and pushed against Capitol police. In his testimony he declared at one point, "I personally believe the Communist party should be outlawed. If I had my way they'd all be sent back to Russia." When this drew loud applause from the audience, Chairman Thomas reprimanded the spectators and requested no further demonstrations.

  Mr. Taylor asserted that there had been "more indications" of Communist activity in Hollywood in the past four or five years, but guarded and qualified his testimony when committee interrogators sought specific data on activities and individuals. He testified that, as a member of the Screen Actors Guild, he had come to believe that there were actors and actresses "who, if not Communists, are working awfully hard to be so" and whose philosophy and tactics seemed closely akin to the Communist party line. This group constituted what he called "a disrupting influence." The handsome actor declared that the film, "Song of Russia," was, in his view, Communist propaganda and that he had objected "strenuously" to playing in it. He added, however, that the industry at that time was producing a number of movies designed to strengthen the feeling of the American people toward Russia. Mr. Taylor asserted that he had not knowingly worked with a Communist and would not do so. After twenty-five minutes on the stand the handsome star made his departure, accompanied by applause and shouts of "Hurray for Robert Taylor" from a middle-aged woman wearing a red hat.

  Members of the Committee asked M-G-M executive James K. McGuinness, who is in charge of scripts for the studio: Has the industry the will to make anti-Communist movies? Why haven't they been made? Why couldn't the studios produce such films and circulate them through schools, like the patriotic wartime pictures?

  Representative Emanuel Celler, D. NY, attacked the inquiry as an act to make "all true Americans blush with shame." "If Chairman Thomas sought to strike terror into the minds of the movie magnates, he succeeded. They were white-livered. One vital aspect of these antics must be kept in mind. Today it is the motion pictures. Tomorrow it may be the newspapers or the radio. The threat to civil liberties is a real one
."

  October 31

  I have learned from experience, make the cookies early. Children will come to the door dressed as hobgoblins. When the doorbell rang just after four o'clock, Mrs. Brown carried the plate to the door. But it was a man, clearly audible. I was in the kitchen mopping up after the afternoon's baking. Flour covered everything like an early frost.

  "No, he can't," she said, in a strained voice. "Mr. Shepherd is indisposed." Her instincts for protecting her boss are unflappable.

  "Are you the lady of the house?"

  "I'm the stenographer."

  The badge startled her, and she can't remember the name. FBI, that much she remembers. He'd come to ask Mr. Shepherd a few questions, but as he was unavailable, Mrs. Brown was duty-bound to answer them herself, insofar as she was able.

  After it was all over and he left, she came in the dining room and put her head down on the table. I made a pot of coffee. Then, together, we remembered and wrote it down. To show Artie later.

  "How long has he lived in this house?"

  (She guessed about five years)

  "No," the man said. "Mr. Shepherd purchased this house October of 1943."

  "Then, my stars, why ask?"

  "Has he got a mortgage?"

  "If a person has a house he has got a mortgage. Evidently you have the details."

  "Where did he live before?"

  "He let a room from Marian Bittle at her boarding house on the Black Mountain Highway. What they call the Tunnel Road."

  "And before he came to Asheville?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. I don't think I can answer any more questions."

  "Well, you'll have to try. Executive Order 9835."

  "What's that?"

  "It means you have to try. If the FBI is asking, you answer. Where did he get that car? That's a pretty pricey car. Or was, in its day."

  "I believe the car belonged to his deceased father."

  "I noticed an empty Remy bottle in the trash. Is Mr. Shepherd a drinker?"

  "I'm sure I don't know. I think we're finished. Mr. Shepherd's lawyer might be the one to take this farther, if needs be."

  "Look, lady, don't get sore. An investigation doesn't necessarily mean he's under suspicion. We're conducting a field investigation."

  "Of what?"

  "Just the usual."

  "You can't tell me what it is you think Mr. Shepherd has done?"

  "No, ma'am, we cannot."

  "But if he were here, you could tell him."

  "No, ma'am, we cannot tell the accused this kind of thing, for security considerations. Do you happen to know his income?"

  "For goodness' sake. He's a writer. He couldn't say himself what it's going to be, month to month. Do you know what books people will buy next year?"

  "Does he attend any meetings?"

  "No."

  "Well, the neighbors said he does. They see him take the Haywood bus every Thursday. But on other days, only to the market or the newsstand."

  "Mr. Shepherd goes to the library on Thursdays."

  "Why so regular?"

  "He finds it comforting to keep regular habits."

  "Ma'am, do you know what magazines he reads?"

  "He buys about everything on the Haywood news stand. You could go down there and make a list, if you like."

  "Do you happen to know if he's ever studied up on Karl Marx?"

  "Go and see if they sell Karl Marx on the Haywood newsstand."

  "Do you know where Mr. Shepherd stands on Abstract Art?"

  "Well, if he wanted a good look, I expect he'd stand in front of it."

  "Very funny. Can you tell me the name of his cat?"

  "Are his cats also under suspicion?"

  "The neighbors said they hear him using an obscene word to call the cat."

  "I've never heard Mr. Shepherd use obscene language against any person. Certainly not his cats."

  "Well, they say that he does. They say he uses a very vulgar word to call the cat. They're concerned for the youngsters. They say the boy comes over here."

  "My stars. What do they think he calls his cat?"

  "I apologize, ma'am, it's a very vulgar word. They said Jism."

  "The cat's name is Chisme. It means 'gossip'."

  Merida, Yucatan Peninsula

  November 1947

  Notes for a novel about the end of empire.

  When Cortes's men first arrived here, they asked in Spanish, "What is the name of this place?" From the native Mayans they received the same answer every time: "Yucatan!" In their language that word means: "I do not understand you."

  The apartment is decently spacious, the two bedrooms and a good-sized table for working in the main room, with the window overlooking the street. The kitchen and bath are a jumble but there's no need for cooking. It's too easy to walk downstairs to the restaurant in the courtyard, morning or night. The previous residents must have shared this languor, because a long, white sprout of a bean was growing from the drain of the sink when we arrived. I offered to put it in a pot for the balcony and call it our garden.

  Mrs. Brown did not smile at the joke. She submits to not one iota of domesticity here, except to make the coffee as she did at home. The inside of her room I have not seen; we simply chose doors at the beginning, and her lair remains a mystery. She emerges each morning in her gloves and Lilly Dache hat, as reliably as the little Mayan women in the market will be wearing their white embroidered blouses and lace-bottomed skirts. The gloves and Lilly Dache are Mrs. Brown's native costume.

  A typewriter is installed on the writing table, delivered yesterday, a sure sign of progress. A car and driver for touring the ancient sites may soon surface as well. Mrs. Brown has gamely got her sea legs on, already going to the shops on her own to get small necessities. Each day she manages more of the arrangements, soldiering through the obstacles of a language she cannot speak. My advice (which she did not heed): in answer to any question, say "Yucatan!" I do not understand.

  A reasonable title for the novel: The Name of This Place.

  But for now, the name of this place is mud. Or so Mrs. Brown must think, when forced to take her life in her white-gloved hands. She grips the side-arm of the rumble seat with one, the other squashing her hat to her head, as we pummel down the peninsula over shocking roads, navigated by our fearless driver Jesus. After all the time we spent searching for this combination, vehicle and driver both together in one place, I dare not ask whether he is old enough for the job. He is just a boy, despite the authority of his Mayan nose and magnificent profile. It's a shock to realize that, not his youth really but my age, that he must regard me as a man, perhaps his mother's age more or less, not worth any real study. A series of directions to follow, and a wage at the end of the journey.

  And yet he's seen something of life already, clearly. His shirt is weathered as thin as a newspaper, and the lower part of one ear is missing. It took a while to notice that. It's his left, away from the passengers' side. He calmly asserted, when asked, that it was bitten off by a jaguar. So he has the imagination, if not the experience, for labor in the service of a novelist. He can lecture on any subject without hesitation. Today en route to Chichen Itza it was the military history of his people, the Maya: "More courageous than ten armies of Federales," he shouted above the banging axles and backfiring engine of the ramshackle Ford. Or mostly Ford; one door and the front fenders are of a different parentage. Across the land of the mestizo we ride, in a mixed-caste automobile.

  "At this place, Valladolid," Jesus announced above the racket, "we view the scene of the last Mayan rebellion. One hundred years ago the Yucateca took our whole peninsula back from the ladinos. We declared independence from Mexico like your Tejas of North America, and nearly made it the nation of the Maya again." Except for Merida, he confessed, where the Federales lodged throughout the rebellion. But fate was decided at Valladolid. A final victory over the Mexican army was at hand, but just as the Mayan warriors were poised to strike, an old shaman came with urgent ne
ws: the ancient calendar said it was time to return to their villages to plant corn. They put down their weapons and went home.

  "The Gods speak to my people in their hearts," says the boy called Jesus, beating his breast with one fist as he drives, head tilted back in sloe-eyed tranquillity even as the tires hit another crater in the road and his whole body levitates. The Mayans obeyed the ancient imperatives of survival. They walked away from power, letting the federal army take back the peninsula and return it to Mexican rule.

  Somewhere during the lecture he lost his way on the dirt track through jungle, and we found ourselves also called back to his home village, conveniently at lunchtime, as it happened. We were near enough to Chichen Itza, the temples of one of its outlying towns towered above the treetops, a monument to ancient prosperity throwing its shadow across thatched roofs and the naked children who gathered to see what might emerge from this calamitous machine. We could as well have arrived by flying saucer.

  The mother of Jesus, similarly sloe-eyed, bade us sit on a log while she dipped beans from a cauldron that must bubble eternally on the fire outside her hut. Her name: Maria, naturally. Her lath house, like every one in the village, had a tall, peaked roof of thatch, open at each gable end for ventilation. Inside the open doorway a knot of motionless brown limbs, presumably sleeping children, weighted a hammock into a deep V shape, the inverse of the roofline. At the side of the house a scrambled garden grew, but the front was bare dirt, furnished only with the logs on which we perched. Mrs. Brown steadied the tin plate on her knee with a gloved hand, tweed skirt pulled around her knees, eyebrows sailing high, calf leather brogues set carefully together in the dust. Flowering riotously around her were a hundred or more orchids, planted in rusted lard tins. White, pink, yellow, the paired petals hung like butterflies above roots and leaves.

  My beauties, Maria called them, leaning forward to brush a speck of ash from her son's worn shirt, then gently boxing his good ear. "The only importance is beauty."

  The light here at the window is good, and the view is a satisfying distraction. The street stays busy at all hours, this apartment is only a short walk from the central plaza, the markets and old stone cathedral. It must be the oldest part of Merida, judging by its charm and conspicuous fortifications.