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Meanwhile, Fleming was after him, Fleming was desperate to apologize, Fleming was bending over backward to make up for the night of the money and the tears, and for many days after that night he called Vivian’s apartment at least once a day to talk to Ferguson, but when Celestine slipped the messages under the door of Ferguson’s room, Ferguson would tear them up and not call back. Two straight weeks of unanswered calls, and then the calls stopped and the letters and notes began. Please, Archie, let me prove to you that I’m not the person you think I am. Please, Archie, allow me to be your friend. Please, Archie, I’ve met so many interesting students here in Paris, and I would love to introduce them to you so you can begin making friends with people your own age. Three straight weeks of two or three letters a week, all of them unanswered, all of them torn up and thrown away, and then, finally, the letters stopped as well. Ferguson prayed that was the end of it, but there was always the possibility he would run into Fleming at another dinner somewhere or accidentally bump into him on the street, and therefore the story wouldn’t be officially over until Fleming went back to America in August, which was still months away.
The nights continued to be gruesome, with no bed partner or kissing mate of either sex to pull him out of his isolation, but better to be alone with no one to touch than to be touched by a man like Fleming, he said to himself, even if it wasn’t Fleming’s fault for being who he was, and then Ferguson would switch off the light, lower his head onto the pillow, and lie in the dark remembering.
* * *
THE INDUSTRIOUS AND efficient PTT, which did the same work in France that was divided among three entities in America (the U.S. Post Office, Western Union, and Ma Bell), saw to it that the mail was delivered twice a day, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, and because Ferguson’s address was the same as Vivian’s address, his letters and packages made their initial landing in the downstairs apartment. Once they arrived, the good Celestine would carry them upstairs, slipping the letters under the door of Ferguson’s room or knocking on the door to hand him the things that were too large to fit through that narrow space—his American film magazines, for example, or the books Gil and Amy occasionally sent him. At ten past nine on the morning of April eleventh, as Ferguson sat in his room reading Calderón de la Barca’s Life Is a Dream (La Vida es Sueño), he heard the familiar light tread of Celestine’s feet on the stairs, then the creaking floorboards in the corridor as she approached his room, and a moment later a slim white envelope was lying on the floor just inches from his feet. British postage. A business envelope with a printed return address in the upper left-hand corner that read: Io Books. Fully expecting bad news, Ferguson bent down, picked up the letter, and then delayed opening it for six or seven minutes, long enough to begin asking himself why he was so scared of something he had already told himself didn’t matter.
It took another thirty or forty seconds for him to understand that the bad news he had been expecting was in fact good news, that for an advance of four hundred pounds against royalties it was Io’s enthusiastic intention to publish How Laurel and Hardy Saved My Life sometime in March or April of the following year, but not even the affirmative response from Aubrey Hull could convince him that anyone would truly want to accept his book, so Ferguson concocted a story to explain the letter by silently accusing Vivian of having put up the money to pay for the publication herself, no doubt buying off Hull in one of those sinister backroom deals that had included writing another check for many thousands of pounds to pay for more Io Books in the future. Not once since he had moved to Paris had he ever been angry at Vivian, not once had he ever spoken a harsh word to her or suspected her of being anything less than honest and kind, but this was taking kindness too far, he said to himself, this was turning kindness into a form of humiliation, and on top of that it was deeply and revoltingly dishonest.
By nine-thirty, he was downstairs in Vivian’s apartment, thrusting Hull’s letter at her and demanding that she own up to what she had done. Vivian had never seen Ferguson in such a foul temper. The young man was beside himself, fuming with outrageous, paranoiac visions of devious plots and vile deceptions, and as Vivian later told him, only two possible reactions occurred to her as she stood there watching him fall apart: either slap him across the face or laugh. She chose to laugh. Laughter was the slower of the two solutions, but within ten minutes she had managed to persuade the proud, overly sensitive, pathologically self-doubting Ferguson that she had played no role in the acceptance of his book and had not sent Hull a farthing, a sou, or a single red dime.
Believe in yourself, Archie, she said. Show some swagger. And for God’s sake, don’t ever accuse me of anything like that again.
Ferguson promised he wouldn’t. He felt so ashamed of himself, he said, so mortified by his inexcusable tantrum, and the worst part of it was that he had no idea what had gotten into him. Crazy, that’s what it was, pure craziness, and if it ever happened again, she should forget about laughing and slap him across the face.
Vivian accepted his apology. They made up. The storm had passed, and a short time later they even went into the kitchen together to celebrate the good news by having a second breakfast of mimosas and little crackers topped with caviar, but good as Ferguson was beginning to feel about the good news in Hull’s letter, his mad outburst continued to trouble him, and he wondered if that scene with Vivian wasn’t an early warning sign of an eventual crack-up.
For the first time in his life, he was beginning to feel a little afraid of himself.
* * *
ON THE FIFTEENTH, a second letter arrived from Hull announcing that he would be coming to Paris on Tuesday the nineteenth. The Io man apologized for being so terribly last-minute about the trip, but if Ferguson happened to be unengaged that afternoon, he would welcome the chance to meet him. He suggested a twelve-thirty lunch at Fouquet’s, where they could discuss plans for the book, and if the conversation needed to be extended beyond lunch, his hotel was right around the corner off the Champs-Élysées, and they could pop over there and continue. One way or the other, Ferguson could accept or decline by leaving word with the concierge at the George V. All good wishes, etc.
Based on what Vivian had learned from her friend Norma Stiles, whose knowledge was based on what she had learned from her co-worker Geoffrey Burnham, what Ferguson knew about Aubrey Hull was limited to these facts: thirty years old, married to a woman named Fiona and the father of two small children (ages four and one), a graduate of Oxford’s Balliol College (where he had met Burnham), the son of a wealthy chocolate and biscuit manufacturer, a quasi–black sheep (a gray sheep?) who liked to travel in artistic circles and had a good nose for literature, a serious publisher but also known as a party person and a bit of an eccentric.
The vagueness of that portrait led Ferguson to imagine Hull as one of those pompous British gentlemen who showed up frequently in American films, the snide and snooty fellow with a ruddy face and a penchant for mocking, under-the-breath remarks that were supposed to be amusing but never were. Perhaps Ferguson had been watching too many films, or perhaps his instinctive fear of the unknown had taught him to expect the worst in all new situations, but the truth was that not only did Aubrey Hull not have a ruddy face or a snide disposition, he turned out to be one of the most affectionate and lovable human beings Ferguson had ever run across in his travels through life.
So small, so much a miniaturized sort of man, just five foot three and every one of his features miniaturized in proportion as well: small head, small face, small hands, small mouth, small arms and legs. Bright blue eyes. The creamy-white complexion of a person who lived in a sunless, rain-soaked country, and a crown of curly hair that fell somewhere between red and blond on the spectrum, the shade of hair Ferguson had once heard someone call ginger. At a loss for words when they shook hands and sat down for lunch at Fouquet’s on the afternoon of the nineteenth, Ferguson forced himself to try to make conversation by witlessly telling Hull that he was the first person he had
ever met with the name Aubrey. Hull smiled and asked Ferguson if he knew what the name meant. No, Ferguson said, he had no idea. The ruler of the elves, Hull said, and so comical and unexpected was that answer to Ferguson that he had to struggle to push back the laugh that was gathering in his lungs, a laugh that could have been misconstrued as an insult, he realized, and why would he risk insulting the man who had accepted his book within the first two minutes of their first meeting? But still—how apt it was, how perfectly fitting that this little man should be the ruler of the elves! It was as if the gods had walked into Aubrey’s house the night before he was born and had instructed his parents on the name they should give their child, and now that Ferguson’s head was filing up with images of elves and gods, he looked at his publisher’s small, handsome face and wondered if he wasn’t sitting in the presence of a mythical being.
Until that day, Ferguson had known nothing about how publishing houses operated or what they did to promote their books. Other than designing and printing them, he had assumed the principal job was to get them reviewed in as many newspapers and magazines as possible. If the reviews were good, the book was a hit. If the reviews were bad, the book was a flop. Now Aubrey was telling him that the reviews were only one element in the process, and as the ruler of the elves elaborated on what some of the other elements were, Ferguson grew more and more interested, more and more amazed by what would be happening to him when his book was published. A trip to London for one thing. Interviews with the daily and weekly press, interviews with reporters from the BBC, perhaps even an appearance on live telly. An evening event at a small theater, where Ferguson would read passages from his book to the audience and then sit down for a conversation about the book with a sympathetic journalist or fellow writer. And—still to be worked out, but what a pleasant prospect if it did work out—a Laurel and Hardy night at the NFT or some other cinema with Ferguson on stage to introduce the films.
Ferguson in the limelight. Ferguson with his picture in the paper. Ferguson with his voice on the radio. Ferguson onstage reading to a hushed crowd of devoted fans.
How could anyone not want that?
The point is, Aubrey was saying, your book is so damned good that it deserves the whole bloody treatment. No one is supposed to write books at nineteen. It just isn’t heard of, and my bet is that people are going to be fucking bowled over by it, just as I was, just as Fiona was, just as everyone on my staff was.
Let’s hope so, Ferguson said, trying to keep a lid on his excitement so as not to get carried away by Aubrey’s words and end up making a fool of himself. But how good he was beginning to feel now. Doors were opening. One by one, Aubrey was opening doors for him, and one by one there would be new rooms for him to enter, and the thought of what he would find in those rooms filled him with happiness—more happiness than he had felt in months.
I don’t want to exaggerate, Aubrey said (probably meaning that he did), but even if you dropped dead tomorrow, How Laurel and Hardy Saved My Life would live on forever.
What a strange sentence, Ferguson replied. It could be the strangest sentence I’ve ever heard.
Yes, it was rather odd, wasn’t it?
First I’m dropping dead, then I’m saving my life, and then I’m living on forever, even though I’m supposed to be dead.
Very odd indeed. But delivered from the heart and meant as a sincere compliment.
They looked at each other and laughed. Something was beginning to rise to the surface, something strong enough to make Ferguson suspect that Aubrey was coming on to him, that his jolly, ginger-headed lunch companion was the same kind of two-way person he was and had been down this road many times before. He wondered if Aubrey’s dick was as small as the rest of him, and then, starting to think about his own dick, he asked himself if he would ever have a chance to find out.
You see, Archie, Aubrey continued, I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a person apart from most other people, a special person. I sensed that when I read your manuscript, but now that I’ve met you face to face, I’m convinced of it. You’re your own man, and because of that you’re a thrilling person to be with, but also because of that you’re never going to fit in anywhere, which is a good thing, I believe, since you’ll be able to go on being your own man, and a man who is his own man is a better man than most men, even if he doesn’t fit in.
Actually, Ferguson said, putting forth his best and biggest smile as he plunged into the seduction game Aubrey seemed to have started, I try to fit it in wherever I can … with whomever I can.
Aubrey grinned back at him after that obscene retort, heartened to know that Ferguson understood every nuance of the situation. That’s what I mean, he said. You’re open to all experiences.
Yes, Ferguson replied, very open. To one and all.
One and all in this case meant the one who was sitting across from him in the posh and pleasingly clamorous Fouquet’s, the thoroughly engaging Aubrey Hull, a man who had dropped out of nowhere and was going to do everything in his power to transform Ferguson’s life by turning his book into a success, the charming and flirtatious Aubrey Hull, a most desirable and intoxicating sort of man whose pretty little mouth Ferguson so urgently wanted to kiss, and then, after Aubrey had thrown back another glass or two of wine, the supposed eccentric started calling Ferguson a bonny boy and a lovely lad, a good lad, a fine lad, which wasn’t eccentric so much as endearing and arousing, and by the time they finished their lunch it was all out in the open, with no more mysteries to ponder or questions to be asked.
Ferguson sat down on the bed in the fifth-floor room of the Hôtel George V and watched Aubrey take off his suit jacket and tie. It had been so long since he had been with anyone he cared about, so long since anyone had touched him or had wanted to touch him without first talking about money that when the ruler of the elves walked over to the bed, climbed into his lap, and put his arms around Ferguson’s fully clothed torso, Ferguson shivered. Then he was kissing the pretty little mouth and shuddering up and down the entire length of his body, and as their tongues met and the embrace tightened, Ferguson remembered the words he had said to himself years earlier while riding on the bus to Boston to see his beloved Jim: the gates of heaven. Yes, that was how it felt to him now, and after the rooms he had visited in his mind during lunch, the rooms he had walked into as Aubrey had stood there opening one door after another for him, now another door was opening and he and Aubrey were walking into the room together. Earthbound men. A bed in a Paris hotel named after an English king. An Englishman and an American on that bed in their bare, earthbound flesh. Au-delà. The French word for the hereafter. The next world breathing inside them in the here and now of this one.
The dick was as small as he had imagined it would be, but as with all the rest of Aubrey, it was fit to the proportions of his miniaturized frame and was no less pretty than his pretty little mouth or any other part of him. The important thing was that Aubrey knew what to do with what he had. At thirty, he was far more experienced in bed and body matters than the boys Ferguson had slept with in the past, and because he was a companionable lover with no odd or unsavory inclinations and no guilt about his passion for fucking and being fucked by boys, he was at once more subtle and more aggressive than Andy Cohen and Brian Mischevski had been, at once more confident in himself and more generous, a darling person who enjoyed doing it as much as he enjoyed having it done to him, and the hours he spent with Ferguson that afternoon and evening were surely the best and most satisfying hours of Ferguson’s life in Paris so far. One week earlier, Ferguson had feared he was heading for a crack-up. Now his brain was bulging with a thousand new thoughts, and his body was at rest.
* * *
TEN DAYS AFTER traveling to the next world in the arms of his English publisher, Ferguson put his arms around his mother and asked her to forgive him. She and Gil had just landed in Paris. The New York Herald Tribune had shut down and died on April twenty-fourth, and with Gil temporarily unemployed until the fall, when he
would begin his new career as a professor at the Mannes College of Music, Ferguson’s mother and stepfather had decided to go on the honeymoon they still hadn’t taken after six and a half years of marriage. One week in Paris to start with. Then Amsterdam, Florence, Rome, and West Berlin, which Gil had last seen six months after the end of the war in late 1945. They were planning to spend their time looking at Dutch and Italian art, and then Gil would show Ferguson’s mother the places where he had lived as a boy.
Ferguson had finished typing the three copies of his book on March ninth. One copy was now sitting on the top shelf of the bookcase in his room in Paris, another copy was sitting on Aubrey’s desk in London, and the third had been sent to his parents’ apartment on Riverside Drive in New York. Two weeks after the manuscript had made its way across the ocean, Ferguson had received a letter from Gil. That was normal, since his mother wasn’t much of a letter writer and nine-tenths of the correspondence he sent to the two of them jointly was answered solely by Gil, sometimes with a short P.S. from his mother at the end (I miss you so much, Archie! or A thousand kisses from your Ma!) and sometimes not. The early paragraphs of Gil’s letter had been full of positive comments about the book and the outstanding job he had done in balancing the emotional content of the story with the physical and phenomenological data and how impressed he was by Ferguson’s rapid growth and improvement as a writer. By the fourth paragraph, however, the tone of the letter had begun to change. But dear Archie, Gil had written, you must realize how profoundly the book has upset your mother and how difficult it was for her to read it. Of course, reliving such hard days from the past would be difficult for anyone, and I don’t fault you for having made her cry (I shed some tears myself), but there were a few spots where you might have been a bit too honest, I’m afraid, and she was stunned by the intimacy of the details you revealed about her. In looking over the manuscript again, I would say that the most offensive passage falls on pp. 46–47, in the middle of the section about the grim summer the two of you spent at the Jersey shore, locked in that little house together watching television from early in the morning to late at night and hardly ever setting foot on the beach. Just to refresh your memory: “My mother had always smoked, but now she smoked without interruption, consuming four and five packs of Chesterfields per day, rarely bothering to use matches or lighters anymore because it was simpler and more efficient to light the next cigarette with the burning tip of the last one. As far as I knew, she had seldom drunk alcohol in the past, but now she drank six and seven shot glasses of straight vodka every evening, and by the time she put me to bed at night her voice would be slurred and her eyelids would be half-closed over eyes that could no longer bear to look at the world. My father had been dead for eight months by then, and every night that summer I would climb under the warm and rumpled top sheet of my bed and pray that my mother would still be alive in the morning.” This is rough stuff, Archie. Perhaps you should consider cutting it out of the final version or at least modifying it to some degree—to spare your mother the pain of having that wretched interval of her life exposed to public view. Stop and think about it for a moment, and you’ll understand why I’m asking you to do this … Then came the final paragraph: The good news is that the Trib is about to croak, and I’ll soon be out of a job. Once that happens, your mother and I will be off to Europe—most likely by the end of April. We can talk about it then.