The Lacuna
Page 110
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Enclosed herein you will find two copies of the contract for your signature. Attached to last page please note the affidavit of anti-Communism, also for signature before a notary public. As you may know, this formality is now requisite in all moving-picture contracts, and is expected soon to be mandatory in publishing, so we are working to get the necessary papers on file.
I send greetings from my Miss Daley, who enjoys her chats with your Mrs. Brown. And cheers from Miss James in the mailing room who says your letters mount up there as always, fragrant with perfume, despite rumors of your engagement. Many will be gratified to know another of your books will soon be available.
Yours sincerely,
LINCOLN BARNES
May 4
Artie proposed breakfast at the Swiss Kitchen, one of his haunts. It seemed to be a tourist place, they had a giant sign out front with a boy in lederhosen (Food Worth Yodeling About!) and waitresses dressed as milkmaids. Artie, in his ancient cuffed trousers and faint old-man smell, was unembarrassed by any of it.
“What makes it Swiss food?” I asked, studying the menu.
“A lot of grease. Bratwurst, only here they are going to call it sausage. German food with a strict doctrine of neutrality.”
With Artie, irony carries the mailbag right to the door of nonchalance. Nothing seems to excite him. Short of a revelation that one has worked for Lev Trotsky. Through a haze of burning cigarettes he studied the new book contract. “These terms are basically good. I’m sorry about the anticommunism business.”
“I’ll sign it. I just hope they won’t ask me to disavow anything more difficult.”
“Such as?”
“Coffee with too much sugar. Mad irritation. Plotting murders I could never go through with. That sort of thing.”
“These crimes are very difficult to prosecute. Otherwise, all of us except Eleanor Roosevelt would be in the pokey.”
One of the waitresses in blond plaits was making her way toward us, a twin to the one who’d seated us at our window table. “The pokey,” I repeated.
“A technical legal term, meaning the hoosegow. You’re not much of one for American slang, are you? For a young man of words.”
“It has never come naturally to me, no. You must hear a lot of it in your business. Actors and musicians.”
“Oh yes. From those clients I hear ‘Artie, where is the cabbage?’ Clams, dough, moolah, many words for the one thing they don’t have these days.”
Our milkmaid slipped a pad and pencil from her apron pocket, then dropped the pencil. Deliberately, I could vouch. She knelt to retrieve it, all lowered lashes and ruffled décolletage, the cup runneth over. My stars, as Mrs. Brown would put it. Where do these precious creatures come from, is it Artie who draws them?
“Doll face, tell us your specials. And promise we will see your face again in thirty seconds when you return with coffee. Extra sugar for my friend.” Yes, it’s Artie.
“You have a manner of speaking,” he said when she had gone. “The first time we spoke on the phone, I heard it. Every word is perfect, but there is an accent. Like Gary Cooper. Not quite the regular apple pie.”
“They tell me the same thing in Mexico—my Spanish has a faint accent. I am the permanent foreigner.”
“Well, don’t cure it. Your way with words, I mean. We need the income.”
“It’s not my mother’s fault, she was an ace at slang. Flapper first-class. Today is her birthday, by the way. I always took her to lunch.”
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Shepherd. How old?”
“Forever young. She died in ’38.”
“Condolences. How did it happen?”
“A car accident in Mexico City. She was dating a news correspondent, they were racing to the airport to get a look at Howard Hughes.”
“Now that is going out with a bang. I mean no disrespect.”
“No, you’re right, she was all bang. In death as in life. I miss her.”
“Now, you mention plotting murders that you cannot find the heart to execute. Is this anything I ought to know about, as your legal representative?”
“Just the usual. Newspapermen. The rumors have upset my stenographer this spring. People are treating her badly. Even some of her friends have been callous.”
“Now that is a subject. Freedom of the presses to destroy a person’s life for no good reason.” He studied the menu with the same concentration he’d given the book contract, reading all the fine print. When he’d finished he closed it.
“Congratulations on the new book, by the way. As I said, these are excellent terms. A pretty penny. Now, let me ask you something, a little personal. But I ask in a professional capacity, as the guy whose job is to look out for you and promote the general welfare.”
“All right, fire away.”
“I know that Mrs. Brown is not your type, categorically speaking. You once mentioned I am one of a few who knows about this. The Selective Service being another. What I am asking, and I hope the answer is yes, isn’t there somebody else who knows?”
“Somebody. No, not for quite a while. An offer does seem to be on the table right now, but. It’s not very easy to discuss this, Artie.”
He held up a hand, took a sip of his coffee. “My intention is not to make you uncomfortable.”
“You’re concerned for my safety?”
“That you could be put at risk of, shall we say, exposure. Blackmail can arrive from unexpected quarters. I am not speaking in this case of Aware, Incorporated. I have had clients in your situation.”
“Oh. Well, no, I don’t think that’s a worry. This particular friend would have a great deal to lose. From exposure, as you say.”
“Not another Bolshevik? Never mind, pretend I didn’t ask.”
I laughed. “No, don’t worry, this one is all stars and stripes. We worked together in Civilian Services during the war, moving paintings into safe storage here from the National Gallery. There were quite a few of us in that corps, you’d be amazed. The art world may never be the same.”
“Really.”
“He’s working for a museum these days, in New York. Out of touch for years, and suddenly now he’s coming to town. It’s not easy to contemplate, I’ll tell you the truth. I’d settled pretty well on living as a monk.”
Artie waved away a cloud of smoke. “Yeah, me too. I would say, ‘Since my wife died,’ but under oath I would have to say since long before that. Who has the energy?”
I send greetings from my Miss Daley, who enjoys her chats with your Mrs. Brown. And cheers from Miss James in the mailing room who says your letters mount up there as always, fragrant with perfume, despite rumors of your engagement. Many will be gratified to know another of your books will soon be available.
Yours sincerely,
LINCOLN BARNES
May 4
Artie proposed breakfast at the Swiss Kitchen, one of his haunts. It seemed to be a tourist place, they had a giant sign out front with a boy in lederhosen (Food Worth Yodeling About!) and waitresses dressed as milkmaids. Artie, in his ancient cuffed trousers and faint old-man smell, was unembarrassed by any of it.
“What makes it Swiss food?” I asked, studying the menu.
“A lot of grease. Bratwurst, only here they are going to call it sausage. German food with a strict doctrine of neutrality.”
With Artie, irony carries the mailbag right to the door of nonchalance. Nothing seems to excite him. Short of a revelation that one has worked for Lev Trotsky. Through a haze of burning cigarettes he studied the new book contract. “These terms are basically good. I’m sorry about the anticommunism business.”
“I’ll sign it. I just hope they won’t ask me to disavow anything more difficult.”
“Such as?”
“Coffee with too much sugar. Mad irritation. Plotting murders I could never go through with. That sort of thing.”
“These crimes are very difficult to prosecute. Otherwise, all of us except Eleanor Roosevelt would be in the pokey.”
One of the waitresses in blond plaits was making her way toward us, a twin to the one who’d seated us at our window table. “The pokey,” I repeated.
“A technical legal term, meaning the hoosegow. You’re not much of one for American slang, are you? For a young man of words.”
“It has never come naturally to me, no. You must hear a lot of it in your business. Actors and musicians.”
“Oh yes. From those clients I hear ‘Artie, where is the cabbage?’ Clams, dough, moolah, many words for the one thing they don’t have these days.”
Our milkmaid slipped a pad and pencil from her apron pocket, then dropped the pencil. Deliberately, I could vouch. She knelt to retrieve it, all lowered lashes and ruffled décolletage, the cup runneth over. My stars, as Mrs. Brown would put it. Where do these precious creatures come from, is it Artie who draws them?
“Doll face, tell us your specials. And promise we will see your face again in thirty seconds when you return with coffee. Extra sugar for my friend.” Yes, it’s Artie.
“You have a manner of speaking,” he said when she had gone. “The first time we spoke on the phone, I heard it. Every word is perfect, but there is an accent. Like Gary Cooper. Not quite the regular apple pie.”
“They tell me the same thing in Mexico—my Spanish has a faint accent. I am the permanent foreigner.”
“Well, don’t cure it. Your way with words, I mean. We need the income.”
“It’s not my mother’s fault, she was an ace at slang. Flapper first-class. Today is her birthday, by the way. I always took her to lunch.”
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Shepherd. How old?”
“Forever young. She died in ’38.”
“Condolences. How did it happen?”
“A car accident in Mexico City. She was dating a news correspondent, they were racing to the airport to get a look at Howard Hughes.”
“Now that is going out with a bang. I mean no disrespect.”
“No, you’re right, she was all bang. In death as in life. I miss her.”
“Now, you mention plotting murders that you cannot find the heart to execute. Is this anything I ought to know about, as your legal representative?”
“Just the usual. Newspapermen. The rumors have upset my stenographer this spring. People are treating her badly. Even some of her friends have been callous.”
“Now that is a subject. Freedom of the presses to destroy a person’s life for no good reason.” He studied the menu with the same concentration he’d given the book contract, reading all the fine print. When he’d finished he closed it.
“Congratulations on the new book, by the way. As I said, these are excellent terms. A pretty penny. Now, let me ask you something, a little personal. But I ask in a professional capacity, as the guy whose job is to look out for you and promote the general welfare.”
“All right, fire away.”
“I know that Mrs. Brown is not your type, categorically speaking. You once mentioned I am one of a few who knows about this. The Selective Service being another. What I am asking, and I hope the answer is yes, isn’t there somebody else who knows?”
“Somebody. No, not for quite a while. An offer does seem to be on the table right now, but. It’s not very easy to discuss this, Artie.”
He held up a hand, took a sip of his coffee. “My intention is not to make you uncomfortable.”
“You’re concerned for my safety?”
“That you could be put at risk of, shall we say, exposure. Blackmail can arrive from unexpected quarters. I am not speaking in this case of Aware, Incorporated. I have had clients in your situation.”
“Oh. Well, no, I don’t think that’s a worry. This particular friend would have a great deal to lose. From exposure, as you say.”
“Not another Bolshevik? Never mind, pretend I didn’t ask.”
I laughed. “No, don’t worry, this one is all stars and stripes. We worked together in Civilian Services during the war, moving paintings into safe storage here from the National Gallery. There were quite a few of us in that corps, you’d be amazed. The art world may never be the same.”
“Really.”
“He’s working for a museum these days, in New York. Out of touch for years, and suddenly now he’s coming to town. It’s not easy to contemplate, I’ll tell you the truth. I’d settled pretty well on living as a monk.”
Artie waved away a cloud of smoke. “Yeah, me too. I would say, ‘Since my wife died,’ but under oath I would have to say since long before that. Who has the energy?”
