Cast in Doubt Read online

  This discussion took place the afternoon of the day after I read Helen’s diary. Gwen was as full as ever, full of news and noise, and wit and all the stuff of Gwen that made her so inimitably her. I was terribly happy to be in her presence once more. How important a true friend is! I provided her with an abbreviated account of my night with the Gypsies. Had I related too many details—I did not give the specifics of my fortune, for example—she would have known about my infatuation with Roman. I was rather humiliated, at my age, for having fallen in love like a schoolboy. It was my belief then that that ought not happen. I was in no mood for her teasing me about him.

  Gwen was not as shocked as I thought she’d be by my theft of the diary. Rather she seemed to have expected it of me. Perhaps I ought to have been insulted but I was too surprised. I do not know how she knew me capable of this to this day. She contrived some linguistic play about criminal and critical that I thought clever.

  Without much elaboration and in as cursory a manner as possible, I described the diary’s contents. She didn’t seem much interested—Gwen thought Helen typical—but I didn’t want Gwen to be too interested. It was incumbent upon me not to show her the diary; I told myself that more eyes would only double the crime and doubly incriminate me. Inchoately I sensed that it would in some odd way expose me as well. While I sensed that, I didn’t actually know it. It was not a coherent thought. In any case I knew I didn’t want Gwen to see the diary.

  I did not tell her that I was disappointed in it and in Helen. I could not admit that to her, then. Instead, I complained only of its lack of precision and that Helen was no precisian. Gwen laughed and renamed me Granddad the Grammarian.

  What pleasure Gwen derived in annotating the torrid and tawdry details of her short-lived affair with John. They had had another night of pain and pleasure, as she put it, culminating in a shouting match. But things took a much more extreme turn the day after their ultimate and “second” last night together (a night which she had insisted she would never have again!). The change affected all—Alicia, John, Gwen, the town. Unbeknownst to anyone, John had met, when he first arrived, a young Greek woman, a widow, and had fallen in love with her; it had been a secret from all of us. Within a day of my departure, John had vanished. Soon it was determined that he had moved in with the young widow. It was of course a scandal in the town—Nectaria and Chrissoula were enflamed—one that heaped instant infamy upon the two lovers. This episode brought Gwen and Alicia together, somewhat, and they had, in my short absence, many drinks and some laughs over it or him. As is her wont, Gwen laughed about it more than Alicia, and to me had fun with the idea that Homo erectus, the one who stands, preceded Homo sapiens, the one who knows. Alicia rued the day she ever let John into her house. Gwen jettisoned the affair and him with, C’est la vie, I’amour toufours, c’est la guerre, all delivered in one great rush of breath.

  For Gwen’s sake, though she protested she didn’t want one, unless she could cry at it, I held a party in her honor. Everyone attended. Yannis returned home, to me, a night or two before the grand event, but with a difference that I could not fathom. As I was any minute expecting Roman to appear, I took Yannis’ alienation in stride. He helped me shop and cook, and just to spite Gwen I served more food than anyone could eat. I hasten to add, there were leftovers.

  On the night of the party, at eight, the entire cast of characters began arriving, with the exception of Stephen the Hermit, whom I had not invited, and knew to be, though the others didn’t, on the other side of Crete. Alicia was resplendent in a pea-green sari. Wallace and his Dutch lover, Brechje, brought fruit and bread; I assumed they thought they would not be fed. Several uninvited but nonetheless welcome visitors—friends of Wallace’s—were in tow. Roger entered wearing a tuxedo, which he might have rented. My banker Nicos and his wife, Sultana, came; Lefteris, the electrician, and his wife, whose name I cannot for the life of me recall; an intellectual German couple who had moved into the hotel, and Necaria, Chrissoula and Christos. Later, even John and the young Greek widow, Ariadne, made an entry, shocking the Greeks in the room, annoying Alicia and amusing Gwen. There was Yannis, of course, as well as a few of the young boys who hung about town and turned up like stray dogs, decorating the walls against which they stood rather like ornaments. They spoke to no one but each other. There were assorted others. It was my estimate that, over the course of the evening, at least forty people stopped by.

  They all wanted to meet Gwen if they hadn’t already. I wanted it to be a marvelous night for her, as it was to be her send-off. Soon she would return to Manhattan, to what I did not know. The wine and ouzo were flowing freely, and the party, I believed, was immediately off to a great start. I knew it would be a hit, for it had to be—it had to be a howling success for Gwen. It was just what the doctor ordered, for me as well. I wished to forget the events of the last days, even months, and to forget especially my theft and reading of Helen’s diary.

  Fortunately Wallace was at his best; he even wore his pith helmet. His friends were most entertaining. Among them was young woman named Annabelle, who had been in a Warhol movie, she said. Immediately she attached herself to one of the Greek boys and later spirited him away. They were an international contingent, Wallace and his pals—South African, French, Italian, American, and Dutch, of course. I could not speak with everyone and certainly not at length.

  I was, though, a participant in one invigorating and vehement discussion. Gwen led the way, engaging Wallace and Brechje in the topics of art and expatriatism, which permitted Wallace to beat a favorite drum—Pound and Eliot. He regaled us with several short anecdotes, some of which I had already heard. There was the one about Édouard Roditi, a French, Sephardic-Jewish and homosexual poet, who was friends with T.S. Eliot. Wallace reported that after Eliot told Roditi he would allow Pound to edit The Waste Land, Roditi declared: “No, Tom, no. Tom, don’t do it!” Wallace gossiped that Roditi claimed to have made love with Lorca in 1929, in Spain. Where Wallace got his information, I did not know.

  To incite or defy Wallace, and perhaps me, Gwen argued that the expatriate and the avant-garde, birthed together, had expired together. Fini, she announced. The moment has passed. The avant-garde is dead! While I was used to Gwen and her comedies, her barbed ironies, Wallace was not; I thought he would have a fit. Gwen was thoroughly enjoying her provocative self. I poured everyone a stiff drink and muttered something about the vagaries of history, to soothe Wallace.

  At this point, I think it was, we moved or traveled—there is a way in which talk is a journey—from history and death to Freud’s concept of the unconscious. It was Gwen again who led us, or lured us, in that direction. But the moment the word “unconscious” rolled off Gwen’s tongue, Roger bounded over. Hearing it, he leapt into the fray and went on about how it—psychoanalysis—was preposterous, wrong as theory and ridiculous in practice. He offered, as backup and defense, Gertrude Stein’s rejection of the unconscious, or subconscious. I acknowledged that Stein had written “I never had a subconscious thought.” To Gwen this was absurd, and I attempted to defend Stein, as did Roger, in his overheated way. But I did not like to find myself in agreement with Roger. He was usually wrong. Why had Gertrude rejected it so absolutely? I had never thought about it, but that is what Gwen’s interrogation—what is at stake?—drove me to, later. I mentioned Stein’s having also written, “I am I because my little dog knows me,” which is so charming and wonderful a way of thinking about the self that all of us could appreciate it. I was also reminded, in a vague fashion, of Helen’s missing her dog. Wallace was more or less mute on the subject of the unconscious, still stung, no doubt, by Gwen’s earlier remarks.

  Everyone and everything flew off in a hundred directions. A good host, I went about being sociable, filling people’s glasses and attending to their needs.

  Later I overheard Gwen, Wallace and Roger. They were laughing. Wallace was roaring like a lion. Then Gwen proclaimed: All we need is two more people to make a Fifth Column. Roger, w
ho is vehemently anticommunist, took exception and stormed off to another part of the room. He found Alicia and danced with her. At least I think that was the sequence. Were he a CIA agent, he would not have bounded off.

  Wallace fell to his knees, at Gwen’s feet, and recited a poem against apartheid—for her primarily and to anyone who was in earshot. He delivered it well, considering his condition, and I was impressed with the depth of his political passion. I liked him for it; perhaps Gwen did too, though she appeared more bemused than anything else. It was a better-than-passable poem. Minutes after, Wallace poured wine into his shoe and drank from it. It rather spoiled the poem for me, but Gwen didn’t seem to mind. It is sometimes difficult for me to separate the person from the poem.

  I strolled off to another part of the room. I observed that Alicia was merely tolerating Roger. She is capable of great tolerance. She can yawn in one’s face and nearly suppress it; to appear that she is not yawning, she covers her mouth with a handkerchief and gazes at one, as if engrossed in what one is saying. Finally Alicia excused herself from Roger’s grip, graciously, I was sure, and went to sit on the couch with John and Ariadne—the very one I had sat upon with John. I was unable to hear what transpired among them. I supposed that Alicia had decided to take the high road.

  My attention was, in any case, suddenly directed to Roger, who ambled over, in that mincing way of his, to Yannis. Yannis was seated on a windowsill; he was scowling. Roger whispered in Yannis’ ear. I watched, with aggravation more than jealousy. The two kissed—it was by then quite late in the night. With astonishment I watched Yannis grab his jacket. Roger glanced my way. The two summarily departed, together. I was momentarily stunned. I felt helpless, agitated and aggrieved. I had not wanted to be left by Yannis and certainly not for that snake-in-the-grass Roger. I did not want ever again in my life to be the one who was left.

  Roger always takes my castoffs, I repeated to myself, and hoped that a miracle would happen: Roman would walk through the door. Instead, Alicia came to my side and said calmly, Oh well, Horace, dear, we can handle these things, can’t we? She stated this as a matter of fact and with great delicacy. It hit just the right note. I thanked her for her kindness, and even though I was drunk, I curtsied as if before royalty, cognizant once again of our Queen Bee.

  Dear Alicia, who had not sung in public in many years, the dear woman performed, I like to think, as a gift for me. She moved to the center of the room and rapped her wineglass with a fork, to call us to attention. She announced she would sing an aria from La Bohéme. Everything and everyone halted. There was quiet, even from Wallace’s boisterous quarter.

  In Alicia’s voice was such poetry, such beauty, that ancient spirits and memories overtook me, and constraint fled. The music of the gods! I closed my eyes. I dwelled on the heartbreak of Mimi’s death, on the despair brought by sickness, on succumbing to tragedy, on loss, on love. I felt an unimaginable sadness for the world, for everyone who had ever been abandoned and who had been lost, for everyone who had loved and who had lost, and that gathered us all in, all. I opened my eyes and with them swept the room slowly, and I saw before me people I’d known for years. And even Wallace, who can be so annoying, even he and his pain, his foolish and profound anguish, touched me.

  There were tears in my eyes. There were tears in Gwen’s eyes. I had never before seen Gwen cry. For what or for whom did she cry? The sick musician who ate peanut-butter sandwiches at 4 A.M. and left her alone in her apartment? For her unwritten torments? For the problems of her race? Were we crying for the same things? Surely her flippant wish—to cry at her party—had come true, but how sorry I was. Still, sometimes it is healthy to cry. I believe that to be true. I had lost Yannis, I had lost Helen, and many more, and Alicia had lost John and others, and some had lost us. Gwen—ah Gwen—Gwen always expected to lose.

  Alicia finished singing. We were ravished, rapt, silent. Then we applauded and cheered. Wallace threw kisses and he and his crowd clamored, Brava, brava! Gwen rushed to Alicia and kissed her hands. I will never forget that sight. It was so very unexpected. But in so many ways Gwen is and was unpredictable. In response, Alicia held Gwen’s face in her hands and looked deeply into Gwen’s eyes. From that moment on they were true friends. It happened like that. It does sometimes happen like that. And so what seemed to have been terribly sad at the time metamorphosed into something rather happy.

  Two days later Gwen flew home. My life returned to normal, dominated by my usual routine. I finished my crime book—Stan Green does indeed crack the code in the young murderer’s diary and simultaneously cracks the case. It was the easiest way to handle it; and it worked, I thought. I was conscious that I had not cracked Helen’s diary, but then it was not in code. I held that it was poetic justice and artistic license that my protagonist would do so in my book. My publisher was satisfied, in any case, and that was what mattered.

  Roman did not come to stay or even to visit me. I kept expecting him and then one day I no longer expected him. Who knows what happened to him after I left the encampment? Perhaps the old woman warned him against trailing after a gadjo like me. Yannis lived with Roger for a time. Their fights were monumental; sometimes both stayed home and out of sight because of the shiners they’d given each other. Yannis drifted away from him as well. Roger continued to work on his second novel, which still has not appeared. Wallace had another nervous breakdown. Stephen the Hermit returned but said not a word to me about our morning on the beach. I worried he would and fantasized that he’d accuse me of the theft. But he never did. John left the Greek widow Ariadne two years ago and disappeared; she abandoned Crete for Athens, seeking a better life, one not sullied by rumor and insinuation.

  Alicia is still in her lovely home, surrounded by beauty, as nimble and unflappable as ever. She maintains it is the yoga. I continue to refuse to do it, though. Recently she met a Danish woman, a retired biologist, and they are now living together. I am happy for Alicia. As usual, Roger has nothing good to say on the subject.

  Over the years, and with greater and greater infrequency, I remembered Helen. Once, carefully tracing the trajectory of my feelings, I discovered that my initial reaction to her diary was similar to my reaction to an attenuated affair of the heart in my sophomore year in college. I had had a crush on an upperclassman named Allan, who was to me rapture itself—he was the perfect man. In my eyes he was everything I wasn’t. I joined his club, I signed up for his classes and then finally I conquered my fears and spoke to him, my hero. Boldly I proposed a date with him, for lunch at a lovely French restaurant, which he accepted. I dressed with such care and eagerness one would have thought I had an audience with the Pope. But the truth was, he was insipid—beautiful, but insipid. He had nothing to offer except his good looks, which taught me rather early that sometimes beauty is wasted on the beautiful. Yet I have never deserted the pursuit of, and fascination with, beauty.

  I decided that Helen too was insipid and uninspired. That I had drawn inspiration from her became a disturbance to me, not unlike the occasional static on my shortwave radio. On Sundays it is my habit to listen to the BBC World Service.

  Chapter 19

  Not long ago, a letter arrived from Gwen. I awoke to see it sticking out from under the door, its airmail envelope beckoning to me. Nectaria had brought it upstairs and pushed it beneath my door, which she does from time to time when she thinks something’s important. By now, she recognized Gwen’s handwriting; and too, Nectaria liked Gwen. Gwen made her laugh. I hoped for one of Gwen’s long, newsy, gossipy epistles.

  25 November 1980

  Dear Lulu,

  Owing to a series of disasters, details of which I will not bore you with at this time, I have had to change my address and telephone number.

  She then provided both. Next to the telephone number was the word UNLISTED.

  I beseech you not to give these out to anybody—anybody at all—no matter how innocent—sounding the request (and this goes for the likes of…)

  He
re she enumerated the names of people we both knew and to whom I thought her very close and attached.

  Everybody, in fact. I will tell you more when next we speak or see each other.

  Love to you,

  G

  The letter, its brevity, its absoluteness, the disasters she alluded to—all were greatly troubling. The letter was paranoid enough that I became thoroughly and irrevocably alarmed. I had been, for many years, expecting that Gwen would meet with doom—an accident or fatal trouble. Immediately I telephoned my travel agent, closed up my apartment, and gave instructions to Nectaria. The next day I was on a plane to Athens. From there I flew to New York City, where I stayed for two months.

  Gwen was not at all surprised to see me and acted as if it was quite in keeping with me to show up unannounced on her doorstep, so to speak. This was of a piece with Gwen, not to be surprised. We caught up. We covered our lives and gossiped about everything that had happened since we had last seen each other, five years ago. For it had been that long—or short. I hadn’t had Chinese food in many years and she invited me to dine at her favorite restaurant. This is where Gwen sagaciously announced, Sometimes history chooses for us and we are at its mercy.

  In the course of that evening I explained to Gwen that I had reached the point in my life—I am nearly seventy—when I ask myself, How could I have done things differently? Could I have? I am not without regret though I am not filled with remorse either. It would be impossible to imagine a life that did not contain some regrets. My concern was: Was there a task with which I had been entrusted that I had not fulfilled? I felt relieved that Gwen was present to listen to me and to hear my plaints.