Then, from a copy of busybody Paris-Match, I learned of my father’s
remarriage and, incidentally, that his career as diplomat had been abruptly
terminated by the colorful way he had conducted the nondiplomatic side of his
life.
This news was soon after followed by my father himself who paid me a
rare visit at school, his bride, Olivia, splendidly befurred and deliciously
perfumed, on his arm. Since the lady wasn’t wearing a bikini it took me a
while to realize that here was the nubile British beauty from the News of the
World, and once I did realize it I found myself terribly embarrassed by the
whole situation, speechless to the point of appearing hostile to the fair
creature.
Caught hell for it too when Olivia went off to the ladies’ room and I was
pinned down alone by my father. What emerged was his conviction that my
11
mother had set about poisoning my mind against him, and he didn’t intend to
stand for that kind of nonsense. No use trying to tell him that in her last note my
mother had specifically charged me to always be properly respectful of her
former spouse. Always, darling. After all, as your n. father he deserves that
much from you.
And certainly no use telling him that when, in bewilderment, I had asked
her over the phone what an n. father was, she had informed me that of course it
meant my natural father, the one who had helped bring about my entrance into
the world.
Back to J’m’en-fichisme with a vengeance. Say “Yes, sir” and “No, sir”
to my n. father, try to make conversation with his new wife, gratefully wave
good-by when they departed. And then turn to the sardonic and sympathetic
Monsieur le Comte de Liasse for some urgently needed spine-stiffening.
Above all, recognize that if I had any goal in life after this, it was to stay
as far away as possible from any parents who might lay claim to me, n. or
otherwise.
No luck in that department.
At the early summer break between terms when I had expected to be
basking on the deck of the Carrie H. in the Gulf Stream I was firmly ordered
by my mother to report to her in Rome, and for all the foot-dragging I did that
was where I wound up. Once more or less settled down as houseguest to Mr.
and Mrs. Periniades in their apartment in the Parioli district, I could only
wonder why they wanted me here. My host was polite and no more, and my
hostess, after a spell of nervous, overeager chatter about my life at school,
quickly reverted to her old sweetly forgetful self.
What saved it from being a wholly dismal two weeks were the
neighbors in the adjoining apartment, Signore and Signora Cavalcanti,
transplanted Florentines and now evidently dear friends of the Periniades,
who had two offspring near my age, Umberto about a year older and Bianca
about a year younger than I. Now my days were full of soccer practice in the
park with Umberto and Bianca, swimming parties at Ostia, movies in the
Piazza Barberini, and always, as a late-afternoon climax to events, a visit to a
place in Piazza Navona called Tre Scalini where we stuffed ourselves with
ice cream and assorted pastries.
12
Along the way I made my first conquest. I wasn’t aware of it at the
beginning, but then I took notice that Bianca, who usually walked between us
holding Umberto’s hand, after a while was holding my hand as well, and then
only my hand and not her brother’s at all.
I took notice, and I liked it. It was not only that Bianca, blonde, grayeyed,
and with a neat little tip-tilted Florentine nose was nice-looking, it was
also the sense I suddenly had of a powerful proprietorship over someone.
Not long after I returned to school I got a letter from her solemnly
explaining that she had been granted permission to write me as long as mama
and papa could read her letters and, if I chose to answer, any I wrote in
response. After which the entire message was that she was well, Umberto was
well, and she hoped I was well.
From the distance and with the passage of time, she began to look more
and more slender and pretty to me, so I finally did write to her, my letter, with
a wary eye on the board of censors, largely consisting of a list of books I was
now reading.
That Christmas was the first in a long time that I didn’t spend with my
grandparents. Instead, as soon as my mother suggested that perhaps I might
want to share the week with her and my alternate father in Rome, I jumped at
the chance. What she absentmindedly forgot to mention until I arrived on the
scene was that the entire Cavalcanti family had hied itself off to the mountains
for the holiday.
I emerged from that permafrost week with a squint. Fourteen movies in
seven days — some of them viewed twice over at a sitting — can do that to
you.
13
By my sixteenth year, several
memorable items could be credited to my account.
Item. I had become the senior of seniors at the lycée, as Jean-Pierre de
Liasse had been in his time. Jean-Pierre might have been Monsieur le Comte,
but I was more than that: High Priest of J’m’en-fichisme, all-around man of
mystery, and revered dispenser of wisdom. I was also the football hero of the
place, idol of every goggle-eyed beholder as I rammed home those apparently
unmakeable goals.
Item. I had taken a woman to bed. This was Suzie Cinq-heures who did
the cleaning up of the tobacco and stamp shop near the school and at five
o’clock — cinq heures — each afternoon was ready for business on a cot in
the back room there. And despite a touch of nerves and my lover’s
depressingly flabby breasts and dirty feet, I felt I carried it off very well
indeed.
Item. I had discovered Paris, fantastic Paris. I covered it block by block
on foot, seeing, hearing, and smelling with avidity, but ultimately came to roost
most of the time in outdoor cafés in the University quarter, nursing a citron and
soda, trying to be mistaken for a University man myself. Paradise on earth,
that’s what I knew it must be to be one of those University men.
The next time my n. father showed up, now accompanied by wife number
three — Darlene was her unbelievable name — I broached the subject. I had
been given intimations that what he envisioned for me was the good old Ivy
League college he had attended, then a stretch at Georgetown in Washington
for training in international diplomacy, and then a climb up the State
Department ladder. But these dismal prospects still seemed in the balance, and
I felt that if I made a proper case for my choice, logic might prevail.
I should have known better.
That left one court of appeal to turn to, my n. mother, and as soon as my
visitors were gone I wrote her a long letter setting forth the case and asking
that she plead it before my father. Her answer came a week later addressed to
me from Bagnio, Italia.
14
Darling boy,
Arrived here yesterday — a dreadfully smelly place with all
this sulphur in the air — to take the famous Bagnio waters.
Please
do not worry about my health which is v. good but did put on 4
kilos over the past few months and must try drastic measures.
Re: your education, dear Milos and I are v. short of funds at
present, so all costs for college must fall on your n. father. He has
now made it plain that for his “investment” you are to live with
him at his home in Old Westfield, Long Island, N.Y. and this
summer will be tutored for college admission to his old college.
Your dear grandpa approves this. He said to tell you there is some
inheritance for you when the time comes, but would most like you
to inherit his v. good law practice. Says he will try to live long
enough to hand it over to you personally. Do write, once you are
established at Old Westfield. Milos joins me in sending fondest
regards.
Your mother
15
During my freshman year at college my
grandmother suddenly and unexpectedly died of a heart attack. My initial
reaction was incredulity that this bright spirit, my most uncritical admirer,
should be so illogically snuffed out, and after that a sort of dull toothache of
the spirit set in for a long time. One of those situations, I could see, when
J’m’en-fichisme didn’t seem to work.
My mother arrived from Italy, red-eyed and much subdued, just in time
for the services, which were a three-ring circus for the immense crowds
packing the church and the street before it, and which included a bevy of
newspaper photographers. After that came several uncomfortable days where I
was expected to remain around the house for introductions to weighty visitors
who all voiced the same mournful phrases in the same hushed tones. Then my
mother and the visitors went their way, and I was alone with my grandfather.
There was a tension between us now which, I think, bothered him as
much as it bothered me. On board the Carrie H. — no crew along this time,
just the two of us out in the Gulf Stream taking furtive stock of each other — he
abruptly said, “You feel I let you down about going to college in Paris, don’t
you? You hoped I would stand up to your father about it.”
“Yes.”
“Glad you’ve got the guts to speak your mind, Davey, but this was one of
the few times I agreed with your father about anything. You’re going to
practice law right here in this country. And you can possess all the graces God
offers, but they’re not worth a damn if you come off as an outlander to the
people you have to deal with.”
“Fine,” I said. “But what if I don’t want to become a lawyer? What if I
want to become something else?”
“Such as?”
I couldn’t answer that, although my grandfather gave me all the time I
needed to come up with an answer. Finally he said, “No ideas on the subject?
Well, considering how nature abhors a vacuum, Davey, you just slant your
course toward a law degree. And a place with me when the time comes.
You’re not having any big troubles with your father, are you, living there with
him?”
16
“No.”
“And that latest wife of his? What’s her name this time?”
“Wendy. No, we get along.”
“And school’s not too unbearable?”
“No.”
“So there it is,” said my grandfather.
So there it was.
17
An acronym.
Dear Old Dad Weds Persistently
Dorothy. Olivia. Darlene. Wendy. Phyllis.
The handiest device really, after my n. father’s fifth trip to the altar, for
keeping the sequence straight without a scorecard.
The marriage to Phyllis, an actress with all of two TV commercials to
her credit, took place during my second year at Old Ivy. What it indicated to
me after I met Phyllis was that my father, his whitening hair suddenly an
unconvincing blond, was determined to sooner or later present me with a
stepmother who was younger than I was. Darlene had been ten years my
senior, Wendy five. Phyllis, it turned out, was only two years older than I and
quite willing to overlook all seniority.
I wondered sometimes, in the face of her embarrassingly affectionate
reaction to me right there in my father’s presence, whether she was simply
unable to approach any male except by way of flirtatiousness, or whether she
was deliberately playing off son against father just to keep the kettle boiling.
Either way, it made for a highly volatile situation, and more and more I took to
spending holidays and other free times at the college, a safe distance from it.
Not that the situation at Old Ivy was any less volatile. The overripe
smell of Southeast Asia was wafting over the student body, and there was a
choosing up of sides I wanted no part of. And there was the Negro problem
starting to simmer on campus. Or the Colored problem, as some called it. Or
the Black question, which a few were starting to call it. Sort of a semantic
one-upmanship, the latest word for it evidently drawing the hottest heads and
greatest glory.
Back to J’m’en-fichisme.
Back to the Self, the one stable element in this scrambled universe.
The only activities that did come to claim my interest, aside from the
perpetual search for the ready and willing female, were the Old Ivy Historical
beady-eyed hustler who knew what to call a private club dedicated to old
movies, pot, and beer — and my house team in the Intramural Soccer League
where I was prime mover in getting the team its winning cup.
18
Sporadically, I’d devote myself to a journal I was keeping, a good
means, I had discovered, of working off frustrations generally brought about by
my latest contact with my father whose greatest pleasure in life, it seemed,
was in making me beg for the scanty allowance he was supposed to provide
me regularly. More and more, he became the subject of the journal, and I
recognized after a while that what I had here was a devastating biographical
study of Shaw, Sr., which after his death could do the job on him that
obviously was not going to be done in his lifetime. I even went to work adding
to my own reminiscences and insights by digging through newspaper and
magazine files in the library to round out the picture. I could gauge the amount
of therapy I required this way by the steadily increasing height of that stack of
typed pages tucked away in the bottom drawer of the desk in the study I shared
with my roommate. There were enough of those pages after a while to make a
very large volume.
Once, I sat back to read through the accumulation, and it added up to a
picture both sad and funny. Shaw, Sr., came off as a pompous, tight-fisted,
thick-skinned gent, insufficient to any task he set himself in or out of marriage,
desperately hanging on to his long-gone youth by wedding the overly youthful
again and again, a father distressed by the existence of a growing son who
didn’t fit any standard mold, and yet, so that the family name might be kept
burnished, driven to keep the son close and try to ste
er his course for him.
It was, I judged immodestly, a well-written, well-documented
psychobiography, and the only thing to spoil my pleasure in it as author was
that I also happened to be the son in question.
Through all this, my roommate was a born Connecticut Yankee by name
of Oscar Wylie. The beautiful world of buying and selling was his province.
Used textbooks, secondhand golf balls, football tickets, tax-free cigarettes, a
poor grade of pot at outrageous prices, all the way up to — or down to —
advance copies of test questions.
It was Oscar, of course, who sold me my first car — his own beat-up,
bathtub-sized MG — by allowing me, in lieu of the two-hundred dollar asking
price which I couldn’t possibly meet, to sign on as indentured servant, doing
his literature and foreign language papers for him. And by reminding me,
whenever I felt that I had bought my freedom from bondage, that he was sole
judge of that.
19
To do him justice, he was not on the hustle just to pile up wealth. No,
Oscar had an obsession into which most of his money went. He was a movie
nut, someone who took it very seriously, a worshiper of every strip of film that
had ever come out of any movie camera from the time Tom Edison had
perfected the motion picture camera.
Some day, Oscar said, he was going to make movies in Hollywood.
Great movies. To this end, the furious hustle, the profits from it devoured by
equipment and more equipment and film and the cost of its processing. To this
end, when he wasn’t on the hustle or in class he was out shooting scenes with
that battery of apparatus or working over his films in the quarters provided
him in the Performing Arts Center. To this end, he had founded the Historical
Film Society, and there arranged showings of film classics, again at a profit to
himself.
Considering the endless variety of goods that Oscar, as hustler, offered
his clientele, it was hard to imagine that he could yet come up with something
new and different to market, but eventually he did.
Me.
That was on a hazy October day when I was out on the soccer practice
field with a few house-team members booting the ball around for fun. Then I
noticed that Oscar was on the sidelines watching the action in the company of
a couple of others. The only thing he ever seemed to admire about me was that
I had earned a column in the college paper during last year’s soccer