The Humble Lover, page 1
To Christopher Frizzelle
ALSO BY EDMUND WHITE
Forgetting Elena: A Novel
The Joy of Gay Sex (coauthored)
Nocturnes for the King of Naples: A Novel
States of Desire: Travels in Gay America
A Boy’s Own Story: A Novel
Caracole: A Novel
The Darker Proof: Stories from a Crisis
The Beautiful Room Is Empty
Genet: A Biography
The Burning Library: Essays
Our Paris: Sketches from Memory
Skinned Alive: Stories
The Farewell Symphony: A Novel
Marcel Proust: A Life
The Married Man: A Novel
The Flâneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris
Fanny: A Fiction
Arts and Letters: Essays
My Lives: A Memoir
Chaos: A Novella and Stories
Hotel de Dream: A New York Novel
Rimbaud: The Double Life of a Rebel
City Boy: My Life in New York During the 1960s and ’70s
Sacred Monsters: New Essays on Literature and Art
Jack Holmes and His Friend: A Novel
Inside a Pearl: My Years in Paris
Our Young Man: A Novel
The Unpunished Vice: A Life of Reading
A Saint from Texas: A Novel
A Previous Life: A Novel
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Acknowledgments
A Note on the Author
Losing above one’s means …
—John Wieners, Asylum Poems
Love and sorrow walk hand in hand.
—Carl Maria von Weber, Der Freischütz
1
He said to his very pale, very young companion, “It must be such a thrill to be a ballet dancer and have hundreds, thousands, of fans applauding you.”
The young man, whose name was August Dupond, said dryly, “Yeah, I guess it is nice. A dream come true.”
“Did you ever think you’d be a soloist in the greatest company in New York?”
The boy smiled weakly. “Well, that was the idea. Three classes every day for years, except for performance days, when I have only one afternoon class. Now or never, I guess.” He smiled and took a sip of water. “Do you think they’d have Gatorade here?”
“What’s that?”
“Gatorade. Oh, gosh, athletes drink it. Electrolytes.”
“Gaston!”
“Yes, Monsieur West?”
“Monsieur Dupond would like a Gatra-Aid. I’ll have a champagne cocktail. And the usual hors d’oeuvres.”
August said hopefully, “A Gatorade?”
“I’m sorry, jeune homme, but I’ve never—”
“Is there a deli near here?”
“Not open, I fear.”
“Skip it,” August said with a tarnished smile. “Bring me a decaffeinated tea, please.”
“Tout de suite!” the waiter said. He’d known Mr. West for nine or ten years and felt sorry that he was always accompanied by these underdressed youths who invariably ordered a hamburger or spaghetti, had strange food dislikes like mushrooms, and seldom would eat fish. One boy had asked him if the Dover sole was chicken.
“I’m so embarrassed they didn’t have your health drink,” Aldwych West said. He pulled out his agenda with its own gold pencil. “Here, if you’ll just scribble the name of the drink I’ll have a case delivered tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“We might come back here some day. It’s so close to the theater.”
“Le thé décaféiné pour le jeune monsieur. Et le champagne pour Monsieur West.”
“Merci.”
“What language are you guys speaking?”
“French. Sorry. It must be very rude—”
“I thought it might be French. Real French. I’m French Canadian.”
“Then you must understand—”
“No. Not really. We speak a funny French.”
“They say that Canadian French is seventeenth-century French, the purest.”
“Joual.”
“What’s that?”
“I dunno. It’s the name of our language, I guess. It’s ‘horse’ in Canadian French—Oh, skip it.”
Aldwych handed the black notebook with the gold-edged pages back to August, who just shrugged and pushed it away.
“Please …”
August blushed. Finally he said, “I don’t know how to write it.” He paused. “In school we studied real French. We don’t write our joual. Maybe some people do. But it’s not proper. It’s not real French. In France they have to subtitle our movies.”
“Of course,” Aldwych said smoothly. “That’s like Zurich, where they speak Schweizerdeutsch but the newspaper, Neue Zürcher Zeitung, is in real German.”
“I wouldn’t know. Oh, look, there’s Zaza—you know her!” August sprang up and hurried over to an Asian girl who was dining with a much, much older white gentleman. The two old men studied each other disapprovingly and nodded politely. August pointed out Aldwych, and Zaza waved wildly with an enchanting smile.
When August finally came back, he said, “That man is Howard Marks.”
“The dance critic?”
“Duh.”
“Do you think I could send a bottle of champers to their table?”
“What?”
“Champagne? The Widow Clicquot?”
“She’s got two performances tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes, Saturday. Maybe the dessert wagon?”
“Dancers don’t eat desserts.”
“I’m learning so much from you.”
“I think I really hurt my knee tonight.” He pulled it up and nursed it with both hands. “I always suffer from those hops, I don’t know why, it’s just a rond de jambe and a little jump.”
Aldwych passed the agenda toward him again, and, exasperated a bit (he was very polite), August said, “It’s not important. And grand ciel, I’ll never be able to spell ‘rond de jambe.’ ”
The older man was so charmed by the boy he was afraid he was grinning stupidly at him. He put a fat, beringed hand to his mouth and literally swept his smile away. Gaston (whose real name was Heinrich) brought the amuse-bouches out. August tried a tiny sausage wrapped in cooked dough but ate only half of it.
“And what would the messieurs desire for the plat principal?”
“Poutine,” August said. When Gaston raised an eyebrow, August said, “Isn’t that French? That’s what we eat in Montreal. It’s French fries—”
“Pommes frites,” Gaston said, “d’accord,” writing something down and nodding. “Et ensuite?”
“Cheese and gravy.”
“Oh, no, monsieur, we can’t make that. What about a nice am-bu-gaire?”
“Okay, fine, medium, no bun.”
“Une petite salade, peut-être?”
“Okay, no dressing.”
“Et vous, Monsieur West? Your usual steak frites? Bleu? And a glass of Bordeaux?”
After Gaston rushed away, Aldwych said, “We keep striking out.”
August smiled. He had bad teeth. “You know, I think I’ll run along. I’m exhausted.” He pulled out his wallet and said, “What’s my share?”
“Dear boy, nothing.” And, a bit sad, he repeated, “Nothing.”
Aldwych was vastly rich; his family had invented the microwave, or maybe something older, like the kitchen stove. They lived in Bernardsville, New Jersey, though neither Aldwych nor his sister Buffie had ridden with the very exclusive hunt club. She had made a debut, if reluctantly, and had run an unsuccessful art gallery in midtown till her death three years before; she’d never married. She’d shown a Morandi wannabe who didn’t sell. Aldwych was the last of the line. He had an apartment in the East Sixties where he lived most of the time. He thought of writing a memoir titled Alone with Servants. He preferred the city to the country. He’d joined the Century Club because it was supposed to be artistic and lawyers weren’t allowed to open their briefcases during lunch. You had to have eleven members recommend you in order to join. There were lots of lectures and concerts and a group dinner once a week—any member could come. And it was a good place for a pretheater dinner. On the parlor floor there was a good portrait of Henry James, young, with hair.
He attended the ballet every night, sat on the aisle in the tenth row with opera glasses. He was interested in the dancers, not the choreographers; he often read the paper during the Balanchines because that guy favored women over men. He couldn’t tell why, since the men could leap higher. And oh, those butts! Ever since childhood he’d studied men’s asses and crotches in black-and-white photos in The Victor Book of Ballets, though those dance belts squashed their manhood into anonymity. He’d looked for hours at Eglevsky’s basket and was sure he could distinguish a certain swelling in there. The legs were powerful, of course, the forearms veined, the torso not much, the crack in the ass muscular and brilliant in those white tights. He wondered if he could buy a pair of us ed ballet slippers; they’d be so exciting to smell, lick, feel resting on his naked chest or stomach or face.
At first he was swept away in a delirium of male bodies, a crowd of muscle and a sea of sweat, but gradually he focused on one or two beauties, finally singling out August (originally Auguste, no doubt). He was dramatically pale, and rather small (which in Aldwych’s occasionally—very occasionally—camp world was “bijou,” as in “he’s a total bijou”). As seen through the opera glasses, his eyes were blue, and the circles under them seemed to be where the color had faded and slipped. Aldwych studied the crotch to see if it moved or bulged; he excited himself by imagining the heat and moisture and density of that package (uncut, surely). Thankfully the boy’s top was so tight you could see his heavy breathing ballooning his shirt after he’d engaged in a fury of chaîné turns and tours jetés. His upper body wasn’t built up, but his visible breathing was a perfect gauge of his stamina. He didn’t really sweat, the way children don’t sweat. He looked too polar blue to sweat. Maybe Canadians didn’t grow sweat glands—no need for them.
August had been promoted to the rank of étoile ten days after their dinner and could now take a solo bow. Aldwych arranged to have long-stemmed lilies or white roses in clear cellophane brought out to him by an usher at every curtain call, with his own name and phone number and a tiny “Bravo!” written clearly on the calling card. The overhead spotlights shattered across the cellophane. You could barely see the flowers. He knew the pursuit was hopeless, but he thought maybe the other dancers might notice and begin to tease him for having a secret admirer. They might scramble around him as he sat exhausted in the dressing room and open the small white envelope to read the name and say it out loud. Aldwych … Aldwych … Aldwych … Maybe they’d have trouble pronouncing the unfamiliar name and quiz each other on how to say it—anything to keep impressing his identity on the boy’s mind. Of course August would never phone him, much less write him at his fancy address, but he might recognize the name if they were ever introduced.
Years ago he’d known Rebekah Harkness, who’d had her own ballet company. She was always a rebel. She’d dyed a neighbor’s dog green, they said. She belonged to a noisy bitch squad of socialites who’d poured castor oil into the punch at parties. Aldwych had also known Bobby de Cuevas, whose father, a Chilean effeminate, had been married to an eccentric Rockefeller heiress. The interest on her stocks had financed his company, which collapsed with his death. Cuevas had bought his title in Spain. In Paris the name on his doorbell had said “M. Cuevas,” then “M. de Cuevas,” then finally “Marquis de Cuevas.” Bobby, the son, was a nice chap who’d arrive at a party with a kilo of caviar.
Aldwych saw some old friends of his during the intermission, Mr. and Mrs. Phipps (he couldn’t remember their Christian names); it turned out they were real balletomanes and worshipped Balanchine. They ranked him with Nabokov and Stravinsky, they said, as the Holy Trinity—white Russians who’d been refined by France and energized by America. “The three greatest artists of the twentieth century,“ she said. Aldwych thought she looked like Claude Picasso’s ex-wife Sydney. Shouldn’t Picasso be in that supergod bunch?
As they sipped their bad champagne during the intermission between Prodigal Son and Agon, the Phippses told him that they were friendly with the director of the company since they did some heavy-lifting fundraising for him. Thanks to Mr. Warburton, the finance officer, they’d met two of their favorite ballerinas, who’d even come to a benefit cocktail party at the Phippses’ Fifth Avenue apartment, “across from the Metropolitan Museum.” They’d become friendly with “Melissa” and “Tanny,” especially Melissa, who’d met her third husband, a banker, through them—“an old classmate of Roger’s from St. Paul’s.” Roger—that was his name! Roger Phipps.
During the extreme acrobatics and hard-on-the-ears Stravinsky score, Aldwych suddenly sat up straight, snatched out of his usual fog, and thought, I must meet Mr. Warburton as well and make a major contribution to him in exchange for an introduction to August. Of course I cannot make it too obvious. I’ll get … Roger Phipps to counsel me on the most discreet way to endow a chair in the orchestra or something—an endowment “with benefits.” Aldwych actually rubbed his hands together in delight and cornered the Phippses at the next intermission, before Stars and Stripes, in which August had a high-stepping solo. It was a fun, patriotic ballet, and August was super-cute in his red jacket with gold braid and blue tights. Aldwych was besieged by a powerful daydream in which he slipped the dresser five hundred bucks to steal those tights with their funky butt-hole and stretched-out crotch and hand them off in a brown paper bag to Aldwych at the stage door. That night, after a final, consoling brandy, he looked in the bathroom mirror at his shaggy, bulging body with disgust, climbed the three mahogany steps into his Virginia double bed (high enough for a slave to have slept under it in the old days), and pulled back his luxurious white Porthault sheets with the blue-scalloped pillowcases. So much luxury, he thought, and all wasted on a lonely man. What would August think of his masculine rooms with the hunting prints, dark green walls, and brass fixtures? A youngster would scarcely notice the décor. He thought he should throw it all out in the spring and start with something new and austere; old people get used to their surroundings and forget to refresh them.
As he sank into sleep (he was breathing his own brandy fumes ricocheting off a pillow that had rotated toward him) he thought again of August’s blue tights. In his twilight sleep, he pulled the nylon fabric to his face and took in the layered odors of boy butt and cold lake (how did that get into the mix?). His dreams were all about not knowing the right platform and missing the train … again and again.
2
A few days later at one thirty, as he was about to go out to a ballet movie at the little cinema under Lincoln Center, he got a call from a Mr. Warburton, who identified himself as a vice president of the New York City Ballet.
“Oh, yes, I think Roger Phipps spoke of you.”
“What a splendid chap!” Warburton exclaimed. He spoke with an upper-class English vocabulary and speech rhythms (incisive, then trailing off) but, oddly enough, not with an English accent. His sort of prissiness always pushed Aldwych toward sounding like a Midwestern hick and pronouncing “anyway” as “inny-way” rather than “ennuh-way.”
“Yeah,” Aldwych agreed, “great guy!” Then Aldwych explained that he was just rushing off to the Pina Bausch movie. They agreed to meet for a drink at four when the movie let out. “I’ll be wearing an old-fashioned Chesterfield with a velvet collar,” Aldwych said.
The film was strange because many members of the Wuppertal Dance Company had ordinary bodies, even ones perilously close to Aldwych’s own. “Not my speed,” he thought.
Mr. Warburton turned out to be a nice enough chap despite his grating English pretensions. He was portly, about fifty, liked his Scotch (some very expensive, unpronounceable Scots label), probably gay, which Aldwych divined from his affected speech, his impeccable shirt and tie combination despite the store-bought suit and worn-down heels, and his endless availability to donors, a freedom that suggested no wife, no children, no little hubby. He seemed to be a bachelor-who-loved-his-work, a type Aldwych had learned to avoid as bores.
After his third Laphroaig, Warburton did confess that dancers left him cold. “All that narcissism, all that white, white, sweated-through flesh that’s never seen the sun or been exposed to raw air, the feeble arms and collapsed chests, the constant injuries and ACE bandages, the smell of VapoRub—Not My Cup of Tea, thank you very much!”
“That’s strange, I’d think they’d present a constant temptation.”
“Completely asexual—Bartender! One tiny more— They’re always exhausted. And then those tiresome injuries and that blessed smell of camphorated unguents. Ugh! I prefer a thug from the Bronx, frankly. No, and they can’t eat properly and they can’t lie still, dancers. Utterly hopeless. And their heads may be pretty but they have no conversation except ‘Dance, Dance, Dance, Little Lady’—we had that old seventy-eight record in the servants’ quarters over the garage in Maine.” He started singing in a surprisingly high voice, “Dance, dance, dance, little lady.” He broke off and said, “Oh, yam filling veddy Gay tonight.”
This confession led Aldwych to say he himself was not impervious to dancers’ charms, not at all. And that he would become a $25,000 sponsor if he could hold a benefit for someone like, say—
