The Marriage of Sticks (6 page)

Nothing is permanent, but books are one of the few things that come close. Hearing how valuable the Faulkner was, I realized I had been made privy to one of life’s small secrets, which was that there are objects that mean nothing to most people, but everything to some. What’s more, if you knew anything about the subject, you quickly discovered collecting books was one of the last real treasure hunts possible in this age. There are old books everywhere and most people don’t care about them. The few who do will go to remarkable lengths to possess them.

As I continued, I realized I was good at the job—this in itself is a great reward. I loved my customers’ excitement and delight with what I found. I loved the serendipity of the hunt. My heart still pounded on seeing something unique or important in a junk store, second-hand shop, a Salvation Army bin in the bad section of some downtown. Slowly reaching out, I would take it in my hand, knowing one of the greatest pleasures of all was here. Opening the book, I would check the first pages to make sure it was what I thought. Yes, there was the proof if you knew what to look for—the letter
A,
or the even more obvious
first edition.
Other indications, emblems, marks…the secret alphabet and language of book collectors. On the inside front cover someone would have carelessly written in pencil,
$1
or
50¢.
I paid ten cents in Louisville for the most beautiful first edition of
The Great Gatsby
I’ve ever seen. Five dollars for
The Enormous Room.
I couldn’t understand why more people weren’t doing this. Even if you knew only a little about the subject, it was like looking for gold everywhere you went.

After reading the journals of Edward Weston and Paul Strand, I became interested in photography. That opened up an altogether new world, not to mention business opportunity. On a trip to Los Angeles, I discovered a large box of photographs at a yard sale. Most were of strangers, but some subjects were famous movie stars of the 1930s and ’40s. What struck me was how beautifully the pictures were lit and how naturally the people had been posed. On the back of each was a stamp with the photographer’s name, Hurrell, and address. I bought them and never forgot the look on the woman’s face as I handed her money: it said I was a sucker and she was the winner. But even then, without ever having heard of the great photographer George Hurrell, I knew she was wrong.

“Miranda?”

I came out of a daze to see one of my favorite people in the world standing at the door.

“Clayton! I’m sorry, I was daydreaming.”

“The sign of all great minds. Give your old boss a hug.”

We embraced and, as usual, he had on another mysteriously beautiful cologne that made me swoon.

“What are you wearing today?”

“Something French. Called Diptyque, which I think is appropriate for a bookseller, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely. Where have you been, Clayton? I haven’t heard a word from you in months.” I took his hand and led him to a chair. He sat down and looked slowly around before speaking. He must have been sixty, but looked years younger. A full head of hair—and the wrinkles on his face came mostly from smiling. I had gone to work for him in New York after college. He had shown me everything he knew about the rare book business. Enthusiasm and generosity were at the heart of his personality. When I left to open my own store, he lent me ten thousand dollars to get started.

“Do you still have that nice Stevens? I have a buyer. A Scientologist from Utah.”

“A Scientologist who reads Wallace Stevens?”

“Exactly. I’ve been out west, drumming up business. Bumped into some very interesting people. One man lived on a strict carrot diet and collected nothing but Wyndham Lewis. That’s why I haven’t been around. I don’t know about you, but books haven’t been flying off my shelves recently. That’s why I’ve been traveling. How are things for you?”

“So-so. They go in waves. I sold a bunch of Robert Duncan in L.A. a couple of months ago. That put me back on track. Do you know who I saw when I was out there? Doug Auerbach.”

“Ah, the Dog. What’s he been doing?”

“Making commercials. He makes a load of money.”

“But you said he wanted to be Ingmar Bergman. I can’t imagine making dog food ads satisfies that desire. Does he still miss you?”

“I guess. I think he misses the time when his life had more possibilities.”

“Don’t we all? Well, Miranda, I’ve come to see you, but I’ve also come on a mission. Have you heard of Frances Hatch?”

“Am I going to be embarrassed saying no?”

“Not really. She’s a well-kept secret to all but a few. Frances Hatch was a kind of Jill of all trades, mistress of none, in the twenties and thirties. Although she
was
mistress to an amazing number of famous people. She was a sort of lunatic combination of Alma Mahler, Caresse Crosby, and Lee Miller.

“She came from big money in St. Louis but rebelled and ran away to Prague. She went at the right time to the wrong city. Things
were
going on there, as in the rest of Europe in the twenties, but it was nowhere near as interesting as Berlin or Paris. She stayed a year studying photography, then moved to Bucharest with a Romanian ventriloquist. His stage name was “The Enormous Shumda.’ ”

“To Bucharest with The Enormous Shumda? I love her already.”

“I know—a strange choice of geography. But she was always being towed somewhere by one man or another and willingly went along for the ride. Anyway, she left after a short time and ended up in Paris, alone.”

“Not for long, right?”

“Right. Women like Frances never stay alone long.” He opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. “Here’s a self-portrait she took around that time.”

I looked at the picture. It was a beautiful black-and-white shot, reminiscent of the work of Walter Peterhans or Lyonel Feininger: angular, stark, very Germanic. I laughed. “This is a joke. You’re joking, right, Clayton?” I looked again. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a self-portrait? It’s wonderful. From the way you described her, I thought she’d just be a ditz. I’d never have imagined she was so talented.”

“And?” He pointed to the picture and, eyes twinkling, started to smile.

“And, she looks like a schnauzer.”

“My first thought was an emu.”

“What’s that?”

“They look like ostriches.”

“You’re telling me this emu was the lover to famous people? She is ugly, Clayton. Look at that nose!”

“Have you heard the French phrase
belle laide
?”

“No.”

“It means ugly enough to be desirable. The ugliness adds to the sexiness.”

“This woman is not
belle
anything.”

“Maybe she was great in bed.”

“She’d have to be. I can’t believe it, Clayton. Part of me thinks you’re bullshitting. Who was she with?”

“Kazantzákis, Giacometti. Her best friend was Charlotte Perriand. Others. She lived a fascinating life.” He took the photo from me. After glancing at it once more, he put it back in his briefcase. “And she’s still alive! Lives on 112th Street.”

“How old is she?”

“Got to be way up in the nineties.”

“How do you know her?”

“Frances Hatch is rumored to have letters, drawings, and books from these people and others, the likes of which would make any dealer weep. Very important stuff, Miranda, just sitting there growing yellow. For years she made noise about wanting to sell, but never did till now. Her companion died a few months ago and she’s afraid of being alone. Wants to move into an expensive nursing home in Briarcliff but doesn’t have the money.”

“It sounds great if you can get her to sell you the stuff. But why tell me?”

“Because at age ninety-whatever, Frances no longer likes men. She had some kind of late-life revelation and became a lesbian. With the exception of her lawyer, she deals only with women. I’ve known her for years and she says she’s really willing to sell now, but only if it’s done through a woman dealer. If she’ll sell, I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.” He made no attempt to hide the desperation in his voice.

“That’s not necessary, Clayton. I’m glad to help if I can. Besides, I’ve always wanted to meet an emu. When would we go?”

He looked at his watch. “Now, this morning, if you’d like.” Let’s go.

Before catching a cab, Clayton said he needed to find a market, but not why. I waited outside. In a few minutes he reemerged with a bag full of serious junk food. Things like pink Hostess Snowballs, fluorescent orange Cheetos, Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Devil Dogs, Yankee Doodles.…

“Those aren’t for
you
?”

“It’s the only food Frances eats. Anyone who visits her is expected to bring a bag full of this merde.”

“No wonder she’s ninety! If she ate those all her life she’s probably eighty percent chemically preserved. When she dies, her body will have the half-life of plutonium.”

He took out a package and looked at it. “When was the last time you ate a Ding Dong? They all sound obscene—Devil Dogs, Ding Dongs.…” He tore open the wrapper and we contentedly ate them as we rode uptown.

Ms. Hatch lived in one of those beautiful turn-of-the-century buildings that looked like fortresses. It had outlived its neighborhood but was falling to ruin. There were gargoyles on the front facade and a long courtyard with a fountain in the center that no longer worked. It was the kind of building that deserved quiet and reserve, but as we walked across the courtyard, salsa and rap music swept down from open windows and crashed on top of us. Somewhere a man and woman yelled at each other. The things they said were embarrassing. As often happened in situations like that, it struck me how people feel no shame anymore talking publicly about anything. While riding the subway recently, I’d sat next to two women talking loudly about their periods. Not once did either of them look around to see if people were listening, which they were.

When I mentioned this to Clayton, he said, “No one’s concerned with dignity today. People want either to win or to be comfortable.” He gestured toward the windows above us. “They don’t care if you hear. It’s like the TV talk shows: those idiots don’t mind your knowing they slept with their mother, or the dog. They think it makes them interesting. Here we are. This is it.”

The hallway smelled of old food and wet paper. Illegible graffiti had been spray-painted big and black across the mailboxes. A yellow baby carriage without wheels was pushed against a wall. The elevator didn’t work.

“What floor does she live on?”

“Third, but she never goes out. Sometimes I wonder how many old people are prisoners in their apartments in this city. Too scared, or they can’t climb the stairs. There’s got to be a lot of them.”

We climbed in silence. I noticed here and there signs of the onetime beauty of the building. The banister was bird’s-eye maple, the ironwork beneath it intricate and pretty. The stairs were made of dark green stone with swirls of black inside, like a frozen cyclone.

There was lots of noise everywhere. Music, people talking, the general white noise from many television sets going full blast. It made me appreciate my own building, where the neighbors were unfriendly but quiet.

On reaching the third floor, we walked down a long hall to the end. Unlike the others, which looked like the police had periodically beaten them in, Frances Hatch’s oak door was immaculately preserved. There was a small brass plaque with her name engraved on it. It had recently been polished. Clayton rang the bell. We waited quite a while.

The door opened and I think both of us took a step back in surprise. A short bald man with a moon-round face and no chin, dressed in a dark suit, black tie, and white shirt stood there. His face said seventy or eighty, but he stood so straight that he could have been younger.

“Yes?”

“I’m Clayton Blanchard. Ms. Hatch is expecting me?”

“Come along.”

The man turned and walked stiffly back into the apartment, as if rehearsing for the march of the tin soldiers. I looked at Clayton. “I thought you said she only spoke to women?”

Before he had a chance to reply, the soldier called out, “Are you coming?” We scurried in.

I didn’t have a chance to look at anything, but my nose noticed how good it smelled in there. “What’s that smell?”

“Apples?”

“In here, please.”

The man’s voice was so commanding that I felt I was back in high school, being summoned to the principal’s office.

I saw the light before entering the living room. It was blinding and came through the door in a white flood. We walked in and I was in love before I knew it. Frances Hatch’s living room was full of Persian rugs, rare Bauhaus furniture, and the largest cat I had ever seen. The rugs were all varying shades of red—russet, cerise, ruby. Which mixed brilliantly with the stark chrome furniture. It softened the starkness but also made individual pieces stand out in their pure simplicity, almost as if they hovered over the varied redness below. High windows went all the way down the room, taking in as much light as the day had. On the walls were a large number of photographs and paintings. I didn’t have a chance to look at them before another imperious voice called out, “Over here, I’m here.”

As if it knew what she had said, the cat stood up, stretched languorously, and walked over to where Frances Hatch was sitting. It stood looking up at her, tail swishing.

“How are you, Clayton? Come over here so I can see you.”

He walked to her chair and took the large bony hand she held out.

“Cold. Your hands are always cold, Clayton.”

“It runs in my family.”

“Well, cold hands, warm heart. Who have you brought with you?

He gestured for me to come over. “Frances, this is my friend Miranda Romanac.”

“Hello Miranda. You’ll have to come close because I can barely see. Are you pretty?”

“Hello. I’m passable.”

“I was always ugly, so there was never any question about that. Ugly people have to work harder to get the world’s attention. You have to prove you’re worth listening to. Did you meet Irvin?”

I looked at the man with the big voice.