The Stories of Paul Bowles (74 page)

Well, it all sounds like fun.

(sent to Susan Choate)

Now what? Hippocrates strikes again. I wondered at your long silence, and now I understand. Hepatitis B is not so amusing. What astonishes me is that you got rid of it in a hospital, which I thought was a place where one contracted it rather than cured it. Do you think it’s really gone? I must say I hope so. That hospital bill you enclosed is staggering. How can you be sure that I’ll be able to pay it? Clearly I can’t keep sending larger and larger amounts. All your expenses grow like weeds. I realize that you can’t help it; money has less and less value, but that simply means that people like me can buy less and less. I’m not lecturing; I’m just bewailing this hospital bill. It’s surprising they let you out of the institution without some sort of guarantee that it would be paid. Naturally you took it for granted that I could pay it, without considering the possibility that I might be short of funds. And I can pay it, yes, but not with pleasure. How
did you ever get hepatitis? Did they have any theories as to the origin? I hope they gave you some pointers as to how to avoid it in the future.

Did you get the caftan? It should be ideal for dressy occasions in New York or Boston, if indeed there are any more such things. (Although I’m told that girls are becoming interested once more in clothes, and can conceive of wearing something besides those proletarian blue jeans they’ve been affecting for the past few decades.) Anyway, the caftan is a museum piece. That very heavy silk brocade is no longer woven—not even by Fortuny. I bought it from a Moroccan friend in whose family it had been since the turn of the century. I know you’ll look superb in it, and I only hope you’ll wear it. (Not in a hospital, however!) I hope to hear from you.

(sent to Susan Choate)

Glad to hear you’ve had no further trouble with your liver. But Good God, Suky, no wonder you came down with hepatitis. Haiti, of all insane places to go, even for a short holiday. I’m not surprised you didn’t mention it to me. You must have known I’d do my best to discourage you. You seem to think it was all right because you were invited, so that it cost you nothing. But it did cost you six weeks of classes, not to mention that it cost me a fortune to pay for it.

You say Haiti was picturesque, and I’m sure it is. But it’s precisely in this sort of poverty-induced picturesqueness that diseases are rampant. I myself have spent plenty of time enjoying the poverty of others in exotic places, and have paid for it with ailments and aches, as you know. But the point is that hepatitis is a serious disease, and you must take it seriously, something I suspect you don’t do, to judge by your flippant references to the experience. Remember that your great-grandmother Gray caught it on a trip to Mexico and died of it, and very quickly. So for God’s sake stay put, there at Mount Holyoke, and don’t add to my insomnia by going to places you know may be dangerous.

It’s a help to know you don’t drink. A heavy diet of cannabis can be almost as harmful to the liver, you know. (Likewise tobacco and coffee!) Your doctor must have told you all this, but that doesn’t mean that you listened. Having withstood an attack doesn’t make you immune; on the contrary, you’re more vulnerable to another attack.

Forgive me if I lapse into pedantry, but you spoke of “convincing”
the manager of the bookshop to extend credit. It’s not possible to convince “to.” If you’re going to use
convince,
you need either “of” or “that.” Otherwise use
persuade.
End of lecture, and until soon.

(sent to Pamela Loeffler)

There’s no point in asking for news from here. News isn’t generally made in this part of the world, or if something occurs here which becomes news in the rest of the world, we hear about it in foreign broadcasts. And the broadcasts of course are full of talk about terrorism. For most Europeans and Americans the word
terrorist
is unqualifiedly pejorative; while to the people here it suggests a patriot. Thus actions some consider criminal and contemptible are to others heroic. How can the two ever see eye to eye?

A theatrical agency in Sydney! I didn’t know they had them. I understand her being called Fronda Farquhar if that’s where she’s from. You make the picnics sound like something out of Waugh or early Angus Wilson. How did you weather three of them, all with F. Farquhar as well as Ruth P.? My suspicion is that the reason Dick refused to go with you is that he was loath to get too far away from the source of supply: your refrigerator. He’s always been a glutton. I shan’t ask your opinion on that: you’re too far away to put irrelevant questions to. But it must be something of a relief to have all of them gone, in spite of feeling alone and missing them. I can’t believe you actually miss those three particular people, though. Isn’t what you miss the presence of someone, anyone, to talk to now and then? That’s not an irrelevant question, by the way, and I do put it to you. Because it’s occurred to me that Sue Choate, my father’s sister’s great-granddaughter, will be visiting a college friend in Honolulu, and might enjoy a visit with you. (I think I told you I was financing her education, so it’s of great interest to me where she spends her vacations.) The last time she was out of the States she went to Haiti and caught hepatitis. One can’t ask a seventeen-year-old to be circumspect in matters like that, of course. Haiti was there, she was invited, it sounded exciting, so she went.

Let me know about that. I think it might be pleasant for you both. She’s charming, lively, and very attractive. Talkative, but intelligently so, and can be turned off with ease. (I’m describing her as she was at the age of fifteen; I haven’t seen her since.)

If you have crowds of people scheduled to arrive, and Suky would be
in the way, that’s of course another story. But let me know when you can, so I can plan her summer.

What happened to those people from California who lived only six miles from you? Don’t they like picnics?

See enclosed sheet with Sue’s address and phone number at Mount Holyoke, in case.

(sent to Susan Choate)

It was good of you to write so soon, even if I wasn’t exactly pleased to hear you’d sold the caftan. And without ever wearing it! I admit that you got an unbelievable price for it. Your friend Myra must be wallowing in dollars. But that wasn’t why I sent it to you, so that you could sell it to have spending money. I was hoping it would be a very special item of your wardrobe. You say that one has to get used to doing without things when one becomes poor, and that you couldn’t face asking me for money when I was paying for the hospital. All that I appreciate completely. Still, I’m sorry you didn’t bring the subject up before getting rid of the garment. I’d have tried to dissuade you, even though I couldn’t have sent you the twelve hundred you got for it—at least, not all at once, which is obviously the way you wanted it.

Have you thought of how you’ll spend the summer? Much as I’d like to see you, I wouldn’t advise your coming here. There’s nothing much here to interest you, I’m afraid. Hotels are relatively inexpensive, yes, but not cheap enough for my purse. And the friends with guest houses where you might have stayed gratis have died or moved away.

It has occurred to me that you might like to visit Hawaii. I know the suggestion sounds absurd, coming directly after the song of poverty. But there I do know someone who might put you up, and probably would be delighted to do so. You’ve never met her, but you may have heard me speak of her when you were a child. More likely not. Your summer would cost me only the round-trip fare, and what’s more, I shouldn’t be worrying that you might have sneaked off to Mexico or Jamaica, or, God forbid, Haiti. You, of course, know what you want and how you feel like spending your vacation. This is just one suggestion; others may appear in the course of time.

I should add that I do appreciate your concern about money, and understand that you sold the caftan to help me, so I’m not too chagrined
that you never wore it, and that I haven’t a photo of you modeling it. The postal system, incidentally, is worse than ever.

(sent to Susan Choate)

I can’t help wondering why you’re so eager to know how much I paid for that caftan. It’s clear that you hope it was very little, as if that would somehow justify your having sold it. But your logic is ailing. It’s not a question of how much
I
paid for it; it’s a question rather of how much
you
paid for it, and the answer is nothing. Therefore you cleared your twelve hundred and ought not to bother your head with what it cost me. I can see how your mind is working, and I suppose it shows family solidarity: that is, what’s mine is ours. Since you write about practically nothing else in your short letter, I have to assume that it’s important to you to know how much more your selling price was than my purchase price. You want to know how much “we” made on the deal. So in spite of your not seeming to be aware that it’s unheard-of to inquire the price of a gift, I think you deserve an answer, since you made “us” a profit of an even thousand, minus the mailing charges. Does that please you?

You don’t seem to take my suggestion about Hawaii very seriously. I can see why, with all our talk about scarce money. Nevertheless I meant it in all seriousness, as a way of solving the vacation problem. I can see that you may not be eager to be the guest of a woman you don’t know, or of anyone else, for that matter. But Pamela is what’s called easygoing—tolerant and gregarious. She gives the impression of being twenty years younger than she really is. (She’s in her late fifties, and may have had cosmetic surgery, but I somehow doubt it. That sort of thing she’d be secretive about.) Do I make her sound like someone to be avoided? I hope not, as I’d be delighted to see you established there for the summer. Besides solving the vacation problem, your sojourn there could prove advantageous in other ways.

Or perhaps I’m crazy, in which case nothing I’ve said makes sense.

Anyway, let me hear.

(sent to Susan Choate)

Your friend McCall sounds like a real slob. Why would he drive you to Hartford knowing you were going to have to take the bus back, and not
mention it to you beforehand? You didn’t seem to find that unusual; I suppose this sort of irresponsible rudeness is part of today’s etiquette. I don’t find it appealing, but then, young people go out of their way to be as unattractive as possible, both in their persons and their behavior. So your date from Amherst is probably no worse than the rest.

I can see you’re beginning to give the Hawaiian idea a little thought. You’re wrong, however, to use the word
directive,
and to suggest that I’ve been “pressuring” you, as you put it. To issue a directive is one thing, and to request a favor is something else. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear in the last letter. Staying with Pamela out there you would be in a position, if you were clever enough, to receive financial assistance for the coming year. That wouldn’t have occurred to you in your youthful innocence. But it occurred to me, and I see it as a distinct possibility. Pamela has more money than she can spend, and she’s generous. She and I are old friends as you know, and if she took a fancy to you and offered to help you, she’d know she was also helping me. Obviously, once you were there it would be up to you to decide how to play it. A question of choosing the right moment in which to be perfectly truthful. Clearly it’s in my interest that you go (and even more in your own, I suspect).

Meditate some more, and when you come up with an answer, let me know. But don’t wait too long.

(sent to Susan Choate)

Pamela has risen to the occasion. She’s asked me to tell you that she’d be delighted to have you stay with her for as long as it suits you—the entire summer if you like. As soon as she knows what you’ve decided she’ll be in touch directly with you. But if you make up your mind to go, wire or phone her immediately, even before you let me know. Because if you accept her invitation through me, it will take the rest of the spring. Massachusetts-Morocco, Morocco-Hawaii.

If I had access to a telephone I’d call you. And if sending a telegram didn’t involve standing in line for an hour first, I’d wire you, and save that much more time. But I’m not up to that.

In any case, the machinery has been set in motion. Let me hear.

(sent to Susan Choate)

Your letter was the best sort of news. Thank God for Lucy Piper! Knowing that you had a friend who lived in Hawaii, I went out on a limb and lied a bit to Pamela, telling her that you’d been asked by this girl’s family for a visit. I needed a pretext on which to hang my suggestion that Pamela invite you to Maui. (Since you were going to be in Hawaii, etc.) Now it turns out not to be a lie, after all. The two weeks in Honolulu ought to be fun, particularly if her parents aren’t going to be there. The Pipers may be paragons of charm for all I know, but things are generally better when families are not around.

I’ll have the New York bank send you fifteen hundred. With what you have, that should be enough for fare both ways. Send me a wire when you get to San Francisco before the Hawaii flight. I shan’t write more now. I only wanted to let you know how delighted I am that you decided to go.

(sent to Susan Choate)

The wire Pamela sent you is essentially the same as the one she sent me. She’ll pick you up at the Pipers’ June twentieth and fly you on to Maui. It’s an ideal solution. Providential. She wanted to be in Honolulu anyway that week, so she’s not putting herself out for you. It just happened to fall right.

In spite of your trepidation, I’d say the possibility that Pamela will be bored by your presence is nil. You by her, who knows? But very unlikely.

What do you mean, “procedure” to follow with Pamela? Of course there is none. You simply play everything by ear. How can I advise you from here, or dictate a course of behavior? Or foresee the complex choreography of subterfuges and dissimulations which will make up your conversations? Women know how to handle each other, and need no man’s advice.

Don’t think about these things now. It will just interfere with your studying. Time enough for that later. Finish up your work and go with Lucy Piper. I hope she’s fun to travel with.