Mainly this summer my everything-else is the new book. I believe it will be serious, Frida, and worthy. But at any rate finished soon, in autumn I hope. I proceed at a sluggish pace because I have to do all my own retyping. Mrs. Brown’s efficiency has spoiled me, and now she can’t come to work because her landlady is hysterical over the epidemic. She threatened the boarders that if they go out in public or ride the buses, they aren’t welcome back in the house. Mrs. Brown tolerates the intolerable from that woman. Stalin himself could learn from the Siege of Mrs. Bittle.
I have wondered, Why shouldn’t I let Mrs. Brown live here? We already work together, I have an empty bedroom. You see, I am dumb as a calf, trying to divine the rules about such things. In Mexico all manner of people could live in one house, half carrying hearts on their sleeves and the other half carrying side-arms, all rolled in one chalupa. But no, not here. Even a dumb calf gains a dim understanding, after enough blows to the head! We would be hung out as filthy laundry in Echo and Star Week. Children would be instructed to cross to the opposite side of the street, to pass the house.
Luckily, the mail remains under control. Mrs. Brown organized for it all to come to Mrs. Bittle’s, until and unless the landlady realizes the menace of an envelope licked by a stranger. My house is as empty as the luncheonettes, Mrs. Brown’s table tidy as she left it, typewriter under a dustcover, telephone standing like a black daffodil blooming from the table, its earpiece dangling. If I want company I can sift through the mail; she forwards it all here in boxes after she has answered it. Those letters continue to astonish, the flow has hardly slowed. Now the girls all beg: Please, Mr. Shepherd, give us a happy ending next time! As if I held sway over anything real, with my invented puppets. These girls have bet on a dark horse. No one should count on me for a happy outcome.
You and I are the same. Do people ask you to erase the bleeding hearts and daggers from your paintings, to make them more jolly? But Mexico is different, I know that. You’re allowed your hearts and daggers there.
Our Christmas visit sustains my memories, though it’s true what you said, you have become a different person. I won’t agree however that you are a bag of bones. Diego is a fool, that skinny lizard Maria Félix should run up a tree and eat ants. But your health does worry me, I’ll be honest. One thing that kept me sitting up tonight is the dread that I may not celebrate many more birthdays with you.
More than anything, I regret the cross words during our visit. I understand your temper, that it’s a kind of poetry rather than actual truth, and that you and Mrs. Brown were not apt to get along perfectly. You and she are both important women in my life, and too many cooks will put a fire in the kitchen. If any forgiving is to be done, Mrs. Brown and I have already done it. I’m certain she would send her greetings with mine.
Abrazos to Diego, and to Candelaria, Belén, Carmen Alba, Perpetua, Alejandro, and everyone else in your house, where I seem to have more friends than in the entire city where I now live. But most of all to you, mi querida, feliz cumpleaños.
SÓLI
July 30
Mrs. Brown called before nine this morning, beside herself. A second letter from the scorpion at the loyalty firm. Loren Matus. An incriminating photograph, he claims, but it makes no sense at all. I made her read that part of the letter twice. “A photo of Harrison Shepherd and his wife at a Communist Party meeting in 1930.” I’m to pay him a fee of five hundred dollars for the chance to examine it.
She took a letter, over the phone: Why this photograph could not be what he says. In 1930 Harrison Shepherd was fourteen years of age, attending an elementary school for the mentally damaged in Mexico City. His political leaning was to collect centipedes in a jar and set them loose under Señora Bartolome’s desk during the prayers. Since that year he has discovered no reason to marry, nor has anyone signed on for the job, but it might have quite entertained him to have a wife in 1930. A lot of people might pay money to see that. Signed sincerely Harrison Shepherd. HS/VB.
August 11
“Advance the spark,” says Tom Cuddy on the phone, “Square-o-lina here I come.” He has museum business with the Vanderbilts, will be staying three nights at the Grove Park, proposes we meet there. “An assignation,” he calls it. Oh Tom, Tom, vanity’s son, expecting me to show up with hat in hand, heart pounding. Knowing, in fact, I will.
The Assignation
Long time no see, says the handsome scoundrel, looking up from his highball. The firm handshake, the chair pulled out. The terrace restaurant at the Grove Park is very grand, white cloths on the tables and candles flickering, but all other chairs were empty. Tom must have been the only guest in the hotel.
“You’re brave, letting your boss send you here. Have they not heard about our quarantine, in Manhattan? Or are you all just so dashing, the plague can’t catch up?”
“Who’s afraid of a little polio germ?” he said. “Builds up the character.”
“Tommy, that’s no joke.”
“What’s your poison? This is a sloe gin fizz. Don’t let the name throw you, it’s a fast ticket. The apron back there at the bar has a heavy foot.”
“All right. A ticket on the fast train, please.”
Tommy signaled the waiter, who hovered constantly nearby in the dark, either at the patio entrance or over by the wall, sneaking a smoke. I have wondered if waiters will ever become invisible to me, as they seem to be for others. I wanted to help this lad out, go get the drinks myself and later help him carry the plates to the kitchen.
Tommy’s cigarette end glowed, constantly in motion. “Oh, come on, look what the polio did for FDR. A gimp leg gets you the sympathy vote, you can be maudlin as anything and they all go dotty for it. ‘I hate the wah, Eleanor hates the wah, our little dog Fala hates the wah…’”
The drinks appeared, followed by dinner, materializing from the dark just as Tom had, unreal as the image rising in a movie house. Cruelty is just a role he plays, like Hurd Hatfield as Dorian Gray. Tommy has seen some damage in his day. The Modern show he helped curate, ridiculed by Congress, he took that personally. And that’s probably the least of it, for a boy who wants so madly to belong, and will not quite.
The truth of Tommy is slow to rise, but he is down there somewhere, underneath the shining surface. The day we first met, sitting on a crate of Rodin in the train, he dropped the clever banter along with his jaw upon hearing the name Rivera. He has studied those murals in photographs. He wanted to know everything: the mixture of plaster, the pigments. And Frida, how she laid the paint on, with brushes or knives? The warm or cool colors first? That unearthly sadness that radiates from her paintings, does she feel it herself, when she’s painting? Those were his words, unearthly sadness. Tommy has handled two Kahlos already, in his time at the museum.