PART TWO OF MY LIFE
1947
NEW YORK, MARCH 1947
I was recovering from all the deep wounds of Bill Pinckard’s absence, of Gore Vidal’s unattainableness, of the disintegration of my love for Gonzalo. Hugo was away in Cuba, and I was going out with Bernard Pfriem, a vital, charming man who desired me but whom I did not desire. Hazel McKinley is a burlesque queen in private life who literally strips herself bare at her parties, and then the next day she informs all her friends of the previous night’s doings over the telephone. Hazel is blonde, very fat, weighing at least 200 pounds, a painter of childish watercolors proclaiming her age to be all of thirteen, an insatiable nymphomaniac who is always starved for men because they rarely stay more than one night. She telephoned me: “Oh Anaïs, bring me some men. I’m having a little party, and I haven’t any men I could be interested in! Please, Anaïs.”
I, thinking that she would attack Bernard and keep him there, agreed to come.
When I arrived at the hotel, I was ushered into an elevator with a tremendously tall young man. As I saw his handsome face, I said to myself: Caution. Danger. He is probably homosexual.
His name was Rupert Pole.
In Hazel’s room, he and I stood talking for a moment. Rupert spoke first, having heard I was Spanish. Ordinary remarks. We discussed Schoenberg whom he had met in Hollywood. He intimated his belief in pacifism and mystical studies.
Later we found ourselves on the couch with his friend from California. I was on my guard with Rupert. But somehow or other we talked about printing (he excused himself for the condition of his hands) and that created a bond. I told him I had printed my books; he told me he was printing Christmas cards to earn a living. I told him I was a writer; he told me he was an actor out of work.
He was born in Hollywood.
He is twenty-eight.
His mother is re-married, this time to the son of Frank Lloyd Wright.
His father is a writer.
I remember that as we talked, we plunged deep, deep eyes into each other.
Then people intervened.
The homosexual is passive, so I was surprised when Rupert came up to me when I was ready to leave (early because Bernard was frightened by Hazel’s advances and wanted to make love to me) and said, “I would like to see you again.”
Hazel told me afterward, “He asked about you. He was interested in you.”
That night while Bernard made love to me, it was Rupert’s face that hung before my eyes.
Later Rupert called me. Hugo was away in Cuba. I invited him for dinner. I lit all the candles I had placed on the Spanish feast table. He took charge of the dinner. I sat far from him on the couch. We did not talk very long. His eyes were wet and glistening, and he was hungry for caresses. The radio was playing the love scene of Tristan and Isolde. We stood up. My mood was, above all, amazement—to see this beautiful, incredible face over mine, and to find in this slender, dreamy, remote young man a burst of electric passion.
The second surprise was that I, who never responded the first time in any love affair, responded to Rupert. He was so vehement, lyrical, passionate, and electric. His arms were strong. He pressed his body against mine as if he wanted to penetrate it from head to foot. He churned, thrashing sensually as if he would make love once and forever, with his whole force. The candles burned away. Tristan and Isolde sang sadly. But Rupert and I twice were shaken by such tremors of desire and pleasure that I thought we would die, like people who touched a third rail in the subway tunnel.
He stayed on. We talked. We made sandwiches. We fell asleep on my small bed. In the morning he was amazed by the painted window, like a pagan church of festive colors. I wore a white kimono. It was snowing. I made breakfast. I was expected at Thurema Sokol’s, and he was driving to the country for the weekend at a friend’s house. When I went downstairs with him, I was introduced to Cleo, his Ford Model A. Rupert dropped me off at Thurema’s, said something lyrical, poetic, and drove off, leaving the light of his sea eyes to illumine the day. I went to see Thurema in a high state of exaltation. This was more than Bill. It was Bill handsomer, warmer, older, full of passion and love.
Would it only last one night? I asked myself, no longer able to believe in happiness.
He disappeared for several days. He had an infected finger. He was entangled with an ex-wife and a mistress he did not love.
Hugo returned.
Hugo was out for the evening when Rupert came with his guitar and sang. At midnight I had to send him away. I went to see him at his printing press. Rupert, so unique in appearance, so poetic, so aristocratic, seemed incongruous printing trite Christmas cards designed by his friend Eyvind Earle. That day I intended to stay an hour. I had an important dinner engagement arranged by Tana de Gamez at some celebrity’s house with Hugo there. But when I called Tana and said, “Te veo más tarde,” Rupert said no, I was having dinner with him. So I invented some absurd story for Tana, freed myself and went off with Rupert in Cleo. This time he took me to his shabby and unkempt little apartment. He kicked his soiled clothes into the closet, blushed for the disorder, but all I minded was the bare, glaring electric bulbs. The lovemaking was less intense. It may have been my mood. He gave me his kimono to wear and a bad metaphysical book he admired.
Our next encounter was at the Bibbiena Spanish restaurant on 14th Street. Rupert said in the middle of dinner, “I am driving back to Los Angeles soon. You once said you wanted to go to Mexico. Why don’t you drive with me to Los Angeles and then go on with your trip from there?”
“Yes, why not?” I said.
Later, Rupert came with his arms full of maps and wearing a white scarf. The white scarf (the first was worn by Bill Pinckard) was for me a continuation of