Chapters 3 & 4 from "Eirene and Sandra Go Garage-Sailing"

 

CHAPTER 3

   “Back from the wilds, are we?”

   Sandra Feld had, in the months leading up to her fateful encounter with Eirene Byrne and Percy Linfield, settled into an unpretentious five-bedroom apartment in Manhattan’s East Village. She was truly at the height of her fame, though visitors to her new home might not guess that a literary and cultural icon inhabited the space but for the presence of an enormous personal library. The task of bringing order to a brilliant but disorderly woman’s life, and in particular the sprawling collection of books and papers attached to her, fell to me, Brent Gustafson. I became Sandra’s personal assistant through a wild concatenation of events triggered by her lack of enthusiasm for the project of sorting her affairs, my relative proximity, my servile inclinations, and our shared fascination with all things Feld. It was quite literally my dream to be the keeper of the Sandra Feld wing of the New York Public Library. She found me tolerable primarily due to my Scandinavian heritage (She had once written and directed an independent film in Sweden) and curious mix of Nordic stoicism and incisive New York wit, the latter faculty acquired largely at the feet of numerous lovers who proposed to groom me for Broadway fame, but instead availed themselves of my superior grooming capabilities. I had flirted with coiffurage while still installed in my childhood home of Malmo, finally setting aside these aspirations when I could no longer resist the enticements of a fling with Broadway. That I am unabashedly, unashamedly gay sealed the deal between Feld and me. Proclaiming little taste and even littler patience for romantic entanglements, Ms. Feld enlisted me as her squire with the peace of mind that evidently stems from the assurance that my admiration for her lies solely in an apprehension of her cerebral facility. She did allow me one non-intellectual indulgence — I could brush her delicious mane of hair when she was in town and reasonably sorted — as well as attending to the tasks of cataloguing her literary, filmic, and taste-making achievements when she was on the road. While it is true that the job of assisting Ms. Feld is often joyless, there is a distinct air of commiseration that I find quite increasingly addicting.

   I got gooseflesh when I heard the key turn in the front door and saw her plop down on the settee in the entrance hall, waving a handkerchief in her face. She always had a story to tell after her adventures, whether foreign or domestic, and I could be counted on to sit in rapt attention.

   “The ‘wilds’ – right. Don’t be tiresome, Gus,” was her reply to my query. “The place is quite beautiful, actually. Not without its man-made charms as well.”

   “Oh, do tell, lovey, you know I’m dying. I spent half the afternoon peeping out the window in anticipation of your return.”

   “You’re far too familiar with the goings-on in East 2nd Street for my liking,” said Ms. Feld. “But I’ll give you a reprieve this time, as I’m feeling rather generous.”

   “Well, the kettle’s on the boil, old girl — shall we retire to your study?”

   Feld’s study was always the optimal listening space, at least for me, for the spinning of her yarns. I already had Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1” playing quietly as accompaniment on her magnificent 1920s-era gramophone.

   “I must say I’m surprised you haven’t asked about Amie,” I said. “I trust she knew you were going to be away?”

   Amie is a graduate student at Columbia and a rumored lover of Sandra’s whom I have on occasion squired round the neighborhood to “keep up appearances.” Sandra had also been known to dispatch me in escorting Amie to synagogue; a “chore” Sandra had abandoned a few years ago, evidently steadfastly determined to solidify her status as “culturally Jewish,” a vastly misunderstood and misused term. It is still unclear whether she just assumed that I would convert; surely a Herculean task for an irredeemable former Christian like myself. Perhaps if she had seen me forlornly pacing back and forth in front of the synagogue, wishing to be inside where the action is, she would disabuse herself of the entire project. Alas, one lives and hopes for a stronger commitment one way or the other.

   “All in due time, dear one. Consider your concern for Amie registered. My thoughts are utterly scattered, Gus. I feel so extraordinary, it’s a bit disquieting. But there is so much to tell. I’m afraid you’ll have to indulge me this evening. Where is that ciggie lighter you found in the Bowery market?”

   “First drawer on the right. No! It’s in the pigeonhole directly behind you.”

   This was a delightful surprise, accustomed as I am to the ritual of coaxing out of her even so much as an excerpt from one of her essays. I seized upon her unusual solicitousness and casually plopped onto the divan in the corner. She followed my lead and pushed an easy chair directly in front of me. She curled a leg underneath her in the chair with the lighter and a cigarette while I held her teacup and saucer.

   “I’ve never seen you so fresh coming off a transcontinental flight,” I said. “What gives?”

   “Gus, I’ve made a discovery. Or more accurately, a few discoveries. I’ve discovered a novelist — or maybe an essayist. There’s just one problem.”

   I sat up alertly in the divan, in part because I could scarcely believe she used the word “discoveries” - or a variation - so closely packed together. “What?”

   “She’s been dead for nearly two years! But before I continue, I must tell you that to fully comprehend all of this, I’m going to have to take you back to Oxford – and, regrettably, to Post-World War II France.”

   “Splendid! I’ve never seen Oxford – or France. But why regrettably?

   “Well, dear boy, this whole story might never have been told if tragedy hadn’t befallen a young French woman who charmed and bedeviled me at Oxford.”

 

CHAPTER 4

 

   “Aren’t you the lucky one, Sandra! The only student at St. Anne’s with a roommate who spends more time at the house library than in her rooms.”

   “Clearly you fail to recognize that I’ve also been paired with the most slovenly of roommates,” said Sandra, “and I’m sure you’d agree that this somewhat negates the benefit of relative solitude. What is more, she makes a worse mess of the study, which is where I spend the bulk of my time. Would you care to make a swap?”

   Paula Chambers had her rooms just down the hall from Sandra Feld, and it had never occurred to her that the new girl from America, with a preceding reputation of learned perspicacity, would object so strenuously to an untidy roommate who was gloriously absent. In fact, Paula now wondered how Sandra had ever noticed the girl missing, as Sandra was rarely seen with her nose outside of a book or without a pen poised on a writing pad. Except, of course, in this moment, which, judging by the icy look Paula now received from her housemate, had been elongated far beyond Sandra’s bounds for tolerating interruptions.

   “I take it from your silence that a trade isn’t in the cards,” said a bemused Ms. Feld. “Perhaps that’s for the best, she’s been gated anyway. Which leaves open the possibility of parceling her time more evenly between here and the library. This is of no interest to me regardless.”

   “I reckon she’s keen on escaping your optical daggers,” said Paula. “Not that it would bother me in the least. Indeed, I find you quite charming….”

   At this Sandra pointedly turned a shoulder to her visitor. Paula surged ahead anyway. “I mean, you will admit her temper is more suited for…”

   “For Lady Margaret Hall?” Sandra sighed into her books. “I’ll not argue that point. Tradition has its attractions. And her gangly athleticism might be a nice fit for a sportier house. I don’t shun her, you understand, I simply see her as a nonentity.”

   “Yes, yes, I’m already well acquainted with your views on the existence of others. I just…” Paula’s attention was diverted to a rather large mass of discarded papers in the waste bin. She quietly raised a foot to the edge of the bin to see if she could catch a glimpse of something written or typed on the pages, all the while continuing her monologue so as not to tip off Sandra to her snooping.

   “I just…I don’t know…everyone can do with a little encouragement. Perhaps if you mentored her.”

   Paula removed her prying eyes and foot from the bin just as Feld turned to re-engage in the conversation. She was able to ascertain from her brief investigation only a portion of what might have been a title for a paper…or perhaps a story? Rumors had floated almost from the moment of her arrival that Sandra Feld aspired to a literary career.

   “You can’t be serious!” Feld thundered. “I didn’t come from America, with all the attendant baggage, literal and metaphorical, to boost the sense of self in a future South Kensington socialite.”

   “Take it easy,” Paula pleaded. “I’m merely suggesting that it might do to gain her confidence in the service of a more harmonious living arrangement. Incidentally, you seem to know quite a bit more about Kensington, South or otherwise, than one would expect from a Yank. How did you come about this knowledge?”

   Paula now wondered if Feld had caught sight of her surreptitious spying. Do I dare broach the subject of the rejected bundle? she thought.

   “One need only read a bit of Evelyn Waugh or E.M. Forster to get a sense of the geography of class. As for the fitness of an attempt at a more cohesive rooms environment, I’ll apply my customary measured approach to your suggestion. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have considerably less interest in this conversation than you do in the contents of my trash bin.”

   Paula gulped audibly. She quickly calculated the dangers involved in pursuing the subject. “I say, that appears to be quite a lot of work to dump unceremoniously.”

   “Who said there was no ceremony?” Sandra countered. “Just minutes before your arrival, I exclaimed vociferously that the project that lies there forlornly in the trash was perfectly wretched. I’m surprised you didn’t hear my cries, even down the hall. Alas, I came to my senses before setting it ablaze.”

   Sandra now rested her elbow on a textbook and fingered her shoulder-length shock of dark hair. She peered up at Paula with a slightly renewed interest that could not have been deciphered through the one Feld eye that was open.

   “A friend of mine had a Bphil seminar with you,” Paula began, “and said that Professor Hampshire referenced your literature background on more than one occasion. Mightn’t that wretched pile of pulp be a work of fiction?”

   Sandra smiled demurely. “As far as I’m concerned it is now a work of nonfiction, for it is a true and verifiable fact that every word of it belongs in the garbage.”

   “May I have a look at it?” asked Paula.

   “I’d rather you didn’t,” replied Sandra.

   Presently there was a knock at the door.

   “Qui ça?” asked Feld. She mouthed “Who’s that?” at Paula, feeling compelled to translate.

   The door creaked open and Eirene Byrne, Sandra’s favorite Bphil professor, appeared before them. Feld abruptly scrambled to her feet and stood facing Mrs. Byrne as erect as a Buckingham Palace guard.

   “I didn’t mean to sound flippant, Mrs. Byrne,” said Sandra in a breathy blast. “It is always a pleasure to see you. What brings you to our humble house this evening?”

   “You’ll pardon the intrusion and the hour, Ms. Feld,” said Eirene Byrne. Sandra’s tutor and principal mentor then stood silent, evidently waiting for an introduction to her companion. An awkward silence filled the room. Paula, meanwhile, was still marveling at Feld’s seeming servility.

   Finally Eirene rejoined the abandoned salutations. “Mightn’t you introduce your friend?”

   Sandra gawped at Eirene, then at Paula. “Oh, dear me, I’ve completely abandoned my manners! Mrs. Byrne, this is Paula Chambers, a philosophy waif who appears to be on the verge of a switch to reading literature, or at least the never-to-be-published variety. Paula, this is my esteemed and incomparable tutor, Mrs. Byrne, whom you will surely encounter in a lecture someday if you’re able to resist the temptations of trash-barrel novels.”

   Eirene Byrne was already well aware of Sandra’s prickly demeanor; it having appeared primarily in a generalized superiority in the lecture-hall setting—but had rarely observed it directed at an individual. She prized Sandra’s bewildering mélange of inscrutability and transparency; there was never any question of her brilliance in virtually any intellectual endeavor in which she cared to partake. It was simply a matter, in Eirene’s view, of astutely directing her energies. This, she recognized, was all she could hope to accomplish in terms of being party to furthering Sandra’s burgeoning career, for Ms. Feld possessed intellect in spades, indeed in every suit. She was an enthusiast, Eirene believed. She would not be stopped.

   “I’m so pleased to finally meet you, Mrs. Byrne,” Paula chirped. “Indeed I have hoped to be among your charges at some point in my career here. Mightn’t you advise…”

   “Come, come, my dear, time and circumstance will bring you before me, and no sooner than is necessary. Ms. Feld,” Eirene continued, speaking in her Dublin voice, aggressive yet lilting, and turning from Paula. “I have this evening brought along a companion of my own.” Eirene turned back to the door and appeared to summon someone from the corridor with an index finger. A wondrously petite and Gallic-looking female form emerged from behind the opened door.

   “Ms. Feld, I should like to introduce you to Marcelle Verlaine. She, like you, I ardently believe, is a literary talent of extraordinary dimension. In particular, I think you will find her experiences as an ingénue in the French Resistance quite fascinating.” Eirene cupped Marcelle’s elbow and brought her closer to Sandra and Paula. “You see, Marcelle, Ms. Feld is an evolving Francophile. I hope one day soon to introduce her to the wiles and charms of your fascinating culture. I shall enlist you to assist me in this project.”

   “How do you do,” said Marcelle, in unmannered, unaccented English. Sandra had always enjoyed the challenge of determining another’s mother tongue in the shortest sentence possible in the lingua franca. She played a version of “Name that Tongue” in her head, endeavoring to identify the language via the accented English. She recognized straight away that she would have failed miserably with Marcelle.

   “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Ms. Verlaine,” said Sandra, beaming and stepping forward to offer her hand. “In my short time at Oxford, I have quickly apprehended that to catch the eye, academically speaking, of Mrs. Byrne is a task of Herculean proportions. Clearly you are a woman of estimable ability and character to have done so. I congratulate you!”

   “Mrs. Verlaine,” said Marcelle with unquestioned emphasis. “I am a married estimable woman. But you may call me Marcelle.” She shook Sandra’s hand vigorously and retreated a step to stand beside Mrs. Byrne, all the while trading vaguely forced grins with Sandra and Paula.

   “I’m recently married myself,” Eirene inserted, “and must return to my husband now. I was rather hoping the three of you could get to know each other better. It might prove quite profitable for all concerned.” She touched her finger to her brow as if she were wearing a hat, signaling an imminent departure.

   Sandra rushed to the door to usher Eirene out properly. “Do give Mr. Crikey my best wishes, won’t you?” she asked breathlessly. “Shall I walk you out, Mrs. Byrne?”

   “No, my dear, I can find my way.” Eirene pulled Sandra out into the hall. “Do pay some attention to Marcelle. I’ve rather had my eye on you for mentoring, and I believe that Marcelle fits the bill from a sensibility perspective. Please report your impressions to me as soon as possible.”

   “You can count on me, Mrs. Byrne,” Sandra said with a strained enthusiasm. “Thank you for choosing me to take on such a challenging project.”

   “My dear, you speak truer than you know.”

   Sandra watched longingly as Eirene waved over her shoulder and strolled down the corridor, and she didn’t return to the girls on the other side of her door until well after Eirene had regained the street. She wanted so much to be walking Mrs. Byrne to her cottage instead of taking the measure of “Mrs.” Verlaine in her rooms. Her reluctance was apparent as she re-entered the room and slowly closed the door. Marcelle and Paula were already deep in conversation. This activated Sandra’s ire as well as her proprietary inclinations.