The Business of Naming Things (6 page)

Over the years, I had maintained a respect for the Brodkey style that I remembered from the father-son story, not to mention a notion of literary celebrity from that sighting in the bar, even if I'd only imagined it. I knew there weren't other stylists working like that, endlessly circling a subject or a feeling, spending an entire story on one small shaft of sunlight and those it falls upon, pushing people, the same people, in and out of it, and writing about it. There was a rawness of emotion in what I sensed in his work; not coarse, like Harry Crews or Charles Bukowski, but deeply nuanced, like very complicated surgery into emotion's entrails—Henry James–like, but speedy, neurotic, modern. I was wary of it. Still, I was too engaged, during those years, in other projects of reading and coping and not coping, to follow what Brodkey was (not) up to. Then that night and the penitential bookstore visit that followed.

I
PROCEEDED TO READ ALL OF
B
RODKEY
—the two slim volumes of stories, the huge story collection (
Stories in an Almost Classical Mode
), the novel
The Runaway Soul
, the Venice novel,
Profane Friendship;
the outtakes from
PF
(
My Venice
); the nonfiction essays and reviews,
Sea Battles on Dry Land
; and
the final statement about his approaching death, as detailed in
The New Yorker
—and I decided I had no sympathy for him. Inside the front cover of one of his books, I scribbled, “HB: So incapable of forgiveness himself that his principle project is to so irk the reader as to make the reader unforgiving, too. Now we're all guilty.”

Brodkey was famously prickly; by most accounts, vain and preening. He was a braggart in his books—about his genius, his prick, his luck “in sex, in looks”—and he comes off as simply asinine. He thought he was original and brave and at the end declared himself “tired of defending my work.” Tired he may have been, but there is no defending the author of so many confused, contradictory, obnoxious, ill-kempt and self-important paragraphs that tumor his work. Like this, from
Runaway Soul
:

            
The thing about the absolute and the artists who made art out of it is that the only structure they have which generates emotion is the structure of the awesomeness of the absolute and then the curiously moving pain and comedy of the mind wandering as it inevitably does in real moments, in the immensities of the real; and I prefer the structures of actual emotion and the reality of moments
.

It's a shame that Brodkey's excesses were not reined in, because what he was after—“making conscious language . . . deal with wild variability . . . by telling a story in reference to real time”—is a laudable project, one pursued by only a few major practitioners—Proust, Stein, Kerouac. And it led to some remarkable literary feats—his infamous story “Innocence,” about bringing a woman to her first orgasm, a thirty-two-page
story, fifteen thousand words, some of them laughable, some of them memorable (“To see her in sunlight was to see Marxism die”), full of Brodkey's obnoxious self-regard, but also, a rare ride along, in prose, with someone thinking and feeling and, in this case, fucking. True, it was sensationalist, but in a way it was the perfect Brodkey story arc—a steady state of want/desire accompanied by physicality and talk ending in a climax.

I
MET
B
RODKEY ONCE
, and it was perhaps the boldest thing I have ever done, and one that I may have yet to answer for in some literary afterlife—a wild aesthetic gambit born of desperation. I knew from Lifton, whom I began to see as a therapist, that Brodkey was sick; and then I knew from
The New Yorker
(“I have AIDS. I am surprised that I do.”) what he was sick from. I knew from Lifton where he lived, and who his wife was. I had many questions, complaints, and compliments to offer, and I decided to call Ellen Schwamm Brodkey, Harold's wife. She answered the phone. Her voice was heavy, as if imitating a man's. If it was playful, it was play with an edge. “Hel-lo—o-o,” she said, and dragged it out, near peevish, a note or two—as if to say, Make this good. Or good-bye.

I said who I was and what I wanted—to talk to her husband about his writing and adoption; that I was adopted—she cut me off with some guttural sound. I assumed it was with purpose. I went silent. She was silent. Then I heard a croaky, “What is it?” It was Harold. His syllables crumbled into air like a day-old baguette. Wispy. Again, I said who I was and what I wanted; I was an admirer of his work and hoped to talk to him about his writing and—he cut me off, but this was for a cough, a long cough that was going to cost
him dearly in precious breath. I could hear a gasping receding from the phone.

“Do you mind hanging on,” said Ellen, back on. I realized then, as I waited, hearing the howling run of Harold's coughing, that these were fucking tough people. “No, no,” I said. “Should I call—” She cut me off again. “He does this. He'll get over it. Honey, now . . .” I could hear her say, love in her voice as his awful hoarse huffing began to subside.

They invited me to come up and visit on the following Sunday. “The newspapers bring him to life, and then he is talkative—aren't you, Harold—especially the
Book Review
,” she said, laughing, at his expense, I felt. I heard a squawk from him and wondered what I was in for.

It was going to be a big event for me, and my wife knew it. She had welcomed my efforts at reform as a promising start. She suggested I take some time to myself on Saturday—“do what you have to do”—to prepare for Sunday's assignation. I took a couple of his books—the early stories and the one just out then,
Profane Friendship
, a novel (his second; all of a sudden—written, I heard, in nine months!)—and some clippings I'd found, and a notebook for notes, and I set off for the New York Public Library. I got as far as the Lion's Head, about forty blocks short.

I remember sitting in the sunlight that spilled in off Christopher Street. It was late fall, a near winter light, the low southern sun coming through a leafless Sheridan Square. I loved the way the day's first drink hit, and how the thin, kind light brought out the burl in the bar's rounded rail.

I set to work in the bar. No one was there to bother me, the regulars not up yet, not in. I wrote down question after question for Brodkey. I decided to assure him at the outset that this was to be an inquiry into writing style and its connection (if any) to
the experience of adoption. I would take
Profane Friendship
for him to sign. I was certain he loved this book—because it was a clear embrace of love between men, and here he was, dying of AIDS and being accused of being a publicity bitch even as death made its way toward him, and of floating a fallacious chronology of when he got AIDS (in the 1970s, he wrote). I thought immediately, This is a time frame that squares with something he told his wife; he's lying, and I resolved not to ask him about it. “It's your story to tell,” I imagined saying to him.

Was this just a fantasy, meeting Harold Brodkey, in his home, to ask these questions? As I lapped at my fourth or fifth Beck's, I got scared. I might blow it off. I might never go. Usually, an idea like this stayed an idea, an imagined conversation, one in which I could ask bold questions, be told clever answers, and never actually have to sit in the humid, live space with another person, in this case an enigmatic stranger who was dying.

I would go there, I decided. I must. I closed my notebook. I moved to the other end of the bar just as a couple of my mates came in, surprised to find me there, and more surprised that I was already well on my way. A long day into evening it was—college football, Clinton jokes. Frank McCourt walked in; over the din, I tried to impress him with my project for the next day with Brodkey. I tried to tell Frank of the broken narrative of the famine survivors. “You're a little cracked there yourself, Michael,” he said. He wouldn't say a word about Brodkey. “I hear it's your birthday, is it,” he said, and bought me a drink. And it was.

Their apartment on the Upper West Side was like other Upper West Side apartments I'd been in—sudden, intricate warrens of rooms with unaccountable amounts of sunlight within. This was where and how, I had come to feel, a certain professional class from a certain era lived in Manhattan—Jewish, doctors,
theater people; the heart of the city's opera and serious drama market; liberal democrats; good people, people who read fiction. People who would take me in.

The doorman announced me and I was sent up. The elevator opened onto a hallway with a mirror over a small table with a bowl of flowers. I looked terrible. I looked dark-eyed and haunted. I looked vulnerable. This is how I wanted to appear to Harold Brodkey.

Ellen answered the door. She was taller than I, her face handsome. She said “Hello, Michael,” warmly. She had short white hair, enormous bangle earrings. She was made up. There were hoops upon hoops of a silk blouse around her neck and upper body; Capri pants and slippers. She was lovely.

I made my way in. No Harold.

I was offered coffee or tea. “Coffee, black,” I said. Harold was to be brought out by a nurse, Ellen informed me. I heard the radio go silent—she'd clicked it off. That awful Isaiah Sheffer introducing the awful William Hurt.

I held my tongue about Sheffer, whose pompous intoning over a tuning orchestra introduced every week an otherwise-valuable series of short stories on radio. But my mind was slow with yesterday's drink, heavy as a loaf of vinegar-soaked bread. I feared I smelled as bad. I would need to refer to my notes, which were right at hand. Harold rolled into the room.

He was not grizzled; he was shaven. His head looked enormous and dented, as if his skull had suffered an accident and been acceptably banged out in a body shop with rubber mallets. His hair was so short and gray that it was barely distinguishable from his pale skin. The eyes were another matter, though—bright, somehow sharp-edged, as if made of broken glass, and they glittered under eyebrows that were restless.
He smiled crookedly and extended his hand from beneath a beautiful tartan blanket.

“Thank God you came. Life's too short to hear Bill Hurt do Hemingway over into a what? A car salesman.”

“I can't stand that show,” I blurted out as Ellen handed me coffee in a large French bowl. I needed my two hands to hold it, so I put my books down.

“Let's sit down,” Harold said. He cocked his head, amused that, of course, seated he already was.

“So, you're with
Publishers Weekly
, I understand.” I hadn't mentioned that. I was an editor there.

“Yes,” I admitted.

“You like my book?” he asked, looking at the copy of
Profane Friendship
I had placed on the coffee table.

“I think it is very beautiful. It reminds me of Thomas Mann. It's your
Death in Venice
?” My lip was trembling. I hadn't read Mann's short book, but I had seen the Visconti movie with Dirk Bogarde long ago.

He looked at me and puffed a breath. “I guess you didn't write this, then?” He closed his eyes. “And I quote: ‘Brodkey's logorrhea is painful to read, endlessly, strenuously yet tentatively straining for effect; never has a severe editor been more needed. There is a considerable talent here, certainly, but buried in self-indulgence.'”

From memory he did this. I was silent.

“
Publishers Weekly
,” he said.

“Well . . .” I began.

“My editor was hurt.” His face broke into all kinds of parts of a smile. Tough all right.

I told him I loved self-indulgence. “Who else can we indulge?” I offered, and he looked approvingly at Ellen, who was busy adjusting the blinds.

“
Whom
,” he said with a glance, correcting me.

“We can only try,” Ellen said with feigned weariness as the blinds ruffled down loudly.

“Stop,” he said.

I rushed to reassure him, this sick man, but came up empty.

“Turgid and self-indulgent, that word again,” he said, quoting. “
Publishers Weekly
,
The Runaway Soul
. You've been hard on me, but I deserve it.”

I told him that anyone wrestling to make a sentence convey the movement of thought and feeling in the act of thinking and feeling, not in reflection, but in action, is going to find it hard going. Only real writers appreciate the bravery of the struggle. He liked that.

I began to feel doubts about my own problems with Harold's excesses. If I wanted a writer to follow the movements of thought as they are thought, why should I complain that some of it lacks structure, argument, discipline?

I had to go on. I decided to brave it. “I don't think you do story very well,” I said to him, and hastened to add, “I don't, either,” as if he gave a shit. “I can't even tell a joke”—my favorite line about this malady.

“Hummph.” He made the noise, and I waited. “How to tell a joke . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes settled on a buttercup of sunlight shimmering on the opposite wall. We both watched it. Ten seconds passed.

“I can't master—and I wonder what you feel about this,” I said, pulling out my notebook—“the going from a to b to c; the plot building, the holding back of information in order to build mystery and then delivering it with artful timing.”