The Fifty-Third Night

This past Saturday, the subject was cinema. Nick told me he had gone to see a film at the local theater, and that the film had reminded him very much of me.

“The movie’s bad,” he said, “but I had a hell of a time watching the two little old ladies sittin’ right in front of me. Their reactions? Hilarious. I didn’t ask you to come, though—I figured it wouldn’t really be your thing.”

“You judged rightly, and did well. Do you know how my sources in matters of cinema have been referring to that film?”

“Nope.”

“‘F*cking Heights.’”

Nick burst into laughter.

“Yeah, I mean, that tracks,” he said.

“But you told me that this bomb reminded you of me. Why?”

“I read the book. Thought it was boring as hell, honestly, but I read it back in school. And I can tell you, the book? It’s not in the movie. I also heard online that the director didn’t really base it on the novel, but on her own memories of reading it—maybe in school, like me—and just reinvented the whole thing.”

“I heard as much.”

“That’s what you call intellectual masturbation, right? Or artistic—whatever. I don’t even know anymore.”

“Yes, it is. She pleasured herself with her memories and made a film of them. That is typical of our age.”

“Lemme see if I remember your words,” Nick said, grinning. “Because in our age there’s no predominance of religion.”

“When there is religion,” I corrected him. “Without religion there is no unity in society, only standardization. With religion, we have a body composed of different members; without religion, society becomes a body made entirely of left feet. Can such a thing stand? It cannot.”

Nick was laughing. “Man, the way you put things—it’s priceless! But go on, please.”

“Very well. If the members of the body do not communicate, what remains to them is intellectual masturbation. Some woman takes her memories—memories disturbed by her own demons—and decides to make a film out of them, even if the price is artistic and commercial failure; even if the price is the destruction of a literary monument. A society without religion cannot create culture and thus destroys what already exists. But tell me—what happened to the old ladies?”

Nick laughed again and continued. “I figure they must’ve read the book, or seen some other film version, and that’s why they showed up. Suddenly they’re watching this movie where every single image is about sex, and they’d jump and cluck in shock. After a while, they started treating it like a comedy—kinda like, ‘Well, we paid for it and we’re here, might as well have fun.’ For instance, when Heathcliff walks into Isabella’s room and they end up sleeping together, one of the little old ladies said to the other, ‘Shoot, even silly old me would’ve gone for that!’”

And we laughed heartily.

“And you—have you read the book?”

“A couple times.”

“A couple?"

"Books are reusable, you know., and ‘Saint’ Emily Brontë wrote a literary monument. So perfect in its form that it is not truly filmable. Perhaps a miniseries—but even then it would remain deficient, for film shows only the actions of characters; to descend into the depths of their psychology, cinema would risk slipping into mere filmed theater.”

“Alright, alright,” Nick said, shaking his head. “I’ll reread the damn thing. Let’s see what I missed.”

“Go, and see,” I replied emphatically—so that we might both laugh again.

 

 

The original edition still with pseudonym. 

 

The Fifty-Second Night

“I had no idea you were friends with someone that famous!” Nick exclaimed when he arrived at my house for his customary Saturday visit.

“I wouldn’t say we are ‘friends,’” I replied. “He and I play on very different teams, so to speak. I would rather say that we appreciate each other’s virtues despite our differences.”

“There you go again with the philosophy,” Nick said, rolling his eyes. “Man, I just really wanted a picture with him.”

“That is precisely the point, you see. He is an internationally renowned actor and obscenely wealthy. If he comes to visit me on an island in the South Pacific, it is because he desires privacy and discretion. Of course I told him about you and said I would be delighted to introduce you, but he preferred to remain unnoticed. That is why he stayed here with me this week, in quiet seclusion.”

“Guess he didn’t factor in that everybody knows everybody on an island like this.”

Nick drew a long breath, bracing himself into reluctant acceptance, and continued:

“I get it. I really do. Still, I’m somewhere between shocked, offended, and straight-up frustrated, and I have no idea when I’m gonna recover.”

“I hope very soon,” I said, drawing a chair out for him. “Now sit down and let us have dinner.”

“So how did you two even meet?”

“In the most prosaic manner imaginable. He was once staying in London for a première, at a hotel where I was employed. By pure accident, I entered his room to tidy it just as he was stepping out of the bath.”

“And you saw—”

“Everything,” I said, as casually as one might comment on the weather.

“I hate you. I honestly hate you,” Nick replied.

“I know. There was the customary exchange of apologies—‘no harm done, please continue your work.’ The most difficult part was concealing my excitement and refraining from behaving like a fan. We exchanged a few banalities, yet he took a liking to me and said he wished to continue our conversation.”

“And what was that conversation about?”

“Truthfully, I do not remember. We met three more times, outside the hotel. I took him on those walks that lie beyond the tourist routes—the ones only residents know.”

“And you still talk?”

“Yes. At first by email and telephone. Nowadays, mostly through the internet.”

“So what’s he like?”

“A delightful person, though somewhat eccentric. At times I suspect I serve as a certain restraint upon his extravagances, and that it does him good.”

I smiled at a recollection: when I told him of my intention to launch myself as a professional artist, he declared he would purchase all my finished works at once, and I told him to go take his psychotropics.

“He takes those?”

“Of course not! I was merely reminding him to curb himself.”

We laughed.

“He is a dear soul. Only—at times—a little too much so.”

After dinner, we watched one of his films—I possess them all on DVD. Certain names deserve such privilege.

As he took his leave, Nick said to me, “You know, part of me wants to be seriously offended and never call you again. You’re lucky I’ve got some sense.”

We laughed once more. And when Nick’s car vanished, swallowed by the night, I stood contemplating the sea and gave thanks to God for granting me far more than I deserve.

 

The Fifty-First Night.

 

“Your website turned out really beautiful,” Nick said when I showed it to him. “Clean, simple, lovely. I honestly like it.”

“That’s good to hear. I’m pleased with it too.”

“Bilingual. Very elegant.”

“We speak French here. I felt I owed that to the country that welcomed me so generously.”

“That welcomed us.”

“Well then? I also considered the island’s native language, for the same reason as French, but that would have made the project far too expensive—and it’s a language no one speaks beyond these shores. Portuguese is my own tongue, and I’d love the site to have it, but again, financially and logistically, French and English are convenient and sufficient.”

“I noticed the other day that your library has a lot of books in Portuguese.”

“My language is my homeland, Nick. Through it, I am a brother to Europeans, Asians, Africans, and Americans who speak it as well.”

“Is Portuguese really spoken that widely?”

“The Portuguese were the first masters of the world. The only place they didn’t colonize was Oceania.”

“I’ve never felt that kind of bond with the English just because of the language, and I don’t see it as my homeland. You surprise me—again. So, what’s your next move?”

“In seven days my website goes live. After that, I’d like to get in touch with art galleries in your country.”

“And that’s where you want me to step in?”

“I think you’re the right person for it.”

He looked at me with a half-smile—part eager, part uncertain—and then went on:

“I don’t know the first damn thing about art.”

“‘Art’ covers a lot of ground. I only need you to sell a product. You just have to know that. Ceramics, terracotta, things like that.”

I went to a drawer, took out a small booklet I had prepared, handed it to Nick, and said, “Here—you’ve got everything you need to know.”

“You really thought of everything.”

“No one ever thinks of everything. Life is far too big for that. But yes, I’m a good manager. I’ll cover your travel expenses, and you’ll get a generous percentage of what you sell. In the end, you’ll make more money than I will—an artist just starting out at sixty. Your sales can cover the studio, not a life.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. I laid it all out in that little booklet. It’s not a contract—just a first idea. Take it with you. Read it.”

“Suddenly, I felt a weight on my shoulders,” Nick said.

“Nonsense. It’s just a small challenge and a slight change of life. Nothing that should frighten a seasoned man full of spirit, descendant of freedom-seekers, of warriors like Washington!”

He burst out laughing and said, “You’re being ridiculous!”

I laughed with him and said, “Ridiculous, maybe—but never false.”

 

Archibald MacNeal Willard - The Spirit of '76.

 

The Fiftieth Night

 

Last Saturday, when Nick arrived for his weekly visit, I showed him my latest ceramic creations.

He was enchanted by the variety of shapes and colors—vases, figurines, plates.

“None of this is meant to be functional,” I told him. “Just beautiful.”

“They look like museum pieces, you know?” he said. “As if they were asking for a palace to house them.”

“Oh, don’t exaggerate. My inspiration does come from the classics, it’s true—from the Greeks to the French and Germans of the nineteenth century. I borrow an idea from one, another from elsewhere, learning from what they got right.”

“I think only rich people are going to buy these.”

“I still think you’re exaggerating. But yes, I do believe these pieces won’t appeal to the ultra-modern crowd; and artists who place themselves at the center of their own art will probably be scandalized.”

“You once told me you don’t want to express yourself in your art…”

“Every artist expresses himself in his art; what I refuse is to make that expression the very purpose of art. ‘I make ceramics to express myself!’—not me. I make ceramics to express truth, beauty.”

“I guess that’s getting into subtleties I can’t quite reach.”

“Perhaps I don’t know how to express myself properly. The idea is clear in my mind, but putting it into words—maybe that’s not so easy.”

“Well, I think your work has something hypnotic about it. It’s really beautiful, and the more I look, the more I… see…”

“The more you discover?”

“That’s it.”

“Bravo! Then I achieved what I set out to do.”

“So that’s what you want to market in America?”

“Yes. As an American, do you think I stand a chance?”

“I think so,” he said. “Especially with wealthy conservatives.”

“Two lovely little words.”

Nick looked at me, surprised, and said:

“You’re being cynical.”

“A little. I think I can afford to be.”

I paused, then went on:

“The website showcasing my work will be ready next week.”

“I can’t wait to see it!”

“It’ll be beautiful, you can trust me. And the hotel—has it survived without me?”

He laughed and said:

“Looks like it has. No one’s really replaced you yet, but it’s getting by. New guests all the time.”

I smiled, thinking of my vases—meant for a home, not for passage.