Salinger's Letters (14 page)

Poor Nora. She had no suspicion I was springing a trap from which she couldn't escape. I was going to make her do something she would hate more than anything else in the world: take a long, hard look at herself.

For many years we had met in Tivoli on August 4
th
. We took turns choosing the restaurant where we'd have lunch and the rides we'd go on before lunch. This time I chose a ride on the boats in the lake near the Chinese Pagoda.

In mid-lake I had Nora where I wanted her. If she tried to get away, she'd have to jump into the lake.

‘Tove Ditlevsen tells me you're a junkie.'

Nora was rowing. The smile on her lips didn't falter an inch. She didn't even glance in my direction.

The important thing was that now Nora knew I knew she was an addict. She also knew I knew
why
she was an addict.

She knew I had spent a large portion of my life studying one small mechanism: the how-to-please mechanism. She knew I had studied it so intensely because my own mechanism is out of balance, causing my depression. She also knows that I know just about everything worth knowing about her own how-to-please strategies.

‘So?' she asked.

‘How long have you been a junkie?'

‘Let's call it a consumer of cocaine, shall we?'

‘My guess is seven years', I said.

‘Four years, maybe five.'

‘Does your husband know?'

‘No. ‘

‘Who knows?'

‘Tove Ditlevsen, my pusher, and now you.'

‘What should I do with this information?' I asked.

‘I want you to be my accomplice, my witness. Dan, you must realize how relieved I am that now you know, too.'

‘Did you send Tove Ditlevsen to tell me?'

‘Of course not.'

‘All that about my helping her with her manuscript, did that come from you?'

‘Danny, sweetheart, that's how we make a living. Fiction, right?'

‘Nora, if it wasn't Hans Christian Andersen's birthday I would strangle you and throw you in the lake.'

She laughed. ‘It's not because of Andersen! The real reason is you've just been given the greatest proof of trust and affection a friend can give.'

‘It weighs on me so heavily I'm afraid I'll sink straight to the bottom.'

‘Great, you'll meet the little mermaid down there, Dan, and you can fall in love with her.'

That was the extent of our exchange on the subject of her drug abuse. Nora is not one for psychology in her personal life. She spouts psychology in everything she writes or directs, but when it comes to herself she's silent as the grave. Nobody better dare psychoanalyse
her
! If anyone tries, that's the last they see of her. She leaves the introvert stuff to me, she says. Other people's problems are like weeds, she maintains. People should keep their weeds in their own backyards.

That's why she sent Tove. Or Tove had sent herself. When I went over in my mind what I knew about Tove, it became clear to me she was the obvious choice.

It was a well known fact around town that Tove Ditlevsen was a drug addict and suffered from depression. Much of what she wrote dealt with ways in which she blackmailed her husbands and lovers into giving her the love she craved. She threatened them. She pleaded with them for love and attention. When that failed she twisted their arms to give her what she needed even more than drugs.

Nora gets more attention, friendship and love than anyone else I know. This applies to her work and to her private life. She knows how to gain people's confidence and win their devotion. I tease her by saying she's a small, highly efficient how-to-please machine. She finds this amusing, but refuses to listen to a single detail of my endless theories about her.

Nora's many friends miss her when they're not with her. They count the days before they can see her again. They feel like calling her every day but they know she's busy and that she has other friends. Everyone knows pretty much where they stand on Nora's friends list.

If they're in any doubt they can check out her dinner party guest list. Everyone in her milieu knows exactly who's invited. They keep count of who's been invited many times, just a few times or almost never. I know, too. It's easy for me to say because I'm never invited myself. Neither is Boris or Puk, of course, which is a comfort.

I also know how habitués react when for some unaccountable reason the invitations stop coming. Several have become so desperate they've approached me to find out what's going on. Did we say something wrong? Has Nora started to find us boring? Does Nora disapprove of our other friends? Whenever anyone approaches me I give the same answer: Nora never tells me her opinion of other people. That's a downright lie, of course. We hardly ever talk of anything else at our clandestine meetings. We exchange gossip by the truckload, and solemnly swear never to say anything nice about anybody.

We make a living off fiction, says Nora, fiction and vanity. We're both great believers in vanity. That's one of the many reasons we like Hans Christian Andersen so much. Unlike us he never tried to conceal his vanity. Andersen would go for a walk and catch sight of an acquaintance on the other side of the street. He'd cross the street and say, ‘Hello. Now they're reading me in Spain now, too. Goodbye.' This was the Andersen Nora and I respected, and one of the reasons we commemorated the date of his death in Tivoli every year.

What did Andersen want? The same thing the rest of us want: attention, friendship and love. He was just less devious about it than the rest of us.

I can give Nora the same kind of attention I give Boris and Puk: Amanda. Without Amanda I would never have got near them.

In Nora's company Amanda became virtually invisible. Nora is number one on my list of anti-depressant friends.

She's at the top of my list and many other people's for the same reason she became a junkie. Amanda and I both know why, but usually we don't give it much thought.

We're facing it now though, surrounded by the rides, restaurants and entertainments of Tivoli Gardens the sole purpose of which is to please. The urge to please is a necessity of life, but once you've tried it you're hooked.

Nora, look the other way. I'm going to analyse you according to the Salinger Syndrome. I know you hate it. But you've chosen me for a friend because you know I can do it. That's why you sent Tove Ditlevsen to me.

And that's why you know I can handle your dirty little secret, because I know things, I've been there. And that's why you have to accept that you've become a case in my lifelong little research project, the Salinger Syndrome.

I too know what it's like, the urge to please. I just never manage to please anybody. Of the four of us at the Factory I'm the worst. I wish things were different, but they're not.

You were a junkie long before you started snorting cocaine, Nora. You were hooked on popularity, on other people's admiration, on their love for you. You were a love abuser for so many years that you kept craving a higher dose. But then even that wasn't enough and you turned to synthetic love, drugs.

Nora, I don't know what to do. You probably have your habit under control just like everything else in your life. Except your love abuse, that is.

Hans Christian Andersen died on August 4
th
, 1875. Marilyn Monroe died on August 5
th
, 1972. Tove Ditlevsen died in 1971. Nora From is still alive.

 

 

The telephone rang in our hotel room on Broome Street at 11.30 p.m.

Beate was lying on the bed, reading. She picked up the receiver. ‘Yes?' Someone on the other end said something I couldn't catch and I couldn't read the expression on Beate's face. ‘Yes,' she said evenly, ‘Yes. I understand.'

She put her hand over the receiver and looked over at me. I was sitting in the window sill looking down at the street.

‘It's them,' she said.

‘Who?'

‘Art Goldman and Rose.'

‘What do they want?'

‘To meet up with us.'

‘When?'

‘Now.'

‘Where?'

‘Down in the lobby.'

‘Where are the letters?'

‘Take it easy.'

Beate pulled up her sweater to reveal a money belt. It looked as if she was carrying a concealed weapon. Instead of a weapon she had a bundle of letters strapped to her waist.

‘How angry at them are we?' she asked.

‘I'm furious at them.'

‘They won't cheat us again.'

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘It's just a feeling I have.'

‘Are those the genuine letters?'

‘Sure are.'

‘Can Art be sure of that?'

‘No. And that's why they're going to play nice this time.'

‘So you've got the whole thing figured out?'

‘Dan, we've lived together for almost a lifetime. You know what I'm like. I'm that boring little dentist who always makes sure you don't trip over your own two feet more than absolutely necessary. I'm also the dentist of choice to all the big time crooks at home, maybe because I have a natural talent for crime.'

‘You make me feel like an idiot.'

‘You're not. It's just that you spend most of your life in your own thoughts.'

‘What do we do now?'

‘It depends on what you want,' replied Beate.

‘I want revenge!'

‘No you don't. I know what you want.'

‘And what might that be?'

‘You want to meet Salinger. The real Salinger.'

‘Yes. That's true.'

‘Well, you will,' she said.

‘How can you be so sure?'

‘I've read his letters too. Several times, actually.'

‘When?'

‘While you were asleep. I think I have a pretty good idea what Salinger's like. His letters are almost better than his books. When he writes about Kierkegaard he's fantastic.'

Beate got up from the bed and we left the room.

Down in the lobby Art and Rose were waiting for us. They beamed at us as if we were old friends finally getting together after a long absence, as they hurried to explain how they had only been obeying orders and assured us of their fondness for us. We were such a lovely family from wonderful Copenhagen.

Once the preliminaries were out of the way we sat down at a small table by the window facing Broome Street.

Rose Goldman and Beate did most of the talking.

Beate had brought her little yellow notebook and a ballpoint. She wrote down four conditions, pointing with the ball point to each condition as it was being negotiated. When agreement had been reached she moved the ballpoint to the next condition and resumed negotiations.

The whole thing didn't take very long. When Beate reached across the table to shake Rose's hand we all immediately stood up and said good bye.

A car was waiting for them on Broome Street.

Beate and I went up to our room. She brushed her teeth, put on her nightgown and quickly fell asleep. I lay awake all night.

Art Goldman's instructions were very simple. The next morning he called at the appointed time and said, ‘Be at Battery Park tomorrow morning at 10. Take the ferry over to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. You'll meet Jerry Salinger there. Remember to bring the letters.'

There wasn't a cloud in the sky when I arrived in Battery Park at the stroke of 10. There were a great many tourists, American and foreign.

I tried not to swivel my head from side to side in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Salinger. I kept my head turned front and restricted myself to peeking out of the corner of my eye. There were at least 20 men I thought were Salinger.

I took the ferry to Ellis Island and went with the tourist flow. I had been there several times before. No one came near me. No one spoke to me. I took the ferry over to the Statue of Liberty and climbed to the top.

No Salinger. I took the ferry back to Manhattan and then back again to Ellis Island. On Ellis Island I walked over to a bench near the water. From there I could see the Manhattan skyline bathed in bright morning light.

A man sat down next to me on the bench. I jumped about an inch, but it was only a German from Hamburg asking if I knew the best way to get to New Jersey. The funny thing was that the man looked like Salinger.

We chatted about Danish soccer players. Then his wife came over with some friends and they left shortly afterwards.

I returned to the Statue of Liberty, and went back up into the head. It was very crowded but suddenly a space became available by the railing when an Indian woman in a yellow sari turned around and walked toward the exit. I hurried over to take her place.

A man was standing next to me. The first thing I noticed about him was the smell of the after shave or soap he used. It was a pleasant smell and reminded me of my father. The next thing I noticed was the man's hands. They were resting on the railing in front of him. The right hand turned toward me and made a small, discreet waving gesture.

I turned around and looked into the face of J.D. Salinger.

What had I expected? I was prepared to meet an angry, vengeful man. I had a clear picture of him based on the descriptions I had read in various newspapers and magazines over the past couple of years. He was described as a white-haired old madman obsessed with protecting his privacy from a curious public. The books written about him did not portray him in a favourable light. A young mistress had written a book about their love affair. His daughter had written a book about her difficult, paranoid father. A woman from Texas who met with him for a short time on a bridge near his home described him as clearly suffering from paranoia.

And here was I, who had travelled a long way to blackmail him in the worst possible way. All the kindness and trust he had shown me in the letters we had written each other I was now using to blackmail him. It was not a pretty story, but I was just one of an endless number of paparazzi lying in wait to spring on him.

I would have understood if he had held me in the deepest contempt. I was prepared for it. But how do you prepare yourself? You set your expectations at an absolute minimum. You figure, ‘OK, even if the man hates and despises me, and rightly so, it's worth it. I've dreamed of meeting him for so many years. No matter how unpleasant or disappointing this turns out to be, I want it to happen. I haven't travelled so far to go home empty-handed.'

I pictured a white-faced, thin-lipped old man, hatred burning in his eyes, his mouth distorted with anger, snarling his contempt for me. I imagined the spittle spraying from his lips as he raged at me. He would ask me for the letters and I would get what I'd come for, an interview. A violation of his privacy. The privacy he had tried to protect all his life. But I would have got what I came for. I would see Salinger
live
, just once in my life. And I would ask myself why I was doing it. And as always whenever I asked myself that question, I wouldn't know the answer.

I simply didn't know why I was doing it. I only knew it was something I craved, and now, up in the head of the Statue of Liberty, with a full view of Manhattan, it was finally happening.

And it was completely different from what I had imagined.

What happened was that I fell in love with the man at my first sight of him. Falling in love is the correct term, the only means of describing what I felt. It means that I became infatuated with him, I was crazy about him, I felt the deepest devotion towards him.

It occurred immediately. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked into the face I knew so well. I had seen all the photographs of him available to the public, from photographs of him as a young man to the photographs two French photographers had taken recently in a parking lot after Salinger had been shopping. Salinger was angry and started threatening them. They had photographed the furious man from inside the car. It looked like a wanted poster more than anything else.

Salinger was an elderly man. His hair was still black streaked with white. His face was unchanged. The surprising thing was that he appeared to be enjoying himself, he seemed in excellent spirits, and he was friendly. He looked at me as though he had really looked forward to meeting me. The sun was shining and we were meeting at last! From the very first moment it was as though we were confidential old friends who had happily anticipated finally meeting.

He was my height, a little over 6 foot. He was wearing a light-coloured windbreaker. Underneath he was wearing a blue sweater and a light blue shirt. His pants were dark blue and he was wearing red sports shoes.

Red sports shoes! J.D: Salinger in a pair of smart, red sports shoes! Wow!

What had I expected? He would turn up in a coat of mail? In a uniform? Wearing a cassock?

He looked like a thousand other ordinary old men on a trip to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty.

Nobody gave him a second look. Nobody knew who he was. He looked completely ordinary.

Was it only because I was so fascinated by him that I thought he was anything but ordinary?

To me he was something special. In the first place he was handsome. He was simply a handsome old man. His eyes were dark and lively. He had charisma, he had an aura. Wherever that comes from. Mostly from his eyes, I think. His eyes were interested, attentive, but the rest of him was also so intensely present that you couldn't help feeling the energy emanating from him.

He stood next to me and looked out over Manhattan. I didn't want to be rude and just stand there gaping at him so I turned and looked out at New York too. New York was wonderful that morning but what I really wanted was to drink in the man standing next to me.

How much time would Salinger give me? Would he suddenly disappear? There was no way I could ask. Maybe he would disappear the minute I gave him the letters.

I felt I couldn't ask him for an interview either. It might scare him off.

And what did I want to ask him? What time did he get up in the morning? What did he have for breakfast? Did he still smoke? What did he do for fun? Did he work out to keep in shape? What time did he go to bed? How many hours a night did he sleep? Was he in good health?

A bunch of ridiculous questions, but I was dying to ask.

He said, ‘I brought the letters.'

I thought I'd heard wrong. I thought he asked me if I had brought the letters.

So I answered, ‘Yes, I've brought the letters.'

He smiled, ‘Dan, I don't think you understand.'

‘Understand what?'

‘
I've
brought the letters for
you
.'

‘You mean the copies my wife had made of your letters?'

He shook his head. ‘No, the genuine ones.'

‘But I've got the genuine ones.'

He smiled even more widely. ‘No, I've got the genuine ones, Dan.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand what you mean.'

‘Looks that way.'

I said, ‘The letters I gave you, or rather your double, were only copies.'

He nodded. ‘I'm aware of that.'

‘What letters are you talking about then?'

He laughed. ‘You have a very intelligent wife, Dan. I know all about that.'

‘How do you know all about that?'

Salinger leaned forward and pointed toward mid-Manhattan. ‘Try looking down there, north of the Empire State Building, that green area down there. Can you see where I'm pointing? I was born there and lived there as a kid, Riverside Drive.'

‘Yes, I've been inside your old building too.'

‘Have you?'

‘Yes.'

‘I go there myself occasionally when I'm in New York.'

‘You either visit William Shawn at the New Yorker or your sister Doris.'

Salinger laughed. ‘Do you know where I stay when I'm in New York too?'

‘Yes, you stay at the Washington Square Hotel in the village, room 217 under the name David Douglas.'

‘Do you know where I got the name Douglas?'

‘Yes, from your ex-wife, Claire Douglas.'

Salinger smiled. ‘Dan, you have to admit my quick-change act has gone pretty well.'

‘What do you mean your quick-change act?'

‘I had a good idea once. One good, little idea. That idea turned out to be more brilliant than I'd ever imagined.'

Salinger fell silent as though he had suddenly lost interest. Or as though he believed I understood what he meant.

Maybe he was only teasing me. There was something mischievous about him, although not cruel. Was he making fun of me because he thought I was ridiculous?

I asked, ‘What idea was that?'

‘You know what it was,' he said. ‘Everybody does.'

‘I do?'

‘Of course you do. Come on, Dan. I'm internationally famous for just one thing.'

‘
The Catcher in the Rye
?'

‘No.'

‘Then what?'

‘You know!'

‘I do?'

‘Of course you do. Want me to help you out?'

‘Please.'

‘The only reason I'm famous is I because I said one little word and kept on saying it. That innocent little word is no.'

‘No?'

Salinger glanced at me with a worried expression on his face. ‘Hey, aren't you the Dan Moller I once corresponded with? Aren't you the guy that came to the US to sell my letters?'