Authors: Ellen Pall
Slightly Abridged (5 page)
“Did you sleep all right?” she asked, glancing apologetically at Suzy. “This is a quiet neighborhood, but it certainly isn't rural. I'm afraid the garbage trucks must have woken you.”
“Obviously, my dear,” Ada said, smiling brilliantly as she adjusted the bow in her dashing hair ribbon, “you have never heard a snowmobile. I slept like a top.”
“Ada's going to the Statue of Liberty this afternoon,” Suzy reported.
The old lady smiled again. “That's before my rendezvous with Pierre.” Pierre was the distinguished waiter of last night.
Juliet and Suzy conferred silently, by glance.
“Ames might like to go with you,” Juliet said. “Would you mind if she did?”
Mrs. Caffrey gave her companions a canny look. “You don't think I'm safe on my own, do you?”
There was a pause. Then, “No,” Suzy admitted.
Ada lifted her painted eyebrows. “I'd like to see either of you cope with an Espyville winter in a hundred-year-old house,” she said. “Your Ames is perfectly welcome if she wants to come to Liberty Island”âher voice dropped an octaveâ“but I'm not taking her to meet Pierre.”
“I'll let her know,” Juliet promised.
“Now, after the Statue of Liberty, but before I meet Pierre, I've got to get to TKTS in Times Square,” Ada went on, with that brisk zeal Juliet found both admirable and disconcerting. “I'm hoping for tickets to something on Broadway, or do you think off-Broadway is better these days?”
Juliet lingered through some discussion of New York's theater scene, then stood to go. She moved over to the side table to pick up the manuscript.
“If you're certain Dennis is the dealer you'd prefer,” she said, “I'll make sure he gets the pages. I suppose you can just keep that receipt we made out yesterday for now.”
“Oh, what a dear you are,” Ada said, giving her a distracted smile that let Juliet know that “dears” did not rank very high on her list of important people. Once again, she saw that her new friend had a gift for leaving onerous chores to others while she disported herself as she pleased. Juliet thought about this talent later as she scurried up through the cold that morning to give the letter and manuscript
to Dennis. He was delighted by the Byron reference. She made her visit short, merely handing over the pages in return for a receipt (mistrustfulness, she found, was catching), then going home to fail at writing “A Christian Gentleman.”
to Dennis. He was delighted by the Byron reference. She made her visit short, merely handing over the pages in return for a receipt (mistrustfulness, she found, was catching), then going home to fail at writing “A Christian Gentleman.”
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Over the next three days, Juliet and Suzy continued, with varying
degrees of willingness, to oblige Mrs. Caffrey. When she announced her wish to see the opera, Juliet sprang for tickets and went along. Ames escorted her to the Bronx Zoo, Suzy to Chinatown, Pierre to the Chelsea art galleries. None of them felt it prudent to let Mrs. Caffrey gad about on her own, and so she succeeded in getting them to arrange these and half a dozen other excursions for her.
degrees of willingness, to oblige Mrs. Caffrey. When she announced her wish to see the opera, Juliet sprang for tickets and went along. Ames escorted her to the Bronx Zoo, Suzy to Chinatown, Pierre to the Chelsea art galleries. None of them felt it prudent to let Mrs. Caffrey gad about on her own, and so she succeeded in getting them to arrange these and half a dozen other excursions for her.
By far the most interesting outing for Juliet was Wednesday's visit to the poetry slam at Cleopatra's Ashtray, which turned out to be in the basement of a rock club called Scar, on the Bowery. The thick gloom and clouds of cigarette smoke that met them as they descended the concrete steps fazed Mrs. Caffrey not a bit. Dressed all in silver, her penetrating voice easily making itself heard despite the recorded thump of Eminem, she blithely asked the be-nose-ringed barmaid where the sign-up sheet was and inscribed her name below that of a half-dozen others. A crowd of mismatched chairs was arranged before a low, floodlit wooden platform that would serve as a stage. Mrs. Caffrey took a seat in the front row, inches from the booming speakers, then turned to look over the competition. The oldest of these was her junior by about fifty years; most were in their twenties or early thirties, Juliet guessed. A few scribbled in notebooks or studied typewritten sheets, lips moving silently as they prepared to recite from memory. Mrs. Caffrey needed no such aids, it appeared, but sat supremely confident, sipping an Irish coffee while her orthopedic shoe tapped out the music's throbbing beat.
At last the slam started, conducted by a sort of poet-emcee, a
burly blond man named Doug Renny, who chose at random five judges from among the thirty or forty members of the audience. These were furnished with scoring pads of the type used at swim meets.
burly blond man named Doug Renny, who chose at random five judges from among the thirty or forty members of the audience. These were furnished with scoring pads of the type used at swim meets.
Then the poets began. At the sound of her name, a young woman leapt to the stage, caressed the microphone, and huskily whispered into it a sonnet describing her lust for the counterman at her local deli, who shaved meats to such a fine transparency that the poetess wished he would coat her own skin in spiced ham and ⦠and so on.
Juliet stole a glance at Ada, fearing her idea of what constituted poetry stopped short of Hormel. But there was no revulsion or even surprise on Ada's features, only the focused interest of one artist listening to another. The smitten carnivore recited a second poem, this one a free verse appreciation of autoeroticism, which drew sympathetic whoops from several women in the audience and admiring stamps of encouragement from one or two men. Again, Juliet glanced apprehensively at her elderly companion but saw there only a beatific smile. Juliet was forced to conclude that she was more of a prig than Ada.
As the first poetess left the platform amid enthusiastic applause, the ad hoc judges raised their tablets.
“Nine point four!” Doug Renny read out, regaining the stage. “Nine point five! Nine point one, nine point eight” (the applause intensified), “eight point nine” (a chorus of disappointed “aws”). Renny laughed and adroitly moved the proceedings along. He had the patter of a professor who has studied the great stand-up comedians. He announced a rondeau slam for Friday at a club called Jade and gave a spirited reading of Donne's “Elegy XIX. To His Mistress Going to Bed” (“License my roving hands, and let them go / Before, behind, between, above, below ⦔) before calling the next slammer to the stage. This was a man who declared in a deafening voice his devotion to his lover's feet, lingering over the cuticles by his toenails
(the beloved also was a man), even the fungal flakes from persistent athlete's foot. Presentation, Juliet saw by now, was key in this particular art. The poets, though they looked scruffy enough, had the self-possession of accomplished actors, and used the microphone with polished effect. As to the quality of the poetry, it was, by and large, written to be spoken aloud; without seeing it on the page, Juliet could not judge it further.
(the beloved also was a man), even the fungal flakes from persistent athlete's foot. Presentation, Juliet saw by now, was key in this particular art. The poets, though they looked scruffy enough, had the self-possession of accomplished actors, and used the microphone with polished effect. As to the quality of the poetry, it was, by and large, written to be spoken aloud; without seeing it on the page, Juliet could not judge it further.
The podophile was followed by a man who dreamily delivered a rap-inspired invitation to his beloved to spend the night with him; in the poet's swift, incantatory murmur, Juliet missed quite a few of the details, but the rhythmic urgency of the piece came through loud and clear, and she found herself whistling in appreciation with the others when he finished.
At length, Renny announced a poet new to him and, perhaps, to the New York slam circuit: Ada Case Caffrey!
There was a flutter of polite applause as Ada's silver gown (composed of some fabric no longer made, it seemed to Juliet) shimmered in the pool of light trained on the microphone. Her flapper's face serenely commanding, she scanned the audience with a long, slow, languid gaze. The hard light painted a slippery streak of white onto her shoe-polish hair.
“âIn Memoriam, Frederick A.,'” she announced, her deep voice spreading over the audience like honey.
“Bereft in the moonlight, I, / Like a well gone dry, / Gather dust in the field, / Where once your lips like wings / Beat mine, where once your flesh / Under the hemlocks stripped me / Of thought, of will ⦔
Juliet listened in astonishment as Ada conjured in her thrilling voice the carnal passion of her vanished lover, Frederick A., who, it seemed, had died of an illnessâcancer?âbrought on by work in a tanning factory. Terms used erotically in the early part of the poem (lips that beat, flesh that stripped the poet of thought) returned in the middle part referring to tanning (flesh stripped from hide, tannin
from the shady hemlocks) and finally, in a third part, to grief (“beaten, I dream of that other / Hemlock, pray for death myself ⦔) An uproar greeted the end of this poem, which Ada followed with a much lighter one called “Stagecraft,” about a kiss exchanged between actors in a play. To some extent because she was herself such a quaint and curious creature, but in no small part because of the poetry itselfâand her skill in delivering itâAda left the stage to a din of clapping and stamping. No judge gave her a score less than nine point eight and two awarded her a ten.
from the shady hemlocks) and finally, in a third part, to grief (“beaten, I dream of that other / Hemlock, pray for death myself ⦔) An uproar greeted the end of this poem, which Ada followed with a much lighter one called “Stagecraft,” about a kiss exchanged between actors in a play. To some extent because she was herself such a quaint and curious creature, but in no small part because of the poetry itselfâand her skill in delivering itâAda left the stage to a din of clapping and stamping. No judge gave her a score less than nine point eight and two awarded her a ten.
In the second round of the slam, as the highest-scoring contestant, Ada went first. This time, she had lost the element of surprise, and with it some of the drama that had won her listeners. However, she craftily recited a poem full of sly innuendo, comparing sliding into bed with her lover to sliding her hand into a glove. Each digit's experience was described in detail, and with much humorous use of the idea of fitting, wriggling in, warming up, hard fingernails, and so forth. Charmed all over again, the audience roared its approval. The judges issued a straight row of nine-point-nines.
At the end of the slam, Ada was found to be the winner. Juliet could not help but notice a look of furious dislike on the face of Ada's nearest competitor, Mira Branson, she of the translucent deli meats, as she retook the stage in Ada's wake. Doug Renny gave Ada the copy of
Gathered Rosebuds,
an anthology of “poems of desire,” which was the evening's prize. She received it with a vibrant “Thank you” into the microphone, then considerably startled the husky emcee by turning back to him and planting a whopping kiss on his mouth. The gesture provoked a new swell of enthusiasm from the crowd (and a deeper scowl from Ms. Branson). Then, in a flash of silver, Ada skipped from the stage and dropped into the seat beside Juliet.
Gathered Rosebuds,
an anthology of “poems of desire,” which was the evening's prize. She received it with a vibrant “Thank you” into the microphone, then considerably startled the husky emcee by turning back to him and planting a whopping kiss on his mouth. The gesture provoked a new swell of enthusiasm from the crowd (and a deeper scowl from Ms. Branson). Then, in a flash of silver, Ada skipped from the stage and dropped into the seat beside Juliet.
“Let's scram,” she panted into Juliet's ear. Juliet rose obediently, and the two hotfooted it through the crowd to the back of the
room. They retrieved their coats from the metal rack there and climbed the stairs to the door of the club as quickly as Ada's spry legs could manage.
room. They retrieved their coats from the metal rack there and climbed the stairs to the door of the club as quickly as Ada's spry legs could manage.
Out in the icy quiet of the Bowery, still breathing hard, “You have to know when to make your exit,” the poet explained. She handed Juliet the anthology to carry and led her briskly up the block. “This way, when I show up at Friday's slam, I'll still be a lady of mystery.”
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Juliet got home that night at elevenâlate, but still early enough to
return a machine message from Dennis, a lifelong night owl.
return a machine message from Dennis, a lifelong night owl.
He picked up the phone, sounding slightly spacey.
“Were you asleep?” she asked, instantly contrite.
“No, just in another world. Research world,” he said. “I love this manuscript, Juliet. Forgive me for not calling sooner to thank you. I've just have been having a blast checking it out.”
“You think it's valuable?”
“I don't know. I promised Mrs. Caffrey an answer on Friday afternoon. But a whole lot depends on the Byron thing, whether that can be authenticated in any way. I don't think it's from any known poemâI've got a grad student double-checking that. I've certainly never read it. But the way Wilson puts it is so unclear. It could be something he said directly to her, or something someone else told her he said, or something he wrote, or she could just have made the whole thing up. She mentions Byron a lot in the memoirs, and there are certainly letters from her in his papers. But people did drop his name in those days, he was so glamorous. And, conveniently for Wilson, he died a year before she published. She does describe a meeting with him, but I'm not at all sure it ever took place. On the other hand, he seems to have sent her money. So she might not have mentionedâ”
“And the valueâ?” Juliet prompted. For Ada's sake, she hoped it was high.
“Oh, yeah. Well, as I say, it very largely depends if the couplet can be traced. Then there's the question of who I can sell it to and how. By the way, are you interested?”
“It did cross my mind. But no, I'd rather just sit this one out. My little collection doesn't really run to manuscripts. Do you think you'll have trouble finding a buyer?”
“Oh, no. In fact, I've already talked to a couple of people. But that's hardly the point. How much money it brings in doesn't matter muchâat least, not to me. The point is, this is fun. This is the goods, the kind of thing you hope will come your way. So thank you. That Harriette Wilson was a pip.”
“I can't wait to hear what you've learned.”
“Well, for the moment, I guess I shouldn't say any more. Professional discretion. Habit of a lifetime,” he added apologetically. “You're not a prospective client, and the manuscript still belongs to Mrs. Caffrey. But I'm going to call her tomorrow morning and see if we can come to terms. Once I buy it from her, I promise I'll tell you everything I know.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It will be fun.” There was a pause. Then Dennis went on, “Do I sound crazy?”
“Not at all.”
“You don't think glee is a babyish emotion in a man?”
“Quite the contrary,” said Juliet, though she realized even as she said it that he did strike her as just a little childish at the moment. How awful! Did she believe men should repress their exuberance, act cool, pretend to be above emotion?
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