The Marriage of Sticks by Jonathan Carroll Read Free Book Online Page B

from smiling. I had gone to work for him in New York after college. He had shown me everything he knew about the rare book business. Enthusiasm and generosity were at the heart of his personality. When I left to open my own store, he lent me ten thousand dollars to get started.
    “Do you still have that nice Stevens? I have a buyer. A Scientologist from Utah.”
    “A Scientologist who reads Wallace Stevens?”
    “Exactly. I’ve been out west, drumming up business. Bumped into some very interesting people. One man lived on a strict carrot diet and collected nothing but Wyndham Lewis. That’s why I haven’t been around. I don’t know about you, but books haven’t been flying off my shelves recently. That’s why I’ve been traveling. How are things for you?”
    “So-so. They go in waves. I sold a bunch of Robert Duncan in L.A. a couple of months ago. That put me back on track. Do you know who I saw when I was out there? Doug Auerbach.”
    “Ah, the Dog. What’s he been doing?”
    “Making commercials. He makes a load of money.”
    “But you said he wanted to be Ingmar Bergman. I can’t imagine making dog food ads satisfies that desire. Does he still miss you?”
    “I guess. I think he misses the time when his life had more possibilities.”
    “Don’t we all? Well, Miranda, I’ve come to see you, but I’ve also come on a mission. Have you heard of Frances Hatch?”
    “Am I going to be embarrassed saying no?”
    “Not really. She’s a well-kept secret to all but a few. Frances Hatch was a kind of Jill of all trades, mistress of none, in the twenties and thirties. Although she was mistress to an amazing number of famous people. She was a sort of lunatic combination of Alma Mahler, Caresse Crosby, and Lee Miller.
    “She came from big money in St. Louis but rebelled and ran away to Prague. She went at the right time to the wrong city. Things were going on there, as in the rest of Europe in the twenties, but it was nowhere near as interesting as Berlin or Paris. She stayed a year studying photography, then moved to Bucharest with a Romanian ventriloquist. His stage name was “The Enormous Shumda.’ ”
    “To Bucharest with The Enormous Shumda? I love her already.”
    “I know—a strange choice of geography. But she was always being towed somewhere by one man or another and willingly went along for the ride. Anyway, she left after a short time and ended up in Paris, alone.”
    “Not for long, right?”
    “Right. Women like Frances never stay alone long.” He opened his briefcase and took out a photograph. “Here’s a self-portrait she took around that time.”
    I looked at the picture. It was a beautiful black-and-white shot, reminiscent of the work of Walter Peterhans or Lyonel Feininger: angular, stark, very Germanic. I laughed. “This is a joke. You’re joking, right, Clayton?” I looked again. I didn’t know what to say. “It’s a self-portrait? It’s wonderful. From the way you described her, I thought she’d just be a ditz. I’d never have imagined she was so talented.”
    “And?” He pointed to the picture and, eyes twinkling, started to smile.
    “And, she looks like a schnauzer.”
    “My first thought was an emu.”
    “What’s that?”
    “They look like ostriches.”
    “You’re telling me this emu was the lover to famous people? She is ugly, Clayton. Look at that nose!”
    “Have you heard the French phrase belle laide ?”
    “No.”
    “It means ugly enough to be desirable. The ugliness adds to the sexiness.”
    “This woman is not belle anything.”
    “Maybe she was great in bed.”
    “She’d have to be. I can’t believe it, Clayton. Part of me thinks you’re bullshitting. Who was she with?”
    “Kazantzákis, Giacometti. Her best friend was Charlotte Perriand. Others. She lived a fascinating life.” He took the photo from me. After glancing at it once more, he put it back in his briefcase. “And she’s still alive! Lives on 112th Street.”
    “How old is