I woke up early the next day, eager to leave the island. Already the whole scene on Capri felt like a dream: remote and insubstantial, phantasmagoric.
I loved walking to the piazzetta for breakfast, lingering over coffee and pastries, writing poetry. I could write in the morning, before the tasks of the day consumed me, when my mind felt clear and large, awake. I’d been filling a notebook with rough drafts of poems in the past weeks, and considered this my secret hoard. I planned to raid those pages for months to come, finding fragments of verse that might, with a little coaxing, become poems. It was a lesson I’d learned from Grant, who often sat in the garden under his favorite lemon tree with a notebook in hand, scribbling odd lines, images, unusual words, names for characters in future fictions, titles that might one day find a poem or novel attached to them.
It was a brilliant morning, the sea on fire below as I made my way toward the piazzetta along the familiar path. I felt keenly alert as I followed the Tragara above the Unghia Marina, while sunlight sharpened its edges on the tumbling dolomitic shelves of Mount Solaro. The rooftop of the Certosa di San Giacomo—an obvious landmark above the Marina Piccola—glistened, as if made of tinfoil. I deeply enjoyed the Camerelle in early morning, with its cloistered aura, the distinctive smell of dung, cat piss, and laundry soap permeating the air as shirts and bedsheets flapped on balconies. The paving stones below were a rich amber color, bordered by late summer flowers. It struck me that Capri never disappointed the senses, rushing at every organ full blast, with variety and texture. I felt a pang, and knew I would miss the island. I might never again recapture this world of light and sound, of smell and taste. Covetously, I ran my fingers along the walls, prizing the chalky stone with its rough and porous grain.
Emerging into the piazzetta from the shadows of the via Vittorio Emanuele, I temporarily lost my vision. The sun was too bright to absorb, so I waited for my eyes to adjust in the shade of a candy-striped awning, taking a whole table to myself at the Bar Alfonso. The Capresi never used these tables, since they charged a little more for the drinks and food in the open air. But I didn’t care, having spent very little of my grandfather’s money in the past months.
I settled in, opening my notebook to a blank page. The waiter, a young, smooth-cheeked fellow in a white jacket, knew me well by now; he didn’t have to ask what I wanted but simply brought an espresso with an almond-encrusted cornetto, still warm from the oven. It was a sign that I’d been accepted as a regular. Contented, I stared ahead, vaguely watching the local traffic in the piazzetta, and vaguely waiting for that elusive thing called inspiration. I was trying (without success) to keep my immediate problems as far from my conscious mind as possible.
With a disorienting rush, I realized that the man sitting at the next table was W. H. Auden. One could hardly mistake the famously grooved face, the lidded eyes with pouches below them, or the hair combed straight to one side like an English schoolboy en route to chapel. His rumpled linen jacket needed laundering, and there were ashes on his gray trousers. On the table before him was last Friday’s edition of the Daily Telegraph, and he was reading the sports pages. (Grant had told me about Auden’s obsession with games, and we’d often talked about his notion of poetry as “a game of knowledge.”)
Though I wanted to introduce myself, it seemed gauche and rude to disturb him while he was having breakfast, taking a break from his life as “W. H. Auden.” It would, in fact, have annoyed me that morning had someone unexpectedly appeared at my side demanding attention. I savored the solitude in company one finds in a public café—an atmosphere cherished by writers. On the other hand, I had only one life, and Auden meant a lot to me. I might never have another chance to meet him, to hear the voice, to look into his eyes. The encounter would probably strike him as a mild irritation, a petty disturbance in an otherwise uneventful day; but it would matter to me. I would think of it for decades to come, cursing myself to the grave if I didn’t make the move.
While still debating whether or not to interrupt him, I found myself standing by his table. The decision seemed to have been made for me.
He looked up and, to my relief, smiled—his teeth were brown, uneven. “You’re not Italian,” he said. “I can always tell by the jeans. You bought those in America, didn’t you?”
“I’m Alex Massolini,” I said. “I work for Rupert Grant—as his secretary.”
“Ah, my old chum! Please, sit.” He offered me a cigarette, but I refused.
“Americans despise smokers,” he said. “But it’s a foul habit, this not smoking.” A white scum gathered in the corners of his lips.
“I’ve got nothing against smoking,” I said, taking a seat.
“Good chap!” He sucked at the cigarette, inhaling with gusto. The smoke disappeared into his lungs forever as a quiet satisfaction flooded his face. His fingers were tobacco-stained, the nails bitten.
“I’m very glad to meet you,” I said.
He studied my features. “Let me guess: you’re a poet,” he said.
“How did you know?”
“I’ve a sixth sense for such things, my dear. Tell me about your poems. I’m all ears.”
“I’ve written very little. It’s more that I’m trying to write poems.”
“Well done,” he said, irrelevantly. His mind seemed to wander, then he snapped back into focus. “Whom do you read?”
This was easy. “I’ve been reading your poems for a long time,” I said.
“That’s not possible,” he responded, wiping fresh ashes from the sleeve of his jacket. “You haven’t been alive long enough for that to be the case.”
“Let’s say that as long as I’ve been interested in poetry, I’ve admired yours.”
He seemed embarrassed by this, taking a sip of coffee.
“‘Musée des Beaux Arts’ is almost a perfect poem,” I said.
Auden smiled. “Almost? Whenever anyone tells me they like a particular poem, I feel as though I’ve been pickpocketed,” he said. “No matter. I like that poem as well as you do. I should like it just as well if someone else had written it.”
“It’s inspired,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” he said, with a worried look. “I’m not very keen on that notion. Inspiration. What’s that? A passing feeling, with no real connection to any present reality. I place very little weight on how I felt about a certain poem whilst writing it. One must be careful not to overestimate such things. A poem is a verbal machine. Nothing more. One tinkers. There are decent mechanics and poor ones.”
“You seem to prefer formal poetry.”
“One does whatever appears to work. I like it when gifts come in neat boxes, don’t you?” He twisted the cigarette into an ashtray. “I often tell young friends who want to be poets that they should learn everything they can about rhymes, meters, stanza forms, and so on. A poet who writes free verse has to invent the world afresh in every poem, and only the greatest—or luckiest—pull it off. Whitman could manage, or Eliot. For the most part, free verse is sloppy. One doesn’t like squalor on the page.”
Since he was in a chatty mood, I decided to risk something. “Some of your poems are obscure,” I said. “Does it bother you when critics say that?”
“They’re not obscure to me,” he said. “I’m writing for myself, after all. My readers are just eavesdropping, would you say?”
“I suppose.”
“Look, dear. I pay no attention to critics. In a way, I wish poets would be judged only by their peers, like physicists. Nobody ever said, ‘But I didn’t understand your formula, Dr. Einstein.’ Notice that bad physicists are usually not applauded. But what of bad poets? Do you read the reviews in the Sunday papers? Shocking. And the prizes! I’m always appalled by the shortlists, and offended by the winners.”
“I don’t think about that,” I said, and it was true. That sort of professional envy would come later, when I actually had something to compare with others.
Auden was delighted, however. “Try to remain obscure as long as you can,” he said. “It’s much safer. And forget about this word ‘inspiration.’ A young poet has to court his own muse, but Dame Philology should become his mistress. Go deeply into words. And don’t be concerned with originality.”
“So far, that hasn’t been a problem,” I said. “I’m an imitator.”
“I’m sure Rupert would approve,” he said. “He’s been imitating me for decades.” There was an artful pause. “And what do you make of Rupert? Tell the truth now. I won’t tattle.”
“He’s very disciplined,” I said.
“Of course,” Auden said. “Discipline, in a man of intelligence, is a sign of ambition.”
“His best work is probably in the novels.”
“Alas, I’ve never read one.”
“Really?”
“I prefer detective stories, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve written prose.”
“Quite a lot, I should say. Had to make a living. Mostly book reviews, lectures. It’s all a bit scrappy.”
Scrappy, indeed. I had, with excitement, read and admired The Dyer’s Hand, a volume of aphoristic essays and reviews. But I understood that he’d focused on poetry with a unique vengeance. Few poets had written with such variety, in so many forms, many invented for the occasion. The range of his voice, from colloquial to formal modes, dazzled me. The problem was, the audience for such virtuosity was surely dying.
“Do you have anyone in mind, when you write a poem?” I wondered.
“What a funny question,” he said. “Do you know, sometimes, when I read a book and adore it, it seems to have been written for my eyes only. I don’t want anyone else in the world to know about it, so I keep mum. As a poet, I should like to imagine that thousands of chaps—or ladies—are out there feeling like that about my poems. They’ve all got a tremendous and wonderful secret which they are loath to share.”
What he said made such astonishing good sense, and he clearly enjoyed saying things he’d probably said a thousand times before. He would make, I thought, a marvelous teacher.
“Tell me something of yourself, Alan.”
“Alex,” I said.
“Yes, yes. So you are happy at the Villa Clio? It’s a lovely spot.”
“Not really,” I said.
“Oh, dear. I suspect the worst, so tell me the truth.”
“It’s not so bad,” I said. “I’m in love.”
He drew back, feigning disbelief. “In love? Not very wise, dear,” he said. “Who is she? Or he?” He lowered his voice. “Not Rupert, I should hope? He doesn’t deserve it.”
“An English girl,” I said. “Rupert’s research assistant.”
“He’s very keen on his research, isn’t he? I’ve heard about this obsession—from Vera, the poor darling.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“Make a complete fool of yourself,” he said. “It’s your right and your duty. You’re a young man. Do what follows naturally—as the night the day.”
“I’m going to leave Capri,” I said, “as soon as possible. And with Holly, if she’ll come.”
“Oh, she’ll come,” Auden said. “Abduct her, if she won’t. The Italian police are hopeless. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
I laughed, saying I would take his advice, and this cheered him inordinately. For whatever reason, I had the feeling that he needed my cheer that morning. His bright, healthy spirit seemed uncomfortably trapped in a flabby, unwholesome body that had never willingly been found on a squash court. His complexion—the skin papery and sulfurous—reflected a life of booze and cigarettes. (“His apartment in New York always looked like an ashtray that no one bothered to empty,” Grant once told me.) It didn’t surprise me when, only a couple of years later, he died—a man in his early sixties, but one whose flesh had long since become irrelevant.
After a few further minutes of chatter, I sensed that Auden wished to regain his solitude. The fleshy eyes kept glancing away from me, toward the sports pages. His fingers began to drum the table.
“I’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Auden,” I said, rising.
“How nice to meet you,” he said, putting forward a hand to shake, a habit perhaps acquired in New York.
I returned to my table and began to write—a true story about an old man called Gus who lived in my neighborhood in Pittston. He occupied an otherwise abandoned Bricktex building on the corner of our block, and children tended to taunt him. Mothers warned against speaking to him at all. The grandmother of a friend informed me that Gus “ate children for breakfast.” One day, I caught up to him as he limped along the street, starting a conversation. He seemed glad for my company, and invited me to his filthy apartment (old newspapers were stacked waist-high in every corner). He offered me cookies and a glass of Coke, served in a coffee-stained cup, and—with some reservations—I ate and drank. Gus was supposedly retarded, but I found our conversation delightful—he talked of nothing but the Yankees and their current season. “Mickey Mantle,” he said, “very good. He hits so many homers!” He grinned at me, toothlessly. “And you,” he said, “what is your name and do you play baseball?” I told him about my Little League team and my dream of pitching for the Braves like Warren Spahn. I also confessed to problems with throwing a curve. “It’s hard,” I said, and he nodded aggressively. Curve balls are hard to throw, he agreed, extracting a baseball from the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Put your fingers like this,” he said, showing me how to place my fingers on the seams of the ball in a particular way. “Try it,” he said, handing me the ball. “I think you will throw a curve today.”
I left him that day with a feeling of peculiar exhilaration. I was not Gus, and I was not retarded, and I would never, ever live in such a peculiar apartment. And if, by some rotten twist, I found myself in parallel circumstances, I would open my heart to every child on the street.
When I glanced at the table beside me, I noticed that Auden was already gone.