• 18 •

Going Home

Beyond the sealed shutter doors of the living room, the wind whipped across the patio and rattled the front gate. This was November, the time of Le Mistral, a dry cold, northerly wind that blows in squalls toward the Mediterranean coast of southern France. I had been told that it could reach a speed of 180 kilometers an hour and leave towering, aged palm trees bowed and broken, sands and roads littered with debris, and rooftops shed of tiles. Residents of the Cote d’Azur made a fairly mass exodus to calmer, less depressing places—for the rain and mist that preceded it, and then the untempered wind itself, affected one’s state of mind as well as one’s business, many of which closed for the entire month of November.

I sat, legs up, on the sofa, a blanket over them, Biba quivering on my lap, Chrissy and Sandy (growling under his breath) on the floor beside us. I could hear the click-clicking sound of Jay’s nimble fingers on the typewriter in the morning-room-cum-office. Genevieve (making her presence known with her grumbling) had deposited some groceries on the kitchen table and then slammed the door hard after herself. Dale had tried unsuccessfully to persuade me to bring Jay and the dogs to Gstaad for the month. Truth was, I had welcomed Le Mistral. I was not enamored with the gray skies, the lowering clouds, the sea that had turned to slate, and, especially, the need (in case of breaking glass) to live behind locked shutters and to have my days brightened only with artificial light. But the upside was that I could fully concentrate on my work. Visitors were few, and those who did come left as swiftly as they could once they realized no sun could be promised for the day following their arrival.

The dark soul of my novel was upon me. I had to find answers to all the questions that crowded my thoughts. I had named my protagonist (and antihero) Max Seaman (yes, with its homophonic in mind) and it was through him that I meant to convey to a reader the cataclysmic damage rendered to the men and women who had gone before the Committee, both those who had defied it and those who had caved in. They were all victims, as Dalton Trumbo had said.

I was exhausted this day. Le Mistral had blown fierce, turning more bellicose by the hour. I had been up all night wrapped in a blanket on the chaise lounge in my bedroom, writing. I managed a few hours sleep in the early morning—which could not reveal itself to me with all the shutters tightly sealed. I had edited the six or seven pages of lined yellow paper that contained my scrawled and marked-up handwriting that Jay was now transcribing on the typewriter, although I could not imagine how he could read my scribblings at all, never mind at the speed at which he was copying them.

The clicking stopped. A few moments later he came into the living room and stood by the fireplace, the fire now down to glowing embers. He held the pages to his chest, hands crossed over them. “I don’t think you should read these until tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Why?” I asked, somewhat surprised as Jay seldom made such suggestions.

“You need a good night’s sleep to clear your head a bit.”

“What does that mean?”

“You shouldn’t be quick to change anything. This passage says it all. I understand Max now. I feel sorry for him, for his loss. You know, my heart was pounding as I was typing. I felt in a small way a part of something important. What you are writing is important.” He walked over and put the pages down on the cocktail table in front of the sofa. “I’ll make some coffee,” he announced and went into the kitchen as Biba jumped off my lap and followed him in.

We sat across from each other at the kitchen table, caressing our hot-brewed mugs of coffee between our swallows. Genevieve had left a yeast-scented bread loaf and several croissants along with some sliced ham, milk, cheese, and a half dozen eggs, several of which were apparently cracked, as their contents were oozing through the paper sack that held them, most probably the cause of her ill humor earlier. Despite Le Mistral’s wrath, boulangers in town had kept their ovens baking. I was sorry to have missed the sight of Genevieve tightly gripping the handlebars of her moped as the vehicle was accelerated ever faster by the winds on her way into town and the brassy fight she must have fought to make her way back against them.

Jay pulled the last cigarette from a pack and lit it. He made a show of not crumpling the empty packaging and stuffing it into a pocket. A ruse, but I did not miss the fact that he smoked well over a pack a day. Early on in our relationship I had tried hard, without nagging, to get him to cut down, with no success. I watched him now as he inhaled deeply and then struggled to stifle a cough.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Fine. I could use a few good days in the sun,” he replied in a gravelly voice once he had stopped coughing.

He did not look fine. He had lost weight in recent weeks, and his cheeks were sunken. I had been concerned about his cough, which had begun to sound deeply imbedded in his chest, and had suggested he see a doctor in Cannes whom Sidney had recommended. His refusal was brusque. I reluctantly let it alone. I knew he was finding Beaulieu a bit lonely without the stimulation of the group at Chalet Coward, who were now wintering in the islands.

“It’s none of my business,” I ventured, “but have you heard from Cole Lesley lately?”

“I had a card,” he answered tersely, “forwarded from Gstaad. He obviously lost our new address.”

I was about to suggest he might like to take a week’s vacation to Jamaica. Certainly he was due more than that as he hardly ever took time off. But he continued. “He wrote something like—‘sky is blue, sun is great, Noël in painting mode.’ On the other side was a copy of a painting Noël had done of the island. No invitation. And I don’t go where I’m not invited.” Coughing overcame him again and he turned away.

By nightfall, Le Mistral’s energy had slackened. I suggested we call and see if the African Queen was open for dinner. He was instantly enthusiastic. The restaurant was on a stretch of the coast just down the hill from us known as “Petite Afrique.” There were several other restaurants all with good food and one that was quite exceptional. Wagons of seawet fresh seafood were stationed on their patios for inspection and choice, many varieties totally unfamiliar to me. However, no one was seated outside, for Le Mistral had not been stilled. There remained a brisk wind that caused all the storefront canopies to flutter with a thudding sound. The sea remained unsettled; the many-splendored lights of the row reflecting on the agitated waves. Boats, docked at the far end of the marina, swayed in their berths.

The African Queen was our favorite restaurant. The ambiance was more California than the South of France. Movie posters of Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hepburn, in their iconic roles as the alcoholic river captain and the maddening spinster traveling down river in Africa during World War I in the film for which the restaurant was named, decorated the walls along with fishnets and marine objects. The clientele was young, full of spirit. There was a singer who accompanied himself on the guitar, his repertoire current and fairly new American hits translated quite freely into French. The piece most requested seemed to be “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,” the popular song from the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, played and sung in such a unique fashion that, although lively and charming, might not have been recognized by the song’s composers, Burt Bacharach and Hal David. The place was warm and cozy. Voices were spirited. A guest at the African Queen could linger as long as they wished. The bill was never presented until the diner requested it. And, indeed, we lingered, for Jay was never at a loss for a story to tell. This evening he was looking back at his life before coming to Europe, on how difficult it had been to be gay when he was young, how much he resented having been the sibling elected to live with, and take care of, his mother as she aged, because he had to keep his personal life so locked up that it took on a sleazy feeling. He had hated that. He still could not let the memory die.

Within two days, the sun rose golden, the roads were cleared, and at Villa Roquefille Gerard had swept the patio and terraces of fallen leaves and branches. Best of all, I was able to open all the shutters and could see daylight once again. The last week of November was approaching and with it, the American Thanksgiving. I made plans and invited guests to celebrate with Catherine (who was taking the long weekend off from her studies), me, and Jay (whom my friends considered a family member and always included in their gatherings). I tried to persuade Michael to fly over, but he was in the very last days of a political campaign he was managing. My expat friends came from all directions of the Cote d’Azur and Catherine was bringing a French fellow classmate; we would be thirteen in all.

Procuring a turkey was not an easy task, and finding cranberries and pumpkin for the usual holiday favorites—cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie—no less daunting. The first American-style supermarket (so advertised with much to-do) had opened on the coast highway just the other side of Nice, so Jay and I drove there to see what we could find. The place was gigantic with a distinctive circus feel to the decor. Dozens of flags lined the road leading to it. Rock music blared forth as you entered. People had come to see it as they would have gone to—well—a circus! The French were accustomed to shopping for their food supplies at stores that specialized in different categories—the boulangerie, charcuterie, and so forth. The supermarket introduced a new way of obtaining their household and cooking needs under one gigantic roof. There were crowds at every display, aisles were blocked with wagons. The largest group of gapers and tasters was gathered suspiciously around a massive display of wine—not bottled, but in cardboard containers, a first at that time in a country where wine is revered as no place else on earth.

In the international food section I found canned pumpkin and small tins of cranberry sauce, the latter produced in Great Britain and bound to be closer to jam and very sweet. The market appeared to have every fowl known to man, case after case of the packaged winged wonders. But no turkeys (“dinde”), which are not indigenous to France. Still, I had been told that they were being newly bred in some part of the country, obviously not the South of France. I finally located a butcher in Nice who was doing a brisk business in supplying turkeys to the American colony in the area. The birds were on the small side, the largest he had weighed between twelve to thirteen pounds. I bought two of them (“plucked and beheaded, please”). I liked the idea anyway, as then there would be four legs for those of my guests who were hooked on drumsticks.

I doctored the cranberry sauce, toning down the sugar content as best I could with lemon juice and chunks of oranges—a bit of brandy poured in for a little nip. I made two pumpkin pies topped with crème fraîche and two rich, delicious Boston cream pies (my mother’s recipe—and definitely an American invention). Believe me, no one went hungry. I have always held that Thanksgiving (and Christmas, as well) should be a shared, all-in-one family kind of meal, so I had Gerard bring in the patio table to extend the dining table. With a board and some padding he managed to make the two tables connect and level. The sideboard had to be moved into Jay’s office to make room. We then placed it, front facing into the dining room, against the opened double doors so that it could be used to serve from.

Dinner, ready at six, was a huge success. Catherine’s guest, however, had found fowl served with a fruit sauce “most exotic” and had no idea what a pumpkin was—or even its French translation, “citrouille.” When told that it was a kind of squash, he commented, “How unusual American cookery is! Fruit with the main course and a vegetable for dessert!” As he took two helpings of everything, I assumed he approved.

All in all, it was a memorable Thanksgiving and somewhat of a wake-up call. For the hours of that day, I forgot that I was an American in a foreign country. I had felt comfortable, whole.

Catherine would be returning for Christmas, and I wanted to spend as much time as I could with her. So, on the Monday following Thanksgiving I set a rigid work schedule for myself and accepted no interim social engagements. Eleanor Wolquitt had gone to the Congressional Library in Washington on my behalf and had sent me transcripts of Bertolt Brecht and other writers’ appearances before the Committee, of which good ole Harry S. Truman had said, shortly after turning over the presidency to Dwight D. Eisenhower: “The House Un-American Activities Committee is the most un-American thing in America!” Reading these gut-grinding transcripts demonstrated how right that gentleman from Missouri had been.

That morning, the sun just rising in a peaceful blue sky, I started work on a key scene toward the end of the novel where Max, whose life is closing in on him, flies to Washington from London to search out answers to the many questions he had about his testimony there a decade earlier, the one in which he had brought himself to believe that to survive he must betray his friends. He goes to the Congressional Library and takes out the transcript of his appearance. Once I had settled in on my chaise, yellow pad and several pens on the ready, the words seemed to flow directly from my brain to the paper. I wrote that Max sat down with his transcript

in that scholarly place . . . his hand on top of the nineteen pages (only nineteen pages!) that represented his entire testimony. Just sat there with his hand resting that way. What was that—a caress? Who the hell did he think he was comforting? And why had he just sat that way never reading the transcript he had come all the way to Washington to read? Irrational—totally irrational. The ground was slipping from under him. . . .

And yet he had not felt bad when he left Washington. That was the odd thing. He had in a way even felt comforted. There had been a demonstration of young people in Washington at the same time he had been there. And he had left envying them. They cared. They felt akin to this country. Dissent passionate enough to march itself right up to where the heart was. “Beat for us a while. Listen to our voices,” was the message their attitude revealed. They cared. They belonged. This was their country and they were still young enough to fight for it their way. They were still hopeful that it could be what they dared to dream it could be.

A lot of what I personally felt was scrawled on the pages of that yellow lined pad. In my youth, I had written protest letters—hundreds of them—to senators, congressmen, newspapers, guilds, and unions. I joined organizations that seemed to be for what I was for—the Anti-Nazi League, charities for the victims of beleaguered nations—I signed petitions for the integration of blacks into the schools in the South—and for the right for all people of all races who were citizens of the United States to vote in our elections. Incredibly, these actions (which seemed the least I could do) were mostly accountable for the Committee’s interest in me . . . that, and my close relationship to Robert Rossen. Guilty by association had become the Committee’s mantra.

I still cared just as my creation Max Seaman had cared, but I was no longer politically activated enough to become involved. Guilt infused me. Anger—at myself—tasted bitter. I was no longer young (in my forties), nor resident of the country of my birth, I missed my nonaction. But idealistic dreams belonged to the young, I rationalized. They were the future. Shit! Age had nothing to do with it!

When I finished writing that day, I knew I had to go home—not just for the time it took to write a screenplay or sell a book. I had to reroot myself. Home meant America to me. But where? Any place but the Southern states and Texas where as a first-time married woman (all of nineteen to the age of twenty-three) I had been exposed to a bigotry for race—black and Latino—that had made those years the darkest of my life.

Of all my American expat friends still living in Europe, only Sidney seemed to have truly put down roots. I knew he loved America and was just as certain he would never return to live there. Yet, although he had a home in France, he surrounded himself with Americans and American projects. Few of the friends that I had met at his home were French. That was the enigma that was Sidney. I guessed that I knew him as well as anybody (even his brother, Harold, who seemed to be a man living on the edge of the sea, unable to ever wade in to test the waters). Still, there were times that I felt I did not know Sidney at all. Falling back on my own experience in psychoanalysis, Sidney appeared not to have lost the guilt of his childhood—the accidental shooting death of his sister. I think he wanted to be somewhere that would not bring up those memories. Well, he was dear to me and that was all that I could concern myself with—that, and to return his friendship in whatever way that I could.

Shortly after the publication of Haunted Summer there had been a flurry of interest in the book for films. Raymond Stross was now the leading contender. He was remarried to Anne Heywood, a beautiful actress whom he liked to think he had discovered. As Violet Pretty she had, however, been a beauty queen and played small parts in several British films and television. Raymond had taken over her career and cast her in more international films where her costars were American actors. Her recent film had been The Fox, adapted from a D. H. Lawrence story and in which she had given a strong performance (opposite Sandy Dennis) as the dominant half of lesbian lovers. Raymond wanted my novel so that Anne could be cast as Mary Shelley, a role he felt would give her career another big lift.

Raymond owned a new, American, pink Cadillac, one of the largest models they were then manufacturing. He had obviously imported it, as it had an American left-hand drive, which would have been on the wrong side for Great Britain but fine for the rest of Europe. Which, as he and Anne were making a second home in Switzerland, it apparently did not matter. They were extremely late to arrive because once Raymond had turned onto the High Corniche the car was too wide for the narrow roads and he had to back up and take a different route. They were staying at La Reserve. He called upon arrival to tell me that he would be further delayed, as he had crashed the Cadillac into another vehicle when he went to park. It reminded me of the one time he came to see me in Beverly Hills before I left for England to work for him. He had driven his rental car over the curb and straight up onto my front lawn.

If his driving ability had not improved, Raymond had. Before anything else, I noted with great happiness for him that his stutter was only slightly noticeable. His attire was far more conservative, and no one could doubt that he was utterly in love with his beautiful wife. Yet this was a more mature caring. Anne was his equal, not his charge. She had dark hair and striking eyes that had years of close observance behind them. She was also charming and well spoken. I liked her immediately. I told him straightaway that any negotiation for the rights of the novel had to be done with my agent. Of course, he agreed, explaining that what he wanted was to discuss the adaptation with me, which he thought should more deeply center on Mary Shelley and show the strength she had as the leader of the runaway artists—Percy Shelley, Byron, and his mistress, Claire. I countered that the story would be best told as an ensemble piece and to alter Mary Shelley’s character would be to alter history. These discussions were left up in the air. After all, he had yet to finalize a deal for the rights, and even when that was done, I was not at all sure that I wanted to write the screenplay.

He brought me news of all that was going on (from his point of view) in Britain’s film industry, which he claimed had been nearly devoured by American interests. It was almost impossible anymore to make a film that was for a British audience. A project had to appeal to an international distributor and, to do that, one of the stars had to have international appeal. He was, it seems—if he did obtain the film rights to Haunted Summer—considering the idea of casting the rock star Mick Jagger as Byron. Nothing Raymond ever said caught me off guard. But, I admit, I paled a moment at that idea. When thinking about it in later years, I decided that Mick Jagger might well have given the movie a contemporary feel that would have brought a dab of modern-day reality to the story. Byron, Shelley, Mary, and Claire were brilliantly talented young rebels during a season of rebellion, a time not so different from what was happening currently throughout the world. Driven from their own country (how familiar did that seem!), they sought solace in writing, sex, drugs, dreams, heightened perception, and the supernatural (Haight-Ashbury and Woodstock—in the 1960s—as a comparison comes quickly to mind).

In the end, another producer acquired the rights. The cast was young and talented, but the film was a great disappointment to me. Early on, I found something wondrous about my characters being brought to life on a screen—small or large. Yet there is a measure of discomfit along with wonder. One’s written pages are now seen and made to animate through an adaptor’s eyes. A director puts in his take and the actors portraying your characters still another. I can’t speak for other authors, but in my case, I have a special vision of my characters. I can hear their individual voices in my head, understand their motivations—what they would and could do and what they would never attempt. In later years, when I was writing the biography of Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone with the Wind, I came upon correspondence between Mitchell and David Selznick, the iconic film’s producer. In one letter he inquires who she might see as the dashing Rhett Butler. Mitchell replied, “Jack LaRue.” Now, LaRue was of Italian descent and had made a name for himself in many early Hollywood films as an ominous thug or gangster and was a character actor, not a leading man. He did have dark, impressive looks and a sexuality that perhaps could perk up a young woman’s nipples. Mitchell’s seven-year work on the book had given her a deep understanding of who she thought Rhett Butler was—in fact she knew, guiltily, that she had modeled him after her abusive first husband. Her loathing and fascination of him had been hard to dispel. In her mind, Rhett was dangerous—a threat—yet sexually exciting, and he was rich (which her first husband was not). Selznick, wise filmmaker that he was, knew it was Rhett’s charms, not his darker side, that would appeal to a movie audience—who he thought, with this project, would be overwhelmingly female. Polls taken at the time proved that readers chose Clark Gable from the start and, of course, Selznick ended up casting him in the role. To this day, Rhett Butler will always be Clark Gable to those who view the film. He was not to his creator.

Jay was truly sick. He had continued to lose weight, and now he was coughing up blood. For several weeks he had adamantly refused my pleadings that he should see a doctor. Just one week after we had sent the final manuscript of Shadow of a Lion off to my editor in New York, he collapsed at the top of the staircase on the bedroom landing and fell halfway down. I called for an ambulance, and he was taken to hospital in Nice and diagnosed with an advanced case of lung cancer. After a week, I brought him home. Sidney suggested an oncologist in Cannes who was known to be one of the best in all of France. Paul Jarrico and Yvette had broken up, and he was staying with me at the time. He drove us into Cannes and Sidney met us at the doctor’s office. The oncologist explained to me—Jay’s x-rays clipped to a board along one wall—just how serious was his condition. The lung had to be removed, and there was no way of knowing until then how far the disease had spread to other parts of his body.

He took the grave news like a major, although his mouth was drawn into a straight white line and, when I took hold of his arm, I could feel the quickened beat of his pulse. We left the office and drove to Sidney’s flat. Jay made it clear that he did not feel comfortable having the operation in France. Not that he thought French doctors were unqualified. “If the cancer has spread,” he said, his voice cool and collected, “I don’t want to die abroad.” Paul drove us back to Beaulieu. The next day Jay called his sister in Los Angeles and explained the situation and that he wished to return to Los Angeles and for her to do some research on oncology surgeons. Within two days everything was arranged for him to return to California. The next hurdle was how to get him safely returned. He would have to fly from Nice to Paris, change planes from the domestic building to the international wing for the last leg of the journey—a long hop, nonstop, to Los Angeles. Jay was entirely too weak to handle this on his own, even if Air France had allowed him on board without someone to accompany him, as he looked extremely ill. Paul offered to fly with him. He was anxious to get back to California and see what he could do about restoring his credits. He had good friends (former expats, Tiba and George Willner) living in Ojai, a fairly short drive northeast of Los Angeles, with whom he could stay. However, he did not have the money for a ticket. I was happy to oblige and Jay seemed to welcome the idea.

Twenty-four hours later, I stood at the gate of Nice Airport as Paul wheeled Jay down the ramp to board their plane. Jay had said, “No good-byes!” And had added, “Never forget that you gave me a new life and that I’ve loved every minute of it!” On my return to Villa Roquefille, only Sandy and Chrissy raced down the stairs to greet me. Biba was lying in front of the door to Jay’s room. She would return there every night to sleep as long as we were resident. It was uncanny.

Leon called when he heard about Jay to tell me how sorry he felt. Actually, the two men never did get on. In fact, the evening before his departure, Jay had told me in a hard voice, “You must not go back to that man, whatever you do!”

“I’d like to come down to see you,” Leon was saying. “I know we parted with great bitterness. But before we cast off our marriage, let’s be civilized and talk about it.”

I reminded him that he brought on the animosity by declaring I had deserted him.

“I was deeply wounded at the time. Let me come down. We can talk about it like two intelligent people.”

I said no, my mind was set. He just kept talking and finally wore me down.

“I won’t press. I just want us to be sure that this is the path we both want to take. I never said I didn’t love you. I do. I’ll come for the weekend. Just two days.”

“On one condition,” I finally agreed. “You cannot stay here.”

He arrived that Friday. Two painful days followed. He had not made a reservation at a hotel. By the time of his cool departure, caused by my refusal to even consider a reconciliation, I knew we would never see each other again and that he would, as previously decreed, seek the divorce on grounds of desertion.

Catherine joined me at spring break, bringing Wendy, her roommate at school. The sounds of young voices in the large house were cheering. I had heard from both Jay and his sister (who gave me a more detailed and realistic report of his progress). The surgery had gone well, but the cancer had spread. The doctors were hoping that with treatment Jay could be given some added time. His letters were optimistic. He sent me a photograph of himself smiling, wearing his spiffy Asian robe while a good-looking hunk of a male nurse stood behind him.

The silver Beetle remained parked in the garage. I decided to ship it to him, hoping he might see it as a positive goal. Jay had loved driving that crazy car. I wrote that it would take a month before it arrived in Los Angeles (actually in the port of San Pedro) and that maybe his brother-in-law could arrange the pickup. When it was finally delivered, Jay sent me a telegram: BABY DELIVERED LIKE NEW AND SHINY CAN’T WAIT TO TAKE HER FOR A SPIN LOVE YOU JAY. (He never was able to get behind the wheel, but in my head I can see him riding along the Pacific Coast Highway, breathing in the scent of salt on the sea and ignoring the horns for him to drive faster and not to hog the road.)

I suffered a true case of postpartum once Shadow was with my editor. I had not felt so grievous a loss on completion of my first three novels. Shadow was different. I had put so much of myself into it. I was not sure I could ever reach so deep again. There was also my responsibility to my colleagues and friends to deliver a book that was truthful to their history. My editor at Coward, McCann & Geoghegan was most enthusiastic and between the two of us (missiles flying back and forth across the ocean like homing pigeons) meticulous care was given to the editing of every page of the manuscript. I had one great dilemma. I had started the book in Madrid and had promised I would dedicate it to Leon. By now, communication had completely broken down between us. It was a strange thing to do, especially with our breach. Still, a promise is a promise. The acknowledgment page thus reads: “For Leon.” In retrospect, it seems right, for I believe we were both victims—politically and maritally—and that there had been good times—just not enough of them.

My lease on Villa Roquefille ended on June 1. I could renew it if I so wished. I did not. Every guest should know when it is time to leave—even a country. Catherine now chose to finish her college years in New England and had applied to several schools and was waiting for replies. The plan was that we would return to the States and spend the summer together. Where? was still the question. I wanted to be close enough to her school for her to travel home on weekends if she so chose. I did not want to live in Hartford, Boston, or any other large New England city. It had to be a small town with no personal history attached.

Catherine finally ended my indecision by conceiving a rather mad idea (the apple does not fall far from the tree!). She tore out a large map of New England from my atlas and tacked it to a kitchen wall. Then she tied a scarf over my eyes, took a bookmark, and pushed a tack into the end. “Turn around a couple of times,” she commanded, helping me to do so. “Stop!” she called out. “Now, hold out your hand with the bookmark in front of you and walk forward.” I did as she asked.

The tack had amazingly landed between three towns that appealed to me due to their history and their connection with the arts: Woodstock, New York (scene of the youth and music rebellion), Stockbridge, Massachusetts (home of Tanglewood and the summer residence of the Boston Symphony Orchestra), and Williamstown, Massachusetts (with a fine college and art collection). I wrote to the chamber of commerce in each town, although I was not sure that towns still had them! I asked about their community and the names of real estate agents. I received only one letter in return, from an agent in Stockbridge. I instantly replied with a list of my rental needs and the added information that I had three dogs. She answered that she had the perfect house for me to rent. It was on Christian Hill in the historic section of town, dogs welcome, a short walk from town, and would be available on June 10. It had been built in the early nineteenth century as a schoolhouse and was near the Daniel Chester French House, where the American sculptor had kept his studio and where he had carved the famous seated marble figure of Abraham Lincoln that adorned his memorial in Washington, DC. I agreed to a one-year lease with an option at the same price for another year to follow.

Now came the tough part. I had to pack up everything I had including all the files that Jay had kept for me, my small library of books, and all the paintings, furnishings, and tableware I had collected throughout the years I had been abroad. Decisions, decisions, decisions. I needed help to get everything sorted out. Someone told me that a young man working for the actor Dirk Bogarde (who lived on the Cote d’Azur) was looking for employment, that Bogarde was on location making A Death in Venice and this fellow was not happy in France and wanted a position that would fill in until he got a visa to immigrate to the United States.

His name was Alex Cortez. He was from the Philippines and of Asian and Spanish heritage, a truly beautiful young man in his midtwenties, slim, tallish, dark, expressive eyes, ink-black hair, and light bronze skin. He had immigrated first to London to finish his education, done some modeling, and then worked in a restaurant to keep body and soul together. He had a passion and a talent for cooking and was hired as a cook by a British couple who had a second home on the Cote d’Azur. When they sold the house to return to England, he had gone to work for Bogarde. With the actor away for a long stretch, Alex decided to move on.

He was bright, could type passably, and brought me some Asian-style hors d’oeuvres he had made to prove his ability as a cook.

“I’m leaving for the States in ten weeks,” I told him. “It’s only a temporary job to help me organize. I’m a writer, I have mounds of papers, research, and books among other things. I can’t see myself throwing any parties during that time where your abilities would be an asset.”

“I want to go to America,” he blurted out. “I’m working on a visa. If I please you, maybe you would take me with you as an assistant. It would make it easier for me to obtain a visa.”

“You want to accompany me to the States?” I asked, stalling for time to digest this.

“Yes, and allow me to work for you there.”

“As a cook?”

“Well,” he grinned, showing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. “I can type and file. Mr. Bogarde is also writing now. I helped him copy his pages. And I am a good organizer.”

We were sitting in the kitchen and I was munching away at a flavorsome cocktail-sized egg roll filled with shrimp. “What is it you want to do in America?” I asked.

His broad smile returned. There was pride and intelligence in his face. “I plan to start the first gourmet Asian fast-food chain,” he said.

Seated across from me was a potential émigré with a dream, a throwback to earlier men and women bound for America because they believed their dreams could be fulfilled there; men like my grandfather, Big Charlie. Dreams were often changed by circumstance, but everyone has the right to go in search of his or hers.

Of course I hired him. He moved in the next day to occupy the rooms that Vera had always used when she was with me. I simply could not give him Jay’s former suite.