I'll Let You Go

CHAPTER 43. Words Alone

A FIRST LETTER [Indian Wells]

Marcus — I hardly know where to begin. I’m writing this for myself—I fled the holidays to a favorite desert spa but now I’m house-sitting for a client who’s in a balmier place. It’s been done up rather Balinese, Rangooney(?) too, with Tabriz rugs, Tang-this and Ming-that. In the middle of it all — or should I say the front — the long low fascia trimmed in copper. Not very “me” but then that’s probably a good thing.

Funny, but I have begun writing you, in my head anyhow, at least a hundred times in the last month but now the stars, literally, seem right. There’s a mystic hair-raising wind peculiar to this corridor that shivers the soul — always a spur to confessionals. I’m seated at a white linen outdoor table beside a great black maw of golf course. A handsome young man in a rather frayed monkey suit just brought me a steak and (nonalcohol) martini — O God, suddenly I’m writing short stories again, trying to please the professors with an undergrad lyrical turn of phrase—

I can’t care, or I’ll never write a word. I don’t even know who you are — but Father tells me you’re making terrific progress and I’m happy for you because I can’t imagine the horrors you’ve endured in your odyssey. I’ve had my share of agony and if I sometimes did not know or bother where I was, I always had the luxury (curse?) of money and a roof over my head. Maybe those things aren’t so important after all; tho I don’t wish to be presumptuous and romanticize what happened to you. That’s always been my impulse, isn’t it? I fight it still — finding the “Zen” bit in what for you was surely catastrophic. It was catastrophic for me too. Anyway, Father assured he’s given over scant details to you of my life after we married; since I seem to know a bit about yours, it’s only fair I attempt to enlighten.

I traveled quite a bit at first

(two hours later now) the morning you vanished, a part of me vanished too (oh, hideous cliché!). For a while, I naturally feared for your life, because the disappearance made no sense. How could it? Initially, we thought you’d been kidnapped — did Father tell you how certain he was he would be contacted for ransom? As for shell-shocked me, I retreated to the topmost room of that dreadful tower, all the while hating that we’d ever discovered the Colonne. Bluey finally pried me out. Doctors gave me pills for depression and pills for sleep; I didn’t learn I was pregnant till ten weeks later (my period had stopped but I chalked that up to the general trauma — is this Too Much Information?) and all those enforced Rx’s gave me a fright I’d done damage to our son …

Is this painful to read? Or do you feel nothing? Do you even remember who I am or what we had together? I ask not to wound you, but — truly, Marcus, I don’t wish to make you suffer but I must talk aloud in the tribal sense and free myself from that castle aerie. What could be more painful than what has already happened? I’d like to try to impart the history of the years since you left, without malice — I have no “malicious intent.” If my words are crude, forgive me. You were always the writer in the family.

My life became a “psychological” melodrama — I drew comfort telling myself you’d had a prescient glimpse of something awful, and you feared you might hurt me and that is why you went away … some dream you had that night of our wedding, that perhaps you saw yourself tossing me from the bloody tower; I was very Gothic! — had to tell myself you loved me that much. I know now there was no real explanation and never will be; I’ve always detested people who search for motive. Your illness is a cunning one but as your progress attests, the miracles of modern medicine may finally be rooting it out

nothing to do all those years but kneel at the altar of your unfathomable illness. I understood for the first time why my brother collects abandoned buildings — there’s a purity and a longing for something frozen between what-once-was and what-will-never-be-again. That’s what the tower became for me. I took to visiting it at night and still sometimes do (but haven’t for months) — now I do tell too much! Always my flaw. Your flaw was that you resembled those in my tribe — the tribe that tells too much — when in fact you told too little or said nothing at all with your torrent of words.

It wasn’t your fault …

I left L.A., had to, but where could I go? On top of everything, I was so embarrassed! The ego dies hard. I couldn’t deal with talking to my society “friends” (all of whom flew in for the wedding) — because of my silence, some very strange rumors began to circulate about what had happened … drugs and satanic murders and what-have-you — I didn’t want to know! It was quite the Hollywood scandale. I flew around the world, morning (and mourning) sickness in every time zone. Absolutely crazed — even retracing the footsteps of our Paris trip — at least I had the good sense not to revisit the Colonne, for that would have finished me off — and wound up at the Plaza Athénée, literally back in our old suite, immobilized. Do you remember when I kept vigil there after your long walk to Versailles? Our son was born at La Croix Saint-Simon … I named him Toulouse — after your little joke. By then, the joke of my life seemed utterly cosmic … and there was something spritely about “Toulouse,” something playful and musical and unburdening.

I knew I had to get him home because I was secretly planning to become Debra Winger from The Sheltering Sky and go wandering in the desert (somewhere a bit more exotic than where I am now) and get boffed by gorgeous nomads until I lost my mind. So I dropped off our Toulouse at Saint-Cloud and began my peregrinations …

I’ve scanned the above and see I’m babbling like an ass so I’ll do the noble, foolish thing and give this to the driver to take to Montecito — tho I’d rather give it to one of those pigeons who specialize in airmail delivery. Feels like a message in a bottle. There I go mixing metaphors again. I do not wish you to answer this — it was not written to begin a correspondence. I don’t mean that to sound passive-aggressive; you’ve probably had enough of “jargon”!

I will not read anything you write so please do not bother — I wrote this for myself. The worst part is, I know that if I was still seeing a therapist myself, he’d applaud me!

Wishing You the Best,

Katrina Trotter

A SECOND LETTER

Marcus,

Please discount what I wrote. Clearly, there is too much — and too little — to put in a letter. I feel now I was overwrought; there has been so much pent up in my mind. I shouldn’t have sent it but it was too late to get back. The shrinks say that one is supposed to write those things then burn them, or put them in the mailbox with no address … how typical of me to fuck it up. There is really nothing that can be said. I do wish you well, and hope I did not stir anything up that will make things difficult for you; or any more difficult than they already are. I reiterate that was not my intention. I do, sincerely, wish you the best.

Katrina Trotter

A THIRD LETTER

M. — I feel my last entry did not say all I wished. I’m writing this final “installment” to say I am attached to you, not only through our son, but because I’ve spent so many years feeling your absence. I told Toulouse a lie — that you were dead — and in truth it was a half-lie, because you were all but dead to me, and to him. But in time he found out otherwise, as I suppose I knew he would, and set out to find you. He is an amazing boy. Marcus, if you feel you’d like to see him that is up to Toulouse and, of course, my father, to arrange. I would not stand in the way of that. So when I said I do not wish to see or hear from you, I didn’t want you to draw the impression I was ruling over you or would hold back my son from visiting. That is not who I am or what I’m about.

I wanted to clarify this because I would not like to wake up one morning and be told you have gone again without seeing our son, if in fact a visit is something he too would like to have. If Toulouse wished to see you but did not because of an impression you got from one of my letters, I would never forgive myself.

I just wanted to make that clear, as I felt it wasn’t from the previous correspondence. I hope you are continuing to make progress and remain well, and that nothing I have written is puzzling or upsetting to you.

It has been a great help to be able to write these things down and send them. Perhaps I have made a mistake. If indeed I have, then forgive me. I do not wish a response; I wish things were different, or that I felt differently, but I have long since moved on in my head and in my heart.

Sincerely,

Katrina

A FIRST LETTER

Dearest Katrina,

How kind your letters were, how kind and thoughtful, and how difficult it has been for me not to answer them; I have been mindful of your emotions, and of course, of the boy’s, and feel a great pang of selfishness in now breaking my silence — but I must, just as you, put some things down! If this returns unopened, so be it; I will make the next entry to my journal instead, a notebook which I have kept for many years and entitled “News from Nowhere.” Aptly named it is too, for that is the very strange place I resided all this live-long time. Until now.

I remember everything about you. While I appreciate your delicacy in referring to the powerful forces that conspired to have me living homelessly and somewhat deranged these past years, reading your words (which I have, over and over, in the wee hours of the night)—“Or do you feel nothing? Do you even remember who I am or what we had?”—has caused much sorrow. And I do not wish you had not written them. I encourage you — implore you — to set down, if you’ve a mind, every little miserable thing, to the end. It is a help rather than a hindrance. I stand on the prow of a ship now, in the head wind; each memory that slaps my face and stings my eye also revivifies, and makes me more human. I never felt that I lost my humanity in that other incarnation; but I did lose the one who was closest to me. I do not think it unwise you told the boy I was a goner; I might have done the same. What else could you have said? Please do not badger yourself over decisions and choices made in the wake of that upheaval.

In my travels, I met a wondrous dog named “Half Dead”—and so it was, as you wrote, that I had become. But Half Dead was a scrapper, and a good soul; I think I’m made of the same stuff.

Your father has been a godsend. He greets me without judgment, and I am moved by him — as I was moved by your courageous outpourings. I will understand if you do not choose to respond to my unsolicited phrases; be assured then, I will not bother you any more.

Your words about our son were sorely needed when they arrived. I thank you for them. You can be assured too that I will not impose myself on the boy, or badger him. I feel that I am here by the lights of some strange god, and will do nothing to fall from his graces. I hope I have not forever fallen from yours — and remain,

Marcus

A SECOND LETTER

Dear Katrina,

I hope I did not say anything to put you off; I mean, anything untoward or presumptuous. I’ve raked over the letter in my head and wish like hell I hadn’t written “dearest” at the onset; it was improper to imply an intimacy I long ago forsook. There are other things I wish I hadn’t said but I don’t desire to make this a catalogue. I’m not even certain that my letter was read; perhaps it would be better for both of us that it wasn’t. I do not mean to sound neurotic because that is not how I feel; I am merely mindful of not making false steps — I imagine that would be impossible! I waited a week or so before sending this out — I thought perhaps my first letter might be returned, and if not, that perhaps your father would have passed on a hint that any such correspondence from me was unwelcome. Which, of course, I would honor. But as I heard nothing, and received nothing back, I will humbly set down just a few short thoughts.

The medication I have been taking (thanks again to Louis) has worked wonders. Luckily, I am a fine candidate, neurologically, for such treatment. I have lost quite a bit of weight and am feeling rather fit. I don’t mean to boast. My life has settled in here; I go to the sea with my “men,” and often cook us lunch on the beach, which they invariably declare most saporific. (Do you remember the tall chef’s hat you once gave me?) My mother and father have been to see me. They look old, and poor Harry had a stroke. But he is soldiering on—

This IS diabolically difficult. You were so right when you said there was “too much and too little” to put in a letter. My God. Do you know that you never left my thoughts, Katy? Katrina? It is just that, in my disordered world, you had become someone else, someone called “Janey”—Jane Morris, the wife of William, that genius of English design. I cannot elaborate for now, for it is painful to set this down, because it is shaming; my illness is shaming and shameful. But the one thing I wished to say is that I never felt I would have harmed you. I do not have that in me. I am not wounded by your mentioning it; it seems a reasonable explanation for what you called an unfathomable thing. I have tried myself to piece together that night and that morning and the months that followed, but it is as if something ruptured. I only see colors and a drizzle before my eyes — and the Tower itself. I remember the Tower receding as I ran, like a giant struck dumb and immobilized. It was the TOWER, it seems, and not you, from which I was running. The Tower had become a conspirator — against us, and our happiness. The Tower had to be placated. It was such a beauteous thing; we are often trapped within wondrous designs, without explanation (the intricate patterns of Mr. Morris’s tapestries being a felicitous example of this most unfelicitous condition). Even then, as I struggled in panic to escape, it loomed over me, gorgeous and well-made. I feel nothing for it now; should I be walked to that place this very hour, I am certain it would have no court or sway. It never was an icon of superstition for me, nor did it have a demonic voice — it simply became something that must be jettisoned, or it would have crushed the world. It is, as you said, unfathomable, and unfathomable to me now.

But I always thought of you, Katrina, and NEVER wished you harm nor thought I could be harm’s instrument. I ask for your forbearance and forgiveness and will not write if that is what you so desire. And I would not leave again without the boy’s “consent”; would not even dream of it. But it was wise and motherly for you to say what you did. I remain

Yours,

Marcus Weiner

A FOURTH LETTER

Saint-Cloud

Dear Marcus,

I thank you for your letters; and yes, of course, I read them. And yes, of course, I hesitated in responding, for a number of reasons — the primary being that I don’t want to lead you on. Any exchange might somehow charge off, by itself and without warning, in a wrong direction. You are mending now and I would not wish to contribute to anything that deters from that. You must spend your time in exercise and meditation, not in composing letters to me — letters that, if I can be blunt — cannot lead to anything. Our thoughts, I think (and I am not sure I have many left!) would probably best be confined to personal diaries. No?

As said, I did not initially respond, because I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression — that any kind of romance could be rekindled. If this sounds vain, then let it — I may as well be “up-front” and put all the cards on the table (forgive the cliché). For I am past all that, Marcus. Another reason for my hesitance was I’d hope that if it did come to pass that you saw Toulouse — that you were serious when you said “I would not leave without the boy’s consent”—then I became suddenly fearful you might misinterpret my “interest” (i.e. any sort of correspondence) and that would become the driving influence on your decision to remain, at least for the time being, here in Los Angeles … or in our lives or however one wants to put it. “Waiting for the next letter,” so to say. I know this might sound monstrously egocentric but I must speak my mind. I know you have affection for the boy but as you have not yet met him, he is still an abstract. He might better remain that. I am hoping that by making it VERY clear that I do not wish to pursue anything romantic — or anything really at all — that you will — if that is the main thing that was holding you here — that you will leave this city before seeing our son. In other words, I can’t know your motivations, and while I do believe you’re a good soul, and always believed that (and always will), I would not condemn or judge if you felt you should move on — cut your losses so to speak. Your seeing Toulouse cannot be contigent on something between us which is not (& I suppose was never) meant to be. I’m sorry to speak so crudely but I am protective of my son. If after reading this you do have a mind to leave then I implore you do so before seeing him. For what good would it do, other than to perversely appease a curiosity?

(It is a day-and-a-half later.) I let this sit awhile, because I felt a bit self-righteous upon finishing. I’ll add this to it, rather than attempting to revise; I don’t think I have it in me to revise anything anymore.

Perhaps I “spoke” too soon. If you are planning on going away again it might actually be a “far better thing” for you to actually meet with Toulouse, so you can (both) “get it out of your system.” I don’t want to be the Gestapo.

I suppose there aren’t any rules, are there? So for me at this point to try and make them seems a little arrogant. I do not mean to sound all over the map, and am sorry for that. But I am

Sincerely,

Trinnie Trotter

A THIRD LETTER

Dearest K,

First off, may I say how gladdened I am you took the time to read my letters, and also took time to so thoughtfully respond.

Secondly, your point on the “romantic” front is well-taken. Katrina, I think the world of you, but promise I do not harbor such illusions notions. You are to me — aside from being the mother of my son, which is itself a new and astonishing complication — like a friend with whom I once shared many things, turbulent and joyous, and with whom I have recently had the pleasure and good fortune to make reacquaintance.

As for the boy — I can’t say they are forever dead but whatever demons drove me — well, they are so quiet or at least now so distant that I can’t make them out against the general landscape. Perhaps they lie in wait, as on that long-ago morning; perhaps they’ve met their match in therapist’s pharmacopia. But your point was, as usual, well-made, and well-taken.

I see the above was a bit unclear. What I meant to say was that the sirens do not call. Not anymore. And that I have not commingled your presence — the existence of you — with the boy’s. And that my head is on straight about it.

[three hours later] Katy, I must now divulge something which it now seems clear you’ve not been told — I have met the boy. I know that

[one hour later] If I have violated a confidence, so be it — it does me no good to part with information which my sponsor, my father-in-law if I may, might rather I had kept to myself. He never said as much, mind you, so I don’t feel the complete opprobrium of betrayal; still, he has been so kind and I am uncomfortably shy in exposing him. But I fear if you WERE told — you may be in possession of such knowledge at this reading for all I know — if you WERE told and I did not mention this development, you might feel again wronged by me and have fuel for myriad resentments and suspicions. I do not wish such emotions to come between us. It has been difficult enough.

Katy, I do not know what goes on at this time between you and Louis; but I do believe that your father, for reasons which I shall put forth in a moment, must have had the very same thoughts as you regarding the urgency of a summit between Toulouse and myself, and so arranged a meeting on Christmas Day. (He had his own “intelligences” for believing the boy was in fact ready to see me, or ready as he might be.) An opportunity to meet him on home ground dovetailed with your absence; why he decided on Saint-Cloud I am uncertain. He had brought me there to show the maze, and we were then, I had been told, to move on to the Hotel Bel-Air for a rendezvous with our son. But then your father felt poorly and rubbed a bit at his neck as if something pained him so we stayed instead and cold tea was brought for him to drink and a wet towel to lay on like a poultice.

The most peculiar thing was that I had already “met” the boy without having known it (this is the “intelligence” of which I spoke). You see, I had a grievous chore to attend to and the vehicle called the Mawk was borrowed when our own broke down. When Toulouse found out I was to be onboard, he stowed away. It was such a sad errand for me, Katy, that I saw him but did not really notice, and thought he belonged to the the driver, Mr. Blade. In any case, I was certainly not introduced. When Louis learned of it, he said to himself what I imagine to be the very same thing you put to letter: well, that the two (or at least Toulouse) should “get it out of their systems.”

Anyway, I won’t go on much more just now — I’m only hoping THIS piece of intelligence, as dear Louis might say, finds you in a charitable, forgiving moment of your day. Lay the blame on me if you wish, for I can bear it, especially from you, but your father was not at fault. He is the best of men, with the best intentions. Katrina, forgive me! My words sound rife with patronization, but I’d rather be back on the streets, mindless and unhinged, if they were to be taken as such, which is the furthest from how they are meant!

Earnestly, and with

Devotion Respect

MW

P.S. I recall that Louis was emphatic in voicing his desire that you should know that meeting took place; perhaps he has not yet found the right time to convey what transpired. I hope the time I found — and took — was not the wrong one.

A FOURTH LETTER

Katrina,

I understand your silence. In my fear you would sever contact, I selfishly failed to even mention how the meeting with our son Toulouse went. It did not go all that bad. I made inquiries of his schooling and while the boy was reticent to engage in much discussion, he was clearly not afraid, or intimidated. This, I know, does not sound valedictory or sanguine — but is relevant in that he might have heard many unfounded but terrifying rumors about his father.

I have not seen him since, though I long to. I am leaving it to Louis — and to you — and to the boy himself of course — to decide otherwise. I know that you desired to limit your correspondence with me and I don’t wish it to seem I am enlisting you into some sort of contract where I await your delegations; this is so damn difficult, Katy.

I will leave you in peace and am sorry to have disturbed you but felt compelled to send this corollary.

May you have a Good Day,

Marcus

A FIFTH LETTER

January 24th

The Post Ranch Inn

Dear Marcus,

It is all right about you meeting Toulouse; how could it be otherwise? Didn’t I suggest it in my letter? I was taken aback that it happened at Saint-Cloud, and accept your explanation (with some concern as to Father’s health. I have since called his physicians). But I’m not sure why he had you there at all. I do respect your relationship with Louis and have not mentioned the “incident” for precisely that reason, though it is not my job to protect anyone. (It was one of the housekeepers who told me you were there.) Nor could your telling me have any repercussions; Dad might have half-understood you would pass it along to me anyway. He does know we are have corresponded. He isn’t so petty — nor am I. It’s just that I am not feeling very close to him at this moment. I would ask you though, for my sake, to decline any further invitations to Saint-Cloud; if you are to see Toulouse, I feel it should be on neutral ground. Our son He needs to feel safe in the house where he lives; by “safe,” I mean, Toulouse needs to be secure there won’t be any big surprises thrown at him there. Surely, you understand?

I am traveling and shall not be returning letters. It is probably best we break this off.

Wishing you the Best,

Trinnie

A FIFTH LETTER

February 10

Katy,

Thank you for your response, and of course, I will not revisit the house — as you wish. Thus far, a request for an encore has not been received! Not to worry.

And yes, sadly, I accede to your desire to end our exchange. I hope this will not prevent you from thinking well of me, and at least on occasion, too. I have a long road ahead to be sure. I am getting to know my parents again and will soon make the trip to Redlands. I am catching up on the historical goings-on of this country and the world since I went in abeyance — am finding the computers absolutely extraordinary. I’ve been shown how to play some astonishing games on the keyboard by the boys — around here we call them “the men in suits”—and am already whupping them, to their great chagrin. Have been to a few films in the Westwood Village (how that place has changed!). I’ve seen the most elaborate cartoons, where the characters look almost as real as people. They are also apparently made by the computers.

All told, I’ve lost nearly 80 pounds in the last 4 months — no mean feat, considering the side effects of the medication I am currently prescribed tend to seriously enhance one’s avoirdupois … Soon I’ll be wearing Louis’s fancy hand-me-downs!

That was in jest—

I’ve taken to reading Variety and am staggered at the amount of money films now take in. And the venues! Three thousand theaters, all at once

I know I shan’t “speak” to you, so am trying to cram much in … forgive my foolish mouth (and pen) while it tries, and fails, so valiantly to keep up with my heart. Please have a splendid journey, Katy, WHEREVER you may go! And may you be secure in the knowledge there are those who value your great, tremendous spirit and demand nothing of you — and so — and so

You have my everlasting admiration, support, and dare I say, Love. Please, know that I will always be

Your Hu

Your great good Friend,

Marcus Weiner