John Barth - Letters

Even “the meanwhile” may be optimistic. I’m at the period of my period, but July has yet to see him reinseminate me. As I write this it is Bea Golden he ploughs, down in Barataria; for all I know he may nevermore dip his pen at 24 L.

My friend La Giulianova assures me otherwise: last night and its consequences, she’s certain, are Just Part of the Movie. Bea Golden is scarcely literate, much less literary: surely I don’t believe she’d throw over her darling last hope for movie stardom just because Ambrose apparently got the better of him in a single encounter?

I replied that the evening’s end, like its beginning and its mad middle, had the aspect not only of open-ended Scenario — written by “Arthur Morton King” but directed by Reg Prinz — but also of an Episode, with further episodes to follow. Jerome Bray and Marsha Blank — improbable new allies! — have withdrawn together back up the flyway; Bea is in her new lover’s arms on Bloodsworth Island; the Baratarians are dispersed (shooting is suspended for at least a week, till the 13th); Prinz himself has retired up the Amtrak to Manhattan, apparently put down by last night’s “defeat.” Oh, no doubt it is all acting, only another Sequence; they’ll be back. Meanwhile, however, whether at Prinz’s behest or her own, Bea is unquestionably down there with Ambrose, shagging away; and 30 pages have not assuaged my misery, only lengthily recorded it!

Unfilmable Sequence! Magda declares that it was nothing more than a letter, John, like this one: another of those dum-dums in a bottle from “Arthur Morton King” (Whom It Still Concerns) to “Yours Truly,” in reply to the blank one Ambrose picked up 29 years ago! There they all were (not I) on their expensive prop: the O.F.T. II done over in part to “echo” the Chautauqua Lake Gadfly III. The musicians and actors from Chautauqua Institution were replaced by the pit orchestra and repertoire troupe of the Floating Theatre; the Baratarians were assembled, with a sprinkling of Cantabridgeans; no sign of M. Casteene, but grim-visaged “Pocahontas” was aboard, in surprising deep parley with “Captain Bray” after returning Angela postprandially to Magda. Those two and Peter Mensch were there also, at Prinz’s invitation: ostensibly to flavour the crowd with extra locals, possibly to add a notch or two to the general tension. Todd Andrews was on hand, too, looking like death itself, reports Magda. No sign of Jane Mack. All of County Dorchester gathered about Long Wharf, several thousand strong, to witness the fireworks and the filmmakers, by now notorious in the area. The late sun goes down; the O.F.T. II chugs out through the swarm of anchored pleasure boats into the river channel, its amplified (tape-recorded) calliope loudspeaking patriotic airs. The cameras roll, the fireworks fire…

Well, I wasn’t there. Why try to make you see what I didn’t? What Magda didn’t either, since the whole point of what followed was its unseeability, hence its unfilmability! From Ambrose, before he left me, I had the generallest notion of his conceit for the episode: certain features of the 12 May “Unwritable Sequence” filmed on the Ocean City beach were to be echoed in combination with certain others of the Gadfly party of 17 June— e.g., the Author’s attempt to woo away or rescue the Fading Starlet from the Director. This attempt would more directly involve another Water Message and, “as in the myths,” a literal Night Sea Journey. The vessel to be forging upchannel, against the tide, under the gibbous moon, as the contretemps is enacted. J. Bray to fly again to some misguided rescue. Bea to receive A.’s water message at the climax. The dénouement (presumably left open) to be illuminated by the rockets’ red-white-and-blue glare.

All quite filmic, so far and so put, and the more technicolourful for Marsha Blank’s apparent half-conspiracy with Bray: that chap wants Bea himself, Ambrose calculates, and regards Prinz as his more immediate rival, therefore inclines to aid the Author against the Director. Marsha, from mere epical vindictiveness we suppose, wants Ambrose not to have what he wants, therefore will incline to help Bray get Bea for himself. Don’t ask me, John — whose own main question is why in that case it wasn’t I she directed her spite against! I wasn’t there, and anyroad this visual bravura was all a red (white and blue) herring on Ambrose’s part, to throw Prinz off guard. For the Big Surprise this go-round was to be that what had been a literal blank on 12 May (the washed-out script) and an insignificant detail on 17 June (A.‘s posting his bottled missive into Chautauqua Lake and learning from Bray’s spiel that it could after all just possibly return to him via the Mississippi, the Gulf Stream, and Chesapeake Bay) would now — unroll? explode? all visual verbs! — into the whole climactic “action”: no action at all, not even the minimal action of inditing or reading a letter, but the letter itself.

A letter! Which, to date, none but the Author and the Reader (Bea’s surprise new rôle!) has read. Therefore nobody who witnessed what happened knows what happened. What Magda and the others saw (and heard) was a hammed-up rehash of the earlier business: Bea (in beach towel, from the boardwalk scene) is either menaced or embraced by the Director (sans sheepskin now: all the male principals are wearing tails; I mean animal tails, not formal coats. Don’t ask me. Pencil > penis = tail?) and additionally menaced, or threatened with rescue, by Mr Bray. Who this time, knowing it’s All Part of the Movie, either will not or cannot repeat his astonishing gymnastics of last month, but merely bumbles about, unable to comply with the Director’s direction to “do [his] number” on Bea. Bray too wears a tail, between his legs; he cannot take his eyes off Bea, who earnestly promises to scratch them out, Movie or no Movie, if he lays a hand on her. Marsha appears, to everyone’s surprise (except, I suspect, Reg Prinz’s — where else would she have got the costume Magda describes, which is clearly the same worn earlier by Bea, butterfly wings and all?): a little drunk and without Bea’s semiprofessional talents, but coldly attractive all the same, Magda admits, in her amateur attempt to do a Poor Butterfly. Bea, Ambrose, Bray are nonplussed; the Baratarians are breaking up; the men among them, tails in hand, go dancing ’round the five principals.

All good cinema! But then Ambrose fetches out his bottle (“a big one,” Magda reports; my guess is that it was a certain famous jeroboam of Piper-Heidsieck); he puts Bea’s hand around its neck and covers it with his own; together they smash it over the ship’s bow-rail as if to launch her. In lieu of champagne, a quire of writing paper sprays out, blank as the message that Started It All. I imagine the chorus pauses; Prinz frowns. And now it develops that our hero has a tail with a difference: he sets Bea down before him, snatches up tail tip and paper with a flourish (his last cinematical gesture), and begins… to write.

The Baratarians’ tail dance peters out. Bray and Marsha (he has Rescued her; his cloaked arm is about her wings; she looks very uncomfortable, M. attests) are transfixed, sort of. Ditto Prinz and for that matter Bea, who finds it harder to sit than to stand attractively in her beach towel. Everyone wonders what’s up, none more than the camera crew. The Director gives no directions.

And Ambrose writes. First page done, he hands it to Bea and begins Page 2. He writes, she reads, both silently, almost motionlessly. Marsha makes a single strident effort to get things going again: a few squeaks and flutters. Bray whispers something urgent to her, leads her off; to Magda she looks cross and uncertain, but she goes with him, somewhere else in the vessel, out of sight. Prinz removes his glasses, contemplatively sucks one earpiece. The passengers turn their attention, with appropriate shrugs and murmurs, to the fireworks just beginning to rise from Long Wharf. Peter Mensch scratches his nose, confesses that it’s all beyond him, he’s not much for the movies anyroad, and gimps over to explain the ground pieces to Angie. She, reasonably enough, wants to know what all the tails were for. Magda suspects they have to do with spermatozoa (Bea’s towel is virgin white, eggshell white; she wears a tight white old-fashioned bathing cap; some of the men wear black ones), but mumbles something about tadpoles, frogs and princesses; she’s not sure what Daddy has in mind.