Edward Limonov - His Butler’s Story (1980-1981)

Carl the opportunist is a quiet person, and when he stays at the house, he's neither seen nor heard. Sometimes in the morning I find him in the kitchen reading the book on etiquette by Amy Vanderbilt, obviously a kind of handbook for opportunists — who else would need it? Gatsby has no need of books like that; he already knows a little, and in any case his wealth and self-assurance place him above any etiquette. Gatsby is a representative of the upper classes and not a bourgeois like the former bookkeeper Carl. It's right for Carl to read a book on etiquette, and he reads it. Nevertheless, they share the same woman.

How odd that nature sticks different types of people wherever it can, not worrying in the least about the bodies, using the first one that comes along. And so here is the robust fellow Steven Grey, six feet two inches tall, and inside him the vulnerable soul of a little boy who seeks a mother in all his women and who chooses the mother — Nancy and Polly, for example, and several of his other women as well, all of whom give off a maternal aura. Whereas I, Edward Limonov, five feet eight and with the face of a child, have — just imagine! — the habits of a papa. I remember that only once during the whole of my life with Jenny, at a time when I was sick with a fever, did I play the child with her, and in that instant everything suddenly assumed its proper place for her: She pressed my head against her breast and stroked my hair, obviously not even aware that she was doing it, and started muttering affectionately to me. The next day she told me sadly, "How sick you were last night, Edward, but at least you were human. It's the first time since I've known you."

Whenever I see the severe Nancy kneeling in the garden in her long dress, her face tanned and without any makeup and her hair pulled back in a bun, as she concentrates on transplanting an azalea bush from a pot, I feel a certain masculine superiority over my employer. Because he needs the protective caresses of this strong woman, while to this day I still sigh in anguish every night and toss and turn in my bed remembering the unbalanced child Elena, who could drive me to a frenzy with her whorishness, that child who had grown completely wild. Elena had run away from her papa Edward and was doing shocking things — fucking bad men and behaving in whatever hoodlum way she pleased, instead of living like a good daughter the way her papa wanted her to. What could I do — nature made me that way. If I had been able to, I would with pleasure have rested my head on some woman's large breast — like a poor, tired little boy.

Oh, I would give a great deal to enter Steven Grey's bedroom and see how he does everything with his women. It's only the curiosity of an investigator, gentlemen, only the curiosity of an investigator — nothing dirty, no sexual thoughts whatsoever. I would just like to see who dominates and how. Steven and his girlfriends, by the way, use not only the master bedroom but also the guest bedroom next door. Either he and Polly hump each other on his bed, and then she goes to sleep in the guest bedroom (in which case I've had it with these spoiled WASPs), or else Gatsby feels it would somehow be unethical to fuck in the family's master bedroom with its photograph of the naked Nancy holding an equally naked baby — Henry, his first-born. I don't know what the answer is, but Olga, the black woman from underdeveloped Haiti, has more work to do thanks to the strange scrupulousness of our lord and master. And the yellow half-Tatar Edward has yet another excuse for grins and reflections.

Just a few days after I became the millionaire's housekeeper, or butler as Gatsby says, the energetic bureaucrat Linda put together a curious document for me, a very long document on which she had obviously spent a great deal of time. In order to give you an idea of the kind of semi-military order that prevails in our house, I cite it here.

Edward:

Attached is a list of Steven's friends and business colleagues, with which you must carefully acquaint yourself.

"P" after a name indicates a personal friend, and «B» indicates a business colleague. If nothing is indicated, then the person in question belongs to both categories. The countries following certain names indicate principal places of residence in the event that it isn't the United States.

This is by no means a complete list but includes only the most important people. Please try to become familiar with these names and their correct spelling, and so on, so that if they call, you can more accurately understand the tone of the message. By this I mean that it may not be necessary every time to track down Steven wherever he is on the globe, but that every message definitely deserves to be written down and given to both of us, that is to me and to Steven if he happens to be in the city. Please pay particular attention to messages coming from people who are going to be in New York only a short time while Steven's in the city.

I have another suggestion for you as well — that from time to time you look at my card file and gradually familiarize yourself with the names there. If someone calls who isn't on the attached list, a basic rule is that if you can find his name in the card file, he's entitled to have his message written down.

Two requests: Always tell me, please, if you give a message to Steven, in case he can't immediately answer the call himself and asks me about it later.

Don't trust people if they say the message isn't important, and please try to get their names and telephone numbers in all cases where that isn't all there is to the message. It may be a call for me about something I happen to be working on at the time.

IF YOU DONT UNDERSTAND SOMETHING, ASK ME ABOUT IT REGARDLESS OF HOW TRIVIAL IT MAY SEEM TO YOU!!!

L.

P.S. If you can't find a name in the card file, it may be because it's listed under the name of the caller's company. For example, Carl Fink's name can also be found under "Norse Electronics." Thus, if it's not a personal call, you may feel free to ask for the name of the company the caller works for.

A list of about two hundred names followed. And the countries in which all those P's and B's lived really were scattered all over the globe.

Ghupta is a "P," that is, a personal friend of Gatsby's. Linda explained to me that he's worth around forty million dollars and works in the areas of oil and atomic energy. Ghupta is from Burma but received his education in England, although he's a citizen of the world, with homes in Rangoon, Kuala Lumpur, London, and in Texas, where he hangs out most of the time, close to his oil. Whenever he comes to New York he always stays with us at Steven's house, despite the fact that he has a permanent suite waiting for him at the Waldorf-Astoria. He's just more comfortable with us, you see.

Ghupta is about my height, maybe a little taller, and has about the same build. His dark Burmese skin may be the main reason he's a little more human than the other wealthy people around Steven, since at first sight, without looking into his pockets, he's just Ghupta, a colored man. In the Great United States extending from sea to shining sea, that fact still means something.

I'm even fond of Mr. Ghupta in my own way, maybe because we're both Asiatics, or maybe because he's the only one of all the "P's" and "B's" who notices me. That is, he's not merely distinguished by die courtesy of wealthy people — the two or three meaningless questions; he actually has conversations with me in which he sometimes gets very interested. Of course he's a cunning Oriental fox with sugary speech and very strong paws — I know that — but the very first time we met, when I was still Jenny's lover, Ghupta suddenly told me after a ten-minute conversation in die kitchen during which we laughingly discussed the wedding page of The New York Times, "Edward, I have no doubt you will be very successful." Even if he was merely flattering me, and Orientals like to be on good terms with everybody (even the housekeeper's lover — just in case), I still very much needed to be flattered then. I needed support. And I made a point of remembering him and told myself, Here's somebody who's alive. Maybe not a friend, maybe a completely different class of person, but enjoyable to be with.