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  Further Praise for A Stone Boat

  A Finalist for the Los Angeles Times First Fiction Prize

  “A groundbreaking exploration of sexual identity and a gripping narrative of loss.”

  —Naomi Wolf

  “Working in incredibly elegant, nearly poetic prose, Andrew Solomon has cut through the sensitive skin, has ever-so-neatly retracted the flesh and exposed the heart so that one might stand over it and watch it beat, marveling at its simultaneous strength and fragility.”

  —A. M. Homes

  “Brittle irony and teeming grief, a pairing that achieves an odd but perfect balance . . . The novel buzzes with bizarre charm.”

  —The London Sunday Times

  “Confronts homosexuality and the politics and pressures of family bonds in an understated yet painfully revealing fashion refreshing in its lack of pretense or literary gimmickry. Solomon’s prose . . . packs a vivid and lyrical punch that’s music to the eyes and mind.”

  —Details magazine

  “Exquisite fiction . . . An extraordinary anatomy of life in the face of horror, love . . . and death.”

  —Isthmus

  “Elegant and moving . . . Love and death make dramatic entrances in this elegiac novel.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Beautiful . . . a reach toward Proust, the evocation of significant feeling and memory out of the commonplace.”

  —Lambda Book Report

  For my father and brother

  It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:

  dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,

  drawn from the cold hard mouth

  of the world, derived from the rocky breasts

  forever, flowing and drawn, and since

  our knowledge is historical, flowing and flown.

  Elizabeth Bishop

  “At the Fishhouses”

  CONTENTS

  I My Mother’s Paris

  II Home Again

  III My London

  IV Winter

  V Valse Brillante

  VI October

  VII Three Loves

  VIII An Almost Perfect Party

  IX Inside the Shell

  X Our Venice

  Acknowledgments

  About Andrew Sullivan

  I

  MY MOTHER’S PARIS

  I need to write this as quickly as possible, because it is about my mother. I want to write it while we can still remember how we hoped that she would get well. That is sentimental and extravagant, I know. I once told my mother that I would never forget her because there is so much of her in me, but this year, I’m not so sure that I can rely on myself to recall everything about her, and I need to remember everything I possibly can. Did I get this sentimental and extravagant streak from her? Five years ago, I would have said that it came from my father, but now I’m not so sure.

  Yesterday I was on a plane. I remember when that was an event in my life—to take a plane somewhere—but now planes are the most regular occurrence of all; I am the emperor of baggage claim, the king of check-in, the prime minister of in-flight meals. I am as savvy as a flight attendant, with a profound knowledge of the location of the emergency exits and an aficionado’s grasp of the technology of seat belts. I can guess within a fraction of a second when the “No Smoking” sign will go on. I have figured out how to angle myself so that the overhead reading light illuminates my book and not my hair, and I know where the further extra pillows are stored when the first cache of extra pillows has been distributed. I have mastered the look that bores customs officers, and even when I am carrying great misshapen boxes and large cumbersome suitcases, I am not stopped on my way out of the airport.

  On Friday I will take a plane to Istanbul to play in a Brahms festival in the gardens of the Topkapi Palace. No doubt the piano will be sliding out of tune. Next Monday I will return to London. Next Tuesday I will go to New York, and then for a few days to Berlin to play Schubert, and then the following Friday I will go back to New York for an indefinite period of not more than nine days. That’s the plan, unless my mother needs to go in for surgery. If my mother needs to go in for surgery, I’ll just go straight to New York and miss some more of the rest of my life and stay for as long as I have to and cancel all my performances. I’ve done it before.

  • • •

  This is what happened when my mother got sick: we were in Europe, on one of those family trips we had been taking since my childhood, one of those exquisitely conceived and impeccable holidays into which my mother poured—so it seems in retrospect—more energy than she could afford. “Just think, Harry,” my mother had said a week before, her voice lilting. “Four days of Paris, August sun, the city almost empty, and then we’ll go down to the château—you’ll love the château—and we’ll eat breakfast looking across the valley, and we’ll go for walks, and we’ll swim a little if it gets really warm, and we’ll go see all the Matisses. There’s a piano at the château, so you can practice, but no one is going to make you perform for a whole two weeks. Just come along and relax and have a good time.”

  I was living in London then, and my parents flew across the Atlantic three or four times a year; my father’s bank had an office in the UK, and since my move to Britain he had taken an active interest in supervising the local staff, and came over for regular quick visits. My mother and I would spend the afternoons together while he worked, and then we would all meet for supper. Sometimes my parents came straight to London, but often enough I met them on the Continent so that we could all travel together. A few days before breakfast looking across the valley, my mother got sick in Paris.

  I will not forget my parents’ arrival in Paris that time. My old friend Helen, my brother, Freddy, and I had been sitting for at least an hour in the bar at the hotel, waiting. When Helen and I left the bar (we left to see whether my parents had arrived yet, while Freddy went off to the bathroom), there they were. My father was at the front desk, discussing the rooms in his familiar way, and my mother was sitting nearby. The reality of my parents’ checking in that day is so strong that it overwhelms me: it seems more real to me than anything that has happened since, as though it was the last moment of my own life, as though the life I’ve been living since is on loan from someone else. My father was standing at the desk, talking to the man at reception. My mother was sitting on a gilded baroque chair. She sat slightly forward—at ease, but poised. She was wearing a pale gray wool suit with a soft off-white silk blouse, and you would never have guessed to look at her that she was at the far end of a long day’s travel: she looked as though she were newly dressed to go out to lunch. She had a small square bag, her little travel bag, which she always took on flights, next to her feet. She was wearing shoes with slight heels, and she had crossed her legs at the knee. She was looking up: her hair was set neatly in a twist at the back of her head, and her clear blue eyes were fixed on my father, and that skin of hers, that clear and soft skin pale as titanium, seemed to rest as gently on her high bones as it must have done the day she married him. One hand rested on her lap, holding a blue felt-tip pen, which she absentmindedly clicked open and closed. The other hung over the arm of the chair. She wore little sapphire earrings and a necklace of beaten gol
d, and on her hand her diamond ring fragmented the neutral hotel light into all its hidden colors.

  She was watching my father check in with the particular expression she wore in Paris with my father, an expression of trust, of pleasure in the luxury around her, of certainty and self-assurance, and most of all of love. Every time we went to Paris, she fell in love with us all all over again, and you could see it in the lightness that came to her walk, in her new delight in the same old restaurants and museums, in the way her hair was brushed, and in the particular tenor of her laughter. You could see it in the way she would sustain her energy for long strolls, in the way she would get dressed quickly after her bath and her nap, in how utterly sure of herself she suddenly was and how utterly sure of all of us. My mother always looked younger than she was, in the way of glamorous women, but in Paris she became really young again. I used to feel, there, that I had been given the opportunity to be with my mother as she might have been before I was born, before she was married.

  I went to France for that terrible trip planning to have a long-overdue argument with my mother, but when Helen and I came out of the bar the evening my parents arrived, I found all at once that I could have just stood forever, looking at her in that pale gray suit on that gilded chair; it was as though seeing her made me whole. I had grudgingly agreed to go on this holiday to vent my anger, to settle the terrible differences my mother and I were having at that time. But when the moment came, the holiday seemed to stretch in front of me like a piece of music whose delights, obscure on the printed page, become perfectly obvious as soon as you touch the keys. I felt lucky, as lucky as I had always felt in my childhood, when I believed my mother to be the envy of all the children with preoccupied or plain or distracted women uncertainly calling their names.

  Helen and I paused for a moment, and then my mother turned her head and saw us. “Harry!” she said, “and Helen!” as though she were surprised, though no meeting had ever been planned in more detail. And then she smiled, a smile I knew well, a smile that was her particular smile for me, and it was as though the emotion that had been just behind her face while she watched my father checking in came all at once to its surface. We were in a hotel, and it was ten o’clock at night, and so I just walked over to give my mother a kiss on the cheek, but there has never been any meeting in which there was more urgency or delight than there was for me when I crossed the infinite space, up the three stairs, past the concierge, across the front of the elevator, to where my mother sat on her chair, with her square travel bag by her feet. I would like to be able to live in that moment forever. It passed in a few seconds; there was some question about getting the luggage up to the room; my mother asked Helen about her flight; I remembered how angry I was at my mother; she was tired; that particular August day settled in with all its irritations. But for a moment, when I saw my mother, reality itself had stood at bay.

  • • •

  The city in which my mother got sick was one in which I had spent a lot of time on my own. I knew it on foot and by métro as my parents, driven by hotel chauffeurs, could never know it. But Paris remained my mother’s city. In my mother’s Paris we would devote hours as short as minutes to the roses in the garden of the Musée Rodin, or we would stroll along the Faubourg Saint-Honoré and contrast this year’s elegance with last year’s, or we would sit in the sun (it was always radiant sun in my mother’s Paris) in the Place des Vosges and consider Victor Hugo. Sometimes we would go to the Jeu de Paume to look at the heavy apples in the Cézannes, or to lose ourselves in the colors of the water lilies under the Japanese footbridge. At dinner, we would perhaps gaze at the Tuileries from our table at a restaurant untouched by time, our faces dimly lit by the heavy light of candles reflected on an Edwardian ceiling of pleated rose-colored silk. Oddly, there was never impassable traffic in my mother’s Paris; and the French were never rude to us, or even brusque; and the streets were always as clean as though they had been swept in honor of our coming. “Look,” my mother would say at the end of an evening. “It’s our moon over Vendôme.” In my mother’s Paris the moon was always full, the better to cast that fairy-tale light in which we would return to the hotel near midnight.

  There was always music in my mother’s Paris. Once or twice we were all there when I was performing, and my parents would come to some remote concert hall or church to listen to a recital. Even when I had no such engagements, music seemed to follow us. The piano player at our favorite bar would recognize us as we came in, and would play the tunes my mother liked best, tunes that I had learned after listening to him, and that I sometimes played for her at home, trying to imitate his light fingerwork and symmetrical arrangements. We knew why he was playing what he was playing, and my mother would shoot him an unforgettable smile; but everyone else assumed he was inspired only by the time of night, the sight of a waiter with four glasses, and the shifting light that drifted through the old glass of the windows. Secret recognition is the best kind of recognition, and my mother’s Paris was full of it; it seemed to me that everyone, from the chauffeurs who drove us around town to the vaguely aristocratic men and women who took tea in the hotel garden, turned to pay silent tribute to my mother when they saw her. The city was not so much a place as an eternal coronation.

  In my mother’s Paris, sickness itself seemed aberrant. It was so unlike her to leave a trail of restaurant reservations not claimed, walks not taken, conversations not had. It was out of character for her to suffer in that city, the face of which seemed to say that suffering was gratuitous. In New York we often fought our way through the weeks. In New York it was impossible to pretend that all was pleasure and light. In New York—well, in New York we had raw edges, flashes of anger. In Paris, we regretted nothing; in Paris there was nothing to regret. My mother was never angry in Paris (except, perhaps, if I was very late for an appointment; but that anger soon passed). She was never sad in Paris. She was never overtired after the first two days of jet lag. She was never tense, or irritable.

  When my mother was a teenager, her favorite film was Love in the Afternoon, in which a girl has an affair that takes place entirely in a vast suite at the Ritz. My mother dreamed when she was twelve that she would go one day and stay in that suite in that hotel, and when she married my father, he took her there. Is it fair to say that my mother’s life, which has sometimes seemed so easy to those who don’t know her, was more than half the painstaking realization of a plan nearly perfect for herself and for the rest of us? I think it is. My father provided more than the means; my grandparents might have taken her to the Ritz if there hadn’t been a war, and if their taste hadn’t led them to other hotels, and if my grandfather hadn’t died young, and if a thousand other dramas hadn’t interfered. But they didn’t take her there, and my father did. Love in the afternoon, love in the morning, love in the evening: that was my mother’s dream for herself, and so it became my father’s dream for her, too: in the end a family dream for our ever-dreaming family. My mother loved the Ritz, where we always stayed, because it was beautiful; but she really loved it because, for her, being there was an affirmation of love itself.

  “Well, here we all are,” said my father, after he had finished checking in, that first night. He turned to my mother. “Back in your hotel,” he said.

  “My hotel is suffering from threadbare carpets,” my mother replied with a laugh, looking at a worn patch near the stairs. “But otherwise it seems to be in pretty good shape. Glad to be here?”

  We were all glad.

  The porter held open the door of the tiny elevator. “Should we go upstairs?” said my father.

  • • •

  The year my mother became sick, I was not interested in the perfect world of my mother’s Paris. She had been so disagreeable about my lover, Bernard, that I had decided to let the family slide altogether. I had long since moved to London; but geographic remove had proved insufficient. She drew my very self from me on the telephone and with occasional post
cards and with opinions I could not avoid knowing, whether she voiced them or not. My sleeping with Bernard was an event in her life as much as it was an event in mine, and this was unlivable. I went on that trip to France to sever the ties of our intimacy. I set off to Paris in anger, determined for the first time to act upon anger.

  We were five in Paris. My younger brother, Freddy, had in the end not brought his girlfriend, Melanie, a short blond girl with blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and a blandly chilly manner. She broke up with him—with her star-gazer knack for timing—right before the trip. I suppose that I was not at that time in love, with Bernard or with anyone else, though for purposes of argument I insisted that I was in transports of passion. I still wonder what the true extent of Freddy’s devotion was, whether he, too, had attached himself to the rhetoric of infatuation in part to escape the exhaustion that my mother’s attention could engender; but it’s more likely that if Freddy said he was in love, it was true. I was, at best, trying to see my life as separate from my mother’s, trying for an involvement that was not essentially about her; and though that attempt was a flop, to try at all was something. For Freddy these matters were always easier.

  “Calm down, Harry,” Freddy had said to me. “Just live with Bernard if that’s what you want to do. Mom’s not going to come over there and try to move you out of his apartment. She hasn’t even said she wants you to break up. She just doesn’t want to hear about it all the time.”

  But I felt that she had to hear about it.

  “If you want her to get out of your life, then just talk to her about the weather when she calls,” said Freddy. “It’s not that complicated. I mean, you’re in London.”

  “But I’m in Bernard’s apartment,” I said. “We see the weather together. I can’t edit my conversation all the time. I don’t want to live a double life.”