Lincoln and Christopher spent the night at Auden’s house. They had to share a bed. Lincoln, for the first and only time, made a pass at Christopher––a half-joking, tentative pass, which Christopher jokingly declined. Christopher was ready to have sex with most males within reasonable age limits, and he certainly didn’t find
[* In late September 1938, the worst storm to hit the north-eastern states in over a century left standing only fifteen or twenty of about two hundred summer houses on Fire Island; there were many deaths.]
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Lincoln all that unattractive. But he hated mixing sex with
giggles.
On August 3, Caskey and Christopher were at Isa Jennings’s
country house, to swim and have supper. Garbo was there, with George Schlee. Noël Coward arrived late and made a big theatrical entrance. Christopher had always been rather prejudiced against Coward––whom I don’t think he had ever properly met. He
watched sourly as Coward moved with the modest graciousness of royalty among the guests. Garbo got a speech of homage which
Christopher thought disgustingly phony and even the lesser lights were presented with a compliment apiece; Christopher had to admit that Coward was inventive, he found a different way of flattering each of them, and each one beamed. Just before Christopher’s turn came, he said to himself, “I wonder what kind of shit he’ll try on me.” They were introduced. Coward reacted strongly. Then, in
an almost loverlike tone of shyness, he told Christopher, “It’s extraordinary––you look so much like one of the great heroes of my youth, Lawrence of Arabia!”
Christopher often told this story later, mockingly. Yet that day was the beginning of a permanent change in his attitude to Coward.
Subconsciously, Christopher started finding reasons to admire him and think him sympathetic. Which wasn’t difficult, for there are many. Christopher, that shameless flatterer, had had his ass tickled by a master, and had loved it. Characteristically, he didn’t bother to remember what compliment (if any) Coward had paid Caskey.
Caskey and Christopher were given a ride back into town by
Garbo and George Schlee. (Caskey and Christopher had come out to the country by train because their car was being repaired.) Christopher was fairly drunk and took this opportunity of attacking Garbo. He told her that her custom of addressing him as “Mr.
Isherwood”––and of refusing in general to address her old acquaintances by their first names––was sheer affectation and arrogance and egomania. Did she actually think that he, Christopher, had to be kept at a distance, lest he should take some advantage of her? Was she really so paranoid? Hadn’t it ever entered her head that there were some people on this earth who didn’t give a damn about her fame or her money or even her appearance––who simply wanted to be
friendly?
I don’t remember that Garbo said anything in reply to this. She was sitting in the front seat with Schlee––a position which made it easy to ignore a backseat scolder. Christopher probably continued until he ran out of breath. Later––no doubt because he felt he had made an ass of himself––he turned his attention to the ever-silent ¾ 1947 ¾
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self-effacing Schlee and began to praise Schlee’s driving in extravagant terms. (Was this done partly to bitch Caskey, whose speeding terrified Christopher whenever Christopher was sober?) Oddly
enough, in retrospect, it is Christopher’s corny compliments to Schlee that I feel ashamed of, not his rebukes to Garbo.
After that evening, Christopher didn’t see Garbo for nearly a year.
But she hadn’t forgotten what he had said to her. When they next met, at Salka Viertel’s house in California, in July 1948, she gaily told Salka, “Mr. Isherwood was very cruel to me, when we were in New York”; as she said this, she arched her eyebrows in an expression of comic anguish. Obviously, she didn’t bear him any grudge. She could afford not to, for she was invulnerable, as far as he was concerned. Nothing he could possibly say could get under her skin. He, who had always found her absurd, now had to realize that she found him even absurder. Indeed, she made this quite clear at a dinner party at Salka’s about two months later, when she suddenly announced to the guests, “Mr. Isherwood has such beautiful legs!” This tribute from a senior love goddess to a queer in his mid-forties seemed farcical.
Everybody laughed. Christopher laughed with them, but only he would savor Garbo’s compliment as a subtly malicious echo of Noël Coward’s. He often quoted this one too, and in the same tone of mockery––nevertheless, his ass had once again been deliciously tickled.
On August 4, Christopher had lunch with Andrew Lyndon and
Harold Halma at their apartment. Harold had to go out immediately afterwards, leaving Christopher and Andrew alone together. It was very hot. After several drinks, Andrew asked Christopher if he’d like to take a shower. This was merely a cue for both of them to undress.
Christopher fucked Andrew. When it was over and they were lying naked on the bed, Harold arrived back unexpectedly early, his arms full of groceries. Maybe he had hoped to catch them, for he didn’t seem surprised. “Oh, excuse me,” he said, put down his shopping bags in the kitchen and left the apartment again. Andrew wasn’t at all dismayed. “I’m awfully glad we did that,” he told Christopher––who got the impression that Andrew’s seduction of him was largely a declaration of independence, addressed to Harold. Christopher put his clothes on quickly and left before Harold returned. He didn’t feel particularly guilty but he did feel embarrassed. To get caught like that––even if Harold had planned it––was humiliating and lacking in style. And Christopher liked Harold and didn’t want to cause him pain. So, three days later––having made sure that Andrew would be away for the evening––Christopher phoned Harold and asked if he might come around. Harold may have felt hostile but he agreed.
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They drank together and the tension eased. Christopher began
making it clear that Harold attracted him. Although Christopher had an ulterior motive, he was quite sincere in this. The very fact that he had fucked Andrew made him hot to be fucked by Harold; he
pictured himself submitting to it as a brutal but exciting punishment, inflicted by the injured party, this muscular sexy young man. In fucking Christopher, Harold would ejaculate the seed of jealousy out of himself and he would no longer feel excluded from the triangle.
. . . However, when Christopher finally asked Harold straight out to come to bed with him and Harold refused, Christopher wasn’t greatly disappointed––for his mission was accomplished anyway; to have made the pass was as good as having let himself be screwed––he had effectively disqualified himself as a sexual menace in Harold’s eyes.