The Talented Miss Highsmith Read online

  “There isn’t any constant personality for the writer, the face, with which he meets his old friends or strangers. He is always part of his characters, or he is simply in a good or bad mood, one day and another.”14

  Her mother, Mary, thought acting should have been Pat’s real vocation. It wasn’t a compliment. Pat thought exactly the same thing of Mother Mary—but without the vocation. “She wants attention like an actress,” Pat noted when Mary, languishing in a nursing home in Texas, was costing her a little extra in adult diapers.15 Mother and daughter knew each other too well for courtesy and loved each other too much for comfort.

  Never an easy woman to live with, Patricia Highsmith gave me the same hard time she gave to anyone who tried to enter her life with the intention of getting too close or learning too much. Perhaps my time with her was a little harder because I know some of the people Pat knew,* live in some of the places she lived in, and belong to several of the groups (four of them, if you’re counting as compulsively as Pat always counted) she spent the last part of her life reviling with such gusto.

  Still, I’d read her fictions before investigating her facts, so I thought I understood what I was in for: years of intensely interesting, often excruciating work focused on a woman who seemed to be the sole curator of a Museum of Twentieth-Century American Maladies.16 Nothing I found—or found out—during the past seven years has altered this first impression.

  There may be many reasons to set down the life of Mary Patricia Highsmith, but this one is mine: to try to catch (and in catching, to try to think about)17 the constant shifting of identities—from the writer at the desk to the woman who got up from it; from the intensely divided personality to the symbolic steps it took to relieve itself of its burdens—that created the consistency, the fierce peculiarity, and the weird, gravelled originality of her work.

  In doing so, I have had to innovate the form of her biography in order not to violate the substance of her life. Obsession—the obsessions that governed her life and inspired her writing—will be the organizing principle of this work.

  Several pseudonyms for people close to Patricia Highsmith have been used throughout this book. Although their names have been altered, their testimonies are presented exactly as they were given to me. In the delicate balance of competing truths that biography is always on the verge of upsetting, both the living and the dead deserve a little protection from each other. A pseudonym—the kind of small forgery Pat herself gleefully committed when she wanted to cover her tracks and speak her mind—allows these crucial witnesses to tell their stories for the first time.

  In her only formal attempt to explain the way she worked, Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction (1965), Pat wrote that she liked to start her novels with a “slow, even tranquil beginning…in which the reader becomes thoroughly acquainted with the hero-criminal and the people around him.” And that’s how I’ll begin her story. But the fact that she could reverse herself in her very next sentence—“But there is no law about this, and in The Blunderer I started out with a sharp bang”—is exactly what The Talented Miss Highsmith is all about.

  —JOAN SCHENKAR

  Paris

  Bern

  Greenwich Village

  • 1 •

  How to Begin

  Part 1

  No writer would ever betray his secret life, it would be like standing naked in public.

  —Patricia Highsmith, 1940

  What was difficult was you never saw her alone, in her normal routine, because the moment you were there, she was a different person.

  —Barbara Roett, in conversation with the author

  An Ordinary Day*

  On 16 November 1973, a damp, coldish breaking day in the tiny French village of Moncourt, France, Patricia Highsmith, a fifty-two-year-old American writer living an apparently quiet life beside a branch of the Loing Canal, lit up another Gauloise jaune, tightened her grip on her favorite Parker fountain pen, hunched her shoulders over her rolltop desk—her oddly jointed arms and enormous hands were long enough to reach the back of the roll while she was still seated—and jotted down in her writer’s notebook a short list of helpful activites which “small children” might do “around the house.”

  It’s a casual little list, the kind of list Pat liked to make when she was emptying out the back pockets of her mind, and it has the tossed-off quality of an afterthought. But as any careful reader of Highsmith knows, the time to pay special attention to her is when she seems to be lounging, negligent, or (God forbid) mildly relaxed. There is a beast crouched in every “unconcerned” corner of her writing mind, and sure enough, it springs out at us in her list’s discomfiting title. “Little Crimes for Little Tots,” she called it. And then for good measure she added a subtitle: “Things around the house—which small children can do…”

  Pat had recently filled in another little list—it was for the comics historian Jerry Bails back in the United States—with some diversionary information about her work on the crime-busting comic book adventures of Black Terror and Sergeant Bill King, so perhaps she was still counting up the ways in which small children could be slyly associated with crime.1 In her last writer’s journal, penned from the same perch in semisuburban France, she had also spared a few thoughts for children. One of them was a simple calculation. She reckoned that “one blow in anger [would] kill, probably, a child from aged two to eight” and that “Those over eight would take two blows to kill.” The murderer she imagined completing this deed was none other than herself; the circumstance driving her to it was a simple one:

  “One situation—maybe one alone—could drive me to murder: family life, togetherness.”2

  So, difficult as it might be to imagine Pat Highsmith dipping her pen into child’s play, her private writings tell us that she sometimes liked to run her mind over the more outré problems of dealing with the young. And not only because her feelings for them wavered between a clinical interest in their upbringing (she made constant inquiries about the children of friends) and a violent rejection of their actual presence (she couldn’t bear the sounds children made when they were enjoying themselves).

  Like her feisty maternal grandmother, Willie Mae Stewart Coates, who used to send suggestions for improving the United States to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt (and got handwritten answers back from the White House),3 Pat kept a drawerful of unconventional ideas for social engineering just itching to be implemented. Her notebooks are enlivened by large plans for small people, most of them modelled on some harsh outcropping of her own rocky past. Each one adds a new terror to the study of child development.

  One of her plans for youth—just a sample—seems to be a barely suppressed rehearsal of the wrench in 1927 in her own childhood when she was taken from her grandmother’s care in the family-owned boardinghouse in Fort Worth, Texas, all the way across the United States to her mother’s new marriage in a cramped apartment in the upper reaches of the West Side of Manhattan. Pat’s idea for child improvement (it migrated from a serious entry in her 1966 notebook to the mind of the mentally unstable protagonist in her 1977 novel, Edith’s Diary) was to send very young children to live in places far across the world—“Orphanages could be exploited for willing recruits!” she enthused, alight with her own special brand of practicality—so that they could serve their country as “junior members of the Peace Corps.” 4

  Like a tissue culture excised from the skin of her thoughts, her odd, offhand little list of 16 November 1973 (written in her house in a village so small that a visit to the post office lumbered her with unwanted attention) turns out to be a useful entrée into the mind, the matter, and the mise-en-scène of the talented Miss Highsmith. Amongst its other revelations, the list makes recommendations for people (small ones) whose lives parallel her own: people who are fragile enough to be confined to their homes, free enough to be without apparent parental supervision, and angry enough to be preoccupied with murder.

  Here is her list.

  16/11/73 L
ittle Crimes for Little Tots.

  Things around the house—which small children can do, such as:

  1) Tying string across top of stairs so adults will trip.

  2) Replacing roller skate on stairs, once mother has removed it.

  3) Setting careful fires, so that someone else will get the blame if possible.

  4) Rearranging pills in medicine cabinets; sleeping pills into aspirin bottle. Pink laxative pills into antibiotic bottle which is kept in fridge.

  5) Rat powder or flea powder into flour jar in kitchen.

  6) Saw through supports of attic trap door, so that anyone walking on closed trap will fall through to stairs.

  7) In summer: fix magnifying glass to focus on dry leaves, or preferably oily rags somewhere. Fire may be attributed to spontaneous combustion.

  8) Investigate anti-mildew products in gardening shed. Colorless poison added to gin bottle.

  A small thing but very much her own, this piece of ephemera, like almost everything Pat turned her hand to, has murder on its mind, centers itself around a house and its close environs, mentions a mother in a cameo role, and is highly practical in a thoroughly subversive way.

  Written in the flat, dragging, uninflected style of her middle years, it leaves no particular sense that she meant it as a joke, but she must have…mustn’t she? The real beast in Highsmith’s writing has always been the double-headed dragon of ambiguity. And the dragon often appears with its second head tucked under its foreclaw, and its cue cards—the ones it should be flashing at us to help us with our responses—concealed somewhere beneath its scales. Is Pat serious? Or is she something else?

  She is serious and she is also something else.

  All her life, Pat Highsmith was drawn to list making. She loved lists and she loved them all the more because nothing could be less representative of her chaotic, raging interior than a nice, organizing little list. Like much of what she wrote, this particular list makes use of the materials at hand: no need, children, to look farther than Mother’s medicine cabinet or Father’s garden shed for the means to murder your parents. Many children in Highsmith fictions, if they are physically able, murder a family member. In 1975 she would devote an entire collection of short stories, The Animal-Lover’s Book of Beastly Murder, to pets who dispatch their abusive human “parents” straight to Hell.

  Nor did Pat herself usually look farther than her immediate environment for props to implement her artistic motives. (And when she did, she got into artistic trouble.) Everything around her was there to be used—and methodically so—even in murder. She fed the odd bits of her gardens, her love life, the carpenter ants in her attic, her old manuscripts, her understanding of the street plan of New York and the transvestite bars of Berlin, into the furnace of her imagination—and then let the fires do their work.

  Perhaps suggestion number 3 in “Little Crimes for Little Tots,” “the setting of careful fires, so that someone else will get the blame if possible,” is the most disturbing, implying, as it does, both the double vision which produced her most interesting fiction (a single crime, but the culpability floats between two characters, as in her novel The Blunderer) and the kind of premeditation that might get those “Little Tots” sent straight up the river to the “Big House.”

  “Deadpan” was Pat’s most available mode of expression, and her deadpan style here (“Style does not interest me in the least,” she feinted in 1944)5 blows smoke rings of doubt around her intentions. And because her own childhood was the only childhood which ever truly interested her, there is one final smoke ring that rises mockingly above the rest: which child murdering whose parents was this list really made for?

  Could her list’s imagined victims have something to do with the complicated parentage of little Patsy Plangman (who had one more parent than she wanted, one less parent than she needed), born on the birthdays of both Edgar Allan Poe and his devilish character-with-a-doppelgänger, William Wilson?* That’s the little Patsy Plangman who grew up to be no one’s “patsy” and who, as Patricia Highsmith, presented herself and her best characters as orphans with parents and adults with double lives. Like her life, Pat’s work—even to its smallest element—is full of interesting suggestions.

  What was it, for instance, that brought Pat Highsmith, a writer with considerable successes behind and before her—but now, midway on her life’s journey, in dark woods, with the right road lost (Pat was reading Dante in Italian just now)—to set up her Fortress of Solitude in an obscure suburban village in France?

  There is a good Highsmith story coiled behind this question, as well as a crucial Highsmith history. To find them, we shall have to go back to her desk in Moncourt. Questions concerning Highsmith’s life are usually best answered in the vicinity of one of her desks.

  As a child, Pat lay seething with resentment on couch-beds in living rooms of too-small apartments in Manhattan and Queens listening to the raised voices of her mother and stepfather. As an adult, she demanded and secured a series of fiercely defended private spaces which allowed her imagination to intensify its own interests. It was in houses (they were never quite the homes she’d hoped for) where she finally arranged the privacy she needed more than she needed anything else. And the most important physical feature of that privacy was always, always a room with a desk.

  Here in the village of Moncourt, Pat and her desk are tucked up under the eaves in the second-floor bedroom of her house (first-floor in France), an hour’s train ride from Paris. Although she sits in front of the scrolled rolltop like a snail in front of its shell, her posture is deceptive; she is not unshelled. The house itself is in a hameau, a tiny hamlet within the village of Moncourt, entirely encircled by a protective stone wall. It is two months and three days before her fifty-third birthday.

  Eleven months ago, she began a poem: “I live on thin air / And thin ice.” Still, here in this house, as in every other place she has ever lived, she has made sure that there are at least two layers of solid material (house walls and a stone wall, in this case) between her and the rest of the world. When she is alone and writing—that is, when she is at her most dangerous—Patricia Highsmith likes to play it safe.

  The desk she is sitting at provides a kind of catalogue of her working habits. Sheaves of printed stationery, filched during her literary sojourns at Europe’s better hotels (her publishers pay for these trips), are stacked in its cubbyholes. Matchbooks, acquired by the same means, are secreted in its drawers. There are scraps of paper left over from the two and a half manuscript drafts she types of each of her works (for neatness, she says, not because she needs to revise);6 she often reuses them for her vast correspondence, cutting them carefully in half if a half sheet is all she needs. Even the rinsed-out receptacle holding her pencils once had another life as a jam jar. Nothing is wasted in her household.

  A Gauloise jaune smoulders away in a half-filled ashtray beside her. A glass of cheap scotch is within easy reach. Somewhere in the room there is a forgotten tumbler of milk and a cup of cooling coffee. Two bottles of Valstar beer, both empty, are on the floor under the desk.

  At twenty, when she was a junior at Barnard College living at home in New York City—and just as liable to falling through the crust of the world as she is now—Pat first wrote about thin ice:

  We live on the thin ice of unexplained phenomena. Suppose our food suddenly did not digest in our stomachs. Suppose it lay like a lump of dough inside us and poisoned us.7

  Food has disturbed her on and off since she was an adolescent. She wrote to her professor friend Alex Szogyi (he was also a food writer) that food was her bête noire—and she has come to attach many confusions to the act of eating. France, the culinary center of the Western world, means nothing to her: “I don’t even like the food,” she writes from Fontainebleau.8 She thinks America’s “Nixon” problem is gastric: “the USA [is] suffering a prolonged attack of acid stomach, an irrepressible urge to throw up.”9 She herself often has the urge to throw up. Her idea of an attractive nam
e for a cookbook is “Desperate Measures.”10 For a long time now, liquids have been her most important nourishment.

  At this moment, she has put down her pen and begun to type on the coffee-colored Olympia Portable Deluxe typewriter that has accompanied her on all her restless travels since 1956.11 Its hard-shell carrying case is pasted over with shipping labels from European countries. The Olympia—a ripple of Leni Riefenstahl runs through its brand name—occupies a major portion of the desktop.

  Her typing style is distinctive: brutal, dogged, and unhurried. She uses only four or five fingers to strike the keys, she strikes them hard, and she strikes from above, like someone attacking the keyboard of a musical instrument. Her fingers appear to limp a little, and their rhythm is syncopated. She could be playing a harpsichord. She has always wanted to play the harpsichord. Instead, she will give a harpsichord and the lessons for playing it to her favorite character, the talented Mr. Ripley. And, as an afterthought, to Ripley’s wife, the belle, blank Heloise.

  The single bed with the striped bedspread, the one she sleeps in when she sleeps alone (which she mostly does these days), is in this small room as well, at a right angle to her desk. A chocolate-point Siamese cat is curled up on it. A radio, a box of tissues, and a bottle of Vicks Vapo-Rub are on a simple stand beside the bed. An old bluish Persian carpet, frayed here and there, is on the floor. There is a roof window just above her eye level—an old-fashioned tabatière—which opens onto the courtyard.

  As usual, her desk faces a wall.

  It is 5:22 in the morning.

  As she bends her head over her typewriter, the exposed nape of her neck, usually concealed with a scarf or a turtleneck sweater—“I have no neck,” she remarked flatly to an interviewer—shows signs of a dowager’s bulge. Her shoulder-length hair, still coiffed in the classic pageboy she went to Barnard with in 1938, falls forward over her face. “Coiffed” is not quite the word for it; Highsmith harbors a lifelong “dislike of being groomed” by professionals, calling it “a curious way to regain morale—having other people administer” to you. She pushes her pageboy back with her thumbs—first one side, then the other—and tosses her head slightly in the characteristic gesture that settles her hair. In grooming, as in everything else, Patricia Highsmith prefers to do it herself.