The Paris Wife

Just bear that in mind and be very careful.”

“All right, Ezra, I promise,” I said, and moved away toward Ernest and our train. Pound was Pound and given to speech-making, and I didn’t take him seriously that day. I was far too optimistic about everything to heed any warnings, but years later his parting remarks would come back to me sharply. Pound was Pound, but about this one thing he had been dead right.

TWENTY-FOUR

When we returned to Paris in early April, I was very ready to be home. The trees were newly flowering, the streets were washed clean and hung with fresh laundry; children ran along the gravel paths in the Luxembourg Gardens. Ernest was working with intensity, and though I missed him when he was away, I was happier to be on my own than before.

It sounds funny to say it, but for the first time I had my own project. I took long walks every day for my health and tried to eat well and get plenty of rest. I bought yards and yards of soft white cotton and spent hours sitting in the sun and hand-stitching baby clothes. In the evenings I read the letters of Abelard and Heloise, a love story that suited me far more than Fitzgerald’s disintegrating Jazz Age couple. I felt hopeful about absolutely everything as spring passed into early summer. My middle thickened and my breasts grew fuller. I was tan and strong and content-more substantial, as Shakespear had said-and began to believe that I’d finally discovered my purpose.

When he wasn’t toiling away in his room on the rue Descartes, Ernest spent a lot of time with Gertrude. She had commiserated when he told her about the lost manuscripts, of course, but was less sympathetic about his concerns over the coming baby.

“You’ll do it anyway. You’ll push through.”

“I’m not near ready,” he said.

Gertrude had narrowed her eyes at him and said, “I’ve never known a man who was. You’ll do just fine.”

“What were you hoping she’d say?” I asked when he relayed the story to me.

“I don’t know. I thought she might have some advice.”

“And did she?”

“No, actually. Nothing beyond ‘Do it anyway.’ ”

“That’s perfect advice for you. You will do it anyway.”

“Easy for you to say. All you have to do is cut and sew baby clothes.”

“That and make the baby, thank you very much. It’s not coming out of the sky.”

“Right,” he said distractedly, and went back to work.

Not long after we returned to Paris, Jane Heap, the editor of the Little Review, wrote asking Ernest to contribute something to the next issue. Among the lost sketches in the valise was a series of vignettes he was collectively calling Paris, 1922. They all began with the phrase “I have seen” and painted memorable and often violent moments he’d witnessed or read about in the past year. One depicted Chevre d’Or’s ruinous collapse at Auteuil. Another described how Peggy Joyce’s Chilean lover had shot himself in the head because she wouldn’t marry him. Everyone had followed the actress’s desperate story in the headlines, but Ernest’s take on it was more vivid and alive than anything you could find in a newspaper. Whether he’d gotten the knowledge secondhand or not, each piece was graphic and brutal and completely convincing. Ernest believed he’d never done anything sharper or stronger, and Gertrude agreed. He was writing knockout punches.

“You might not want to hear it,” Gertrude said, “but I think your losing everything has been a blessing. You needed to be free. To start with nothing and make something truly new.”

Ernest nodded solemnly, but I knew he was tremendously relieved. So was I.

“I want to take another shot at the Paris vignettes for Jane Heap. But I don’t want to simply revive their corpses. New is new. I’m thinking of pushing them out into paragraphs, so they really begin to move.” He was watching her face carefully as he spoke, feeding off her encouragement. “Each would be less a sketch than a miniature wound up and let go.”

“By all means,” she said, and in a very short time, he was ready to show her a draft that captured the goring of a matador with ferocious intensity. He was particularly anxious to get her take on it because the scene was based on a story she herself had told him about the bullfights in Pamplona. You wouldn’t have known, reading the passage, that he’d never been.

“This is exceptional,” Gertrude said. “You’ve reproduced it exactly.”

“That was the point,” he said, clearly pleased to hear it. “But I want to know how bullfighting works firsthand. If I went myself, I could gather material for more sketches. Mike Strater’s keen to go and so is Bob McAlmon. Bob’s got plenty of money. He could front the whole trip.”

“Go,” Gertrude said.

“You should,” I agreed. “Everything’s pointing that way.”

When we got home that night, I asked Ernest if I could read all of the miniatures he’d done so far and was stopped cold by one about his time in Turkey. It was set on the Karagatch Road and described, among other things, a woman giving birth like an animal in the rain.

I handed the pieces back, praising them to high heaven, as they deserved, but also couldn’t help saying, “You don’t have to hide how scared you are about this baby coming. Not from me.”

“Sure I’m scared. How will I work? What will happen to our good time?”

“Not just that. I know you’re worried about me.”

“A little.”

“Please don’t. Nothing bad will happen.”

“How could you possibly know that? Something could always go wrong. I’ve seen it myself.”

“It’s going to be fine. I can feel it.”

“Just the same, I’ve been wondering if we shouldn’t have the baby in Toronto. I could get full-time work at the Star. The hospitals are supposed to be very fine there, and I would have a steady job. We’ll need the money for sure.”

“Aren’t you a good papa already,” I said, and kissed him softly on the mouth.

“I’m trying to want this. To ward off all the troubling thoughts, too.”

“And stuff in as much living as you can before the baby comes?”

“That too, yes.”

The coming weeks brought a flurry of plans about Spain. He met often with Strater and Bob McAlmon in cafes, planning the itinerary, but for whatever reason Ernest always came back from these meetings peevish and irritated with the other men. McAlmon was a poet and friend of both Ezra and Sylvia. He was married to the British writer Annie Ellerman, who wrote under the pseudonym Bryher. It was very widely known that Annie was a lesbian and that Bob was keener on men than women. The marriage was one of convenience. On and off, Annie had been very involved with the poet H.D., another of Pound’s “pupils,” and although none of this seemed to trouble Bob in the least, it got under Ernest’s skin. I wasn’t exactly sure why. We were surrounded by every combination of sexual pairing and triangulation, so I didn’t think it was the homosexuality that got to Ernest per se. It was more likely the distribution of power. Annie was an heiress. Her father was a shipping magnate who happened to be the wealthiest man in England. Although Bob had money of his own, it wasn’t anywhere near what Annie had, and there was the impression that she kept him on a leash and that he needed her if he was going to go on running his brand-new press, Contact Editions. Bob was dependent on Annie, and Ernest might someday be dependent on Bob, if he wanted to be published. Contact Editions was new but earmarked for greatness and actively looking for the sharpest, freshest writing possible.

Knowing that he should impress Bob meant that Ernest was ineluctably drawn to offend him. By the time Bob, Ernest, and Mike Strater had left for Spain, Ernest and Bob were barely even speaking. The trip became an awkward one in many ways. Bob (with help from Annie) was footing all the bills, and this brought out the very worst in Ernest. He was always critical of the rich and hated to feel obligated. I learned later from Mike that Ernest had also immediately taken over as the “expert” on the trip, lecturing the other men