Blue Nights Read online

  ALSO BY JOAN DIDION

  The Year of Magical Thinking

  We Tell Ourselves Stories in Order to Live

  Where I Was From

  Political Fictions

  The Last Thing He Wanted

  After Henry

  Miami

  Democracy

  Salvador

  The White Album

  A Book of Common Prayer

  Play It as It Lays

  Slouching Towards Bethlehem

  Run River

  This Is a Borzoi Book Published by Alfred A. Knopf

  Copyright © 2011 by Joan Didion

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf,

  a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada

  by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks

  of Random House, Inc.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission

  to reprint previously published material:

  Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc.: Excerpt from “Hotel California,” words and music by Don Henley, Glenn Frey, and Don Felder, copyright © 1976, copyright renewed by Cass County Music (BMI), Red Cloud Music (BMI), and Fingers Music (ASCAP). All print rights for Cass County Music and Red Cloud Music administered by Warner-Tamerlane Publishing Corp. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Alfred Music Publishing Co., Inc., on behalf of Don Henley and Glenn Frey, and Don Feldcr.

  Random House, Inc., and Curtis Brown, Ltd.: “Funeral Blues,” copyright © 1940, copyright renewed 1968 by W. H. Auden; excerpt from “Many Happy Returns,” copyright © 1945, copyright renewed 1973 by W. H. Auden, from Collected Poems of W. H. Auden by W. H. Auden (currently published by Modern Library, a division of Random House, Inc.). Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc. on behalf of print rights and Curtis Brown, Ltd. on behalf of audio and electronic rights.

  Russell & Volkening, Inc.: Excerpt from “what i thought i’d never lose & did/what i discovered when i didn’t know i cd” by Ntozake Shange, copyright © 1993 by Ntozake Shange, from In the Fullness of Time: 32 Women on Life after 50 (New York: Atria/Simon & Schuster, 2010). Reprinted by permission of Russell & Volkening as agents for the author.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Didion, Joan.

  Blue nights / by Joan Didion. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “This is a Borzoi book.”

  eISBN: 978-0-307-70051-3

  1. Didion, Joan. 2. Novelists, American—20th century—Biography. I. Title.

  PS3554.I33Z46 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  [B] 2011013582

  Jacket design by Carol Devine Carson

  v3.1

  This book is for Quintana

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  A Note About the Author

  1

  In certain latitudes there comes a span of time approaching and following the summer solstice, some weeks in all, when the twilights turn long and blue. This period of the blue nights does not occur in subtropical California, where I lived for much of the time I will be talking about here and where the end of daylight is fast and lost in the blaze of the dropping sun, but it does occur in New York, where I now live. You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming—in fact not at all a warming—yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the color blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone. This book is called “Blue Nights” because at the time I began it I found my mind turning increasingly to illness, to the end of promise, the dwindling of the days, the inevitability of the fading, the dying of the brightness. Blue nights are the opposite of the dying of the brightness, but they are also its warning.

  2

  July 26 2010.

  Today would be her wedding anniversary.

  Seven years ago today we took the leis from the florist’s boxes and shook the water in which they were packed onto the grass outside the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on Amsterdam Avenue. The white peacock spread his fan. The organ sounded. She wove white stephanotis into the thick braid that hung down her back. She dropped a tulle veil over her head and the stephanotis loosened and fell. The plumeria blossom tattooed just below her shoulder showed through the tulle. “Let’s do it,” she whispered. The little girls in leis and pale dresses skipped down the aisle and walked behind her up to the high altar. After all the words had been said the little girls followed her out the front doors of the cathedral and around past the peacocks (the two iridescent blue-and-green peacocks, the one white peacock) to the Cathedral house. There were cucumber and watercress sandwiches, a peach-colored cake from Payard, pink champagne.

  Her choices, all.

  Sentimental choices, things she remembered.

  I remembered them too.

  When she said she wanted cucumber and watercress sandwiches at her wedding I remembered her laying out plates of cucumber and watercress sandwiches on the tables we had set up around the pool for her sixteenth-birthday lunch. When she said she wanted leis in place of bouquets at her wedding I remembered her at three or four or five getting off a plane at Bradley Field in Hartford wearing the leis she had been given when she left Honolulu the night before. The temperature in Connecticut that morning was six degrees below zero and she had no coat (she had been wearing no coat when we left Los Angeles for Honolulu, we had not expected to go on to Hartford) but she had seen no problem. Children with leis don’t wear coats, she advised me.

  Sentimental choices.

  On the day of that wedding she got all her sentimental choices except one: she had wanted the little girls to go barefoot in the cathedral (memory of Malibu, she was always barefoot in Mali
bu, she always had splinters from the redwood deck, splinters from the deck and tar from the beach and iodine for the scratches from the nails in the stairs in between) but the little girls had new shoes for the occasion and wanted to wear them.

  MR. AND MRS. JOHN GREGORY DUNNE

  REQUEST THE HONOR OF YOUR PRESENCE

  AT THE MARRIAGE OF THEIR DAUGHTER,

  QUINTANA ROO

  TO

  MR. GERALD BRIAN MICHAEL

  ON SATURDAY THE TWENTY-SIXTH OF JULY

  AT TWO O’CLOCK

  The stephanotis.

  Was that another sentimental choice?

  Did she remember the stephanotis?

  Is that why she wanted it, is that why she wove it into her braid?

  At the house in Brentwood Park in which we lived from 1978 until 1988, a house so determinedly conventional (two stories, center-hall plan, shuttered windows, and a sitting room off every bedroom) as to seem in situ idiosyncratic (“their suburbia house in Brentwood” was how she referred to the house when we bought it, a twelve-year-old establishing that it was not her decision, not her taste, a child claiming the distance all children imagine themselves to need), there was stephanotis growing outside the terrace doors. I would brush the waxy flowers when I went out to the garden. Outside the same doors there were beds of lavender and also mint, a tangle of mint, made lush by a dripping faucet. We moved into that house the summer she was about to start the seventh grade at what was then still the Westlake School for Girls in Holmby Hills. This was like yesterday. We moved out of that house the year she was about to graduate from Barnard. This too was like yesterday. The stephanotis and mint were dead by then, killed when the man who was buying the house insisted that we rid it of termites by tenting it and pumping in Vikane and chloropicrin. At the time this buyer bid on the house he sent us word via the brokers, apparently by way of closing the deal, that he wanted the house because he could picture his daughter marrying in the garden. This was a few weeks before he required us to pump in the Vikane that killed the stephanotis, killed the mint, and also killed the pink magnolia into which the twelve-year-old who took so assiduously removed a view of our suburbia house in Brentwood had until then been able to look from her second-floor sitting-room windows. The termites, I was quite sure, would come back. The pink magnolia, I was also quite sure, would not.

  We closed the deal and moved to New York.

  Where in fact I had lived before, from the time I was twenty-one and just out of the English Department at Berkeley and starting work at Vogue (a segue so profoundly unnatural that when I was asked by the Condé Nast personnel department to name the languages in which I was fluent I could think only of Middle English) until I was twenty-nine and just married.

  Where I have lived again since 1988.

  Why then do I say I lived much of this time in California?

  Why then did I feel so sharp a sense of betrayal when I exchanged my California driver’s license for one issued by New York? Wasn’t that actually a straightforward enough transaction? Your birthday comes around, your license needs renewing, what difference does it make where you renew it? What difference does it make that you have had this single number on your license since it was assigned to you at age fifteen-and-a-half by the state of California? Wasn’t there always an error on that driver’s license anyway? An error you knew about? Didn’t that license say you were five-foot-two? When you knew perfectly well you were at best—(max height, top height ever, height before you lost a half inch to age)—when you knew perfectly well you were at best five-foot-one-and-three-quarters?

  Why did I make so much of the driver’s license?

  What was that about?

  Did giving up the California license say that I would never again be fifteen-and-a-half?

  Would I want to be?

  Or was the business with the license just one more case of “the apparent inadequacy of the precipitating event”?

  I put “the apparent inadequacy of the precipitating event” in quotes because it is not my phrase.

  Karl Menninger used it, in Man Against Himself, by way of describing the tendency to overreact to what might seem ordinary, even predictable, circumstances: a propensity, Dr. Menninger tells us, common among suicides. He cites the young woman who becomes depressed and kills herself after cutting her hair. He mentions the man who kills himself because he has been advised to stop playing golf, the child who commits suicide because his canary died, the woman who kills herself after missing two trains.

  Notice: not one train, two trains.

  Think that over.

  Consider what special circumstances are required before this woman throws it all in.

  “In these instances,” Dr. Menninger tells us, “the hair, the golf, and the canary had an exaggerated value, so that when they were lost or when there was even a threat that they might be lost, the recoil of severed emotional bonds was fatal.”

  Yes, clearly, no argument.

  “The hair, the golf, and the canary” had each been assigned an exaggerated value (as presumably had the second of those two missed trains), but why? Dr. Menninger himself asks this question, although only rhetorically: “But why should such extravagantly exaggerated over-estimations and incorrect evaluations exist?” Did he imagine that he had answered the question simply by raising it? Did he think that all he had to do was formulate the question and then retreat into a cloud of theoretical psychoanalytic references? Could I seriously have construed changing my driver’s license from California to New York as an experience involving “severed emotional bonds”?

  Did I seriously see it as loss?

  Did I truly see it as separation?

  And before we leave this subject of “severed emotional bonds”:

  The last time I saw the house in Brentwood Park before its title changed hands we stood outside watching the three-level Allied van pull away and turn onto Marlboro Street, everything we then owned, including a Volvo station wagon, already inside and on its way to New York. After the van moved out of sight we walked through the empty house and out across the terrace, a good-bye moment rendered less tender by the lingering reek of Vikane in the house and the stiff dead leaves where the pink magnolia and stephanotis had been. I smelled Vikane even in New York, every time I unpacked a carton. The next time I was in Los Angeles and drove past the house it was gone, a teardown, to be replaced a year or two later by a house marginally bigger (a new room over the garage, an additional foot or two in a kitchen already large enough to accommodate a square Chickering grand piano that remained mostly unnoticed) but lacking (for me) the resolute conventionality of the original. Some years later in a Washington bookstore I met the daughter, the one the buyer had said he could picture marrying in the garden. She was at school somewhere in Washington (Georgetown? George Washington?), I was there to give a reading at Politics and Prose. She introduced herself. I grew up in your house, she said. Not exactly, I refrained from saying.

  John always said we moved “back” to New York.

  I never did.

  Brentwood Park was then, New York was now.

  Brentwood Park before the Vikane had been a time, a period, a decade, during which everything had seemed to connect.

  Our suburbia house in Brentwood.

  It was exactly that. She called it.

  There had been cars, a swimming pool, a garden.

  There had been agapanthus, lilies of the Nile, intensely blue starbursts that floated on long stalks. There had been gaura, clouds of tiny white blossoms that became visible at eye level only as the daylight faded.

  There had been English chintzes, chinoiserie toile.

  There had been a Bouvier des Flandres motionless on the stair landing, one eye open, on guard.

  Time passes.

  Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory conforms to what we think we remember.

  Even memory of the stephanotis in her braid, even memory of the plumeria tattoo showing through the tulle.

  It is horr
ible to see oneself die without children. Napoléon Bonaparte said that.

  What greater grief can there be for mortals than to see their children dead. Euripedes said that.

  When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children.

  I said that.

  I think now of that July day at St. John the Divine in 2003 and am struck by how young John and I appeared to be, how well. In actual fact neither of us was in the least well: John had that spring and summer undergone a series of cardiac procedures, most recently the implantation of a pacemaker, the efficacy of which remained in question; I had three weeks before the wedding collapsed on the street and spent the several nights following in a Columbia Presbyterian ICU being transfused for an unexplained gastrointestinal bleed. “You’re just going to swallow a little camera,” they said in the ICU when they were trying to demonstrate to themselves what was causing the bleed. I recall resisting: since I had never in my life been able to swallow an aspirin it seemed unlikely that I could swallow a camera.

  “Of course you can, it’s only a little camera.”

  A pause. The attempt at briskness declined into wheedling:

  “It’s really a very little camera.”

  In the end I did swallow the very little camera, and the very little camera transmitted the desired images, which did not demonstrate what was causing the bleed but did demonstrate that with sufficient sedation anyone could swallow a very little camera. Similarly, in another less than entirely efficient use of high-tech medicine, John could hold a telephone to his heart, dial a number, and get a reading on the pacemaker, which proved, I was told, that at the given instant he dialed the number (although not necessarily before or after) the device was operating.

  Medicine, I have had reason since to notice more than once, remains an imperfect art.

  Yet all had seemed well when we were shaking the water off the leis onto the grass outside St. John the Divine on July 26 2003. Could you have seen, had you been walking on Amsterdam Avenue and caught sight of the bridal party that day, how utterly unprepared the mother of the bride was to accept what would happen before the year 2003 had even ended? The father of the bride dead at his own dinner table? The bride herself in an induced coma, breathing only on a respirator, not expected by the doctors in the intensive care unit to live the night? The first in a cascade of medical crises that would end twenty months later with her death?