Last week, a philosophical HG posted his thoughts about defeat and the Denver Broncos Super Bowl debacle. HG quoted the Russian revolutionary Leon Trotsky’s remark about defeated adversaries and “the dustbin of history.” BSK, the love of HG’s life, said: “I am sure you are the only person in the United States who linked Leon Trotsky with Peyton Manning.” Made HG think about some Trotsky connections. HG’s acquaintance and dining companion, Bernard Wolfe, the late novelist and science fiction writer, was Trotsky’s secretary-bodyguard in 1937, some three years before Trotsky was assassinated in Mexico City by Ramon Mercader, a pick axe wielding Stalin agent. Wolfe wrote an interesting novel about Trotsky’s Mexico City exile: The Great Prince Died. In the novel, Victor Rostov (the Trotsky character) expresses regrets about some of his murderous acts following the Bolshevik rise to power. (HG believes the real life Trotsky was devoid of what he would term “bourgeouis sentimentalities.”). During a three month period in 1917, Trotsky lived on Vyse Avenue in the East Bronx, a few blocks away from where HG’s parents lived with their two year old son, Bernard (HG didn’t come along until 1929, an unwelcome surprise for his Mom). HG’s father saw Trotsky dining in a neighborhood restaurant. A waiter told him that Trotsky would not leave a tip. Claimed it would demean the waiter, a member of the proletariat, and turn him into a lackey. Trotsky was not a favorite of the restaurant staff. When HG was a youngster, HG and his father paused to listen to soap box (when was the last time you saw a soap box?) orators in Union Square Park. A fiery Yiddish speaker called Trotsky: “Ah mench mit ah goldeneh kup.” (A man with a golden head). HG’s father, a confirmed David Dubinsky/ILGWU/ labor union socialist, despised Trotsky and all communists. Remembering Trotsky’s murder, he said: “Trotsky was lucky a Bronx waiter didn’t stick a fork in his golden head.”
Spent a delightful hour chatting on the phone with Miranda Wolfe, daughter of the late Bernard Wolfe, an extraordinary writer who wrote just about everything: novels, short stories, journalism, ghosted Broadway columns, television, screen plays and customized pornography which he produced for one reader — an Oklahoma oil zillionaire (Wolfe was in good company in this customized porn business as the eccentric Oklahoman also hired, amongst others, Henry Miller, Anais Nin and Gene Fowler. What they all had in common was a need for quick cash). Sorry. Don’t want to emphasize the pornography. This was just a miniscule portion of Wolfe’s output (and he found it distasteful). Make haste and read BW’s works.. A good start would be Really The Blues which he wrote with jazz musician Mezz Mezzrow. (This book heavily influenced influenced the Beat Generation of writers — Kerouac, Ginsberg, etc.. For a treat, listen to some of the music forgotten Mezzrow made with Sidney Bechet. Check it here!). The Late Risers defined the cool Broadway hipsters of many decades ago. The Great Prince Died is a historical novel based on the Mexican exile of the great Russian revolutionary and anti-Stalinist, Leon Trotsky. Later, the title was changed to Trotsky Dead. At one time, Wolfe was bodyguard/secretary for Trotsky (he wasn’t present when Trotsky was pickaxed to death by a Stalin assassin).
BW also wrote Limbo, a prescient sci-fi novel.
Wolfe had quiet sartorial elegance and a well stocked mind. Unlike many writers, he excelled at both talking and listening. HG enjoyed some memorable dining with Wolfe. Bernie’s favorite restaurant (and HG’s) was Fornos. a happy Spanish place that flourished on West 52nd Street many years ago (here, BW was formally addressed as “Senor Lupo”). The excellent food was preceded by classic Margaritas and ended with Banana Daquiris. Very hard to leave sober. Bernie liked the Oak Room of the Algonquin hotel where he would compose his meals carefully and creatively after some knowledgeable consultation with the waiter and captain. Alas, the composition of a meal is a skill that has virtually disappeared in New York (but, not in Paris).
In the 50s and early 60s Russian and Iranian caviar was cheap (If you listen closely you may hear the sound of teardrops falling on HG’s keyboard). HG recalls a caviar feast HG (and his ex-wife) hosted at their town house apartment in the Gramercy Park neighborhood. Some two pounds of Beluga (from Caviarteria) were devoured with thin, buttered white toast and washed down with abundant, icy Polish Wyborowa Vodka. In addition to Bernie, the other guests were screenwriter/painter/novelist Fred Segal and his then wife, Sandra. The caviar was followed by cognac and Upmann Brevas cigars, Maduro leaf. Not exactly an homage to healthy living. HG and his ex-wife survive. The others, sadly, are gone. Miranda Wolfe is busy working on Bernie’s voluminous and distinguished literary legacy. Hopefully, many gems will be reissued. Pornography has been described (by the French, of course) as books read with one hand. HG will be reading the reissued Wolfe works with one hand. The other will be clutching a glass of ultra chilled Polish vodka.
