Some twenty years ago Truman Capote and I spent part of the summer in Venice. Although acquaintances rather than friends, we ended up seeing each other every day, thanks to my traveling companion, Virginia Chambers. Virginia was an elderly American widow who had lived in Paris since the Twenties—hard-drinking, card-playing, and worldly, nonetheless passionate, intuitive, and bright. He was also captivated by her gutsy wit in the face of almost total blindness—an affliction which she handled as deftly as if it were a game of miniature golf.
On her side, Virginia was thrilled to have Truman around. Listening to Answered Prayers in embryo made a welcome change from Library of Congress records for the blind. So apparently were all the other gens chic of his vast acquaintance.
Or were they, I wondered, in hiding? Instead of keeping this humble love object dark, Truman insisted on showing him off to one after another of his smart friends. This caused problems.
It was now our turn to cope. No problem really, except for constant moans about the lack of air conditioning, comics, TV, above all baked potatoes. Jimmy grew sulkier and sulkier. Finally I volunteered to scour the market for the nearest thing to an Idaho potato, and give the chef very explicit instructions. Such was our anticipation that Truman for once stopped talking about himself in the same breath as Balzac, Proust, and Clark Gable; even Jimmy perked up.
But we were out of luck. Once again the hateful cubes arrived. Fortunately I had found some comics in which Jimmy could bury his sad thin face. There and then he seemed to lose what little heart he had for Italy and for Truman.
