But on his mission as secret Shandy ambassador, Valery Larbaud arrived in Vienna and saw in Littbarksi the ideal host for this international party. (The party had to happen away from Paris and Shandyism’s other nerve centers, and furthermore, it mustn’t draw the attention of citizens who weren’t part of the secret portable movement.)
Larbaud saw right away that one of Littbarski’s make-believe parties could conceal an actual party, full of conspirators from around the world. Their presence in Vienna would go perfectly unnoticed if they knew to disappear in the dawn mist, at the right moment.
Convinced that this energy of Littbarski’s — so unproductive, so crazy and portable — could easily be channeled in the direction of the luxurious and useless Shandy planet, Larbaud sent him a letter. Though mostly incoherent, the letter did include a secret “key” that would give birth to new friendships and connect the members of a small, clandestine society that imperceptibly, implacably, was expanding.
“I understand, my friend,” Littbarski wrote back. “I understand. And please be aware that your key is of interest to me. You are opening the door to one of those pavilions that, since I was a child, has undergone fewer changes than other kinds of quarters. But that isn’t the only reason I still feel attached to them: it’s the solace, too, emanating from the fact that they are uninhabitable for anyone waiting to establish himself permanently somewhere. The truth is that anyone struggling to establish a firm foothold in the world could never inhabit them. The possibility of dwelling in these places is limited. Vienna is born in them, and I was born in Vienna, to see them reborn.
PS: Indeed, I am single, and, yes, my servant is black.”
It seemed to Larbaud that Littbarski had played with two meanings of the word lodge. The houses in Vienna also had glass-domed pavilions outside that were used for household clutter. He also had meant to indicate that he understood perfectly that the offer of a “key” would bring him into contact with portable literature, that is, with a non-existent literature, seeing as none of the Shandies knew what it consisted of (though paradoxically this was what made it possible). It was a literature to whose rhythm the members of the secret society danced, conspiring for the sake of — and on the basis of — nothing.
According to what I know about the preparations for the party in Vienna — and the fact is, I know very little, the only place I’ve found reference to them is in Miriam Cendrars’s Inédits secrets—one of these typically Viennese lodges provided the setting for Littbarski and Larbaud’s first encounter: one in which Littbarski decided, for the first time in years, to tell anyone about an odd novel he was writing entitled A Bachelor Opens Fire (a bibliographical rarity nowadays). This was a text he’d been working on since time immemorial, ever since he’d had the use of reason, to be precise. What made the novel so odd wasn’t how long he’d invested in it but rather the fact that he himself thought he’d only written one decent page in all that time: a miserable wine-soaked little sheet of paper that he showed to Larbaud. Girding himself with patience, Larbaud read it:
“Feeling bored, little Hermann stood looking out the window of the concierge’s office managed by his parents. A child he’d never seen before came and stood in front of him, and in a gesture Hermann found brazen and defiant, the child joyfully emptied a whole bottle of French champagne onto the sidewalk. Hermann would never forgive the boy.”
When, out of sheer courtesy, Larbaud inquired about the novel’s plot, Littbarski gave the following answer: “It’s the story of Hermann, a man who gratuitously wastes his life despising a person, and that person’s crime, if he’d ever committed one, was to pour away a bottle of champagne as a child. Hermann gives himself body and soul to embittering his enemy’s life, even avoiding marriage so as not to waste a single minute on trivialities, anything other than the relentless persecution of that French-champagne squanderer. From time to time, Hermann snipes at the other’s life, that is to say, he makes certain opportune incursions (he steals his enemy’s wife, lodges complaints against his business, chops his mother up into small pieces, kills his dog, sets fire to his house, etc.), brief but sharp shots fired by the bachelor from vantages where the despised man can’t spot him. The poor despised man goes through his life in the novel confused and frightened because even the weight of the years can’t slow the hate directed at him by a stranger of whom the only thing he knows is that, operating invisibly and out of reach, he dedicates himself with peculiar obstinacy (and considerable success) to embittering his life.”
When he finished, Larbaud asked him what Karl Kraus had done when they were children to provoke such hatred. The question didn’t surprise Littbarski, who answered: “He poured champagne over my powers of reason. Fair grounds, wouldn’t you say?” Larbaud, choosing to believe that what he’d just heard was a metaphor, moved on to what he was actually interested in, proposing they organize a party that would bring together in Vienna the secret society’s most incisive members. “They’re coming from far and wide,” said Larbaud, “and the only real requisite is that they pass unnoticed by the citizens of Vienna.” That said, he asked if they might swap suitcases; an enigmatic petition, to which Littbarski said yes. Even Miriam Cendrars found it difficult to explain: “Whenever he spoke to me about the preparations for the party, Larbaud would go quiet at this point. It made him uncomfortable and anxious to speak about this swapping of the suitcases. He never wanted to explain it to me. Perhaps — if anyone decides to research deeply into the secret society’s unknown history and to write a book about it — I may come to understand the mystery of the swapping of the suitcases. I’m confident it will happen, and I’ll see the day. Until then, without any further information, I’ll stick to my suspicion that Larbaud’s silence can be explained by the fact there was something very important in the suitcases.”
I’m sorry for Miriam Cendrars, but I’ve found it impossible to ascertain the truth about the Vienna suitcase swap. Still, I’d like to remind Ms. Cendrars that the Shandies, never thinking themselves important, didn’t carry things of importance in their light luggage, only miniature works, every single one of which (without exception), reflected their utter disdain for what’s considered important. I wouldn’t want anyone to think my words here are a diversionary tactic to cover up the fact that I’ve failed in my research. It’s just that I believe the suitcase matter is neither an enigma, nor particularly important; in fact, I don’t even think this history of the portable literature is.
As I was saying, after the suitcase swap, Littbarski was enthusiastic at the prospect of the party, explaining that a number of things about his apartment allowed for evacuation within minutes if circumstances required. A back door was camouflaged by centuries of ivy growth and totally unknown to his neighbors. What could be better? Larbaud must have thought. Right then and there, they agreed on a date for the party, on March 27th, 1925. “An explosion of stellar conversations and the cherries of vagabond greetings,” one of their helpers, Vicente Huidobro, said. In his diary, we find the following sketch:
“Under a full moon in Vienna one night, when everything is as everything is beheld. An astrological and ephemeral house, falling from universe to universe. All the portable mob’s bigwigs were there. Explosion of disguises, artifices and Viennese gondolas. An absolute explosion of stellar conversations and the cherries of vagabond greetings. Drinks and distant diamonds. The planets were coming to fruition in the firmament, and our eyes beheld the essence of birds, the water lilies’ beyond, the hereafter of butterflies. The vessel of our secrets navigated the stealthy, starry nocturne. And Paris was this kaleidoscope: Duchamp, Scott Fitzgerald, Dalí, Man Ray, Larbaud, and Céline. Oh! and George Antheil. Peru was pure swordplay: César Vallejo. The waiter: black Virgil. Snow of yore swirled over the New York lodge: marvelous Georgia O’Keeffe, Pola Negri, Skip Canell, and Stephan Zenith. Spain, or Juan Gris, and Rita Malú, recently hitched in Havana. Prince Mdivani in the mist and Gustav Meyrink in the Bohemian cut crystal. Savinio’s veils in the Eternal City, and Tristan Tzara with poisoned bear honey in Zurich. Berta Bocado or her silk needle. Walter Benjamin and/or the internal vertigo of Gombrowicz, and the rainbow of the piano-playing backsides of the irate neighbors. Huidobro wasn’t there.”