This Sunday, what with the camera, Dagger didn’t play first. He could use a higher f-number than he’d expected, and hence increase his depth of field, because light under these pleasant English overcasts can turn out to be broader or more solid than you think putting it up against the high blue heavens of New York. But the overcast broke and the clouds that made the sky all the bluer would come and go across the spring sun so suddenly you might have felt that an umbrella was being passed back and forth over our part of the park.
I was at short for an inning, came up once and doubled down the right-field line. I stood on the bag and talked to the second baseman about where he lived — he said he was here and there — I found Dagger getting a long shot of me. I had told him to leave me out of the film.
He did some hollering at Cosmo to watch the side-arm delivery and wrist snap, for Cosmo was pitching. When I left the game and joined Dagger in foul territory between first and home, the Beaulieu was on the tripod ready. The camera seemed alive and way ahead of us.
Jenny stood over the guerrilla-theater boy from Connecticut who’d been playing second when I got my hit. He was waiting on one knee to bat. He stood up, she giggled. He started to turn away, she slapped him on the upper arm. He danced away from her and she ran him up the imaginary third-base line, and Dagger tracked them for four or five seconds. When Jenny tried a few moments later to get into the game in the outfield, Cosmo puffed and frowned and said, Wait three innings.
But then Jenny disappeared.
But my son Will stayed and even got into the film. For when Cosmo unloaded his fastball, a black man from the Bronx who sometimes played if he was down from Oxford for the weekend lifted a foul straight back over the head of Cosmo’s catcher.
This, as anyone would know who recognized the saber scar on the cheek or for that matter the red tan and blue flag on the bulging right arm with forty-eight infinitesimal pricks, or for that matter the depigmentation on the back of his horny right hand, was Savvy Van Ghent, Xavier Van Ghent, the UPI correspondent — and he didn’t push off his mask but turned and plunged after the ball all the way to a pedestrian path and a bench where an elderly couple, kerchief and cap, sat smoking. Dagger panned behind home, then halted, didn’t follow Savvy or the ball. I realigned my eyes to approximate the lens direction. It was a long shot of two men with black hair and white shirts and a woman with apricot hair and a green blouse sitting on the grass ignoring the game — nice touch, Dag — and since my son Will was kneeling near us, Dagger must have caught the crest of his chestnut hair the same shade as Lorna’s when Will turned toward me to point out that in cricket this shot behind the wicket keeper couldn’t have been foul and might have gone for four, and through some narrowing accent forced by the camera I heard my boy’s clear London English instead of — what? — the whole known person I live with who echoing down the stairwell or lecturing us at the kitchen table may seem no more English than American.
We were in color, so my sense of what we shot that opening Sunday is all the closer to what might have emerged from the emulsion had the reel ever been developed. The camera is like a pure glove reaching untouching to the thing it takes. Hyde Park London would not have been anybody’s identifiable turf unless, say, you picked out a policeman’s (or, as American visitors say, a bobbie’s) black helm above a blond beard, or letters on a distant vendor’s white pushcart spelling ice lollies or cornet (which is English for cone). Dagger never once aimed at three small boys playing cricket, bowler batsman wicket-keeper, and if he did once flick over two veering white triangles you’d have to know Hyde Park well to know they were toy yachts sailing the Serpentine, and I suspect his depth of field wasn’t great enough to pick them up clearly.
Even with inflation the life most of us had here was good. You didn’t need our umpire’s great blocks of Telephone stock, Corning Glass, or Standard of New Jersey. You didn’t have to send your children to expensive schools and commute twice a week to your American firm’s new offices in Geneva. You didn’t have to play poker Friday nights with some smart Fleet Street bachelors, or drink at the French pub in Soho with a relative of Freud’s, and you didn’t have to be a poet from Kentucky living off a BBC actress. You didn’t have to do what I did, or what Dagger did, or like the right-fielder on the side opposing Cosmo’s, sit under the British Museum Reading Room’s cloudy skylight (or in the warmer North Library when the age or rarity of the book required, though as Savvy Van Ghent’s researches claimed, the quality of the girls was not so high) week after week studying the elusive artist-engineer Catherwood till you almost thought you were Catherwood.
No, you might enjoy decent obscurity in your neighborhood watching the postal service decline, your English friend Millan’s work get bigger, BBC TV show movies without the interruption of commercials, the London air get cleaner but hold in its smell the same stony tonic that came into the house the first year when Lorna’s char at five bob an hour threw open all the windows in any weather. You take the wife to the theater and in the lobby at intermission hear an American explain that this is Shakespeare’s only real-time play in which fictive time almost equals our time, Prospero’s alchemical time almost equals the time we spend watching. You come to know Millan’s friends, and their friends; but after a bad period in the fifties Lorna has made some friends of her own and you begin to move around, begin to make these carefully aimed returns to the States; you get a second London like some second wind, and instead of going home to America on the evening brink of J. F. Dulles’s death and its advance lamentations, you stay: you get off the red double-decker two steps early and cut through a park always unexpectedly large and secret and sloping: you answer your parents’ letters, for this is long before your mother on one of her visits brings a cassette recorder so you and Lorna and especially Jenny and Billy (with their accents that have a Cockney force their grandparents can’t hear) can send cassettes instead of ah letters — Billy at the word-game stage. You read the American news in the Guardian. One night years later you and your closest American friend cook up a film sort of: you’ve begun to think about London and England again, but you are comfortable, you live here in one way or another; but the altercation that now stops the Sunday softball game and draws the players in around the pitching rubber seems outlandishly to come from your own fear here in the third inning that there is something wrong about the film you and Dagger DiGorro are beginning; Dagger’s camera is singing its gnatlike note at the Connecticut actor who’s now standing on second and pounding his glove; Jenny’s nowhere in sight, and the actor, as Cosmo raises his voice to the batter who has approached him from home plate and whose name eludes me as I watch the actor, moves idly around the disputants and keeps going and crosses the imaginary third-base line and without telling anyone walks away from the weekly American softball game. Dagger has unscrewed the camera base from the tripod, and now like my own head wandering from what we were there for that Sunday into the issue of whether or not the motorbike that brought Jenny home at 3 A.M. was the Connecticut guerrilla-theater actor, who indeed rides a motorbike, Dagger seems to let the man crossing behind the group at the pitching rubber draw his focus off over the third-base line into foul territory, which for the Connecticut actor is no longer even that, for he’s stepped out of the game. When I murmur in Dagger’s ear, Hey I wonder where that guy thinks he’s going, Dagger takes his finger off the thumb button at the top of the pistol grip, hands me the Beaulieu, and heads for the pitching rubber where Cosmo is loudly claiming the batter was crowding the plate, and as the batter lowers his voice to a new intensity his left hand which has never dropped the bat tightens and through the midst of the group the blond bat with its meat end resting on the English grass seems a sinister and potential pole the mere people there depend on.