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    A Stone for Plot Four: Or Mendez, a Quest
    A Stone for Plot Four: Or Mendez, a Quest
    A Stone for Plot Four: Or Mendez, a Quest
    Ebook129 pages1 hour

    A Stone for Plot Four: Or Mendez, a Quest

    By John Igo

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    About this ebook

    Over sixty years ago, poet, playwright, and critic John Igo stumbled upon a curious reference to a vanished local literary legend. A brilliant former student at a San Antonio community college, forgotten by none who met him, had gone on to the famed Black Mountain College in the 1930s, and achieved his dream of becoming a staff writer for The New Yorker. And then he vanished. Coincidence and curiosity morphed into an obsession for Igo: Who was Mendez Marks? Why did he die so young, at the height of his swift carreer? A strange history of family secrets, including madness and suicide, emerged along the way. Igo calls his memoir of his sixty-year pursuit of Marks a verbal example of a contained-space sculpture.” It is a biography wrapped in a memoir wrapped in a psychological case study of a brilliant, original soul.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWings Press
    Release dateOct 1, 2015
    ISBN9781609402822
    A Stone for Plot Four: Or Mendez, a Quest

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      Book preview

      A Stone for Plot Four - John Igo

      A Chance Obsession

      or

      Legends of Mendez

      Life-changing events can have an almost imperceptible beginning. A Virginia Woolf novel was the trigger. But who could have guessed?

      I opened the door to Office 20 in San Antonio College’s Main Building. It was early fall, 1953. We had a routine. Miss Mamie McLean didn’t look up or say anything until after I had put down whatever I was carrying. Her desk was at a right angle to mine, her back to me.

      She turned in her swivel chair (the rest of the English faculty had straight-backs) and asked, What are you carrying today? That was hello.

      "A novel by Virginia Woolf, Between the Acts. It is a beauty. I like it best."

      That’s what Mendez said about it to me in my office.

      Who is Mendez? I assumed that Miss McLean was using his surname. Wrong, as I would learn.

      An extremely bright young man I taught over ten years ago. Enthusiastic, endlessly curious—impressive, but with an irrepressible gift of humor. She turned back to do more desk work. I filed it mentally under F—Forget It.

      Later (weeks? days?) again we did our routine.

      What is it this time?

      A Gertrude Stein.

      Which?

      "Portraits and Prayers. Her portrait is on the cover—See?"

      Oh, no! She was not kidding. I waited. Again! That’s the one Mendez tried to get me to read. He was so taken with it he was almost dancing. Except for the dancing, he was very much like you. It’s almost uncanny.

      What was his first name?

      Mendez, an old family name. They do that. His last name was Marks. (was?) She didn’t spell it. For years, I took notes (I still don’t know why I did. I took notes on half typing paper and kept them in a Whitman’s Sampler box.) I didn’t know whether it was KS or X.

      I heard ‘was.’ What became of him? Where is he?

      She looked at me, weighing a decision. When she answered, I couldn’t tell whether I had won or lost. Truth or put-off?

      It’s a complicated story. I’ll tell you some afternoon when things get quiet. As Chair she had endless small tasks. Meantime, if you are actually interested, you can ask some of his former teachers still on the faculty.

      I was interested but not as a project. Curiosity. I went to the SAC library to consult old issues of the yearbook, El Alamo. There is no explaining what I did. I investigated the faculty back then and made a list. It did not occur to me to find Mendez. I still don’t know why I didn’t. I checked my list with Glynda Brown, the Registrar. She suggested that I talk with two: George Chasey and Charles Herndon, in addition to Miss McLean.

      Since Miss McLean had suggested that I ask older faculty members, I had an opening to ask Mr. Chasey, the Architectural Drawing professor.

      Mendez? I sure do remember him. That instant recall upon hearing the name became a familiar pattern.

      He had a gift for line. An eye for it. I’d set a problem, using the French Curve, and he’d do it freehand. Right then, sometimes with graph paper without the French Curve. When I checked his work, it was always precisely right. He’d never make an architect, though. Too much drudgery. I never knew what became of him. I’d guess that he is a satirical cartoonist. Always full of ideas. Ask Mamie McLean—she can tell you lots of off-the-cuff stories. Why are you doing this?

      I don’t know exactly, interested for some reason, like an itch. I dreamed that one day I’d turn the material into a New Yorker profile.

      In the Entre Nous Room (the faculty dining room) one day I found Charles Herndon alone at a table. I pounced.

      Herndon said, Sure I knew him. I knew him while we were students here at SAC. I was the tallest in the class and he was the shortest male. Still growing. A kid forever. He was a genius if I ever met one. Spontaneous, intuitive, full of mischief with a devil in his eyes. Funny. He ran on enthusiasm. Mendez had trouble with authority that couldn’t be challenged. He was always speaking out for or against issues. Not people. Nowadays (1954?) we’d call him a pinko or a liberal. Then he left, to New York I heard. Never came back.

      A little light winked on. We were students at SAC—suddenly there was a category of informant I had not yet thought of.

      One afternoon Miss McLean turned and asked, Did you follow through?

      Yes, ma’am. I sent the note to Joe Wiley. (She insisted that her staff write thank-yous for each book we received as samples.)

      That’s good. A good habit, even if I say so myself. She twinkled. I meant about Mendez.

      "Yes, ma’am. Chasey and Herndon. Glynda [SAC Registrar] suggested them after she went over the faculty register

      Well, she went on in a different tone, they told you details I wouldn’t have. Different perspectives. Mendez apparently knew everything. In one class in history as I recall—the lectures were sometimes almost dialogues. (One of the primary symptoms of the Asperger Syndrome is the ‘Little Professor.’) The students didn’t resent it. Some classmates said they liked class better that way. The teacher enjoyed having a student so knowledgeable in his subject. Polymath. Like that boy genius, Boris something, who took his Ph.D. by testing out—at Harvard?—at age twelve. But one day he stopped cold and became a streetcar conductor.

      Also in English? Mendez.

      I had him for composition and term paper. Janie F. Baskin had him for a literature course—he read and remembered everything; he could use it. Then I had him again for second semester literature. He was unstoppable. A hunger. Read everything and ancillary materials. Term paper on the Lake District, a history with a hand-drawn map. It was excellent. Other teachers reported the same response in their classroom. Not the top grade but by far the best student. Unique. She paused, considering. Then she added, Thus far. She turned back to her work. A little later, back still to me, she added, How are you going to remember this—that is, if you want to?

      I take notes on half typing sheets, thesis style. As closely as I remember.

      When? Where? She was still turned away.

      Here, in the car, at the cafe table, sitting up in bed, in the library.

      She turned. Why?

      "Instinctive, I suppose. It may turn into an article for The Ranger (the college newspaper)." I still didn’t know.

      She turned away with a sound Dickens would call a harrumph.

      I took a chance on continuing. After he left? Do you know where he went? Where he is? What he is doing?

      Yes to all of those. Just not today. There’s no rush, is there?

      No, but I want to know now—many things.

      She turned her judicial gaze on me after she turned.

      You would. He would. I’m warning you; it will turn sad if you keep at it. I’ll tell you what you ask. (I did not, then, sense the reservation.) I’ve been friends with his father for years. I see him fairly often. But don’t go find him. He’s touchy about the subject. Ask me; if I don’t know, I’ll ask him and then I’ll tell you.

      There it was: a primary source I could not get to, but also a reliable system for getting any information I wanted. But what if I didn’t know enough to ask certain questions? I had to trust her. The impact of her reservation hit me. Would she volunteer items? Would she edit/censor materials to protect him? Why? Would I have to find the materials elsewhere, by chance? Or miss it altogether?

      Another time didn’t happen soon. But now, decades later, I think she may have wanted to share the burden. She’d

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