Not Even The Ankh Can Save It

It might delight you to know that I'm a freak for ancient Egyptian history -- and I say 'freak' because any anthropologist, archaeologist, or historian will tell you that Egyptology draws the freakiest of all persons, making Egyptologists the butt of all jokes.

My affection for such study began in childhood, followed me through college course selection, and remains with me today. Back in 1973 I was an ankh obsessed girl -- earrings, bracelets, chokers, you name it, I was covered in it -- so it would have thrilled me then to have discovered The Coven, "A sensational novel of Washington intrigue and witchcraft by Watergate conspirator E. Howard Hunt writing as David St. John" (Fawcett Crest, printed October, 1973).

The back of the book, sans mention of ankh, would still have held promise to a young me who fancied romantic notions of secret sects:

WHO WAS
ANDREE LESCAULT?

No one really knew much about the murdered songstress except that she had been extraordinarily beautiful, that her singing cast a strange spell over all who listened, and that even sophisticated Washington had fallen victim to that spell. There was talk that some of her tribal chants were really secret rites. There was also talk that a certain powerful and handsome senator with presidential ambitions had a special interest in her. A very special interest.

Jonathan Gault found that out when they summoned him to find her murderer. He had also heard Andree sing and felt the presence of something macabre and evil...

The victim, Lescaunt, was more than an Afro-French chanteuse; the mystical ankh that she and most of her musical followers wore leads the investigation into a cult, of course.

From page 45:

Out of delicacy or ignorance the jeweler hadn't told Ellen a few other details about the Ankh that I was able to learn at the Georgetown Library. The basic form was an oval atop a tau cross. A magical symbol, at its most elemental level it represented a human being. Antedating Christianity, it was believed a precursor of the crucifix. And its sexual significance was explicit. According to Dioscurian legend the Ankh established both the rising and falling currents of life. The symbol abounded on the tomb of Tutankhamon, even as filigree design in the pharaoh's funerary furniture. And wherever it was displayed it signified inexhaustible, all-prevailing potency.

The Ankh. The ansate or handled cross.

An amulet, periapt, magic charm; a talisman for those it touched. Andree Lescaut had worn it, and her enthusiasts as well. Was it a recognition sign among members of some latter-day Egyptian secret society, devotees of a cult? Dedicated to what? African Music?

Aside from the fact that the author stretched his word-count with the behavior of a thesaurus, what else do we learn...

• That black is beautiful, baby -- so long as it comes hither via France.
• That religious things predating Christianity are not only secretive & sexual, but murderous -- especially if linked to another culture's music.

While my thirteen year old girl's loins flush with heat at such simple sentences as "And its sexual significance was explicit", even then I was disappointed that such a ripe sentence not only bore no fruit but, lacking any attempt at back-up, had apparently sprung from nothing more than the author's mind; just another diversionary perversion.

The rest of the novel with Gault as its aggressive and sexually swaggering male lead reads like classic pulp detective fiction, albeit there are a few timely updates such as the reference to Gault's equally aggressive and sexually swaggering female gal pal, Gina. Case in point, this example from page 47:

[Gina] leaned back against the sofa and stretched, catlike. "I can think of things even more interesting--but there I go, seducing you again."

"Women's Lib influence. Equal rights for females."

Yeah, having the ERA referenced by some white male Nixon punk as a means to some sexually aggressive tail is exactly what I enjoy. Not.

In fact, there's really nothing to please me in this book -- not even the romantic ankh loving girl of my youth would have been satisfied with the shoddy writing, stock characters, fade-to-black sex scenes, the poor diversionary perversion of the Ankh, the thinly veiled stabs at Kennedy & youth culture, or anything else in this book. It could have been a sinfully good bit of escapism, as many pulps are, but it missed the mark.

(Curt Purcell at The Groovy Age Of Horror has another review of the book, in case you should want to hear more.)

When discussing Hunt's books, (too) many folks focus on his Washington & CIA experiences, saying, as Tim Weiner at the NY Times did upon Hunt's death, that, "His works followed a formula of sex and intrigue but offered flashes of insight." Poo. That's people wishing to legitimize poor books based on the employ of the author -- when they can't boost the written work any other way.

So why give it so much space here at SPS?

Well, what is rather interesting about The Coven is its author, E. Howard Hunt.

Yeah, yeah, everybody knows that the guy was a criminal. But wanna know what else is creepy? His son's own description of him.

When Hunt died in January of 2007, his son, David Hunt, celebrated the "good to know not everyone thought of my father as evil" sentiments by posting comments to this post about his father's books. When one comment-leaver said, "I have a copy of Stranger in Town, 1st ed., 1947, signed “Howard Hunt”, and inscribed “For Mary with love Howie” - Any idea who Mary is?", David replied:

I would imagine Mary was probably a romantic interest. Only his closest friends called him Howie. My father was quite a playboy back in the day. Being a writer, musician and secret agent he had his pick. He was a smooth operator for sure. We did have a nanny named Mary Trainer for many years in Japan and Spain but I doubt he would use “Howie” when signing something for someone in his employ

Here poor naive David waxes nostalgic on his pa's hero status as a sexual predator, yet manages to turn a blind eye to the possibility of the smooth operator's ability to bonk the nanny.

I don't know the nanny in question or even anything about her, but it seems to me that a playboyesque spy with a penchant for extramarital activities would certainly have the potential to at least be on friendly enough terms with the female help to sign a copy of his book with his nickname.

Reading and rereading David's comment, it sure sounds like married daddy was having affairs... Well, that was his due as a man with "his pick" of women, right?

Or maybe the son just likes to imagine his father as something better than he was, more like the leads in the novels... Triumphing in sexual conquest is the male ideal -- as long as it's not with the nanny.

Do I believe E. Howard Hunt was a playboy & a smooth operator?

I'd say he'd have to be better at that than he was as an author.