MARTIN

Haze wasn’t the only one. By the late 1980s, there were others, so many others. Early on the obituaries claimed they died of pneumonia, pleurisy, shigella, exotic infections, unheard-of tropical diseases. It was a while before they could speak the name.

Some, like Haze, had been sick on and off for a long time. Others it hit like a brick to the back of the head, killing them quickly. Haze lingered. There was a persistent cough, and a mark on his hip, then what looked like a purple bruise on his chin. Still he traveled and danced. In Copenhagen he stumbled across the stage. The critics were harsh. They said it was time for him to hang up his shoes and stick to choreography. Martin stayed in Manhattan. He felt fine.

The dinner parties and openings, the luncheons and afternoons at the opera were replaced by funerals, memorial services and wakes. The phone rang day and night with the news.

A is gone.

B is in a coma at St. Vincent’s.

C put a gun to his head.

It was as though the creative communities in New York, San Francisco, London, Paris, Rome, everywhere were being polished off, and the death of art, music, literature, fashion, and dance was imminent. There were stories of how this one had been so inspiring, how that one had been so brave. Haze was sick, that was for sure, but he was still as much of a bastard as ever.