5.

SINCE THE DISASTROUS EPISODE with Peach and company, I now routinely turned down readings by authors who did not fit our mandate.

The author in question had caught me in an unguarded moment one Tuesday afternoon in mid-April. I was still flying high from having arranged a September reading with Nicole Brossard, and I couldn’t wait to tell Wanda, who owns copies of all of Brossard’s books that have been translated into English.

“Dietrich de Witt spelled W-i-t-t, pronounced Vitt,” was in the midst of planning a book tour for his wife and himself. “I am often referred to as the Bard of Cudworth,” he’d said. “Although you may not have heard of me, you’ve surely heard of my wife, Vivien Jones de Witt. We come as a two-for-one special,” he’d added with a laugh.

I had absolutely not heard of either of them and should have said so then and there. But it was late in the day, I was tired, and the thrill of the Brossard reading had lowered my usual defences.

“Your fair city is on our tour schedule, and we have chosen your magnificent establishment as our preferred venue,” Dietrich said.

In other words, every other place in town had been sensible enough to turn them down.

“You know my bookstore then? You’ve been in it?”

“Not exactly, but we have friends who assure us that yours is by far the most suitable venue for us.”

A simple No was the only appropriate response. Offering up excuses would only invite counter-arguments and extended conversations that needed to be nipped in the bud.

But I decided to take him on. “You do know that this is a feminist bookstore,” I said.

A pause.

“No problem,” he said.

“A radical lesbian bookstore,” I exaggerated.

A longer pause.

Still no problem. He and his wife were very open-minded people.

“Yes, well, given our focus, I doubt that we’d be able to draw in much of an audience for you,” I said.

“Not to worry,” he said. “As I’ve already explained, we’ll be in town anyway, and we have very dear friends who will get the word out. And you may not be aware, but there are many former Saskatchewanians who now call your beautiful city home. And then, of course, it being July on the Prairies, people will welcome a diversion from the heat.”

I was in luck. They wanted to come in July.

“Oh, what a shame,” I said. “We don’t hold readings in the summer months.”

“Not a problem,” said Dietrich. “Our schedule is flexible and can easily be adjusted. We can come in September, or October, even next week if you like—whatever suits you best.”

Determined to put him in his place, I had stupidly backed myself into a corner. It was like being a teenage girl again, when the last person in the world you would ever consider going out with asks you what you’re doing on Saturday night, and instead of admitting that you’re not interested, you claim to be busy, and when he asks you out for the following Saturday, and the Saturday after that and the one after that, rather than admit that “Actually, as far as you’re concerned, I’m busy every Saturday night for the rest of my life,” you crumble and agree to go out with him.

Defeated, I told Dietrich that the following weekend would be fine. Might as well get it over with. And who knew, the de Witts might prove to be an exception.

At home that night, the news about the Brossard reading failed to mitigate the news about the de Witts.

“Sarie, you’re such a wuss. Don’t think for a minute you can talk me into going.”

I tried to justify myself. “The reading might boost sales, and anyway, the poor things. If I’m a bookseller and I haven’t heard of them, then who has?”

“Give me a break,” said Wanda. “Those people don’t give a shit about you or your bookstore. I bet they’d self-righteously fling you into the closest fiery pit if they knew you were a dyke.”

“They do know,” I said. “I more or less told them.”

“So, you still haven’t come out to your mother, yet now you’re coming out to complete strangers?”

ALAS, THE NIGHT OF the dreaded reading was soon upon us. Business had been slower than usual all day, with people kept off the streets by an icy wind. The few customers who did make it through the door squinted at me through slits between their scarves and toques, looking like potential robbers. But by dinnertime, the wind had died down, and the air was crisp and still.

I laid out coffee and cookies on the card table and arranged the folding chairs in the back of the store, in front of Children’s Picture Books and between Psychology and Birth & Child Care.

Wanda relented at the last minute and consented to attend, but stipulated that she would not pretend-buy a book. At poor turnouts, she routinely asked at least one question at the end of the reading and then got a book signed by the author (minus any personal dedication so that the unsold copy could be returned to the publisher for credit).

Five minutes to go, and apart from Wanda, only three people had shown up: An expatriate Saskatoon poet named Deeanna Pratt; the man accompanying her, who immediately wandered over to Gay Travel; and Missy, a reading regular who lives just around the corner.

As far as I’ve been able to determine, Missy attends readings mainly for the snacks, and because of Missy, I no longer serve brownies, Nanaimo bars, or Camembert cheese.

One minute before the appointed hour, there was no still sign of the Cudworth bards. My spirits lifted—They were going to be no-shows!—only to be dashed when at precisely seven o’clock, Dietrich de Witt and Vivien Jones de Witt swept into the bookstore.

I should’ve known better: Self-promoting authors were never no-shows.

First through the door was Dietrich, tall and self-satisfied in his burgundy jacket and yellow silk ascot. Vivien, a stout woman with big hair and thick eyeliner, swooped in after him, a Celtic necklace swinging down the front of her long dress, burgundy to match her husband’s jacket. They must’ve parked out front and left their coats in the car: The better to make an entrance.

Dietrich returned my greeting like we were old friends, then grasped my elbow and introduced me to his wife. Given Vivien’s robust appearance, her hand was unexpectedly limp.

Dietrich plopped his briefcase on top of the display of Dykes to Watch Out For, and I immediately relocated the briefcase to the front counter. A corner of the top book was now bent back, permanently creased, but Dietrich didn’t notice. By now, he was beaming down at Deeanna Pratt, whose pixie face had lit up the moment he arrived. He cupped his large hands around the tiny one she held out and smiled down at her meaningfully.

“How long has it been? The writing retreat at St. Peter’s, right? What a fruitful week that was.”

He called out to his wife. “Vivvie dear, you remember Deeanna, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said the stout Vivien, thinly. “How’ve you been?”

Deeanna said she had been keeping very well and suggested they come to her place afterwards for drinks.

Dietrich opened his mouth to reply but Vivien got there first. “That would have been lovely my dear, but we have a prior commitment, unfortunately.”

Dietrich looked mockingly sheepish and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, What can I do? The wife says no.

I generally encourage out-of-town authors to ask a friend or colleague to introduce them. That way, they can receive the praise they feel entitled to, and it usually guarantees that at least one person other than Wanda will attend the reading. On the evening in question, however, the introduction duties fell to me by default when Deeanna point-blank refused my request.

So, I thanked the audience of three-plus-Wanda for having come on such a cold night and kept the introduction short on the premise that any piece of writing should speak for itself.

The teeny audience clapped, but Vivien remained perched on her chair, mouth in a half-open smile that seemed to anticipate something more. Dietrich gave her a shove in the small of her back and she rose slowly to face the predominantly empty store. I circled behind Young Adults to join Wanda in the back row while Vivien filled us in on the highlights of her career.

“Now, before we begin, I should like to share a secret with you,” she continued. “Didi, my co-conspirator in life, already knows my secret, but I’m going to let you in on it too.”

She checked over her shoulder, as if to ensure no eavesdropper had had the audacity to sneak in behind.

“The muse usually visits me between twelve midnight and two in the morning.” She winked at Dietrich and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “And here’s my secret: I write in the nude. And it is whilst in this natural state that the creative juices do most abundantly flow.”

She paused to allow this information to sink in.

“Now, during winter, I keep the thermostat turned up fairly high in the house, so this unconventional habit of mine is not an issue in our own home. But you can appreciate that it can be a wee bit of a concern when we’re on the road. Our present hotel room, for instance, is on the chilly side. However, you’ll be pleased to hear that despite the draft, the creative juices were not only flowing throughout the night, they were positively gushing.”

Wanda shuddered, and I elbowed her to forestall any comments.

Vivien retrieved a folder from a black canvas bag with pink letters that proclaimed Poetry is My Bag.

“I’ve decided to share with you the poem I wrote—in the nude, mark—between one o’clock and two o’clock this morning. Not even my husband has heard it yet. You will be the first.”

She smiled at Dietrich, who smiled back and shook his head from side to side in silent admiration.

“The poem is called ‘Lush Hush,’ and I shall recite it for you from memory.”

Vivien cleared her throat, threw back her operatic head, and recited the poem in what might have been a Welsh accent.

These breasts in youth

With eager thrust did aim

For distant peaks of gold,

The promised gilded future.

Now sage and agèd breasts

Do bow to slowing feet

To seek what flows

Below the peaks,

And bend to earthen core

Like thirsting rods to water.

A life so lush,

A hush so soon,

Too soon

And imminent the pending rush.

Hush Hush Hush...

As she recited, she held us hostage to her gaze, locking eyes with each of the three-people audience (five counting Wanda and me, six counting Dietrich), so there would be no fidgeting or dozing off or staring into space. Deeanna’s companion dropped the guide to gay San Francisco that he had been leafing through. Even Missy was too intimidated to get up and grab a cookie. When Vivien reached the end of her poem, she drew out the last word, emphasizing the silence that had befallen the room: “Hushshshshshshsh….”

“Marvellous, absolutely stupendous!” Dietrich was first to respond, applauding wholeheartedly, and the rest of us, except for Wanda, feebly following suit.

Vivien recited seven or eight more such poems in the same exaggerated manner, each poem preceded with an explanatory preamble twice as long as the poem itself. In our small space, the effect was like that of a stage actor on TV whose gestures and makeup are too elaborate for the small screen.

“Thank the goddess,” said Wanda as Vivien introduced her final poem of the evening.

“This one’s called ‘Voguing Virgin.’ It came to me one afternoon, which is atypical, as I usually don’t write in the daytime, as you now know. But on the occasion in question, I had spent the morning vacuuming and dusting. We have this lovely old home in Cudworth, you see, which I absolutely adore, but you women know how hard it is to keep up an old house. Dietrich is forever fixing this and that. He may not look it, but he’s very handy with a hammer and a screwdriver, you know….”

I elbowed Wanda, once again pre-emptively.

“Anyway, there I was, standing in the loo, positively dripping with perspiration, despite the fact that I had been cleaning in the nude. Oops! Another secret revealed.”

She placed her hand over her mouth in mock embarrassment.

“Well now, if I haven’t let the cat out of the bag! Not only do you know that I write in the nude, now you also know that I clean house in the nude.”

“We won’t tell them what else,” said Dietrich.

They both giggled.

“Now, where was I….”

“Starkers in front of the toilet,” said Wanda.

“Oh yes. I was about to take a shower when I decided to treat myself to a nice warm bath instead. So, I filled the tub with bubbles and Dietrich fetched me a magazine. Now I don’t remember which magazine it was, do you Didi?”

“No, but I can guarantee that it was not Ms. Oops, not offending any sensibilities here, I hope.”

They giggled again.

“For the sake of expediency, let us suppose that the magazine was Chatelaine. Now, picture the scene. Yours truly, the poetess, stretched out in the tub, perusing an article about women and eroticism whilst ensconced in delicious little popping bubbles. Under normal circumstances, such an experience would be the ultimate in relaxation. But as I stood on the mat patting myself dry, I felt not at all relaxed. As a matter of fact, I became more and more agitated. ‘Why?’ I asked myself. ‘Why should I feel agitated after such a good long soak?’ Then it hit me. The article in Chatelaine had made it sound as if lesbians revel in endless heights of ecstasy. The implication was that heterosexual women lead boring sex lives. I asked myself, ‘What makes lesbians think they have all the fun?’”

I looked at Wanda to see if she knew why, but her eyes were glazed over and she didn’t seem to be listening anymore.

Vivien went on to tell us how she had dried herself, slipped into her favourite housecoat and fluffy blue slippers, and gone to the kitchen to brew herself a cup of tea.

“As I sat at the kitchen table sipping my tea,” she said, “I found myself searching for a poetic response to the article. That’s what writing is, you know, a never-ending response to life’s conundrums. In any case, whilst still adrift in this reverie, I wandered into the den and absent-mindedly flicked on the TV. This was an unconscious gesture. Dietrich can tell you how unusual it is for me to watch TV at all, let alone in the daytime. But for whatever reason that early afternoon, I flicked on the TV, and what should be on the screen but Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ video. You’ve all seen it, I trust?”

No one answered, all of us save Dietrich in a collective state of stupefaction.

“Anyway, as Madonna sang, suddenly, like Athena bursting forth from the head of Zeus, there it was, a fully formed poem. I scribbled it down quickly so as not to forget, and you shall hear it now, my final offering of the evening: ‘Voguing Virgin.’

Vivien struck an Egyptian pose that would have been an insult to the memory of Pepper LaBeija and the other Harlem drag queens who had developed and refined the art of voguing. She heralded each new line with a different pose equally devoid of attitude or chic, then held the pose while she earnestly enunciated her lines, stressing each clunky word, not only the nouns and verbs, but the articles and prepositions—the, a, to, of—each little word receiving its due and more. She finished the poem with an exaggerated curtsy, maintaining it for some seconds in a living tableau.

Dietrich clapped vigorously, the rest of us more tepidly. He got to his feet and opened his arms to Vivien, bending down as she stretched up on tippytoes to receive his embrace.

“Sweetheart, that was fabulous, absolutely fabulous, as always.”

He released her so she could bask in the adoration of her audience.

“Vivien Jones de Witt, ladies and gentlemen.”

He resumed clapping, and we five audience members, save Wanda, followed suit. Vivien bowed in acknowledgement and sat down.

I was exhausted, but at least the ordeal was half-over.

“Before I begin my own reading,” said Dietrich, “on behalf of my wife and myself, I wish to extend our heartfelt appreciation to our dear friend Susan for inviting us here this evening and making us feel so welcome.”

“Sara,” snapped Wanda.

So, she had been paying attention.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The name of your dear friend isn’t Susan. It’s Sara.”

Dietrich slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“Sara, Sara. Of course, how clumsy of me.”

Vivien swivelled her head to justify her husband’s mistake. “The name of our son’s girlfriend is Susan, you see, and we’re such a close-knit family. We love her dearly, so it’s actually a compliment to be mistaken for her.”

“No, no, Vivvie, no excuses. I do apologize, Sara, for that unforgivable faux pas. Allow me to begin anew. Thank you. Thank you so much, Sara, for being so kind as to invite us here this evening.”

“You invited them?” said Wanda. “I could’ve sworn they invited themselves.”

Vivien’s back stiffened, but Dietrich ignored the comment and continued to wax my praises.

“By providing a welcoming space for poets to give voice to our humble scribblings, the dedicated Saras of the world help put food on the table and thereby ensure that the music endures. Therefore, on behalf of toiling wordsmiths everywhere, I thank you. Please, a round of applause for our gracious hostess, Sara.”

The others clapped while Wanda cleared her throat in her excuse-me-while-I-barf manner. Missy turned and eyed the cookies that were on the card table behind. She would have to get up out of her chair to access them.

Dietrich retrieved his briefcase from the front counter, carried it back to the podium and snapped it open, humming and fumbling around. When he found what he was looking for, he snapped the briefcase shut, set it down, and fanned out a handful of chapbooks for all to see.

“Our current tour is dubbed, The Great Plains Project,” he said. “This rainbow of titles represents the intertwined lives of the two itinerant artists who stand before you this evening. These works, replete with our joys and our sufferings, our chuckles and our tears, are the collaborative oeuvre of two creative souls who have embarked on a hand-in-hand journey that eschews the coastal highway of profit for the elevated but treacherous goat path of altruism.”

Dietrich went on to further lament the difficult lot of the poet, in particular the challenge of finding a publisher in this day and age.

Wanda mumbled that she couldn’t imagine them finding a publisher in any day and age.

“Each book in this modest collection has been assembled individually,” said Dietrich. “Each copy represents the mingled sweat of our brows. You can understand that ours is a painstaking work-in-progress, not, of course, without precedent. As you know, the grand tradition of self-publishing includes such luminaries as Leonard and Virginia Woolf. But even their illustrious Hogarth Press would not have survived without its intrepid supporters. Which brings me to this: If you feel moved by what you hear this evening, please speak with Vivien at the conclusion of the reading. Lacking any talent in this area myself, I long ago relinquished control of all things monetary. Therefore, should you be so motivated as to purchase a book or two, Vivien will gladly accommodate you.” He gestured at his wife. “Right, Vivvie, my love?”

What? They were using my space at no charge to sell their books directly to my customers? Granted, there were only three potential buyers present, and Deeanna and her companion only counted as one because they were unlikely to buy duplicates, and Missy didn’t count because she never bought anything, and the books weren’t real books, just stapled chapbooks, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Say the word and I’ll toss them out on their doggerel ears,” muttered Wanda.

“No way are you pretend-buying one of their books,” I muttered back.

“Now, let’s see,” said Dietrich. “Where shall we begin?”

Honestly? He had arranged the reading ten days ago and still had no clue what he was going to read?

“What would please this audience most?” he said.

“A stiff scotch,” said Wanda.

Missy took Wanda’s remark as her cue to get up, squeeze past me to the card table, reach under the cellophane, grab a handful of almond lemon cookies, and stuff one in her mouth. The cookies were Missy’s least favourite, which was one reason I had bought them.

“Oh, Didi, why don’t you read from We Animals Caged?” said Vivien, clasping her hands to her bosom.

“Excellent choice,” boomed Dietrich.

Missy froze in mid-chew. When she realized he was not referring to the cookies, she stuffed a few more in her coat pocket and left, reducing the audience portion of our group to four.

“I must warn you, though,” continued Dietrich, “I have yet to make it through this particular verse without breaking down in tears.”

Then why read it.

He shuffled through the little books. “Let me see now….”

“It’s the bright orange one,” said Vivien.

“Ah yes, right you are. Here we go, We Animals Caged.”

He held up an orange chapbook for us to admire.

“I would first like to draw your attention to the cover, which holds special significance for me. I executed the drawing myself in a single sitting during one of those creative frenzies that we artists are sometimes fortunate enough to experience.”

It was a line drawing of what might have been a moose or a cow peering out from behind a series of vertical bars.

Vivien sighed and Deeanna clapped. Her companion continued to sit on his hands, as he had been since dropping the book on the floor.

Dietrich took a sip of water and began to read, a poem worthy of Sarah Binks, about a woolly sheep dog and a steel-grey bear trap. If Vivien’s poetry was sprinkled with prepositions, Dietrich’s was littered with adjectives.

“That cage could use a cleaning,” mumbled Wanda.

As predicted, Dietrich broke down in sobs halfway through. He dabbed at his eyes with his silk ascot.

“It’s all right, Didi darling,” cooed Vivien. “Take all the time you need.”

“What about our time?” said Wanda, this time quite loudly.

Deeanna’s companion jiggled and bowed his head as if he were stifling a laugh, while Vivien directed a disappointed schoolmarm glance at Wanda.

Dietrich almost made it to the end of the poem (which took up the entire chapbook) before breaking down anew. By the time he finished, the poem, including the weeping interludes, had taken fourteen minutes to read.

“No reason for anyone to buy it now,” said Wanda.

Vivien twisted in her chair to give me a look that said, Can’t you do something about her?

Like the others preceding it, Dietrich ignored the comment. “That was my final offering of the evening,” he said. “Thank you for your kind attention.”

I clapped enthusiastically, because thank god the ordeal was finally over. The others, including Wanda this time, joined in.

Dietrich held up a hand to shush us.

“Thank you, thank you so much. Such acknowledgment deserves an encore.”

I thought I heard Wanda scream, No, but the voice must have been inside my own head.

Dietrich again fumbled through the briefcase.

“Let’s see now, perhaps something a little lighter…. Ah, yes, here we are. I love this one, it’s one of my favourites.”

He pulled out a single sheet of yellow paper.

It was to be a short one, at least.

He read something about poodles and sacré merde steaming in the grey gutters below the Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre after an autumnal rainfall. Vivien laughed like she was hearing the poem for the first time, but it couldn’t have been the first time.

“Who would’ve thought it possible to pervert Vogon poetry?” Wanda muttered.

And she was right. It was as if we were trapped in the torture scene from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, where the hero is strapped down and forced to listen to Vogon poetry, “the third worst in the Universe.” The more the hero writhes against his restraints and the louder he screams, the longer the Vogon reads.

Dietrich pulled out another couple of sheets from his briefcase, blue this time.

“I don’t usually like to finish on a sad note,” he said, “but you’re such a wonderful audience. I’m going to share one last poem with you. This one’s about the war years.”

He then read something about a blameless little German boy destined as a man to carry the guilt of an entire nation. Dietrich’s eyes moistened, but this time he did not break down.

By the time he finished, our little group had been sitting for almost an hour and a half, and I had reached a decision. Wanda and I would take that holiday she had been insisting on. She hadn’t mentioned the holiday since before Christmas, but the morning after the reading, I booked the plane tickets.

When I surprised her with the news, her response was a surprising, non-committal, “Mmmm….”