What to Ask at a Book Reading

You know, I had met you earlier, not officially, at a reading in a bookstore in Boystown. Later you would say you remembered Francine but not me. You signed our books. We didn’t talk much.

It was early fall in Chicago, in the midst of a dense snowstorm, of course. You were ill prepared for the cold, making jokes about freezing sexual organs. You were funny and your reading went well, your dial turned to high charm. There, in front of a crowd of readers, behind a rickety lectern, you seemed engaged and alive, vibrant. Your hair called out for a comb, your chin for a razor, your lovely Missoni shirt for an iron. Fancy, idiosyncratic glasses teetered on the tip of your nose. Disheveled elegance you were, an alluring performance, seemingly effortless. The audience adored you as if you were the cutest puppy, all wishing to pet this most exotic of breeds. You talked and talked, divagations galore, the little prince proud of being able to hold court and attention.

I have to say you masked your rage well. No one could see the suppressed fury you habitually unleashed in your books at unwary readers. You almost slipped once. A pompous audience member, a man trying to impress, asked you a question. Beirut was such a crazy city, he said. He wouldn’t know how to describe it. No, of course he hadn’t been there, but he needed your help to understand it better. If a Martian came to Earth, he said, would you be able to explain the city to him in one sentence? I was taken aback. I heard Francine groan. But you, I saw you cock your head for a moment, your eyes flared as if you’d been shocked with a defibrillator, then a confused smile, after which the great diva returned to the podium. If a Martian landed here, you said with a chuckle, why would you want to explain anything to her, him, it, let alone Beirut, in one sentence? Any other questions?

A portly gay man your age asked if you were ever going to write about the AIDS years again since it had been so long since your earliest book. You were thinking about it, you said. But he surprised you with a follow-up query. What did you think was your biggest loss from those years? You considered the question for a moment. I think the questioner had expected some wise sound bite, a warm idea that you could both share, but that was not where you went. You began with one name, then another, then another, a slow recitation. By the time you reached the fifth, the questioner began naming his lost friends. I heard Francine next to me begin to whisper the names of our friends long gone. Everyone in the room, gay, straight, whatever, repeated names. You had transformed an event to promote your latest book into an impromptu memorial for our collective losses. And then you were making jokes again as the audience wiped their tears. You begged their forgiveness for having a surprise séance, for opening doors and allowing the return of old ghosts.

You seemed solid and confident, a surfer on the waves of life. Do you understand why seeing you frightened and battered by the maelstrom of people in the middle of Moria felt disorienting?