A Book of American Martyrs(157)
And then there was Karl Kinch, the most memorable of all the New Yorkers.
“WE WON’T STAY LONG. Kinch rarely has visitors. He expressed some interest in meeting you.”
Naomi noted the qualification—some interest.
Yet more improbably—meeting you.
Doubtfully she asked why would this friend of Madelena’s want to meet her?
“Why? Why d’you think?”—Madelena smiled, though with rather an edge.
“I—I don’t know . . .”
“Of course you don’t ‘know.’ But you might infer, Naomi, that I’ve spoken of you to him.”
Naomi could not think of a reply. Wondering what on earth her grandmother could have said about her to arouse the interest and curiosity of this stranger?
Madelena added, “And Kinch is not a ‘friend’ of mine, exactly. We are too close, we know each other too intimately, to be for each other what the bland word friend implies.”
Kinch had been variously a poet—(“A prodigy, who published his first book of poems at the age of twenty-one”)—a composer—(“Atonal music, exquisite and subtle if grating to the ordinary ear”)—a memoirist—(“Memento Mori is the title of Kinch’s precocious first memoir, told from a posthumous perspective”)—a translator—(“Working with a native speaker and ‘translating’ texts into his own, idiosyncratic English prose”)—a critic—(“Fiercely original, with terribly high standards, and feared by many”). He’d made himself into something of an amateur-expert Biblical scholar, with a particular interest in the poetry of Psalms; he’d taught himself Hebrew, Sanskrit, and Aramaic. He had no advanced degrees—he’d begun Ph.D. programs at Harvard, Yale, and Columbia but dropped out after realizing that the individuals entrusted with assessing his work were “inferior” to him intellectually and imaginatively; he did teach from time to time, graduate seminars in esoteric special topics, at Hunter College, Columbia College, New York University, and Princeton, as a “distinguished” visitor.
“Of course, Kinch is ‘not well.’ That is the first thing that is said about him though when you are with him, it is the last thing, or nearly, that you are struck by.”
Naomi asked in what way Kinch was “not well”?—but Madelena seemed reluctant to explain.
“Kinch has written beautifully and persuasively of the tyranny of ‘wellness’—‘normality’—‘sanity.’ You will see for yourself.”
The first time Madelena took Naomi to visit the mysterious Kinch, who lived on the sixteenth floor of a grimly featureless high-rise building several blocks north of Washington Square Park, they were rebuffed in the foyer by an embarrassed doorman who informed Madelena—(whom he called “Professor Wein”)—that “Professor Kinch” could not have visitors that day, and “deeply regretted” that their visit would have to be rescheduled.
“Really!” Madelena laughed, though visibly annoyed. “May I speak with Professor Kinch? Will you call him?”
But the doorman regretted no, he could not call Professor Kinch for Professor Kinch had expressly forbidden any calls that afternoon.
“Is he unwell? I mean—has he been unwell? Unusually unwell? Has there been an emergency?”
“No, ma’am. Not that I know.”
“His ‘assistant’ is with him? He isn’t alone?”
“Yes, ma’am. She’s there. He isn’t alone.”
Outside on Fifteenth Street Naomi dared to ask Madelena again what was wrong with Karl Kinch?—and Madelena said airily, “Oh, Kinch has numerous ailments. His genius has effloresced in unexpected ways and not all of them aesthetic. The most obvious is MS—multiple sclerosis—that was diagnosed when he was in his late twenties. (But it isn’t clear what MS is—not a single ailment or condition but a syndrome.) Reputedly, Kinch was a young lover of the philosopher Michel Foucault who died of AIDS in the mid-1980s—it is believed by some, including Kinch himself, that he contracted an HIV infection from Foucault, if not AIDS itself. And the poor man is very visually impaired—‘legally blind.’” Madelena paused, considering Naomi’s alarmed expression. “But that’s enough for now, dear. We never speak of such matters with Kinch but if he wants to tell you more about himself, he will.”
They returned two days later, also in the late afternoon. This time they were not rebuffed but directed to an elevator by the doorman who continued to call Madelena “Professor Wein” and was not corrected by her.
In the elevator Naomi asked her grandmother why she didn’t trouble to correct the doorman and Madelena explained: “I always feel that it’s impolite to correct a civilian. I am paid to ‘correct’ students of mine, who have enrolled in my courses, and so it’s expected in that context; but it is not expected that I should go around ‘correcting’ others. And why should I care what I am called by a stranger?—as long as the mis-‘calling’ is consistent, and Kinch knows who is coming to see him.”
Madelena smiled as she spoke. Naomi felt a rush of affection for her grandmother who was in an unusually friendly and accessible mood.
“Has the doorman always called you ‘Wein’?”
“Yes! But I think I didn’t notice at first.”