Less(37)

Finley wears a plum-colored suit and a black tie. “How long ago was it? We were traveling together?”

“Well, you remember, we didn’t get to travel together.”

“Two years at least! And you had…a very handsome young man, I think.”

“Oh, well, I—” A waiter comes by with a tray of champagne, and both Less and Finley grab one. Finley handles his unsteadily, then grins at the waiter; it occurs to Less that the man is drunk.

“We hardly got a look at him. I recall…” And here Finley’s voice takes on an old-movie flourish: “Red glasses! Curly hair! Is he with you?”

“No. He wasn’t really with me then. He’d just always wanted to go to Paris.”

Finley says nothing but keeps a crooked little smile. Then he looks at Less’s clothes, and he begins to frown. “Where did you—”

“Where did they send you? I don’t remember,” Less says. “Was it Marseille?”

“No, Corsica! It was so warm and sunny. The people were welcoming, and of course it helped I speak French. I ate nothing but seafood. Where did they put you?”

“I held the Maginot Line.”

Finley sips from his glass and says, “And what brings you to Paris now?”

Why is everyone so curious about little Arthur Less? When had he ever occurred to any of them before? He has always felt insignificant to these men, as superfluous as the extra a in quaalude. “Just traveling. I’m going around the world.”

“Le tour du monde en quatre-vingts jours,” Finley murmurs, peering up at the ceiling. “Do you have a Passepartout?”

Less answers: “No. I’m alone. I’m traveling alone.” He looks down at his glass and sees it is empty. It occurs to Less that he himself might be drunk.

But there is no question Finley Dwyer is. Steadying himself against the bookcase, he looks straight at Less and says, “I read your last book.”

“Oh good.”

His head lowers, and Less can now see his eyes above the glasses. “What luck to run into you here! Arthur, I want to say something. May I say something?”

Less braces himself as one does against a rogue wave.

“Did you ever wonder why you haven’t won awards?” Finley asks.

“Time and chance?”

“Why the gay press doesn’t review your books?”

“They don’t?”

“They don’t, Arthur. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. You’re not in the cannon.”

Less is about to say he feels very much in the cannon, picturing the human cannonball’s wave to the audience before he drops out of view, the minor novelist about to turn fifty—then realizes the man has said “canon.” He is not in the canon.

“What canon?” is all he manages to sputter.

“The gay canon. The canon taught at universities. Arthur”—Finley is clearly exasperated—“Wilde and Stein and, well, frankly, me.”

“What’s it like in the canon?” Less is still thinking cannon. He decides to head Finley off at the pass: “Maybe I’m a bad writer.”

Finley waves this idea away, or perhaps it is the salmon croquettes a waiter is offering. “No. You’re a very good writer. Kalipso was a chef d’oeuvre. So beautiful, Arthur. I admired it a lot.”

Now Less is stumped. He probes his weaknesses. Too magniloquent? Too spoony? “Too old?” he ventures.

“We’re all over fifty, Arthur. It’s not that you’re—”

“Wait, I’m still—”

“—a bad writer.” Finley pauses for effect. “It’s that you’re a bad gay.”

Less can think of nothing to say; this attack comes on an undefended flank.

“It is our duty to show something beautiful from our world. The gay world. But in your books, you make the characters suffer without reward. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Republican. Kalipso was beautiful. So full of sorrow. But so incredibly self-hating. A man washes ashore on an island and has a gay affair for years. But then he leaves to go find his wife! You have to do better. For us. Inspire us, Arthur. Aim higher. I’m so sorry to talk this way, but it had to be said.”

At last Less manages to speak: “A bad gay?”

Finley fingers a book on the bookcase. “I’m not the only one who feels this way. It’s been a topic of discussion.”

“But…but…but it’s Odysseus,” Less says. “Returning to Penelope. That’s just how the story goes.”

“Don’t forget where you come from, Arthur.”

“Camden, Delaware.”

Finley touches Less’s arm, and it feels like an electric shock. “You write what you are compelled to. As we all do.”

“Am I being gay boycotted?”

“I saw you stand there, and I had to take this opportunity to let you know, because no one else has been kind enough.” He smiles and repeats: “Kind enough to say something to you, as I have now.”

And Less feels it swelling up within him, the phrase he does not want to say and yet, somehow, by the cruel checkmate logic of conversation, is compelled to say: “Thank you.”

Finley removes the book from the bookshelf and exits into the crowd as he opens it to the dedication page. Perhaps it is dedicated to him. A ceramic chandelier of blue cherubs hangs above them all and casts more shadows than light. Less stands below it, experiencing that Wonderland sensation of having been shrunk, by Finley Dwyer, into a tiny version of himself; he could pass through the smallest door now, but into what garden? The Garden of Bad Gays. Who knew there was such a thing? Here, all this time, Less thought he was merely a bad writer. A bad lover, a bad friend, a bad son. Apparently the condition is worse; he is bad at being himself. At least, he thinks, looking across the room to where Finley is amusing the hostess, I’m not short.