On the chilly evening of November 19, guests arrived at the John Wickett Museum of Exotica to pay their respects at the 72nd Annual Marcel Proust Memorial Wake. They had not been warned about what to expect, except that early in the evening we would hold a seance in the hope of communicating with the long-dead, but not forgotten, M. Proust.
Passing the outer doors of the John Wickett Museum, they entered, awestruck by the spectacle before their eyes. In the large main room, subdivided by screens and ladders into nooks and aeries, not a square foot of unadorned space appeared, and the adornments, singularly and together, conveyed the exotic sensibility of times and places past, a riot of colors, creatures, doodads, geegaws, priceless collectibles, paintings, instruments, objects too obscure to identify, too numerous to take in. Eyes wide with wonder, dazed and delighted, the new arrivals gravitated, murmuring in hushed tones, with instinctive certainty towards the bar in the back.
Much of San Francisco's arty bohemian elite turned out in sartorial, if somber, splendor for the event. The Burning Man, Larry Harvey, sported that fitting accoutrement, rarely seen in these modern times, the black armband. Dr. Edwina Pythagoras, whose splendid piece on the designer Fortuny appears in this issue, arrived on the arm of Mr. Zymbot Danger Ranger Bubble of The Cacophony Society. MP Support Group member Varla Satana made a striking entrance with Sebastain Melmoth; my roommate John, who had flown in from Nepal that afternoon, limped in on the foot he had sprained while trekking, and our friend Dawn Stott, one of the original support group members, flew in from Austin for the occasion. When Miss Harley B and her husband, Werner Werve, made their elegant entrance, all four members of the original support group were present. In all, about seventy of the most charming people in the bay area were there, uncharacteristically subdued by the magical place they had entered. By the grace of the remarkable Gardenia Garlick, I was free to mingle among them, knowing that the details for the evening were in her capable hands.
Numerous and respectful (for the most part) toasts were offered to the honorable departed M.P., and after I had and was toasted sufficiently I circulated among the guests to solicit conspirators at the seance table, including among them Miss Lisa Archer and Pierre le Marquis de Gateau, chohorts in recent shocking adventures chronicled in the next issue of Stuart Mangrum's Twisted Times. We gathered around the table, joined hands and closed our eyes. A deep hush fell over the museum as I announced to the cosmos that we were trying to contact Marcel Proust, and if he could hear us, to give us a sign. For several minutes, nothing happened at all. Someone suggested that the lights should be dimmed; I called again for M. Proust to give us a sign.
Just when I despaired of a response, a hollow cough sounded high above our heads, and at last, he spoke. This is a verbatim transcript of our conversation:
The houselights went out, and then on, as Marcel Proust himself appeared in the room, amidst tumultuous applause, bravos and a profusion of excited toasts. Mr. Proust's ordinary pallor was accentuated by 72 years of deadness, but he was otherwise perfectly elegant. He graciously accepted the accolades of the crowd as my co-mediums and I congratulated each other on our success, but quickly retired to the bar for the first drink he'd had for a long time.
Later in the evening I was able to offer M. Proust a glass of Armistead Farquahrson's latest absinthe, Jealous Muse No. 3, a small quantity of which was brewed particularly for this event, and a marron glace, which, at $28.00 for a tin scarcely larger than than a snuff can, is a highly overrated sweet.
Many months ago, Larry Harvey noticed that our friend Stuart Mangrum, the publisher of Twisted Times and my invaluable advisor for this publication, bears a tremendous resemblance to my beloved Marcel. He does not, fortunately for Stuart, look like the aging Proust confined to his cork-lined chamber, but rather like the young Proust, the rising society star painted by Jacques-Emile Blanche. With every bit as much grace as his look-alike, Stuart offered to impersonate my literary hero at the wake.
Just a few days before the 19th, I fabricated the seance, extracting quotes from Remembrance and phrasing the questions around them. Less than 72 hours before the event, I faxed the script to the would-be Marcel, who played his role with admirable sensitivity and panache, even more so in light of my utter procrastination, and the fact that he spent the first hour of the party trapped in a loft without libations.
In the days of recovery following the wake, dozens of calls came in from astonished guests, still reeling from the charm of the event, or from those who hadn't made it, but had heard about it until they were forced to berate themselves for missing it. My friends, with their interest in the unusual and their devoted pursuit of outrageous entertainment, are a hard lot to impress. Thanks to Stuart, for his fabulous characterization, to John Wickett,for graciously providing his stunning venue for the event, and to Gardenia, Nik, Lisa and Paul, the 72nd Annual Marcel Proust Memorial Wake was the social event of the season.
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