The 1997 Marcel Proust Memorial Wake

As the years grow abundantly fuller, there is less and less time to orchestrate the grand Proust Wake, the Marcel Proust Support Group's only regular function of the year. This year's event crowded the schedule complicated by beloved visitors, other massive social events and the birthday I had hoped to obfuscate by sharing it so lovingly with the demise of Marcel P..

Curiously, the birthday has become more observed than ever. There were more celebratory lunches, dinners, cocktails and presents than usual this year, and lots more planned for the coming weeks. Today I went to my PST mailbox for the first time in days and found two birthday cards, one with no signature below the hand-written greetings and no return address. The other contained a lovely handkerchief, a gift from a sweet reader I have never met.

Planning the Proust Wake each year diverts my attention from the fact that I am about to be another year older, requiring that every available minute be consumed with planning and preparation.

This year there was no time whatsoever to make printed invitations; the word was spread on the phone, at other social events, or over email.

Little coaxing was required to summon guests to the wake as it was once again scheduled at the John Wickett Museum of Exotica, one of San Francisco's most curious secret venues. The Wickett Museum is not open to the public, so invitations are valued, rare chances to spend an evening in this atmosphere of opulent oddity, redolent of many bygone eras and full of the best memorabilia from the city's long-lost Playland at the Beach.

As the date of the event approached, this year the 22nd of November, there were even less funds or hours available than usual; this required some cleverness regarding the catering menu, and a lot of help from supportive participants who'd bring enough wine to make up for the small batch of absinthe I could concoct. It was out of the question this year to provide the more lavish elements of Proustian fare; I wracked my memory for occasions in Remembrance when the food was utterly simple. Finally I recalled the picnic in Within a Budding Grove where the band of girls ate sandwiches, an innovation in French fare which our Marcel found so difficult to consume because the concept was so foreign, and left him settling for the little cakes alone, which, along with the apricot tarts, made dessert. There would be madeleines, of course, and the three pounds of cream cheese left over from a catering job mixed with strawberries, and whole wheat wafers.

Two members of the original MPSG, Miss Dawn and Miss Harley, came to spend the day with me in the kitchen getting the last of the evening's catering prepared. In the redwood back parlor next to the kitchen, Miss Lisa, who had come all the way from the far northwest to help with the preparations, hand-lettered the cards that would identify the dishes, while my roommate Jason drew Proust on each of them.

What I really wanted this year was to have Proust appear as he did the first year at the museum. Last year, the inimitable Stuart Mangrum, who contributed the absinthe story to this issue, and was largely responsible for this magazine ever coming together, refused to impersonate my literary idol because he'd spent too much of the last wake stuck in an aerie with a cardboard tube and a crotchedly old ridgeback waiting for the moment when the seance would begin. "Look," he'd said, "If you come up with a coffin I'd lie in state for you, so at least I could hear what's going on." Of course I hadn't turned up a casket, so Stuart was free to simply be a guest.

My friend Jerry James, the person who got me involved with the Burning Man experience (that changed my life as much as Proust, and was addressed in the fourth issue of PST), recently devised an elegant and sturdy coffin as an art project. So I called Stuart and reminded him of his terms for the previous year, and said I'd found the missing element. "Okay," he said, a bit disgruntled, "I guess I'll do it."

Stuart is as charming a guest as you could want to have, and so I couldn't imagine leaving him speechless in a box for the entire evening. What a waste of such a clever conversationalist. Within the usual seventy-two hours before the big night, I came up with a plan. Stuart/Proust could lollygag in the rear of the museum for the first forty-five minutes of so, while the coffin sat closed on sawhorses in the main room of the museum. The dried flower wreath that's been hanging on the Proust quote wall at MPSGHQ was draped over the grill on the coffin to obscure notice that it was empty. My housemates Gavin and Jane were able to put together a tape of sound effects, beginning with huge cracks of thunder, followed by the sound of pouring rain, and ending with more extremely loud thunder. At the first thunder, the lights in the museum would go out, and Proust would slip through the confused crowd and jump into the big box. The lights would go on, and there would be the body lying in state with the lid open, so he wouldn't have to deal with the all too uncomfortable sensation of being buried alive. And then when the thunder sounded again half an hour later, and the lights went out, Proust could rise to a sitting position, and give the guests the thrill of seeing him returned to life. That was the plan.

At first we toyed with the idea of carrying the coffin in with Stuart inside, but he admitted that he would have to be considerably sedated to endure such an entry. This second possibility seemed less annoying, and saved me from having to find sufficient pallbearers. The newest addition to MPSGHQ, Jason Johnston, agreed to cope with the cues for the tape, and Nicholas Lynch, one of the earliest members of the household, who came down from Seattle to help, would deal with the lights.

Of course this bit of theater didn't quite happen as early as planned and Stuart was relegated to the smoking section of the museum, the back stairs, for quite a while, along with half the guests and their cigarettes. He introduced himself to all and sundry out back as Marc Prowst and waited patiently for his cue. Finally the thunder sounded and the lights went out and Stuart moved quickly through the crowd and jumped into the casket. Against either of our wishes, someone slammed the lid down. As soon as the lights went back up, and I noticed this, I went over and raised it, leaning over the inert body to whisper an apology.

Members of the MPSG approached the casket, moaning and declaring their unhappiness at the passing of the beloved Marcel. I laid a bouquet of flowers on his body, hoping none of them were rich in allergens that would make him sneeze back to life before the last cue. Cacophony Society ringleader Michael Michael asked if anyone would like to speak, and suggested that I should be the first.

I hadn't planned on this, so I had to wing it. Of course I can't remember much of what I did say, but I do remember this: "I only regret that Proust died before I ever had a chance to get to know him. I have a feeling that if he were still alive, I would know him..." I looked around at the splendid guests in their glorious costumes, tuxedos and evening gowns, "because I have the great good fortune to meet all the most interesting people in the world."

When the speeches had ended, I approached the casket and leaned over, my thick dark hair falling forward to obscure vision of Stuart's face. "How are you doing?" I whispered. "I'm thirsty!" he said. I brought my glass into firing range of his lips. "Have some of this," I whispered, and poured a small drizzle of absinthe into his mouth. Stuart smiled as I carefully poured, avoiding much dribbling on his elegant tux or white makeup; in retrospect, I'm so glad he didn't choke on it.

The second thunder cue got bungled because both Jason, Nicholas and I were all otherwise occupied when it went off. Tired of being dead, Proust finally sat up on his own. Of course the estimable Proust lovers made the most of Stuart's cueless return to life, exclaiming excitedly, cheering and clapping as the former corpse handed out flowers from his bouquet to his adorers. Sister Dana of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence spontaneously began a chorus of "You Light Up My Life", with a few others joining him in song. Now I was free to just enjoy the party.

My friend Nelson Johnson spent a large portion of the evening playing French cabaret songs of the twenties on his accordian. I'd brought CD's of Debussy and a few other appropriate composers, but never got around to playing them. In this band of the highly social, the sound of conversation is music enough.

P Segal