Almost four years ago. On November 7, 2016 I was in New York to attend a gala in which they were going to hang one of the few medals that I have allowed and I will allow to be planted (there is a ridiculous one with a flap, although not as much as with a mortarboard, of which fortunately I remain a virgin). The other endanelladas were the almost nonagenarian Harry Belafonte, great singer of whom I still listen with pleasure his calypsos , prominent civil rights activist in the 60s, protagonist of the film that was based on The Purple Cloud by MP Shiel, from 1901, the first novel of "only man on Earth", and Carmen JonesPreminger; the very friendly Irishman Colm Tóibín; the historical novelist Hilary Mantel; journalist Peggy Noonan. The act was preceded by an endless wait with "rehearsal" (consisting of us walking down a corridor, going up some steps and putting on our metal necklace: absurd to rehearse that), a very long cocktail and another somewhat shorter and less nourished, because many people have already passed to the dinner hall that came after the ceremony and which, needless to say, was also endless. I promised myself not to participate in anything of this kind again, and to this day I have kept it. Nothing is as tedious as these Woody Allen occasions, which most of my colleagues are enthusiastic about and which cause me hives, no matter how kind and charming everyone is.
Precisely because of this aversion of mine, I was amazed that many towers from previous years were present, enduring what no longer touched them. Among those I remember, there were octogenarians Tom Wolfe, Gay Talese and Joyce Carol Oates. As they did not know them personally or by name, I did not speak to them, despite the fact that Talese, with a blank tip and great energy, sat at my table: too far for us to speak. I did greet Joyce Carol Oates (and scared her) for a moment, because I saw her as small, fragile and evanescent as a villain, and she admired that at 78 she continued to write dozens of very fat books, although my favorite is a short essay, Boxing . I think that was what scared her the most - perhaps offended, hopefully not - when I told her. I also saw the nice Zadie Smith in her turban, bandana or whatever is often called in her hair, and Salman Rushdie, the only one I knew again, slightly. Like all of us - medals of that day and of yesteryear - we had to wear the flap at all times, she was surprised to see mine and said complainingly: "Yours is bigger ..." It sounded strange, but she was referring to. The one I talked to the most was with two actors, close at dinner: Ethan Hawke, who urged me to see his film about Chet Baker, and the most cordial Chris Noth, famous as "Mr Big" in Sex in New York and as a policeman in Law and order.
Beyond the infinite boredom of these celebrations (sorry, I am less and less sociable), the atmosphere that was breathed was calm and moderate joy, and that the next day, Tuesday 8, there were presidential elections. The evening had started at 5 in the afternoon and lasted until almost midnight, with no one showing any nervousness or rushing to go home (the least Thalese, ready to leave after a party). That day 8 was still normal for all intents and purposes, or quite a lot. I had lunch with Wendy Lesser, editor of a Californian magazine that is kind enough to retrieve old texts of mine, and she was on fire, fearing the worst; but it seemed to me more apprehensive than true fear. In the evening, I went to the house of my publisher Sonny Mehta and his intelligent wife Gita, and we went out to dinner with four or five other people, a carefree and even festive spirit. But little by little we saw that the restaurant was emptying — discreetly, not in a rush — and that the waiters were uneasy and somewhat upset. Finally one, before our questioning looks, told us that Trump had won in Florida and in some other important State. At that time, as during the gala yesterday, the President was Barack Obama, and in fact he would remain so until January, the date of the transfer of powers. In the eight years of Bush Jr's mandate I prohibited myself from visiting the United States (as I have been prohibited, alas, more and more countries every day), and little did I imagine that it would be my turn to swear not to step on their soil, with even greater reason. After the alarming "puffs" of the waiters, we raised the table crossing our fingers. Each went to his hotel or home to watch television, without losing all hope but with a very shrunken spirit. The final result took a long time, and I barely kept an eye on it all night. My hotel was next to the Trump Tower, the Republican candidate's headquarters (that is, Republican). Since then the great Belaphon, Tom Wolfe and the magnificent and legendary publisher Sonny Mehta have died, because, as I have already said, almost four years have passed that seem like half a horrible century.
(To be continue). —Eps