by S. T. Joshi
“Signings for my new books—like the one where we met— are still fun, though. And I’m a lifetime member of TAN, the Terror Authors Network, so I vote for the Karloffs every year. But there’s a saying I’m reminded of by the way these people act: ‘It is not enough to succeed. Others must fail.’ I believe Gore Vidal said that. Pretty insightful, really. I think of it when I read pieces online or on social media—antisocial media, I call it—and it makes me glad I don’t support some of the more . . . esoteric notions that some of the attendees have.”
“You mean like changing the Dark Phantasy Awards statuette from a rendering of Roald Dahl to something more defining of global fantasy literature? He was a terrible human being, after all—”
“Indeed. He had some rather unpleasant aspects . . .”
“I mean, there was a whole Twitter campaign pointing out his anti-Semitism and his support of Hitler by the Jewish YA author Danny Ben-Aharon. I read some blogs that really put it all together. . . . Even the Times was scathing. Do you really think it’s acceptable that people feel they have to turn the bust around to avoid looking at it when they have it in their home? Or that they are humiliated accepting it, knowing how . . . evil Dahl was?” She sat up straighter, folding her arms defensively.
Vanderbulle ran a hand through his hair. “Well, no, but there are options. They can decline the nomination, or turn the award down, for example. Even return it, if it’s too burdensome to them personally. After all, Dahl was chosen to represent the award because of his imagination, not his politics. Besides, he was wrong. And he’s dead! I mean, he wasn’t a Nazi, nor was he an activist. He simply had a blind spot. Things were different then—not to excuse him, he was clearly in the wrong, but just to reframe his beliefs in another context.”
“Hmm. And how do you feel about H. P. Lovecraft?”
The waiter arrived with the first course—a succulently umami-scented mushroom risotto—and replenished their wine glasses. Outside, the lightning storm was growing in intensity as rain sheeted over Dubai; raindrops gathered on the great windows of the restaurant, kaleidoscoping the lights of the city below.
“They say you eat with the eyes first, and this looks divine, I must say. . . . However, to answer your question, I do love the old stuff, such as Charles Baudelaire, Lovecraft, Robert Aickman, William Hope Hodgson—”
“No women? No people of color?”
“Well, sure. I really love the work of Sylvia Plath, Mary Shelley, Shirley Jackson . . . Richard Wright and Langston Hughes are phenomenal, too. James Baldwin, Samuel R. Delaney. William S. Burroughs, Charles Beaumont, Ray Bradbury. . . . I mean, there are many excellent writers, and I’m not sure how social-identity politicking the field to death serves any useful purpose—”
“Back to the old white men, I see. And how can you defend Lovecraft? He was a racist!” She stabbed into the risotto.
“I’m not defending that; I said I liked his work. That was a long time ago anyway. Times change—”
“The man-of-his-time argument, eh? I thought you were smarter than that.” She narrowed her eyes. The clinking of glasses and the murmur of other diners filled the silence between them. He took a swallow of wine. The piano player began another song.
“Look, I think you just don’t understand all the issues here.” He raised his hand to counter the protest she was beginning. “Please, just hear me out for a moment. Please.” She shrugged and fell back into her chair, arms crossed.
“I get where you’re coming from, honestly,” he began. “But you need to understand the—the context of some of these things. You and I are from different generations, though we’re not that far apart in age. And the plain fact of the matter is, some of these protestations are simply grandstanding, it looks to me. I note that the vast majority of the people who rage about these issues with certain writers are themselves usually middle-aged white males from very ‘white’ places—the suburban Midwest, the Pacific Northwest, New England, Canada. On the one hand, they seem determined to undermine the legacy of Lovecraft, yet—strangely!—they appear to be riding his recent wave of popularity and cachet. I admit to finding that more than a bit hypocritical—it causes me to doubt their sincerity. It feels as if they either have a certain disdain for their audience, deep-seated insecurities, or a form of ‘white liberal guilt’ to complain so loudly. I note that most people who act this way are themselves often closeted racists, and are overcompensating. In other words, they’re poseurs suffering from what I deem to be ‘slightly-above-average syndrome’ snobbery and virtue signaling white privilege.” He let this sink in. She stared out the window. “Now I understand taking umbrage with Lovecraft’s personal stances—I find them repugnant and deplorable myself in several cases—but the fact is, that was nearly one hundred years ago. And, as I noted regarding Dahl, HPL was dead wrong about his racist and anti-Semitic views. Additionally, he himself is dead.
“Plenty of other artists, politicians, musicians, and filmmakers are problematic by modern standards, too, but sticking just with authors, what of Edgar Allan Poe, Ernest Hemingway, T. S. Eliot, or Jack London? I suspect it’s because HPL is in vogue at the moment. Add to the mix that he was never an activist, that he was gentlemanly, and died relatively young, meaning he never lived to see such horrid things as the Holocaust or the Jim Crow South as it became. . . . The intensity and dread in his best work were likely fed by his prejudices, actually, by his apparent xenophobia. And he was married to a Jewish woman, Sonia Greene, don’t forget. His flawed personal thoughts, which he never really expressed as an adult except in private correspondence, shouldn’t be held against the man. I say that as a liberal. That’s why I think we can’t just condemn him with our presentism, or the existing cultural climate. That’s pretty reactionary, I think. We have to try and have compassion, to attempt understanding of people who share differing perspectives, even if they’re hurtful or offensive to us; there might be some offset to them. Perhaps a way to bring them to our way of thinking. It’s really the only way we can root out such hatred in the end: by hearing the arguments out and dismantling them. By understanding the ‘nature of the enemy,’ as it were—”
Anastasia shook her head in disbelief. “So you’re a white supremacist? Lovecraft does attract that element. An apologist. Wow—I am totally shocked. We shouldn’t be hearing people like you out; we should be shutting them down! There’s no reason to give people who believe what you do a platform.”
He sighed, then took a few bites of his risotto. The warm sound of the piano floated through the room like a distant memory. “No, I am most certainly not a racist, for Pete’s sake. So by your estimation, we should consign the ‘old white guys,’ as you put it, to the dustbin of history, even if they have something to offer?”
She raised the glass to her lips, smirking. “They’ve had plenty of time to say their piece, Lord, O ‘Viscount of the Weird.’”
He glared at her, letting his fork clink noisily into the bowl. “Look—that’s marketing stuff; I have never claimed such a mantle.”
Anastasia laughed. “Hit a nerve, did I?” She poured another glass of wine for herself.
The waiter reappeared, whisking their plates away and setting the entrée course on the table. He was having a roast duck confit with greens on the side. She had chosen the veal.
She continued: “Well, now I know.”
He began cutting his dinner into pieces. “‘Know’ what? That I’m being honest with you? That we disagree? What?”
“I know that—”
“Listen to me, young lady,” he said, pointing the knife at her as he spoke, his eyes blazing. “You don’t ‘know’ anything. You think you have it all figured out, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you: you have a lot to learn. So do your little social-climbing buddies online. I am amazed you can lob these baseless allegations at me, yet excuse the covert misogyny and sexism in their stories, or their ableist and classist screeds which mistake mockery and oversimplified characterizations for ‘insight
ful satire’ or ‘literary greatness.’ And what of their abuse of social-identity politics so white people like them can then parade around as though stealing that flag provides some ‘cloak of invincibility’ that makes them superior to everyone else—including those doing the real work of protesting social injustice in the street, or working to feed the homeless, or fighting to change the law so that it benefits everyone? Fine. You can have their thin characters, weak dialogue, and pretentious writing, which—frequently—strikes the same yawn-inducing note of quasi-philosophical pseudo-intellectualism. Lest we forget the overuse of certain techniques: the embarrassing in-jokes, too much punctuation ‘artfully’ laid out on the page, or some other painfully self-conscious gimmick, like eschewing quotation marks in favor of dashes in the name of an effete, clumsy homage to their literary heroes. And the ‘reviews’ they garner in the digital realm—the innumerable fake five-star accolades and swooning commentary by their friends acting in concert to create a false impression of ‘importance,’ when even the most casual of readers can see that they have nothing to say, no vision. And how about the tokenist panderings in these empty, poorly edited scribbles by this cast of wannabes and hangers-on? Christ, print-on-demand is becoming the bane of good literature, I think, with its lack of editorial oversight and its low bar to entry. Yeah, I’ve read your ‘friends’; don’t look so fucking surprised.”
He returned to his meal, placing a morsel in his mouth. She hid her hands under the table, staring down into her plate.
“And something else,” he said, taking another swallow of wine. “There are people of color who enjoy the work of Lovecraft. You act as though they don’t exist! You all look down your noses at the rest of us who ‘just don’t get it,’ and explain to everyone—even the people of color you allegedly care so much about!—that you ‘understand’ the plight of minorities somehow better than the rest of us. How? From taking a few classes in college? What? You had relatives who lived in Cabrini-Green? Were you raised as an itinerant farmworker? Lived on a reservation, did you? I don’t know . . . You told me that your mother’s side was Greek and Irish and that your father’s family was English all the way back to the Mayflower, that you had a trust fund that allowed you to slum as you saw fit, collecting tattoos and ‘life experiences.’ Think I forgot all that? You people also seem to forget that one of Lovecraft’s chief biographers is from India. Joshi has no issue with HPL, other than finding some of his beliefs wrongheaded and appalling. Doesn’t that count for something?”
Anastasia slumped further into her seat. “No, he doesn’t count. He’s an apologist. And he subscribes to theories by Harold Bloom and his notions about the literary canon. He’s an ass. Everybody thinks so. Just look it up on Facebook and you’ll see.”
He laughed. “Oh, that’s rich! Truly. So his ideas erase his ethnicity, just because you don’t agree with the guy? I may not like every conclusion he suggests, but I happen to think he’s onto something by siding with some of Bloom’s critiques, actually. Especially Bloom’s insights with respect to the ‘anxiety of influence’ and the ‘School of Resentment.’ Seems sometimes like the entire weird field is suffering from these things on some level, at least the ones hailing from the sad little outpost I refer to as ‘New Weirdistan.’ It’s not art, I’ll say that much; it’s nothing, in fact. To encapsulate it: there’s no sublimity, only ridiculousness. Frankly, this whole discussion is ruining my appetite and messing up my evening.”
They passed a few moments without speaking while Vanderbulle finished his meal. Outside, the storm had settled over the city. She looked at the food on her plate, then to the window. The piano drifted back to them, the tune a version of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered.”
After several more minutes, he poured them more wine and said: “Look, Anastasia, I think we should reboot this. If I hurt your feelings, I apologize. I was upset and let my emotions get the better of me. Let’s enjoy our meal here and try to salvage the evening. We still have the Festival to look forward to. Enjoy your dinner, please. The chef here, Damon Hercules, is a multiple James Beard Award winner. He’s better than Gordon Ramsay, Anthony Bourdain, and any other celebrity chef you’ve ever heard of. I know, because they’ve all cooked for me. Hell, Tom Colicchio is a personal friend of mine, and I think Damon is better! The food here is a transformative experience, which is why I brought you for the Festival. There’s nothing else like it on earth, that I can promise. The waiting list at Festival time is years long— even heads of state like the President and First Lady can’t be accommodated. But I’m an unusual case; due to what I mean to the Festival, they seat me no matter what. And understand—I only bring people who are very special here. Even though we’ve only known each other a few weeks, I have a feeling about you. You’re just the thing I need for the Festival.” He reached over and stroked a tress of dark hair from her face. She looked at him, her eyes shining, her features softening.
“Well, I am hungry. And this other stuff . . . we can work it out later, I guess.” She relaxed, untensing her arms. She began to eat.
He leaned back in his seat, watching her as she ate.
“That’s right. We’re not really that far apart, I promise. We have our goals, we have our tactics,” he said, smiling at her. “In time we’ll sort out a strategy. To you, a woman of substance and radiance.” He held his glass aloft.
She blushed, gently touching her glass to his. “Wow. To think I was upset just a few moments ago. Thank you, Lord.”
4
AFTER THE MEAL, THEY ENJOYED ANOTHER BOTTLE of red. The restaurant had closed and they were the only two left in the unlit dining room. Outside, the storm had abated, and the city of Dubai gleamed in the moonless dark. Retiring to a window-front table after finishing the fine Syrah, they were rewarded with a commanding view of the desert world.
After a time, the waiter brought two flaming glasses of white Sambuca. Smothering the flames, he bid them good evening.
“You see,” Vanderbulle said, “the fire burns off some of the intensity of the alcohol. And the three things floating in there are coffee beans, which represent the Holy Trinity. They also add to the flavor, of course. Salute!” He raised his glass. They were awaiting the final course of the evening, dessert, as they imbibed the digestif.
“So explain to me what the Festival is all about,” Anastasia said, her voice low, sultry.
He was somber, gazing at the city below, deep in thought. “Well, it’s a relatively new thing, actually. I brought the idea to the hotel a few years ago. It’s a very special . . . ritual, I guess you could say. It only happens once a year, for a single evening, beginning at the stroke of midnight.”
“Ah. So this isn’t some local custom?”
He shook his head. “No, no. It was something that I used to fantasize about. A dream, I guess you could say. Once I finally had the means, I wanted to bring it to fruition. So this time of year during the New Moon, I like to come here and have the rarest foodstuff on the planet. I pick up the tab for the revelers— all folks I’ve selected for personal reasons to be here—and each one of the participants receives a gift from me. I consider it a way of personally rejuvenating my fortune and creativity for the coming year, a way of sharing my success with others.”
“That sounds amazing!” she exclaimed.
He smiled in the darkened restaurant, checking his watch. “Only a little while now. Drink up! It will be unforgettable, I have no doubt. Chef Damon doesn’t hop on trends like bushmeat or molecular gastronomy. He’s at once classic and iconoclastic. A genius of the palate. He uses only the finest, freshest, most extraordinary ingredients in the world, and prepares them with the skill of someone from another plane of existence. He’s so disciplined, so . . . meticulous. It’s really something to watch him work. The level of artistry, the technique he has— particularly for the preparation and execution of the Festival pièce de résistance—is spectacular. It’s really a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing. And it’s kind of a dangerous meal to
create, so he has to be quite cautious. It’s similar to Fugu, the Japanese pufferfish delicacy, or the Greenland shark dish Hákarl, only more lethal for the chef, potentially.”
She nodded, relaxing as they enjoyed their Sambuca. “Wow. Sounds pretty exotic! So what is this food?”
He smiled, still staring out the window. “That’s a great question. Well, the short answer is that it’s an aphrodisiac.” He glanced over at her, noting her expression, which was a mixture of surprise and intrigue.
“Well, that sounds . . . fascinating,” she said, sipping the anise-flavored liqueur once more.
“And the long answer—the long answer I’ll explain once we begin.”