I am on the corner of Prince and Mott when I call Roberto Bolano. They have set up a market in front of me and people are trying on hats, stepping back to admire themselves in a mirror propped against the church wall.
He answers just as I think the line will cut off. Roberto, I say, It's Tom. Ok he says. What time is it, I ask. 1973 he says. Listen I'm having a party, I'd love you to be there. Give me the where and when he says. Le Dome cafe in Paris I say, 1931. I hear him flicking through the pages of a diary. Ok but I'm bringing Mario. His voice clicks to silence.
I hadn't expected Mario, but I think it will be ok. I try to map out a quick seating plan. I'll head the table, and then clockwise from me: Roberto Bolano, Mario Santiago, Vsevolod Garshin, Henry Miller, and Arthur Rimbaud. We'll have to push a couple of tables together.
I arrive a little early, around December 1930 and making myself comfy at a table near the entrance, order a glass of Stella.
Garshin is the first to arrive. I see him trudging slowly toward the cafe, his hands behind his back, his eyes scouring the pavement. I wave him over and he turns to look behind as if I must want someone else. He joins me and orders a vodka. We sit in silence a while. I start the conversation badly. I explain that I've only read one or two of his stories but that I love his portrait at the MET. That's not my work he says, if you wanted to discuss art you should have invited Repin. I nod thoughtfully. An awkward silence falls. Miller arrives just in time to break it. He stumbles over a table close to us, sending it's contents flying into the street. Are you drunk? Garshin asks, but I see his eyes are alight. No, no says Miller gesturing apologetically to a waiter, well yes but only on air, on water don't you know. I can get drunk on water alone. Watch this. He takes a glass from a neighboring table, downs it in one and promptly falls to the floor.
Poetry is being shouted from somewhere. We look up. Poetry in Spanish. I see a man stood on a chair at the far end of the terrace. Long unwashed hair, arms waving. Bolano I call. Bolano, Garshin echoes. The young Chilean poet leaps from the chair and slouches towards us. Santiago is close behind. We shake hands and take our seats. Where's Rimbaud? Miller asks. I was keen to see him don't you know. He's late. We decide to order without him. Garshin and I choose fish, Miller picks out a steak dish. Bolano orders a bottle of whiskey. Miller, not to be outdone, orders a pitcher of tap water.
The meal begins well. We make small talk, we toast each other. We edge toward dessert and Rimbaud still doesn't show. It's a shame says Bolano, I'd have liked to have seen him. You should have invited Wilde Mario says shaking his head. Someone decides to call him. I have his number here somewhere says Miller rummaging through his jacket pockets. Santiago becomes very animated at this. Call him! Miller hands me a piece of paper with a number scrawled across it and I go inside to make the call.
It rings twice before a very thin and weary voice answers. Oscar? I whisper. Yes dear boy. I'm so sorry, is it late? He sighs. Yes I'm afraid so, at least 1897. I'll be stuck in this frightful place a while, there's simply no way for me to join you. I wish him well and hang up, a little sad at the news. When I return to the terrace all hell has broken loose. Gogol's Nose, out for a stroll along the Avenue de la Bourdonnais, spotted Garshin and has now joined us. The two have ordered a bottle of Vodka and are proceeding to dismiss Bolano and Santiago as frauds. What do you know about art? I hear Bolano scream, magic realism is the fraud, this nose is the fake. The nose seems offended. He explains that he is not the nose from the story but Gogol's actual nose, out to catch the air and relax a little. Therefore I'm real he yells. Where's the magic in that? Santiago upturns the table and the two South American poets disappear into the night. Miller is laughing. Garshin excuses himself and goes inside. Gogol's nose shrugs. I ask for the check. Miller overhears and says, give me two minutes, I must take a leak don't you know. After twenty minutes I decide they're not coming back. The nose agrees. I ask him if he has any money on him. He pretends to search his pockets. Well er, I really only had two shots of vodka, we're not splitting the bill equally are we? It hardly seems fair. I tell him to forget it. He tips his hat and hurries back out onto the street.
The following evening I receive a call from Rimbaud. Where the bloody hell are you? He says. Where am I? The Dinner was yesterday Arthur. What? Didn't we say Thursday evening? No Arthur, we said Wednesday. Oh for Christ sake. The line goes dead.
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