Lunch With Genet
Le Gran Café de Paris separated the old part of Tangier from the European part of town. On a corner that offered a view of those going to the Socco Grande and on down into the medina, and those heading to Rue du Pasteur and the European shops, or Madame Port’s for the best coffee and pastries—or later in the day, her famous martinis for the Nazarenes. Or maybe the Libraire du Cologne, for English language books, if that’s what you were looking for. Genet! A writer who represented everything my life had not been. A thief, an immigration activist, a supporter of the Palestinian cause, the subject of Sartre’s Saint Genet, and the author of numerous iconic works. When he died, he was buried in Larache, Morocco. He had become an almost mythological figure to those of us who had read his books, certainly the cult writer most celebrated in our group, a true knight of the underworld. I was invited to meet him by a Moroccan friend, Mohammed Choukri, a sophisticated writer and slightly pretentious intellectual whose books were published in the Middle East—something akin to the Ivy League for North African writers—with a certain reputation, evidently enough to have befriended Genet. He warned me Genet might be dour, as he was still mourning the death of Abdullah Bentaga, a tightrope walker and Genet’s lover. I had read all of the Frenchman’s books, but couldn’t imagine actually meeting the man behind them. The thought of actually being in his company was, what? Something like a heart-roll on a snare drum. The places he’d inhabited, the people who populated his underworld. Our Lady of the Flowers was the book for me—Divine, his transvestite, and the brown paper upon which he wrote his novel while in prison. I got there first, as I always do, and then Genet and Choukri arrived. There was no handshaking, no eye contact. Only I knew I was there. The three of us sat at a small round table outside the cafe. It was a warm North African day in April and the street was filled with men in brown djellabas and veiled women in multi-colored haiks. A little later, Genet suddenly leaned toward me (I’m sure I pivoted away), to shake my hand, the timing so breathtakingly off that I actually stood up to shake his dry, calloused hand. There was a little begrudging pressure in the handshake, it seemed to me. All in all, I remember it as a rather limp shake, delicate you might even say, but there was certainly no bisous sur la joue in the air. He was shorter than I had imagined him, but muscled, and his head was sweating, beads of sweat that seemed only the French could exude. He wore a ragged, sky-blue t-shirt and pale pants with sandals. We sat and Choukri ordered. I don’t speak French and Genet clearly had no interest in wasting his modest English on me. When our Spanish omelettes and lamb brochettes with harissa arrived, Choukri kindly said, “He doesn’t much care for Americans, especially white Americans. And he thinks you’re heterosexual.” I believed Genet smiled at the latter, but maybe something in the street caught his attention. A reflection. An attractive Moroccan. Choukri translated our very brief exchange. He said Genet was curious why Paul Bowles had befriended me. I told him, “Paul likes everyone.” I looked at Genet and bravely, it occurs to me now, said, “Doesn’t he like you?” It was risky, I thought. If I remember correctly, Genet in response said something like, “So, you are anyone?” I was young and amazed to be in the company of Jean Genet. How would I have addressed him? Monsieur Genet, or Hey, Jean? I never had the occasion. He gave me a sturdy look that almost acknowledged my presence at that table and in the world—a look that time has been unable to dilute. Then he turned away and continued in deep conversation with Choukri and the table became a table for two. I took my leave. I put down a few dirhams and Genet quickly gathered them in, without looking up.
