Come Back (6 page)

So this was where Dash would spend the early part of his evenings, followed by drinks with Trevor and the students at the university. It was a sad and lonely life — at least, in terms of the sexual practices of the time. For there were other “gay” people who were not only still having actual sex with each other, but falling in love, getting married, experiencing romance. Dash got drunk almost every night — remember, for him this was controlled, “good” behaviour because he separated his drinking from his cruising. When Trevor asked Dash why he enjoyed this lifestyle so much, he said, “I'm not very good at sex.” This certainly smelled of paradox for someone who had sex so frequently. So Trevor suggested, “Does that mean you're practicing?” which apparently Dash laughed at, or rather Trevor couldn't really remember what his response was. At another point, after the death of his Shakespeare conference, Dash was very depressed. He confided to Trevor, “I don't really want to go to the baths, but I have to because my boyfriend won't have sex with me.” Trevor became instantly sympathetic — he's a very sympathetic type of fellow — and wanted to talk to Dash about his “problem.” But Dash became defensive, saying, “It's not because my boyfriend and I don't have sex.” He then specified, “That is, we don't have sex, but it's not because of that.” Trevor, who had a notion of himself as a kind of amateur psychoanalyst, tried to probe into Dash's promiscuous habits and reluctant boyfriend, but had little success.

It was also during these discussions that Dash revealed that his interest in Shakespeare's sexuality had turned primarily into a fascination with the authorship question. Trevor was confused by the switch, and again the conversation was a drunken one. But one night at the bar, Dash apparently frightened some young wet-behind-the-ears undergraduates from the Department of Difference by banging on the table and yelling, “It's de Vere. I know it's de Vere! I can't stand the lies anymore! I have to expose the lies.”

Once Trevor had calmed down the undergrads and had found a private corner on the patio, he was able to get Dash to explain that “the lie about a heterosexual Shakespeare is actually less appalling than the lie about Shakespeare himself.” On further probing Dash said, “De Vere was definitely a fag, but what drives me crazy is the way the academic establishment refuses to discuss him. . . .” Or something to that effect.

Trevor's revelations concerning his drunken talks with Dash shed a glaring light on Dash's disappointment in the writing addressed to his advisor. It's obvious that Dash's depression over the conference may have been the cause of his disillusionment with academia, and may be related to his tragic romantic life. Here is the passage:

Antonio:

I want to relate something that is really upsetting. You may think that I am blowing it out of proportion but I want you to know that I am not. At least, it's important to me, very important, and something we really must talk about. Or you simply have to listen. Here, let me write this to you. I'm sorry I'm not being very articulate. But I'm deeply, deeply angry. I'm going to tell you the whole story. It all has to do with organizing the conference. I might as well tell you right off the bat that I'm not going to try to organize a Shakespeare conference. I've given up. As far as I'm concerned there's no point; all my enthusiasm has gone. The first thing I want to say is that I apologize. I feel terrible for getting everyone together and asking for advice and then copping out. I wouldn't be pulling out if I wasn't so discouraged and upset. As you know, in my spare time I have been reading a lot about the authorship question. You've been very kind about it, as you are always kind about things — and you haven't seemed particularly disturbed about my pursuit of these ideas. I'm new to academia, as you know, and I thought that even though the ideas I am interested in are considered radical by some, controversy might be important to a conference.

Well, I'm beginning to understand that specialization is all-important, and that your acquiescence on this topic may have to do with the fact that you are not a Shakespeare scholar, or even an English professor, but a prof in gender studies. I find it shocking that people can be so sensitive about their areas. What if I suddenly decided to have a conference about the idea that identity politics was dead? I'm not sure you would go for it — not because you are not a nice person, but because it would just be too controversial for your area. Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe I've picked the wrong analogy. I'll just get on with it. Anyway, my interest in Shakespeare authorship has been my secret agenda in terms of this conference. I know I first suggested that the subject of the conference might be Shakespeare and sexuality, which everyone, including Dr. Braithwaite, seemed to think was a good idea. But of course I wasn't being completely honest, especially with Dr. Braithwaite. Of course I'm interested in Shakespeare and sexuality, but I'm also quite interested in the authorship question. And I was hoping — more than hoping — planning — that the conference might have been devoted not just to Shakespeare and sexuality, but could feature a few panels on authorship. Specifically, I was hoping to invite Dr. Mittenstatt from the University of Massachusetts who is the first American scholar to write a thesis on the notion of de Vere as Shakespeare. (Just Dr. Mittenstatt, just him, just one scholar on this topic, among — how many — thirty or forty?) Well, anyway, as you know it's been very important for me to get Dr. Braithwaite's approval and support and I was really looking forward to having lunch with him. Neither of us was going to be at the university last Wednesday so he invited me to his house for lunch. I was very flattered by this and this probably adds to the general humiliation. You know how difficult it has been for me to make the adjustment to academia from the world of the theatre. I've never really felt accepted by the literary community because I'm an out, gay writer. (You've been very encouraging to me on this subject; it's not because of you that I'm insecure. In fact, the opposite.) As you know, Dr. Braithwaite's wife, Amanda, is a professor here and also a prominent poet. I'd never met her, but I've always kind of admired her, even if only because of the way she tosses her hair around at meetings of the graduate department. I mean, they make quite a handsome couple, don't they? He is elderly but still very, very muscled, well-built, blond-bearded, distinguished and such a kind man — and kind to me — while Amanda looks like a dominatrix, or at least a woman in charge. I'm kind of afraid of her, but in a worshipful way. So when Dr. Braithwaite said, “Why don't you stop by and have lunch with us,” I thought I might be having lunch with the scholar and his wife, the prominent Canadian poet. I really was looking forward to it, which makes the whole thing super-humiliating. I wish I could abandon this need to be “accepted.” It's the bane of my existence. You'd think that, being such a rebel in my writings, I would be able to handle being an outsider on the Canadian literary scene. Well, I can. But what I can't seem to handle is being abandoned at lunch.

I met Dr. Braithwaite at the Broadview subway, and he was going to drive me to their home overlooking the public swimming pool. But as soon as I got in the car, Dr. Braithwaite said, “I'm sorry, something has come up and we won't be having lunch at our home.” Here is where it gets a little sketchy. I'm sure it's possible that something did come up, and that this was not an excuse. But you know how people use that phrase “something has come up” — it's almost always a textbook euphemism for “I've decided I don't want to spend time with you.” Now, I don't think this would have been coming from Dr. Braithwaite himself, who is a very nice man and is always very cordial to me. I can't help thinking of Amanda. . . . I could just hear her saying, “Oh, I'm in a mood today and I have to finish that sonnet and I just can't bear having lunch with Canada's pre-eminent gay playwright — not today, could you just put him off?” I know that's what happened; I'm sure that's what happened. And you know, it doesn't matter if it is a preposterous idea, and it is. But the fact is that I will never be accepted by the Canadian literary establishment. And I would like to pretend I don't care, but I do.

Anyway, the whole thing set my paranoia off, but I vowed to myself that I would be a good boy and have a nice lunch with Dr. Braithwaite because I had a Shakespeare conference to set up. We wound up in a coffee shop because it was all that was open in the neighbourhood. “Will this be all right?” he asked. He is so nice — I just couldn't say no. Well, we sat down and everything was very warm and chatty, and we really got to know each other. Did you know that Dr. Braithwaite is starting to lose sensation in his fingers? He must be sixty-five years old if he's a day, and it made me very sad to think about it. He was trying to be blasé, and he is the very epitome of the absent-minded professor. But all I could think of was, does his dominatrix writer wife with the perpetually flippy hair, does she know about this? Is she taking him to clinics, or is she just too busy writing the next great Canadian poetry collection? So I was feeling very sorry for him, and he was giving me lots of great advice about the conference, trying to work in some Dekker stuff because that is also his area, you know, which I expected and was completely open to. Then when everything seemed perfect, and he said he was going to contact people he knew, like Stephen Orgel (I was very impressed!), I thought the conference was in the bag. So we were finishing our coffees and I decided to just throw in a little question about Shakespearean authorship. I didn't anticipate his response, not for one moment, and even though it was quick and casual, it hit me like a ton of bricks. “So, I was hoping,” I said in an offhand way, “that I might invite maybe one scholar who could talk a little bit about the authorship question.” “Like who?” he asked. And I didn't think there was anything wrong yet. “Well, like Peter Mittenstatt,” I said. “And who is he?” he asked politely. “Well, he wrote the first PhD thesis on the notion that Edward de Vere was Shakespeare,” I ventured. “Oh —” there was a pause; it was endless; a pause I will never, honestly, never, forget — “well, you couldn't do that.” He said it just like that, just like it was the most absurd idea anyone had ever had. “Why not?” I asked. “Because,” he said, still looking very sweet and grandfatherly, “if you did that no one would come to the conference.” “Literally?” I asked. “No,” he said, “I'm afraid they wouldn't.”

After that I tried to make conversation and be polite and smile, but I knew it was all over for me. I mean, so much is over. Why would I want to organize a conference when the whole reason for me running the conference — my major interest, the Shakespearean authorship question — would not and could not be a subject for discussion? I felt betrayed. Not by Dr. Braithwaite, who I still think is a kind man operating in a cruel and stupid system. Yes, I have to say it's cruel. And I feel completely betrayed by it. And I don't want to have anything more to do with it. What I don't understand is, if it's so ridiculous to think that de Vere is Shakespeare, then why would it matter if one stupid and irrelevant academic were invited to attend the conference and argue in favour of the bungheaded theory? Why, instead, would that make everyone boycott the conference? What are they all afraid of? And how could a man as kind and brilliant as Dr. Braithwaite treat me as if I had just farted in public when I brought up the subject? Is the emperor wearing
any
clothes?

Okay, I'll stop. It's becoming clear to me that there is no place for me in this world. I was driven out of my theatre company. Why? For being too gay, for championing gay, when gay is clearly over. At least, in the way I knew it. And now the only academic subject I want to talk about is verboten, and I am condemned to silence. I feel that when it comes to me, the rest is silence, because what else do I have to say, and what is the point of talking?

You don't have to answer. But maybe you will understand why I have been late with my latest draft.

Thanks for everything,

Dash

The
Hamlet
reference is melodramatic but appropriate. Shortly after this, Dash abandoned not only his thesis, but any effort at constructive living. I don't expect you to like Dash; he is eminently unlikeable, self-obsessed and self-destructive. And I'm not saying I like him, just that I am fascinated by him. Is this just nostalgia? At my age, I think I can be forgiven a little nostalgia. But I don't think that's really what it is. Dash's self-destructiveness is rooted in a direct relationship with a discernable reality; that is, he knows he can destroy himself. (It is so difficult to destroy yourself these days!) But also, his obsession with Shakespeare is not only rooted in a time and place where identity mattered, but where truth mattered. When history seemed like something that could be proved. It is romantic, and I am romantic. And though I don't want to stop talking, it is late. We have been talking practically all night — it's so easy now that I am integral. But I suppose this isn't talking, technically, as you haven't had a chance to respond. Yet I haven't needed a cigarette because I have become drunk on you. You can't imagine what a job it is to haul this carcass — and that is literally what it has become — into bed. But that's what I am going to do. Sometimes I think the only thing that keeps me alive is believing you'll listen to me. When we meet again — I am certain it will happen someday — will you buy me dresses? Yes, I would look ridiculous. It would be like putting the Blob in an evening gown, mud glittering with diamonds. But I should like that. And I would especially like you to go on again about how you cannot wear dresses, that you don't know how to wear them. But I can.

I can no longer twirl. I can no longer dance. Perhaps that's why I am playing with words — because they remind me of what it was like to dance for you.