Keynote Speaker



  The Keynote Speaker

  Jonathan M Barrett

  Copyright 2010 Jonathan M Barrett

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  Raindrops race horizontally across the window, and the fuselage shudders against the gale. So this is Wellington. I'm reminded of last year in Reykjavik as we jounce along a runway beside an angry grey sea. There's a hint of the volcanic in the surrounding hills, and the same clouds too, wind-ripped like strips of dirty wool caught on a barbed wire fence.

  They'd told me I'd see a model of Gollum straddling the terminal building, but, no doubt, a gust carried the poor fellow off towards the Pole. I cannot restrain my sigh: once more, Antoine Maercx, keynote speaker, arrives in Ultima Thule. So be it. I let the other passengers assert their importance by hustling into the exit queue, and it's with languor that I retrieve my carrier bags from the overhead locker. (The sensitive observer might suspect Weltschmerz.) The shopping in Melbourne was satisfactory. I bought a koala bear fashioned from a kangaroo pelt for Jean-Luc, and a kangaroo in koala fur for Sandrine. For Annik I bought lingerie, and, for my current wife, nothing. I suspect the right thing is waiting for her in this wet and windy place.

  A pale young man with albino dreadlocks holds up a sign that bears a phonetic approximation of my name. I hail him. He tells me straight off that he's a doctoral student. "Do you mind if I call you Ant One?" Those are the words he uses, except he elides and swallows the vowels. And I do, indeed, mind such casual impudence. My doctoral students may not use my given name until they have gifted me a co-authored publication.

  "But of course," I say and offer him the handle of my wheelie case, which the clot obviously fails to see. I fear this typical hippy person will transport me in a kombi with naïve foliage and pixies hand-painted on the side, but he leads me to a university car; a model not too insulting to my status. The youth, whose name I miss, drives competently enough, but soon reveals how poorly he's understood my explication of Nietzsche. No, no, no, you cretin, I think, but I manage to present my ironic smile. Moreover, I did not expect him to splutter and cough at my query regarding the native hobbits.

  Despite my protestations, the pasty youth accompanies me into the hotel reception (still not taking my case). "I'll do the form for you," he says.

  "I'll manage."

  "The Chair said I should." And, no doubt, he actually believes he's helping by tussling with me over the pen. Still, I think the rather attractive receptionist understood the import of my heaven cast eyes. The boy had surprisingly strong fingers. Then let him sign me in.

  The room is satisfactory. No bath, but I have a long shower, and the bathrobe has a good pile. Nevertheless, I'm uncomfortably reminded of the Mannequin Pisse when I see in the mirror that its lapels do not quite reach each other. I decide to have a brief power nap.

  It seems no sooner are my eyes shut before I'm woken by a banging on my door. I'm still drowsy as I make my way towards the commotion; perhaps it's room service with another snack. But, through the spy hole, I see a welcoming party from the Australasian Nietzsche Society, earnest men with beards, come to take me to dinner.

  "One moment, gentlemen." I hasten to dress in articles close to hand. And this is why I will spend the next many hours without socks and underwear in the khaki pants I'd packed for Iowa, the Unknown Pleasures t-shirt for Prague, and candy striped jacket for Hong Kong.

  I open the door, and the members of the delegation regard me. They wear anoraks and stout walking shoes. And yet, I suspect, at their next conference, which they tell me will be held at the University of Broken Hill, Kalgoorie campus, some will be dressed as by accident I am now.

  At my courtly gesture, they shuffle in but seem too awed to speak.

  "Professor–" All three start and stop in concert.

  "Please, colleagues – 'Antoine'," I say and hold my hands wide.

  "Ant One." "Ant One." "Ant One." They each repeat carefully.

  The fellow whose beard is better trimmed than the others comes forward with hand outstretched. "Ant One, as Chair, I'd just like to say on behalf of the conference organising committee, what a pleasure–"

  "–Honour," I hear another whisper.

  "–What an honour it is to have you as the keynote speaker at this year's biennial Australasian Nietzsche Society conference."

  I bow slightly, but not too far, since my pants seem to have shrunk a little on my travels and say, "The pleasure – and honour – are both mine."

  They laugh and exchange glances as if to say thank god this handsome dog's English is perfect with just an undertone of California picked up during a sabbatical year at Berkeley. They move forward to shake hands. I am told my German has a hint of Berlin.

  #

  At the restaurant, my hosts, like support riders in the peloton, take turns to lead me on towards the yellow jersey – the yellow jersey for drinking, that is! And, I must confess, I am a tad crapulent by the time they drop me off in a supermarket trolley in the foyer of the hotel. Next morning, my throbbing head, and the miniatures of scotch and chocolate wrappers scattered about my pillows tell me my party didn't end there.

  #

  A delegation of solemn Māori opens the conference. I'm not at all displeased with the respect they show a distinguished visitor, whose hangover is extreme. I warmly anticipate pressing noses with the Gauginesque beauty who accompanies the elders, but this experience is not offered. From the stage, I scan the audience: the usual selection of eager misfits. I nod at a fellow I met in Manchester or Belgrade. I'll greet him heartily later. Thank god for my superb memory, and nametags. I start to read my paper – Nietzsche: Superman or Clark Kent? – although I could perhaps recite it by now.

  #

  It's question time already. I mask my yawn but, really, it's so tiresome to have an utterance minutely parsed, especially when that particular utterance originated with one's graduate student.

  "You posit in endnote 74 on page 135 of your paper 'Nietzsche and the praxis of solid waste disposal' 1997 Janitoria 36(3) pp 97-149–" The youth with the albino dreadlocks, who'd picked me up from the airport, begins to preface his question. Many hours seem to pass before he's done. Perhaps my smile from picturing Annik in her crimson lingerie encourages him to speak more. It's a paradox: his every sentence ends in an interrogative and yet no question escapes the carceral muddle he constructs.

  "Is there a question in there somewhere?" I say when, at last, he finishes.

  The audience laughs with vigour. His whey-face reddens. He sits down and mutters his excuses. I can't resist a smile of satisfaction. I notice an attractive young woman whispering to the pasty youth, no doubt advising the little puppy not to lock horns with Antoine Maercx.

  The next questioner rises to her feet. "Foucault says–"

  "Who?" I ask, and present my innocent grin. The interrogator loses her way and sits down. The audience does not laugh so much.

  After a period of deepening silence, the Chair says, "Does anyone else have a question for our distinguished guest?" He scans the room for raised hands, but, like penitents at prayer, all eyes are cast down to the conference programme. "Um, we've set aside 45 minutes for questions, so tea won't be ready for another–" He checks his watch and raises his eyes in calculation. "–42 minutes."

  A frumpy woman in the front row gathers her papers, and leaves.

  I'm imagining myself in the arms of Annik or someone similar, a brunette perhaps, when a member of the conference organising committee manages to formulate a sweetheart question. As I answer, I cannot explain why, but I stumble over 'genealogy', a word I've
pronounced without problem innumerable times. At this most miniscule of faux pas, excited delegates start to scribble. They must presume themselves present at the birth of a great neologism. Now hands shoot up, as though it were spring on the tundra.

  "Would Professor Maercx care to explain the difference between the concepts of 'genealogy' and 'genie-eulogy'? I really can't see the distinction."

  From around the room, supportive utterings greet the question like the murmurings of a claque of bonobos.

  I mop my brow. I speak four languages flawlessly. Five, if you count Flemish as a language. My explication of Nietzsche is world-renowned. I cough. "There is no difference."

  My answer only puzzles them more. I catch whisperings about my possible heresy. The sun has come out, and the room is stifling. My body is dehydrated, but I see the water carafe is empty. I mime drinking to the Chair, but, in reaction, he presents two thumbs up and pretends to push a shopping trolley.

  Not before an eternity has elapsed does the Chair signal for the young woman next to the pasty youth to have the honour of the last question. I stare at her intently, as if I'm listening, but I'm thinking it wouldn't be such a terrible thing if Annik had cheekbones like my long and svelte interrogator. Indeed, Annik seems to have gained an alarming amount of weight since I arranged publication of her dissertation. The question must be difficult, since the eyes of the audience are full of expectation as they turn from the questioner to me. Unfortunately, I haven't heard a word she's said and must rely on my famous charm to preserve my dignity. "Now, why would such an attractive young lady want to ask such a difficult question?" I say, oozing charisma and, it must be said, some perspiration.

  She's not, I discover, just an attractive young lady, she's also an eloquent feminist who harangues me for a very long time. At last, when she stops to draw breath, I give my Gallic shrug and suggest the art of irony may not have reached so far south. Evidently, it has not, and the Chair's announcing that tea will now be served comes as a great relief to me. The audience applause is not as fulsome as I'm used to, and it's regrettable that delegates should show more interest in the prospect of tea than in properly thanking the keynote speaker.

  #

  In the refectory, the plates are lamentably small, but I manage to construct a ziggurat of pastries and cold meats. I spot the angry young lady. She is, I think, a warrior woman, very tall for a female, even taller than me, maybe one metre 75. Straight back, and square, strong shoulders adorned with neo-tribal tattoos. Her braided hair is wrapped around, high onto her crown in a Grecian knot. No, I decide she's not an Amazon; she's a priestess from the temple of Zarathustra. I lick the sugar from my lips, and deftly avoid a member of the organising committee who's advancing towards me, finger raised and premise half cocked. I weave through the crowd to the young woman.

  "I found your argument absolutely fascinating," I tell her. "Perhaps we could work on something together." I know that smile is a little unctuous, but it's normally very effective.

  She looks down at me; I understand how she'll be overawed by the possibility of a joint publication with arguably Belgium's pre-eminent Nietzschean scholar. "I doubt it," she says, and pointing, adds, "You've got something in your moustache."

  The twinkle in my eye as I remove the gob of butter from my upper lip will tell her I like a woman with spirit. (But not as much spirit as my current wife, who emptied my suitcase from the balcony of our apartment, when she discovered Annik's peignoir from Prague was not for her.) I take a slice of beef in my fingers, and rip off a chunk with my teeth, thereby indicating my Dionysian side. As I chew on the flesh, which is less tender than I'd anticipated, I reach for the nametag that hangs around the priestess's neck in a lanyard. I look up into her eyes and start to read. But I get no further than the initial plosive of 'Poppy' because a clump of meat is expelled from my mouth into her cleavage. Ever the gallant, I reach to retrieve it. Zarathustra's priestess is quick to tell me she's a vegan, and bats my fingers away. "That's disgusting," she says and stomps off. But, fear not, the keynote speaker is never left alone for long.

  #

  The speeches are many and dull, but the food and wine are plentiful - you know how conference dinners are. Afterwards, some of the younger delegates are up for more carousing. As I am on very good form, and Zarathustra's priestess is part of the group, I let them persuade me to join them.

  I lose count of the places we visit; indeed, my memories of the evening are not complete. But I do recall how the huge young men at the doors of the bars study me with curiosity. Perhaps, some are philosophy students and recognise me from my Wikipedia entry. I find it lamentable that I, a visitor, must show the others the culturally correct way to greet the native doormen. But the others drag me away as I attempt to demonstrate the proper nose kiss.

  At the last nightclub, I can't resist having great sport at the expense of the pasty youth. (In truth, I'm finding it rather irksome that he won't leave Zarathustra's priestess and me alone together.) He stares at me with an impassive expression. "I'm sorry," he says, "I can't understand what you're saying. I don't speak Belgian."

  Imbecile. It's English, a little inflected by alcohol, perhaps, still there's no need for that sort of impudence. I take my priestess by the wrist and pull her onto the dance floor. It's unfortunate that the table should come with her, but the pasty youth can sort that out. When the spirit of Dionysus takes Antoine Maercx, he does not concern himself with spilt crockery!

  The cramped dance floor is torrid, and my wanton grooving leaves me somewhat perspirational. Indeed, rivulets of sweat run down my brow, and condensation fogs my lenses. Reckless now, I stow my glasses in my shirt pocket. When the music slows, I seize the opportunity to pull my priestess close to me. At first she resists but relents and rests her chin on my crown. My fingertip traces the tattooed curlicues on her shoulder. She throws back her head in laughter at my risqué interpretations of the symbols. You don't have to be ranked 73rd in the Time Benelux edition 'Most important contemporary thinkers' list to know where this is leading. Perhaps Annik will not be getting her present after all.

  I follow the letters, and whisper in my priestess's ear. "And what is the significance of 'Storm'?"

  "Storm? You know him. He's my partner." When she turns to blow a kiss to the pasty youth, I feel strangely faint. We unclench, and my glasses, which have worked their way from my pocket, fall to the floor; I soon follow them. It seems my head makes contact with this silly girl's knee as I fish on the floor for my cracked lenses.

  From the gurney, I note the A&E is remarkably similar to the hospital in Reykjavik.

  ###

  About the author

  Jonathan M Barrett lives and teaches in Wellington, New Zealand. He has written plays, novels and short stories.

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