Free Don't Cry: Stories by Mary Gaitskill

was titillating— though, yes, it was—but because in the telling of it, a certain foundation of humanity was revealed; the crude cinder blocks of male and female down in the basement, holding up the house. Those of us who have spouses and/or children forget about this part—not because we have an aversion to those cinder blocks necessarily, but because we are busy on the upper levels, building a home with furniture, decorations, and personalities in it. We are glad to have the topless dancer to remind us of that dark area in the basement where personality is irrelevant and crude truth prevails. Her philosophical patter even added to the power of her story because it created a stark polarity: intelligent words on one side, and mute genitals on the other. Between the poles, there was darkness and mystery, and the dancer respected the mystery with her ignorant and touching pretense.
    Which is exacdy what the feminist author did not do. I drained
    m y second glass of wine. The feminist author—she told and then read her disturbing stories as if she were a lady at a tea party, as if there were no mystery, no darkness, just her, the feminist author skipping along, swinging some charming little bag, and singing about penises, la la la la la! I?
    Another server wafted past, a young woman with her mind clearly on something else. I reached for another glass of wine, then changed my mind. Of course, someone might say—I can picture a well-dressed, intellectual lady saying it—well, why not? And rationally, there is no reason why not. These things are accepted now; these things are talked about in popular comedies on television. So why not? Because everyone knows such television shows are nonsense. Because glib acceptance does not respect the profound nature of the agonized face.
    I reconsidered having another wine; looking for a server, I noticed that the Somali author, momentarily unpestered, was looking at me with a kindly expression. He was handsome, well dressed, and elegant. Impulsively, I crossed the room and introduced myself His hand was long, dry, and warm. He had come from New York, not Somalia. He came every year. When I told him it was my first time, he smiled.
    “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
    “Yes,” I said, “though it’s been a long time since I’ve had two quick drinks this early in the day”
    He laughed, raised his wineglass, and sipped from it.
    “And you?” I asked. “Do you enjoy this?”
    "Oh yes,” he said. “One meets such curious people. And, of course, interesting people, too."
    “What about her?” I indicated the feminist author, now chatting with her back to us. “What did you think?”
    “Oh!” The Somali author laughed. “I’ve heard what she has to say many times—it’s nothing new. But I did admire the panache with which she said it. Did you see Binyavanga speak on cultural rationalism?”
    But we were interrupted by more people wanting his signature, and then it was time for his reading. "I hope you will come" he said.
    The Somali author read from his award winner, the novel about civil war and familial bonds. He skipped through the book, reading excerpts from several chapters, starting with a tender love scene between a husband and his wife, who magically has two sets of breasts, the normal set augmented by a miniset located just under her rib cage. Their young son runs in and cries, “Are you going to give me a sibling?” Then the author jumped ahead, and suddenly there it was again: the agonized face. The son, now grown, is being pursued by a fat, whorish girl who claims he owes her a baby, even though she has AIDS and he is engaged to someone else. We learn that this very girl, an orphan who was briefly taken in by the family when she was fourteen, once sexually attacked the grandfathe%| who responded by righteously kicking her in the face. When the mother learns that this slut is back again, she decides to get a gun, humiliate the girl, and then kill her. The