Before the evening began, speculation seemed to offer a dinner party I

might consider normal, as a Hollywood Hills party scene might play

among the arty elite. Yet, this evening’s soirée was more like having

dinner in an opulent mausoleum for the deceased singer, Robert Goulet*,

with an assortment of characters from a play written by a combination of

Kafka and Chekhov. Every available square inch of wall space in the

labyrinth of a house, floor to ceiling literally - from baseboard to

uppermost edge was hung with photographs, significant documents and

award plaques from Goulet's career in theatre, film and music.

Mrs. Goulet, who had also been Goulet's manager for over twenty years,

was a delicate woman, of sprayed on beauty, who - never, never stopped

talking… always about Robert… his acknowledgements from civic

dignitaries, accomplishments on stage, his adventures with the

luminaries of film and theatre, including the likes of Bob Hope, Sinatra,

Sammy Davis, and even President Ronald and Nancy Reagan. Though

obviously accomplished within the theatrical milieu, she was at his side in

many of the important photographs on display, but there was never a

hint of her own thoughts or being, apart from - as his companion.

Mrs. Goulet would float in and about appearing and disappearing in a

gossamer flower print dress, a la Blanche DuBois . A tintype of delicately

cracking porcelain framed by a pinned-back truss of carrot hair. All the

while an unending blur of Goulet’s songs lilted on in the background, just

a touch louder than would be appropriate for Muzak, so that in order to

have a conversation one had to raise one's voice a tad more than

comfortable.

We had arrived at a reasonable hour 7:45, as almost the first. Hor

d’oeuvres served with excellent wine, a delightful assortment including

two kinds of shrimp, one cold with and the other breaded and baked with

lemon and garlic, then there was a seasoned humus dip, crackers and

toasted buttered-garlic bread and then of course the perusal of the

mausoleum to keep us entertained. The hostess remained out of sight

more than the first hour… as other guests continued to arrive. Not at all

uninteresting folk: an ex-CIA operative and his Nordic wife, the Swedish

Consulate in Vegas - who was working passionately on raising awareness

of the problem of young women disappearing into global black-market

slavery, from the fanciest hotels in Vegas. Another most gregarious guestwas the producer, director of the long running Vegas musical

"Menopause", of which in my ignorance I had never heard.

Drinking, eating shrimp, talking on & on, dinner working its way haltingly

in the kitchen - drinking, a bit more dip, waiting for dinner…. waiting…

waiting in deference for each Goulet memoir to reach its appropriate

conclusion before resuming slicing the tomatoes, garnishing the fish.

However, as the Goulet evening progressed a slow swirling maelstrom

drew everyone closer into the deeper luxurious world of suffocating

remembrance, approaching a certain madness. Certainly, a realm not

wholly of the real. More in kin to the formal claustrophobia evoked by

Buneul's "Exterminating Angel" than would be thought possible.

As with any effective scene every aspect of the mise-en-scène is critical.

Two gaunt-winged attendants fluttered about with the host’s

preparations as well as attended to the evening’s service. This couple

from Oregon had contacted Mrs. Goulet that they had purchased the

Goulet’s former yacht and were refurbishing it. Apparently, this act of

restoration had so endeared them to her that the couple was invited to be

houseguests along with one of their mothers, an equally grin-beaked

being.

This synergy of hospitality added yet another ingredient to the evening’s

ambiance. During the previous night the mother apparently flushed a

leaking toilet precipitating an unabated flood throughout the bedroom

wing of the house. Undiscovered till the slumberers awoke at dawn, the

seepage had put at risk much of the photographic collection there. Down

those darkened corridors leading to the violated sanctum, carpets had

been ripped up exposing mottled concrete where industrial fans stood

guard droning on in untutored monotones to rival Goulet’s endless

repertoire. The flecking walls stripped of their veil of memory. The

archive’s careful narrative huddles frame to face in disarray from the

faintly fear of mildew.

One intimate moment was offered between Mrs. G. and me. Vera led me

through one of the most densely embroidered recesses of the

mausoleum; a series of seemingly unplanned additions added one upon

the other as one might accommodate an ample meal by gradually

loosening trousers for life’s expansions of memorabilia. She halted in

front of each significant treasure that crackled out from the spinning

grooves of her recollection. Remarking on the original drawings of what

seemed vaguely familiar New Yorker cartoons of Mr. Goulet at the height

of his renown, or then pausing to appraise Robert’s comfort or joy with

certain pieces of furniture or attachment to tableaus nestled among these

blankets of reminiscence. She seemed sternly perturbed if anything wereleft upon Robert’s creased with favor leather chair, as if his impending

return were immanent within her secreted world.

Dinner - finally was served at 11:30. A superb salmon was poached with

a fresh fennel and rosemary garnish. The salad we constructed ourselves

from ample makings and the vegetables were green beans with roasted

new red potatoes. Fully the lateness of the die was cast, as our desert

would be delayed until we guests were almost out the door... chilled

blueberries infused with a sugared cognac over shortcake. All had been

most casino-like… no clocks, the era of overstuffed surroundings,

permeated by music (Goulet of course). No exit, waiting for dinner, very

genteel, but just not… well – as expected. Indeed, Bunuel.

Follow now the lens of this grainy scene as it pans the long to dark dinner

fed outside in the gazebo with the warm desert wind flying at the bushes

and flinging lanterns all about. With particularly prolonged gusts, Mrs.

Goulet admonishes the wind -

"Robert, Robert… stop that now."

Her late slurring voice willing his being, fold about her his familiar cloak

more utterly than imaginable… and the loudspeaker’s forever lasting

embrace of Robert Goulet… blooms within the poolside repast, imbues

unease to each goblet and glance among her guests.

Her gaze held to the evaporate wind, fled away those porcelain tears

before they could be, or - we could see. Fluttering in the wisp left by the

dying, or paling under lusterless eyes staring back from photographs of

the dead -

"Oh, Robert, stop that…now. Stop that…"