If somewhere there exists a list of unlikely phrases, then "security is pretty tight at the Historical Society tonight" is definitely on there. But it isn't every Friday night that the author who pissed off a major world religion rolls into town, and the normally low-key museum hosting him has shifted gears with gusto.
A full hour before Salman Rushdie is to read from his new book, a line of literati snakes out onto Clark Street, waiting to have their tickets taken and their picture IDs checked against a list. Among the various officious characters eyeing the crowd, it's hard to tell who is with Borders (sponsors of the event), who is with the Historical Society, and who is with the special branch of the London Police that keeps constant watch on Rushdie.
Inside, eager bookworms are segregated by gender into two lines, to pass through the metal detectors standing outside the auditorium. Airport security is never so comprehensive or detailed: Pockets are emptied into Tupperware buckets, eyeglasses removed and inspected, portable tape recorders turned on and off and checked.
Only once we are all seated, waiting for the man of the hour to appear, does the evening begin to resemble a typical author visit. The capacity crowd--diverse in age, gender and ethnicity, but uniformly bookish--thumbs through copies of Harper's and The New Yorker, discussing the merits of Rushdie's massive new tome, "The Ground Beneath Her Feet." It is an unusually familial atmosphere: Having made it through the security gauntlet and proven we're not terrorists, we're clearly all friends here.
Rushdie appears fifteen minutes late and cracks a couple of jokes at the expense of the Borders publicity lady who reported that "Midnight's Children" was published in 1890. He then changes into his reading glasses and reads a few chapters from the new book, dropping into various comical accents, much to the crowd's delight.
Everyone laughs and applauds throughout the reading--especially when Rushdie notes the death of the Ayatollah with barely disguised glee--except for the two black-jacketed heavies who flank the stage. Their expressions remain appropriately stern as they survey the crowd, ensuring that no terrorists have made it through the metal detectors with a pistol or a kitchen knife.
Later, Rushdie amiably answers the longwinded queries of various twentysomething eggheads. There is the classic "What advice to you have for young writers?" but also such monstrosities as "In what ways do you approach the question of outsidedness?" and "How is this book a remetaphorization?"
But the ultimate question remains unanswered--Which does Rushdie find more stifling: his around-the-clock armed guard, or the pedantic over-analysis of his work by comp lit grad students? (Ben Winters)
copyright 1999 New City Communications, Inc.