CHAPTER 8: Say Goodnight, Nathan (Part Four)

When Nathan finally arrives, we walk a couple of blocks over to another outside cafe.  Nathan motions to a secluded corner table, saying, "Let's sit over here. This is about a private matter."

We sit facing each other at the round black wrought-iron table, Bernie sprawled between our feet. After we order, Nathan reaches over and takes both my hands in his. I feel a sudden queasy feeling. I don't like this. Nathan looks too serious.

"My dear friend, I have a favor of great importance to ask of you," he begins. "Of course, Nathan, whatever you need," I say. I will never again respond so impulsively.

"I have decided I am ready to leave this world and move on to see what is ahead in the next one,"  he says. I think my mouth literally falls open in astonishment.
"Well, just what does that mean!" I spurt out, louder than I intended.

"I am saying that I have decided to die. You don't need to help me. I would never ask that of you. But I do want a going-away party. Let's call it Nathan's Last Supper."

At that, I burst out laughing, sure by now that he's teasing. Then I realize I'm the only one who thinks it's a joke. Nathan remains very serious.

"I plan to stop eating and drinking," he continues. "I read that only takes a week or so and it's relatively painless."

I feel a sudden rush of rage. I'm furious with him. "You can't be serious. Stop this right now! What would ever make you talk like this!" I shout at him in bewilderment. A few people at tables over by the sidewalk turn and glance our way. 

"Because I'm done. I've done everything I ever wanted to do. Well, almost everything. The few things that are left, I'm never going to be physically able to do anymore anyway. Will I ever climb Kilimanjaro? No. Too late. Will I travel on the Orient Express? No. I've lost interest. Will I work in a health clinic in Bodghaya, India? Absolutely not. I'm too old. Will I make a significant impact to save the world, to cure hunger, to house the homeless, to end corporate greed and begin a world-wide culture of compassion? No. I've done what I can. That's it. I'm done.

"But, Nathan..." He interrupts me. "No, no. Listen to me, " he says "My Fanny is gone. My old friends are gone. I am not depressed. This is a rational and well thought-out decision."

He tells me that he and Fanny were in complete agreement on this, and thought they would go to Pamplona, Spain for San Fermin, the Running of the Bulls when the time came. There is only a simple wooden barricade separating the screaming crowd from the bulls and runners. They could crawl under the fence, hold hands, and run directly towards the rampaging bulls. The chance of being gored would be about 100%. However, the flaw in the plan quickly became obvious. Gored, yes. Killed, only maybe. What about the risk of just a serious injury. A spinal cord mishaps, perhaps.  Not the ultimate goal. Plus, San Fermin is only during ten days in July, so spontaneity would not be an option.

Then they decided to go the fasting route. They would sit in an unobtrusive place in a hotel lobby for days, and not eat or drink, and just sort of fade away gracefully. Eventually someone walking through the lobby would notice there were two dead people on the sofa.

On a whim, while visiting New York, Nathan and Fanny decided to do a bit of a dress rehearsal at the Chelsea Hotel on 23rd Street . After all, how many literary/musical/artistic giants have lived and/or died there?  Surely there would be room for one old couple in the lobby, enjoying the ambiance for their last few days. They dressed in clothes that would be comfortable to wear waiting it out until the end. In the lobby, they settled in a corner near the front window, just out of direct sight of anyone at the hotel desk, especially Stanley Bard, the manager. "Poor Stanley," Nathan said. "He's gone now, replaced by some corporate entity."  Nathan and Fanny sat and enjoyed the art on the walls, and the big fireplace and the woman hanging on a swing from the ceiling. They watched the drifting cloud of strange humans and dogs flow in and out of the lobby. At one point, Leonard Cohen walked out with a woman who got into a waiting black limo. They both had little smiles on their faces. He had on his hat and strutted somewhat jauntily. She had hair all akilter with feathers sticking out of it and lots of bangles and jewelry. "Now that I think about it, " Nathan said, "didn't Cohen write a song about that?"

They listened quietly to see if they could hear the ghosts of Dylan Thomas, Eugene O'Neill or Thomas Wolfe. They even looked for the apparition of Sid Vicious, who reportedly haunts the elevator. "You no doubt remember that Sid shot Nancy in one of the rooms there," Nathan muses.

Before long, they began to realize that instead of being as anonymous as the sofa they sat on, their hope for all of this, they were instead the focus of subtle attention.  Employees and residents and people just passing through stared at them and Bard himself peeked around the corner and took a look. After an hour, they decided the dress rehearsal was over, a total flop. There was no way to die incognito in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel .

"Now Fanny went ahead and left without me," Nathan says. "And I want to go too."

Stories aside, which remind me of why I love him, I tell Nathan, "Well I simply won't hear of it. And I won't help you in any way. You must understand that."

"This is the only help I need. The Last Supper! I want to have a gathering of friends the night before I begin my fast. I hope you will help me plan this dinner and invite people for me. They should know why they're coming, of course, but it can be a wonderful evening."

He has set a date to begin his fast: May 2. He wants to be here for one last May Day, when vendors all over Paris sell bouquets of Muguet, sweet Lily of the Valley. It's a custom that dates back to 1561, when King Charles IX of France received a Lily of the Valley as a lucky charm.

But for Nathan, the real significance of the day is the massive May Day parades, with beating drums and soaring sounds of trombones, banners, flags, and a general free-for-all throughout the city in celebration of International Worker's Day.

He abuptly pushes back his chair with a jarring screech, stands up and sings proudly and loudly:
   Workers of the world, awaken!
   Rise in all your spendid might
   Take the wealth that you are making,
   It belongs to you by right.
   No one will for bread be crying
   We'll have freedom, love and health,
   When the grand red flag is flying
   In the Worker's Commonwealth.

He ends with a flourish, tipping his hat and executing a sweeping bow. Morning coffee cups temporarily frozen in midair, clink back down on tables as the other customers laugh and applaud. When he sits again, Nathan smiles a bit sheepishly and says, "Joe Hill. Wobbly. What better day for Nathan's Last Supper than May Day!"