A peculiar clarity seemed to distill itself in me as I drove on. I was in front of that campus star chamber again, only this time I was on the offensive, attacking my interrogators with the icy fluency one commands during these purely imaginary exordia. They were reactionaries in the guise of progressives, I informed them; puritans whose obsession with female victimhood masked impulses as controlling and infantilizing of actual women as the code of gentlemanly “chivalry” that the pioneer feminists had diagnosed two centuries ago as the male sex’s insidious means of female subjugation. I accused them of trying to bring back shame as an instrument of social control, of wanting to re-create a world in which a word, a rumor, an anonymous posting, could once again destroy an entire life. They’d trapped themselves, I declared, in the escalating logic of hysteria that ends, unfailingly, in the witch hunt . . . I was aware of flaws in my own logic—weaknesses and exaggerations—but the awareness had little effect on the sense of exuberant vindication. It was as if the visions of some feverish genie had started wafting out of the wrapped bottle on the seat beside me, and into my brain.

10

10

I’D INTENDED to arrive early at Marco’s but I hit traffic at the Holland Tunnel and again at the Brooklyn Bridge, and by the time I got to Bed-Stuy the party was in full swing.

Alicia’s partner answered the door, wearing a long green apron over her jeans, with the words “wi-cook.com” printed on it.

“Hi Erin,” I said, pleased with myself for remembering her name.

“Actually, I go by Eric now.”

She stared up with a mild but steadfast look. The tuft of beard at her chin, or his chin, was neatly combed and trimmed. His hair, shaved at the side, glinted in the streetlight.

“Ah, okay,” I said, trying to project an attitude of nonchalant approval. “Right!”

It seemed to pass muster. At any rate, a hospitable smile spread over his face.

“Come on in. Hey, champagne! Would you like me to put that in the refrigerator? I’ll tell Marco you brought it. He’ll be super happy.”

I hung my pack in the entryway and followed him in.

“I’ll get you a drink,” he said, still smiling solicitously. “Gin and tonic, right?”

I nodded, a little surprised at his affable warmth.

There were thirty or forty people packed into the suite of dimly lit rooms, with a din of excitable voices making themselves heard over loud music. I glimpsed Hanan in a sleeveless white top at the far end. Alicia, wearing the same caterer’s apron as Eric, came up with a tray of canapés—elaborate confections that looked like combinations of sushi rolls and cream puffs. I asked about the matching aprons. She gave her bubbly laugh and told me she and Eric had started a catering and party management company.