“Great,” said Karen, realizing she’d already run out of conversation.
Every year at the gala, Karen was aware of a disconnect between the rich people who got dressed up in fancy clothes and ate salmon tartare and pumpkin soup with sage cream and the cause she and her colleagues were promoting. That evening, the divide felt especially vast. At table 1 sat the film actress Nava Gresham and at table 2, the everyman comic Dan Greene alongside TV chef Francoise Roy, who was famous for making huge messes in the kitchen and calling everything “Supreme!” Every now and then, Karen would glance over at table 12, where Clay and Verdun were seated with their entourage, but he had his back to her. And Verdun’s impassive facial expression remained unaltered.
Between dinner and dessert, the film actress glided to the podium, her head held high. She was wearing a short-sleeved black turtleneck and sequined miniskirt that showcased her insect-like legs. “I’m Nava Gresham,” she began—as if everyone in the audience didn’t already know. “And I want to talk to you about the important issue of child hunger.” Her hair was skinned back into a tight bun clearly meant to connote a seriousness of purpose, and she spoke in a dramatic and impassioned way about the shame of the city’s starving children, which she claimed to take personally. “I mean, here we are in one of the great cities of the world. And there are children in it who are going to bed hungry at night. It’s just plain wrong, and it breaks my heart, as I know it breaks yours. I’ve never been very religious but there is one phrase I learned in Sunday school as a child that has stayed with me all these years: There but for the grace of God go I. Because these children who go to bed hungry—they are part of our family too, the human family.
“In the past year and a half,” Nava continued, “in order to prepare for my next film role, I had the opportunity to accompany Molly and the other amazing staff at Hungry Kids as they visited families for whom hunger is a daily reality. In the film, I play a single mother named Clara who can’t afford to feed her son, who suffers from gigantism. In desperation, Clara turns to prostitution. The film won’t change the world, but with any luck, it will bring attention to an issue that it’s in our power to solve. The film is called Feast and Famine. Earlier this year, it was at the Berlin Film Festival, where I’m humbled to say it received the Alfred Bauer Prize, which is given to a feature that opens new perspectives. It’s being released in the U.S. next month, and I would be honored if you went to see it. I also hope you will continue to support Hungry Kids, a heroic organization doing heroic things.”
When Nava finished speaking, Karen found herself clapping politely—and marveling at the ingenious way in which the woman had managed to promote her own career while ostensibly promoting the cause of child hunger. Also, why did actresses always have to call them films while the rest of the world referred to them as movies? What’s more, the plot of Feast and Famine sounded completely absurd.
Next up was Dan Greene, the comic relief for the evening, who began by imploring the assembled guests to be sure to finish their dinner: “Just for tonight, I’m your mom, reminding you that there are starving kids in the world and that if you don’t finish your spinach, there’s no Jell-O for dessert…” Karen found the monologue pedestrian and cringe-worthy, but again she joined in the applause.
Finally, HK’s executive director—and Karen’s boss—Molly Gluck glided out to the podium. Her emaciated frame was cloaked in what appeared to be a burlap sack, lending her the appearance of a medieval monk. It had been noted by many that Molly seemed to have an easier time feeding others than herself. Or maybe it was just that she starved herself in solidarity with the poor. Whatever the case, it seemed likely that Molly had never noted the irony of her anorexia, her earnestness being pervasive—except when it came to celebrities, for whom she seemed to harbor limitless reserves of adoration. “Thank you all for being here and for feeding the poor children of this city,” she began in a wobbly voice that threatened to become weepy when she turned to the film actress and said, “And thank you, Nava, for inspiring us all. You are my hero.” Her eyes flickered before she turned to the other guests of honor and added, “I also want to thank Francoise and Dan, both of whom have done so much for this organization in the past few years, as well as our media sponsor, Fine Food magazine, and also our title sponsors, Nabisco products and Tommy Hilfiger USA…”
The acknowledgments list went on and on and included a perfunctory shout-out to Karen. At the end of it, Molly summoned from the wings two adorable seven-year-old African American identical twins with elaborately beaded hair as examples of those who had benefited from the organization’s largesse. She introduced them as “Zaniyah and Saniyah, the closeness of whose names mirror their closeness as sisters.”
This time, the guests clapped thunderously and for so long that the applause turned into a standing ovation. Though it was unclear to Karen who or what the crowd was cheering for. Zaniyah and Saniyah, for being brave in the face of their poverty, or at least brave enough to show up and face a roomful of gawking 1 Percenters? Or was the crowd cheering itself and its own generosity in helping these two fill their bellies? Also, what kind of clueless mother thought it was a great idea to give her identical twins rhyming names? Surely, Zaniyah and Saniyah would spend their entire lives trying to differentiate themselves. Or was that very assumption—and Karen’s faith in individualism—itself hopelessly bourgeois?
In any event, the response made Karen uncomfortable. And she felt her chest contracting and shoulders rounding as she rose with the crowd. She had to remind herself that everybody was there for a good cause. And if the donors wanted to congratulate themselves while reducing their mainly ill-gotten gains, who was she to say they shouldn’t?
After the flourless chocolate-mousse cake had been served and cleared, the band—a bunch of middle-aged white guys in jeans and high-tops doing covers of pop and soft-rock hits from the 1970s and ’80s—began to play. Karen had recently fled to Troy’s table, not only because the Jesse James people had been boring her to tears but because Troy’s table afforded a better view of Clay’s. Two songs in, the man himself sauntered over and asked Karen if she’d care to dance.
“Uh, I guess,” said Karen, apprehensive in light of Verdun’s presence. “But—um—doesn’t your wife want to?”