The Super Fun Kids' Graphic Novel Sale

Special Offers see all

Enter to WIN a $100 Credit

Subscribe to
for a chance to win.
Privacy Policy

Visit our stores

    Recently Viewed clear list

    Contributors | September 15, 2015

    Mary Karr: IMG Memoir Tutorials with Mary Karr, Lena Dunham, and Gary Shteyngart

    Editor's note: It's been 20 years since the groundbreaking memoir The Liars' Club sent Mary Karr into the literary spotlight with its phenomenal... Continue »
    1. $17.49 Sale Hardcover add to wish list

      The Art of Memoir

      Mary Karr 9780062223067

Qualifying orders ship free.
New Trade Paper
Ships in 1 to 3 days
Add to Wishlist
available for shipping or prepaid pickup only
Available for In-store Pickup
in 7 to 12 days
Qty Store Section
25 Remote Warehouse Literature- A to Z

This title in other editions

The Mystery Guest


The Mystery Guest Cover





It was the day Michel Leiris died. This would have been late September 1990, or maybe the very beginning of October, the date escapes me (whatever it was I can always look it up later on); in any case it was a Sunday, because I was home in the middle of the afternoon, and it was cold out, and Id gone to sleep in all my clothes, wrapped up in a blanket the way I often would when I was alone. Cold and oblivion were all I was looking for back then, but this didnt worry me. Sooner or later, I knew, Id rejoin the world of the living. Just not yet. I felt I had seen enough. Beings, things, landscapes . . . I had enough to last me for the next two hundred years and why go hunting for new material? I didnt want any more trouble.

• Suddenly I woke to the ringing of the phone. Darkness had fallen in the room. I picked up. And right away I knew it was her. Even before I was conscious of knowing, I knew. It was her voice, her breath, it was practically her face, and along with her face came a thousand moments of happiness rising from the past, gilded with sunlight, caressing my own face and licking at my fingers while a thousand more like them swung at the other end of a wire.

I sat up in bed, heart pounding in my chest. I actually heard this going on, this unnatural pounding, as if my heart were electrified. I heard it thudding in every corner of the room—and this was no illusion, I wasnt dreaming, there wasnt any question of its being anyone but her. The senses dont lie, unlikely as it was to be hearing her voice now, after all the years Id never heard from her, ever, not once. How appropriate flashed through my mind. And on the exact same day Michel Leiris died was my next thought, and the coincidence struck me as so outlandish it was all I could do to keep from laughing. I felt as if Id tapped in to the inner hilarity of things, or else brushed up against a truth so overwhelming only a fit of hysterics could keep it at bay; but maybe it wasnt a coincidence at all. Maybe she wouldnt have called, it occurred to me, if Michel Leiris hadnt died. Of course thats what had happened: shed heard about Michel Leiris and somehow the fact of his disappearance had made her reappear. However obscurely the one fact figured in the other, I sensed a connection. The significance of a dream, were told, has less to do with its overt drama than with the details; a long time ago it struck me that the same was true of real life, of what passes among us for real life.

But this was no time for a philosophical discussion, and besides, I wasnt in any shape to bandy wits. I could hear how soft and gummy my voice was, how drowsy-sounding, and without even giving it any thought I realized that she must under no circumstance be allowed to know shed woken me up. That was crucial, even if it meant sounding cold and detached—and why on earth did she have to call, not just on the very same day Michel Leiris had died but when I was fast asleep and at my most vulnerable, my least up to answering the phone, when in a word I was completely incapable of appreciating this miracle for what it was? In real life, it goes without saying, the ideal situation eludes us, and no doubt thats a good thing for humanity in general, but just then Id have done anything to keep her from guessing that shed caught me sound asleep in the middle of the afternoon. It was out of the question. Either it would seem like a sign of weakness or else it would make me look churlish, to be caught napping the one time something exceptional actually happened, or then again she might draw certain conclusions—I didnt know what conclusions, exactly, but still, Id just as soon she not draw them. And no, I wanted to say, it wasnt as if my life had devolved into one long slumber. It wasnt as if Id been languishing, stricken and alone, since shed left me. On the contrary. I happened to be leading a life of leisure. I was in the pink. I was stopping to smell the roses, as the song so eloquently puts it, and couldnt imagine why she might think otherwise.

Here was the strangest part: I completely forgot that Id sworn never to speak to her again, and that shed left me years before without a word of explanation, without so much as saying goodbye, the way they abandon dogs when summer comes (as I put it to myself at the time), the way they abandon a dog chained to a tree for good measure. And Id circled my tree in both directions and climbed up into it and spent a long time—spent millions of hours, years—in the void, cursing her name in the darkness. Yes, cursing her, because her disappearance had taught me that I was a less exemplary person than Id thought; but now the whole thing might ass well never have happened and all that mattered was the fact of her calling, and that the day for action had come.

How I had yearned for this moment! Id been looking forward to it so long I already knew how it would go. I even knew what she was about to say because Id rehearsed it all in my head, I could see myself softly explain that the past was the past, that the statute of limitations had expired, that it didnt matter that shed left me (or that shed left me the way shed left me), it was ancient history. Really and truly. Id dug down to the root of my unhappiness and it had nothing to do with her, I didnt blame her in the least, and in this cruel world were all innocents, we all do the best we can, and worse things are happening all around us even as we speak. Just this morning Michel Leiris had died, and yesterday the last of the Mohawks had laid down his arms, and tomorrow a war and/or scandal would break out and be replaced by something else, and in the end the world would turn the page before I did, and it didnt exactly speak well of me that Id taken years to get over her, and its not as if I was talking about the Movie of the Week, where love triumphs, justice gets handed down, libertys reestablished in the hearts of men, humanity regains a name and a face and the whole thing happens between 8:45 and 10:30, 10:35 at the latest—once I watched them save the earth from a giant meteor and even that didnt take two hours—and Im not the sort of person who mixes up real life and fiction, no more than anybody else does, but the conviction had snuck up on me that I, too, would smile again in my own ninety minutes, give or take. Yes, Id be smiling again in a more or less similar lapse of time; her leaving had been a blip. There was something crazy about how far it had set me back. In retrospect, the insane way shed disappeared actually seemed for the best. It showed panache, at any rate, and not every relationship leaves such a mark attesting to its existence. And I agreed with her, that was the thing, I agreed that shed been fighting for her life. We couldnt go on the way wed been, and shed been driven to get out by nothing less than the survival instinct, and she was sorry, so she told me she was sorry and asked me in a whisper to forgive her, and it made me want to cry, to let the tears run down my cheeks, hearing her ask over and over how she could have just left, after four years together, after all wed lived through, all wed shared; but shed had no choice. She was in so much pain. And she was so young and felt so guilty, without knowing why, she felt guilty all the time—Id never know how guilty she felt—and maybe it was societys fault, maybe it was the fault of her family, she didnt know, but in the end she did the only thing she could and went off with the first man who wanted her. And he was a nice man, and he loved her, and she loved him, too, despite his age and the fact that he was short, and now they had a little girl, and she was happy I saw it the way I did because (and she knew Id laugh) she kept worrying that I might have turned into a bum. Sometimes on the bus shed look out for me on city benches. She had this feeling that things had gone badly for me and it scared her. For years shed been afraid of bumping into me. I had no idea how long it had taken just getting up the nerve to call, and tracking me down wasnt easy either, and in the end she just wanted me to know how sorry she really was and to forgive her. I had to understand, it meant the world to her. And I understood. I was all understanding. And I forgave, for in my dreams I was great and magnanimous. And besides, what else could I say or do?

But this was her actual voice, not just some figment that Id invented to fill the void and salve my wounds, as they say; finally Id hear her version, finally shed come out and ask my forgiveness and acknowledge the thing shed done. I pictured her hand gently closing my eyelids so I could open them freely on other sights and love again with no second thoughts. Yes, she owed me an explanation— she owed me something at any rate, some kind of redemption, something to seal the tomb and lay the remains of our affair to rest and mow down the weeds and nettles that had grown up inside me, and afterward wed never have to speak of it again. Why else would she have called me, after all? I wanted to know the truth of the story, its truth and its meaning. I wanted to cast off my burden. And I was ready.

But she hadnt called to talk about the past. She didnt even refer to the past, much less clear things up the way Id hoped, and my heart leapt with anticipation, crowed with joy, rose high over my head only to plummet back into the shadows, burrowing down in shame before the dawning truth that she was calling simply to invite me to a party—and will it never end, this continual pinching of the flesh in disbelief?— a “big party,” to be precise. She was counting on me to come. It was important. She was asking as a favor, and she laughed faintly on her end while silently I kept telling myself that she had, in fact, called after all these years just to ask me to a party. As if nothing had happened and time had laid waste to everything and Michel Leiris were still alive.

Eyes closed, I listened. It was a birthday party for her husbands best friend, her husband whod finally married her and was the father of her child, and every year Sophie—that was the friends name, she was a “contemporary artist” (she said this in quotes), maybe Id heard of her? Yes, exactly, Sophie Calle, the one who followed people in the street—anyway, every year this friend had a birthday party and invited as many people as she was years old plus a “mystery guest” who stood for the year she was about to live, and this year she was in charge of bringing the mysterious stranger and she couldnt say no, and so shed thought of me (another faint laugh), and that was the reason, the one and only reason, for her call.

On my end I was stern. Galvanized steel. Clearly I was the one person she could think of whod go along with this little charade of hers, and besides I made an ideal candidate seeing as how no one had ever heard of me. Whats more, I thought, the mission must have actively appealed to her since, by picking up the phone just to invite me to a party, shed overcome certain obvious objections raised by our history. She could hardly have acted in a spirit of pure disinterestedness, put it that way. But couldnt she have come up with a better pretext to see me— and did this mean she wanted to see me? Anything was possible. But why did she need a pretext? All she had to do was call and say “Lets get together” or even “We should get together” or better yet “Could we get together?” and if only shed put it that way—any of these ways—shed have acknowledged the ties that bound us, and always would, even if we were parted for hundreds of years, and then Id have come running with a beating heart. But what did she mean by inviting me to a party?

Who did she think I was? It was absurd, and Id been kicked around enough, and yet I heard myself answer, in a voice that was almost chipper, that Id be there. Consider it done, I told her. She could rest easy, Id be her mystery guest, and all the while I gnashed my teeth with every fiber of my being. She sounded unaccountably relieved. No sooner had I spoken than her voice regained its scent of forget-me-nots, and I took down the time and address on a scrap of paper; then, without my knowing how it happened, shed hung up. Not that we had anything left to say that could have been said on the phone.

My hand shook as I set down the receiver. The room was silent, the air livid, and the telephone sat chuckling on the bed until in my rage I lobbed it across the room; but it didnt even come apart, and for long seconds I lay there listening to the dial tone in the dark. And that was even worse than before. So I got up to put it where it belonged and hung it up, and I didnt know what to do, and I took a walk from one end of the apartment to the other, which didnt take long, and—that was the bouquet. No other words came to mind but “Cest le bouquet. This time, its really the bouquet.” For a good hour I paced the apartment repeating those words out loud as if they were the sum total of my vocabulary. All the same, the blood was fizzing in my veins: I couldnt deny feeling a thrill at the thought that I was finally about to have the meeting shed owed me all these years. I was happy to make a fool of myself at some glamorous party. Id gladly undergo much more painful transformations just to see her and finally hear her explain what shed been thinking and cut the leash that bound me to her vanishing and put an end to this strangulation once and for all. I wanted answers. The rest of my life depended on that party, I knew that for a fact, and that night I dreamt of a horse trampling coattails in the dust.

Excerpt from The Birthday Ceremony

On my birthday I always worry that people will forget me. In 1980, to relieve myself of this anxiety, I decided that every year, if possible on October 9, I would invite to dinner the exact number of people corresponding to my age, including a stranger chosen by one of my guests. I did not use the presents received on these occasions. I kept them as tokens of affection. In 1993, at the age of forty, I put an end to this ritual.

First Mariner Books edition 2007. Copyright © 2004 by Éditions Allia. Translation copyright © 2006 by Lorin Stein. Originally published in 2004 by Éditions Allia, France, as LInvité mystcre. Reprinted by arrangement with Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC.

Product Details

Bouillier, Gregoire
Mariner Books
Stein, Lorin
Literature-A to Z
Edition Description:
Trade Paper
Publication Date:
Grade Level:
7.98x5.32x.36 in. .34 lbs.

Other books you might like

  1. The diving bell and the butterfly
    Used Hardcover $9.50
  2. The Foreign Correspondent: A Novel Used Trade Paper $3.50
  3. The Sibyl in Her Grave Used Mass Market $3.50
  4. The Obituary Writer Used Trade Paper $2.50
  5. Ambition and Survival: Becoming a Poet Used Trade Paper $10.00
  6. Edge of Taos Desert: An Escape to... Used Trade Paper $10.95

Related Subjects

Biography » General
Fiction and Poetry » Literature » A to Z
Health and Self-Help » Self-Help » Memoirs

The Mystery Guest Used Trade Paper
0 stars - 0 reviews
$12.95 In Stock
Product details 144 pages Mariner Books - English 9780618959709 Reviews:
"Synopsis" by , Bouillier presents a delightfully French memoir singled out by the San Francisco Chronicle, Slate, and New York Magazine as a Best Book of the Year. This translation marks the English-language debut of an iconoclast who has attracted a passionate following in French literature.
  • back to top


Powell's City of Books is an independent bookstore in Portland, Oregon, that fills a whole city block with more than a million new, used, and out of print books. Shop those shelves — plus literally millions more books, DVDs, and gifts — here at