Mordecai, Dick and Barney at the Hook

But in November 1997, soon after the publication of what would be Richler's last novel, that's exactly what soft-spoken Examiner editor Bernie O’Neill decided we needed for the next issue. Richler would be signing copies of Barney's Version at the Double Hook Book Shop, so I armed myself with a camera and notepad and headed over to Greene Avenue with the distinct feeling of impending disaster.

Notorious as Canada’s most difficult interview subject, Richler was well-known to be grumpy and cantankerous at the best of times. Anyone who could draw more than a few grunted words out of him was a hailed as a hero in journalistic and literary circles.

And so I dropped by the Double Hook, where I knew the owner, Judy Mappin, and most of the staff quite well. There was Richler, sitting at a small card table in the back of the store amidst towering stacks of his new book, smiling shyly and signing copies for a line-up of customers.

There were no publicists or other hangers-on in sight, just Richler and his admiring readers. Everything was in place — the unruly mane of grey hair, the coffee cup of something that was probably not coffee, and a line of smoke rising from a thin brown cigar resting in an ashtray.

The secret word was Groucho

Sometimes the line-up would thin out and disappear, so for a few minutes between customers we had a chance to speak. At first, he was everything I expected — reluctant to offer more than a one-syllable response to anything I asked, even the many questions that would prompt most people to begin offering more and more. But no — years of speaking to obtuse interviewers had forced him to build up an impenetrable wall.

I told him that between us, my wife and I owned and had read all of his books. We even had a prized copy of The Acrobats. This got a few more words out of him, but nothing substantial.

Then I brought up the Marx Brothers, knowing he had once lunched with Groucho.

Of all things, that broke the ice. He smiled, and out came a few sentences. Before long, between his brief exchanges with customers, we carried on a candid conversation about, of all things, the Marx Brothers.

Despite his reputation as a curmudgeon, Richler was never anything but pleasant and polite to those who waited in line to see him — especially those who congratulated him on his recent winning of the coveted Giller Prize.

In the course of an hour, while he was signing their book, two different customers told him that their brother or sister so-and-so knew him from his old Baron Byng High School days.

“Oh, yes, of course I remember,” Richler replied brightly each time. “Give so-and-so my best regards.” But as soon as the person left, clutching a freshly signed copy of Barney’s Version, Richler would turn to me, shake his head, and mouth the words, “No idea.”

The great Barney's Version assembly line

At one point, Judy Mappin came over and informed Richler that the stack of about 60 books next to him had been pre-sold and each one needed to be signed.

“Oh, Christ,” he muttered, looking up at me with a helpless look in his eyes. "Could you…?"

Within seconds we had improvised an effective little conveyor system where I would hand Richler a new book from the pile, and while he flipped it open and signed his name on the title page — then slowly closed the book as reverently as if it were his most treasured possession — I would have another copy ready for him.

As we worked, Richler opened up and was soon chatting away, interrupting himself only to utter a quick “Thank you” each time I handed him a fresh book.

Toward the end of the session, a familiar face emerged from the line-up of Richler fans — Dick Irvin, the veteran sportscaster whose face and voice were as familiar to most English-speaking Montrealers as those of their own relatives.

“How did you like the book, Dick?” Richler asked as his old friend presented his copy for signing.

“How the hell should I know?" Irvin shot back. "I’m just buying it now!”

The article that came out later that week was tiny compared to the lengthy piece I had composed about Richler’s plans for the coming winter in London, his aversion to using a computer, and his new Gazette column, which he would fax over from England each week. This was not surprising, given the severe lack of editorial space that plagues weeklies to this day.

But what really surprised me was that Richler himself never forgot our brief but intensive book-signing collaboration. On the three or four occasions that our paths crossed after that, he always remembered me and made a point of thanking me again for helping him sign all those books on that cold November evening in Westmount.