Cynthia Ozick Trust (retail) (epub)

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.It's such a shame—it just spoils July for me, and for no good reason.I can guess what the trouble is.That Bulgarian agent probably wants to start a revolution.They all do out there.After they get their underground movements put together they're always on tenterhooks to blow things up.It's very unwise.They're very impatient people," she observed, looking astute; "I suppose Enoch will talk him out of it." Actually, my mother knew nothing of her husband's official life beyond the indisputable circumstance that he toted a weighty attaché case which was fortified by a combination lock and which he always kept at his side—even at dinner parties it materialized under his place at table, leaning familiarly against his shoe.His peregrinations she regarded as less than convenient, although she was an energetic traveler on her own account.The difficulty was that when she was ready for London, he had pressing reasons for going to Berlin; and once, having accompanied her as far as Madrid, he discovered he was needed immediately on Cyprus.This was a great trial to my mother, who believed in unpacking thoroughly.Wherever she was she stuffed the bureaus and wardrobes, and could not be expected to vacate them without two days' notice.Hence she frequently found herself abandoned among strangers in foreign hotels, and understandably the urge for notoriety would overwhelm her in these places.She would go out on the streets and hire anyone who looked like a musician and bring back a troop of improbable cellists for an incredible concert in the lobby.Or she would purchase canvas and an easel and go to museums, which bored her for their own sakes, and make outrageous copies of celebrated paintings, disrobing all the chief figures, except of course those already nude, which she would chastely clothe.Sometimes, out of desperation, she would try to make friends, consulting for this purpose a list of local ladies whom Enoch had entreated her to call on.These occasionally turned out to be less fashionable, but invariably more intellectual, than my mother; they would chatter scornfully of "the American language," and they were uncommonly inquisitive about American writers.None of them, to be sure, had ever heard of Marianna Harlow.In one city—perhaps it was The Hague—a purple-coifed dowager, a court confidante and patroness of belles lettres, disclosed that one of her pensioners was at that moment engaged in a majestic translation into the Dutch of the poetry of Karlen Dustworth, the Minnesota laureate.My mother was overcome, not by the poet's reputation, or even the translator's, for she had been aware of the existence of neither, but by the idea of patronage, which seemed to her both novel and elegant.When she returned home she went immediately to William and arranged for the establishment of a fund for a poetry pamphlet, to be issued quarterly.She commissioned as editor a young assistant professor of English, with a Belgian accent, who came from the University of Nebraska expressly to sort verses in the narrow office my mother had rented down-town.This project kept her at home for some months, until at last a dispute with the editor over policy concerning assonance rhyme (the editor was for it, my mother was opposed) grew into a hideous quarrel, and he was dismissed, only to be replaced by another young man, /rom New York University, who looked and talked exactly like the first, but hated assonance.She was so delighted with this second literate that she permitted him to have a staff, an extravagance which alarmed William."It's better than paying taxes, isn't it?" she demanded of him shrewdly, although she was altogether ignorant of the rule for charitable trusts and had never seen an income-tax form; at which William, who was a Republican and admired Thoreau, subsided.And my mother went abroad again.She had ceased to travel regularly in the company of Enoch; she maintained it was no use: on the plane he read books instead of talking to her, he was too unpredictable anyhow, he concealed his Washington cables from her, he would leave her, without a moment's remorse, for any spy.He had actually bounded down the entry-ramp at first sight of the Bulgarian, and bounded up again, to snatch his valise and shout farewell; and then he had allowed the Bulgarian, fake beard and all, to kiss him, and in public, an act which was severely prohibited to his wife."Do Bulgarians kiss?" I wondered."I thought only Frenchmen did that.""Ah," my mother threatened sadly, "Europe is a strange continent.Of course you'll go with letters of introduction; it will be different for you.Still, we should plan an itinerary.First you must go to England and see the Bridge of Sighs at Cambridge, and then directly to Florence: it's the most aristocratic city.Then you must all the time avoid refugees, who are everywhere, even these days; cultivate the indigenous only.It's a rule I never fail to practise, except in the case of noble families."It almost seemed she no longer believed in a classless society.Three weeks after this conversation my passport came in the mail, without incident."They gave it to you!" My mother was incredulous."And without settling things! Not a soul came to question me," she continued to marvel."But it isn't logical.After all, I was a member of the Society for Revolutionary Ideals! I belonged to the Marxist Book Club! And besides," she wailed, "I'm the author of Marianna Harlow!" She blew through her nose in astonishment or vexation: "Do you suppose that Enoch—"But Enoch was still in Geneva.4The summer wheeled on sluggishly, until in the brilliant heart of July it teetered, hung poised, and suddenly stopped dead.On the terrace the aspidistra in their ceramic pots withered.Night never came.It did not rain.The days were as pointless as childhood afternoons.In the mornings my mother took me shopping with her.We moved slowly down the long row of air-conditioned department stores, through endless revolving doors; there were high flags on lances over the street, and not a pucker in them.Through the perfume mist that meandered in the cooled currents inside the stores we could smell the cars in the street, glistening, yet quiescent, trapped like beaten doves in front of traffic lights, their exhausts rising and mingling with the odors of gasoline, molten tar, the fiery circles of breathing manhole-covers.The city burned [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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