A Curable Romantic (76 page)

“If the deficiencies of these other schemes are that obvious to you, Kaĉjo, surely the other men on the committee will see them.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” I said.

“They’re not fools. And after Esperanto is presented to the world as a fait accompli, no one will ever bother again about Dilpak or Blague Blague or whatever it’s called.”

“Langue Bleu,” I said.

“Where on earth do they come up with these names?”

WE ATE OUR
lunch at a café overlooking le pont St. Louis. Though I’d worried that it had been a mistake to ask Loë to join me on this trip, my fears were unfounded. Away from Vienna, beyond Herr Bernfeld’s unhelpful reach, we were discovering ourselves again. As I watched her slathering apricot jam upon her croissant, taking as much care with it as a bricklayer might with his trowel, I couldn’t help exulting in her beauty: her hands were so small; her fingers so elegantly articulated; her lips plump and pouty, as though they’d been stung by a bee. Delicate lines appeared on either side of her mouth whenever she chewed.

What were the chances, I asked myself, given the sad history of my sentimental education, that I, Ya’akov Yosef Sammelsohn, might find myself in a pleasant café on a quiet street on an island in the Fourth Arrondissement overlooking the grey waters of the Seine with a beautiful woman who, acting upon her own desires, had become my wife?

If I hadn’t already decided to renounce Ita forever, I would have done so then and there.

“What if I skip the afternoon session?” I said to Loë, walking along the river back towards the collège. “We could go back to our hotel room and take a little nap.”

I put my arms around her waist and leaned in to kiss her. She struggled to unclasp herself from the bracelet of my arms. “Not here! Kaĉjo!”

“Isn’t it time we had a little infanon of our own?”

“Perhaps, but this isn’t the place to talk about it.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel then, and make a little idon, shall we?”

“I admit it’s enticing,” she said, finally moving nearer to me.

“And we’ll raise the little prince speaking only Esperanto, keeping him away from the harsh world of multiple international languages, as though he were the Buddha himself.”

“All right, all right,” she said, and she kissed me, rising on the tips of her toes. “But not now.”

“No?”

“You’ve got work to do.”

Another kiss. We were in Paris, after all.

“Tonight,” she said. “I promise.”

“Tonight then.”

She took my arm and, like Ariadne, escorted me through the labyrinth of my own dour thoughts, back to the Collège de France. In that moment, I felt possessed of a perfect happiness. In Loë’s presence, everything made sense. The men of the committee will come to their senses, Professor Couturat will live up to the promises he had made
(in writing
, I might add) to Dr. Zamenhof. Esperanto will be endorsed by the committee as the international language. Little by little, the entire world will begin speaking it, an occurrence that will usher in a golden age. The dark world of separation and exile — known only too well to me from
my childhood in Szibotya — will disappear, and with a dawning sense of excitement, and perhaps even with a sense of adventure, men will begin recognizing one another as brothers. Science and technology, no longer the private domain of separate nations, will progress rapidly as a worldwide endeavor, unhampered for the first time since the fall of Latin by a confusion of tongues. Man’s health and his living conditions, as a consequence, will improve; as privation and suffering disappear, the need for war will cease. No longer forced to live in fear, every man will tend to his garden until the entire world is one rich and thriving garden.

Loë and I arrived back at the chamber as the presentation of Novlatin was ending and the committeemen were preparing to depart for lunch. Professors Couturat and Leau were leaving with Rector Boirac. A good sign, I thought, although when the rector caught my eye, he lifted his eyes to the ceiling and pantomimed an exaggerated sigh, his arms raised slightly, his palms exposed. I understood his gesture as a signal of chagrin — a lunch in the company of Messieurs Couturat et Leau could be a trial — though, in retrospect, I realized, he looked like a martyr being carried down from his cross.

CHAPTER 16

That evening, when Professor Ostwald insisted on buying drinks for everyone in a tavern across from the Sorbonne, I found it difficult to get away. Five drinks into it, he further insisted upon giving over his views on immortality and individuality and was stopped only when Professor Baudouin borrowed a guitar from one of the students and Professor Jespersen a fiddle, and the three men sang songs from their own university days. They were tipsy and sentimental, and the crowd of students who encircled them, aware of who these illustrious gentlemen were, loved it.

“Thank you,” Professor Ostwald intoned, unsteady on his feet. “And I hope we’ve passed the audition.”

“Where’s Couturat?” he said, joining me, a moment later, at the bar.

“Dinner appointment.” I sipped my drink.

“And Leau?”

“No idea.”

“Baudouin” — he pointed with his forehead towards the door, where the linguist could be seen leaving with two girls, one on each arm — “is off to one of his mysterious political confabulations. Best not to inquire too deeply there. That leaves only you and Jespersen and me, I suppose.”

“For?”

“Why, for dinner, of course! At my expense, naturally. No, I’m insisting.”

THOUGH THE NIGHT
air seemed to sober my companions, it did nothing to diminish their high spirits. “That’s the effect of Paris,” Professor Jespersen said, taking in a deep breath.

“No, not of Paris,” Professor Ostwald corrected him, “but of the Latin Quarter. Don’t you feel it? I always feel like this when I’m here …”

“Ah, yes,” Professor Jespersen concurred, looking about him, his eyes gleaming.

“It has its own genius loci.”

As we strolled past l’Église St. Séverin and la Bibliothèque de l’heure joyeuse, and a thousand and one other bookshops, I knew what my companions meant: the winding narrow streets of the quarter were vibrant with activity. All about us, students were lugging their books, and downing their coffees and their beers, immersed in philosophical inquiries. Everything lay before them; all roads remained equally open. Here, in this kingdom of the mind, I told myself, one could become anything one wished. Strolling through its streets in the company of these two dignitaries, I couldn’t help feeling I’d finally arrived where I always belonged.

“Yes, that’s exactly it!” Professor Ostwald said, wrapping his ursine arm about my shoulder and rubbing my hair with his hand. “That’s exactly how I feel. As though I’m finally home indeed.”

Professor Jespersen said, “It’s been a marvelous week, hasn’t it been?”

“Em,” Professor Ostwald concurred, stroking his rosy-golden beard.

“Even though,” Professor Jespersen added ruefully.

“Ha!” Professor Ostwald laughed.

“I know, I know!” I complained.

“I could have done without those endlessly tedious demonstrations.”

“What
were
they thinking!” Professor Ostwald shook his head.

“Couturat and Leau,” I said, shaking mine.

“Their book come to life, I suppose, day after day, before the eyes of a captive audience.”

“Well, thank
God
that’s over and done with, and we can finally get down to what matters!”

“And how do you see us proceeding?” I asked Professor Ostwald.

“Excellent question,” he said, pulling me a bit closer to himself. “An excellent question. You’re an astonishingly excellent chap. Isn’t he, Professor Jespersen? An astonishingly excellent chap?”

“Sammelsohn? Oh, yes. First rate. No doubt about it. Happy to have him on board.”

“Well,” Professor Ostwald rubbed his hands together as he steered us into the restaurant he’d chosen, “my first action will be to found a scientific journal in the new language, a popular magazine, nothing too
erudite, you understand. But we’ll need an editor. I couldn’t take on the responsibility myself.”

“What about Sammelsohn here?” Professor Jespersen said, as the waiter showed us to our table.

“But would he do it?” Professor Ostwald asked Professor Jespersen. “That’s the question.”

“Well, I’m flattered to be considered for the position,” I said. “But of course I would. No, I
will
! Certainly, I’ll do it. The decision requires no further thought, gentlemen. Consider me in.”

“Ah, excellent!” Professor Ostwald said.

“Good,” Professor Jespersen said, “and I’ll make contributions on linguistics.”

THE WAITER PLACED
a napkin in my lap. I took a sip of water. Professor Ostwald had insisted I telephone Loë and invite her to join us. While we waited for her to arrive by taxi, Professor Ostwald ordered a few dishes in advance. Soon, a rare Chablis from the Château Duhart-Milon was perspiring in a brass tub at our table; plump oysters, garlanded by lemons and garlic, lay on a bed of iridescent ice; next to them were ramekins of caviar and a tray of escargot, with little tools for extracting the snails from their shells.

“Here. Let me assist you with that,” Professor Ostwald said, taking the utensils from my hands and removing a number of escargot on my behalf. “It’s clear you’ve never eaten these before.”

“No, I haven’t.” I laughed, abashed.

With his large hands, Professor Ostwald squeezed a bit of lemon juice onto the snails and dipped them into the garlicky butter before laying them out on a tiny plate for me.

“Good, aren’t they?”

“Very good,” I said, pretending to enjoy them.

When Loë arrived, there were kisses all around. Professor Ostwald stood and kissed Loë’s hand; Professor Jespersen stood and kissed her hand as well; I stood and she bussed me on the cheek — we were in Paris, after all — after which, Professor Ostwald, overcome with affection, kissed both her cheeks as well.

“Damned attractive woman you’ve got there, Sammelsohn,” he said to me.

“Welcome, Madame Sammelsohn, welcome,” Professor Jespersen said gallantly, his eyes sparkling behind his severe glasses. “Professor Ostwald, your husband, and I, like Caesar with Gaul, have divided the world into three.”

“Oh?” Loë asked playfully, infected by the high spirits of the table. “And what have we inherited?”

“Professor Ostwald is planning on founding a magazine,” I explained, “and I’m to be its editor.”

“And I will contribute and solicit contributions on linguistics from others,” Professor Jespersen said.

“Our offices will be right here in Paris,” I told her.

“Where else?” Professor Ostwald bellowed.

“You’re eating
that
?” Loë said quietly, noting my oysters.

“When in Rome.” I shrugged, as Professor Jespersen poured a glass of the Chablis for her.

“Shall we start with the consommé?” Professor Ostwald peered into the menu.

“Order for everyone, Wilhelm,” Professor Jespersen said. “You’re familiar with the menu.”

“Yes, do,” Loë said.

She and Professor Jespersen smiled at each other.

Professor Ostwald removed his reading glasses and stuck their stems into his mouth. “All right,” he said, chuckling. “We’re going to have a marvelous night, even if it bankrupts me.” He signaled to the waiter. “We’ll begin with the consommé,” he told the man, “followed by the salad of duck gizzards — everyone’s up for that? — the veal tongue, a gâteau of chicken livers, sweetbreads, the rissole of lamb’s feet with artichoke hearts and basil … oh, and let’s see, hmm, what else does anyone want?”

The ordering went on and on, until finally the waiter departed and returned a moment later with an even rarer Merlot. We all raised our glasses in celebration.

“To the Delegation and to its Committee!”

“To its honest members!” Loë said.

“Hear, hear,” Professor Jespersen said.

We drank and settled back in our chairs, smiling at one another.

“So I take it,” Loë said, between sips, “that the work of the committee is over?”

“All but.” Professor Jespersen nodded. “All but.”

“And Esperanto has been accepted?”

“Oh — well — now,” Professor Ostwald said, and the conversation faltered.

“Oh,” Loë said. “I just naturally assumed that if my husband were involved …”

“Esperanto. Of course, Esperanto,” Professor Ostwald said in his blustery way. “It’s a foregone conclusion.”

“Although” — Professor Jespersen carefully swallowed an oyster — “there may be a few minor reforms.”

Loë arched an eyebrow. I imagined I was the only one to note the indignation howling in that small gesture.

“Loë,” I warned her quietly.

“I understand your concern,” Professor Jespersen said, “but the issue for me — and perhaps for Professor Ostwald as well” — he nodded towards Professor Ostwald, who nodded back, albeit reluctantly, having no idea what Professor Jespersen was on the verge of saying — “is not emotional, but rather scholarly and practical. The question is, which is the most perfect language?”

“But surely there’s no created language more perfect than Esperanto.”

Professor Jespersen blew on his soup. Taking a spoonful, he nodded. “Still.”

“All those -
ojns
and
-ajns
,” Professor Ostwald said, knurling up his nose.

“Oh, that’s the least of it,” Professor Jespersen said.

“Although the decision hasn’t yet been made,” I reminded everyone.

“The Delegation Committee,” Loë remarked, “is authorized — has in fact authorized itself!” — I smiled on her behalf towards the others — “to
decide only which among the
existing
languages is best. It has no authority to reform any of those languages. That’s what Esperanto’s own language committee is for.”

“As Professor Baudouin so ably pointed out during this afternoon’s session,” I reminded everyone.

“But that’s just it,” Professor Ostwald said, fretting into his beard.

“Madame, don’t be absurd!” Professor Jespersen said, more boldly.