Despite the grey in his beard, Dr. Zamenhof looked like a studious eight-year-old as he peered into the assembly. Even with the aid of the crate, he seemed to struggle to look over the lectern, the lights glittering off his spectacles. This was the first time many in the audience would hear la lingvon internacian spoken in an accent other than their own. It’s one thing to converse with your neighbor in an international auxiliary language, quite another to speak to a man not from half a block, but half the world away.
Dr. Zamenhof cleared his throat. He seemed on the point of speaking, when he twisted his body away from the lectern to pick up a glass of water someone had left for him inside the hollow of the stand. Sipping, he spilled a line of water into his beard and had to pat it dry with a kerchief he pulled from the breast pocket of his evening suit. Evidently, the top of the lectern was raked, and having attempted to balance the water there, Dr. Zamenhof thought better of it and, corkscrewing his body again, returned it to its place inside the lectern.
He looked into the audience, his eyebrows rising even higher than usual.
“Estimataj sinjorinoj kaj sinjoroj,” he said and, at the sound of his high, slightly shrill voice, a thrilled cry of greeting rose to meet him. Dr. Zamenhof smiled. The ferocity of the crowd’s affection had evidently taken him by surprise. “I greet you, dear colleagues,” he said slowly, enunciating clearly, seemingly looking into everyone’s face, “brothers and sisters from the great worldwide human family, who have come together from near and far, from the most diverse nations on earth, to clasp hands in the name of the one great idea, which unites us all.”
Clearly calming his own nerves, Dr. Zamenhof let the next roar of applause crest and die away. He took another sip of water, his hand trembling, then raised his head and peered over the tops of his glasses at the people seated above him in the galleries.
“I greet you also, glorious land of France” — here, a chauvinistic whoop was raised — “and the beautiful town of Boulogne-sur-Mer” — the same, if not quite as forceful — “both of which have graciously offered to host our congress.”
Dr. Zamenhof bowed towards the row of officials seated behind him — as though caught in a white-hot spotlight, these men straightened up in their chairs and, with nods, acknowledged the audience — and the applause revved up again.
“I express also my heartfelt thanks to those persons and institutions in Paris who, during my journey through that glorious city, expressed to me personally their sympathy for our cause, namely the minister of public education” — boisterous applause — “the City Council of Paris” — louder — “the League of Language Instruction” — wildly — “and many eminent men of science.”
The man in front of me, nodding his head and clapping enthusiastically, leaned over to explain something to the woman seated next to him, and that was, of course, when I saw her. Seemingly as thrilled as I by the moment, fraŭlino Bernfeld had turned back in her seat. I saw her caramel-colored hair first and her gracious slender neck. She was scanning the crowd, searching for someone. Certainly not me, I thought, until her gaze fell on mine, and she nodded a hello that seemed as sweet as those I’d received from her when we were at our happiest. She scowled slightly in a question, as though asking me, Why are you sitting so far in the back? to which I shrugged and pointed at my new Parisian wrist-watch and shrugged again, indicating that I’d come too late. The man in front of me leaned back and directed his attention again towards the stage, blocking the fraŭlino from my view. But at least I knew she was here, still in France, still in Boulogne, here in this auditorium now, not more than ten rows in front of me.
“This present day is holy,” Dr. Zamenhof was saying, and I noticed the French Esperantists on the dais shift unhappily at the mention of this word. “Our congress is modest,” he admitted. “The outside world knows little about us, and the words we speak here tonight and in the coming days will not fly via telegraph to every city and town in the world.” He shook his head, smiling benevolently, as though congratulating us for the courage and the prescience that had brought us here, long before the rest of the world had even heard of Esperanto. “No crowned heads or prime ministers have come here to change the political map of the world, no luxurious clothes or impressive decorations shine in this room, no gun salutes resound around the modest building in which we find ourselves; and yet” — he let a caesura dangle tantalizingly — “through the air of this auditorium fly mysterious sounds, quiet sounds, inaudible to the ear, but sensible to every sensitive soul.” The chamber grew hushed, as though each of us were listening for these quiet noises. “It is the sound of something grand that is now being born,” Dr. Zamenhof assured us. “Through the air fly mysterious phantoms!”
He made a fluttering motion with his hands, and I thought I saw Dr. Javal sigh. Rector Boirac and General Sébert’s eyes met discreetly: the cause has been lost, surrendered to mysticism.
“The eye does not see them,” Dr. Zamenhof said, “but the soul senses them. They are images of a time yet to be. These phantoms fly through the world, taking on form and strength, and our children and grandchildren will see them, will sense them, and rejoice.”
I peered, as discreetly as I could, at the people sitting near me. No one seemed offended. On the contrary, a kind of light seemed to be beaming from everyone’s face.
Dr. Zamenhof brought his fist to his lips and cleared his throat. “In the ancient past,” he continued, one hand caressing the other, “which has long disappeared from the memory of humankind and about which history has preserved nothing, not even the smallest document, the human family separated, and its members ceased understanding one another. Brothers created in one image, brothers possessing the same ideas, brothers carrying the same God in their hearts, brothers who should have helped each other and worked together for the happiness and the glory of their family became foreign to each other. Separated seemingly for all time into enemy camps, they began waging an eternal war.”
(Here, I stopped listening for a moment. Dr. Zamenhof’s description of the ancient family had made me think too much, and too uncomfortably, of my own. Hadn’t we separated and ceased understanding one another, exactly as had the family of man? In our case, however, there seemed little hope of reconciliation.)
“Prophets and poets dreamt about that nebulous time in which we would again understand each other, again join together in one family; but this was only a dream. One spoke about it as though about some sweet fantasy, but no one took it seriously, no one believed in it. And yet, now, for the first time, the dream of a million years begins to become real. In a small city on the French seashore, people from diverse nations have come together and are encountering one another on an equal footing, not mute and deaf, but truly understanding one another, speaking like brothers, like members of one nation. Yes” — he stamped his foot — “often people from different countries meet and understand one another; but what a great difference between that understanding and ours. In our coming together, there exists neither strong nor weak nations, nor privileged and unprivileged, no one is humiliated, and no one embarrasses himself. For the first time in human history, we, members of very different peoples, meet, not like strangers, nor like rivals, but like brothers who understand each other mutually, man to man. Today inside the welcoming walls of Boulogne-sur-Mer, we meet not as Frenchmen and Englishmen, not as Russians and Poles, but as human beings. Blessed be this day, and great and glorious its consequences!”
Not another blessing, I could almost see Professor Cart thinking, as he rolled his eyes, dropped his patrician nose into his hand, and stared at the floor. And yet, of all those in the auditorium, the Frenchmen on the dais seemed to be the only people fidgeting. Despite his high, thin voice, Dr. Zamenhof had mesmerized the entire room.
“We met today,” he said, bearing down on his theme, “to show the world, through irrefutable fact, that which until now it has refused to believe.” Behind his shining spectacles, his eyes were enflamed with what I can only
describe as a sort of divine madness. I felt I was listening to the words of an ancient prophet or seer. “We will show the world that mutual conversation between people of different nations is not some fantastic dream, but a beautiful reality!” he nearly shouted. “Our grandchildren will not believe that it was once otherwise.”
As he picked up his pace, his cadences grew more rhythmic. “Whoever says that a neutral artificial language is not possible, let him come to us, let him walk the streets of Boulogne-sur-Mer in the coming days, and if he is an honest man, he will go out into the world and he will loudly repeat that Yes! A universal language is possible. Not only possible but easy, very easy, to learn!”
A knowing laughter, from several corners of the auditorium, reached Dr. Zamenhof, and its gentle sound seemed to calm him. “It’s true,” he admitted, “that many of us still possess our language imperfectly. But compare a novice’s stammering with the perfectly fluent speech of a more experienced person, and an honest observer will see that the cause of this stammering lies not in the language itself, but only in the insufficient practice of the speakers.”
His demeanor grew solemn, and the audience, attuned to his every mood, seemed to grow somber as well.
“Eighteen years have passed since the day Esperanto appeared in the world. Eighteen years is a long time — oy vey! — a very long time.” At the sound of these words — ho ve! in Esperanto — I watched a collective chill run through the men on the dais. “In this great space of time, death has stolen a great many of our most fervent campaigners. Since citing each name would be an impossible task, I will list only a few.” Dr. Zamenhof mentioned specifically Leopoldo Einstein, Josefo Wasniewski, and “the unforgettable” W. H. Trompeter. “Beside these three, there is also a great — oy vey! — a very great number of people” — again, the Frenchmen trembled — “who are not able to see the fruits of their labors.” (What was Dr. Zamenhof doing, I wondered? Deliberately rubbing his Jewishness in their noses? Did it matter that he had pronounced the phrase in an Esperanticized fashion as ho ve?) “They have physically died,” he said, “but they have not died in our memory. I propose, esteemed ladies and gentlemen, that we honor their memory by rising from our seats.” Dr. Zamenhof raised his voice, as though offering a toast. “To the shades of each fallen Esperantan warrior, the First Esperanto Congress expresses its respect and a pious salute!”
We all stood and took in the moment in silence. At a nod of his head, Dr. Zamenhof indicated that we had stood enough, and we sat. Nervously, he seemed to turn completely away from the luminaries on the dais, easing them out of his purview, positioning himself fully towards his audience, his voice once again trembling.
“Soon the labors of our congress, dedicated to the brotherhood of mankind, will commence, but in this solemn moment, I feel the desire to make my heart light through a prayer, to turn to a certain very high force, invoking its help and its blessing. At this moment, I’m not from a specific nation, but am simply a human being; in this moment, I’m not a member of one particular religion, but am only a man. And in the present moment before my soul’s eyes stands only this very high moral Force, which each human being senses in his heart, and to this unknowable Power I now turn with my prayer.”
Dr. Zamenhof gazed towards the ceiling. The men on the dais crossed their legs and shifted unhappily in their seats. With his eyes closed, Dr. Zamenhof recited his poem from memory: “To You, oh powerful and bodiless mystery, most powerful ruler of the world, great fountain of love and truth and of ever-lasting life …”
To the Vi of the Universe, to the Cosmic You, Dr. Zamenhof pledged to work for the reunification of mankind, beseeching this Mysterious Power for His blessing and promising that, under the green flag of Esperanto, we will tear at the walls separating people until they crack and fall, and love and truth rule the world.
For a moment, I wasn’t certain if Dr. Zamenhof had finished. He stood perfectly still, not looking at his text. He seemed to be reconsidering ending his prayer where he had and moving onto the final stanza. After all the ho ves and the blessed be this days and the invocation of mysterious invisible phantoms, would a call to unity among monotheists really have exposed him as a Jew? He gazed at the audience in a sort of sorrowful way, as though certain he had transgressed against their affection for him. But no, he had only to move an inch away from the lectern to signal that he was done, and the applause was a wild and inspiring roar of love and approval. Cheers rang out, shouts of “Vivu Zamenhof!” and “Vivu Esperanto!” People were weeping openly and yet the ferocity of the response didn’t undo the holy-seeming atmosphere in the hall.
The French Esperantists stood and congratulated one another, their postures and physical attitudes broadcasting broad relief, as though we’d all dodged a bullet. After acknowledging the crowd’s response, Dr. Zamenhof turned to the Frenchmen. I saw him nod subtly to the auditorium, shrugging, his eyes twinkling in triumph, as though to say, These people seem to have no problem whatsoever with my prayer.
“KAĈJO! KAĈJO!” FRAÜLINO Bernfeld called to me through the ecstatic, departing crowd.
“Fraŭlino! Here I am!” I cried.
She ran up the aisles, oblivious to the angry looks she was receiving from people as eager to depart the hall as she, oblivious as well to the indulgent nods surrounding her: here was clearly a woman in love. Even I could see that (though I admit, at one point, turning to look behind myself, imagining, if only for a moment, that she might be calling to a person, improbably also nicknamed Kaĉjo, who was, by some extraordinary coincidence, standing behind me).
“Wasn’t he marvelous!” she said breathlessly. Without hesitation, she laced her fingers through mine.
“Absolutely!” I said. “Absolutely marvelous!”
“And to think, we were here. We were here, Kaĉjo, alive today, to see it!”
“Alive to see it, yes,” I repeated, as though I were the village idiot, unable to speak my own thoughts but only repeat the words she had addressed to me. We were in the lobby now, no longer surrounded so tightly by others, and soon we were outside in the square among the jubilant throngs.
“I’ve been a fool,” she said.
“No, it’s I who have been foolish, fraŭlino.”
“I was so sad, Kaĉjo, so sad, but now I’m so happy. I’m so happy, I could … I don’t know …”
“What, fraŭlino?”
“Kiss someone! I don’t know …” She blushed.
Though I realized she was all but inviting me to kiss her, I wasn’t entirely sure. Perhaps she was merely reporting a fact concerning the quality of her happiness, describing it in a piquant way, never imagining that the metaphorical kiss she claimed to want should come from me, but rather, less improbably — for sake of example — from her mother and, if so, placed not upon her mouth, but upon her forehead; or upon her cheek, if from a father or an uncle; and in an extreme case, upon her hand, if by a rogue like me who really wanted nothing more than to devour her whole, beginning with her mouth. Out of fear or perhaps to mask my own lustful affections, I looked at her idiotically, as though I were not her lover, but her best girlfriend, sympathizing with this desire of hers without understanding how she expected me to fulfill it.
She took hold of my hands and said, “Let’s take a walk,” and so we did, wandering away from the theater and through the tiered streets of Boulogne, leaning into each other, recounting the highlights of Dr. Zamenhof’s triumph. (“Lutek should never have compromised his visionary idea for their practical concerns,” she said. “The French understand nothing about what the world thinks of them.”) The pressure of her arm against mine was such an agreeable sensation that I resolved to volunteer myself immediately should fraŭlino Bernfeld again mention a desire to kiss someone. Unfortunately, the question never came up, and eventually we found ourselves in the sand, along the shoreline, the surge of the ocean more virile than I recalled it being during the afternoon. The rising moon bisected the sea with a shimmering band of phosphorescen
ce, the moving crest of each wave sparkling with reflected starlight.
We strolled past the statue of Victory straining to offer a laurel wreath to San Martin enthroned upon his horse.
Fraŭlino Bernfeld was shivering, and I offered her my jacket. “Cold?” I asked.
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said. However, I insisted, and she allowed me to drape my coat about her shoulders. “That’s better, yes, thank you very much.”
She turned up the collar, and her white hands held the jacket front together from inside, the tips of two fingers crooking out.
“Fraŭlino Bernfeld.” I cleared my throat.
“Hmn?” she murmured questioningly, looking at the sea.
“I was wondering,” I said, “earlier when … you mentioned being sufficiently happy to … to …”
“Kiss someone?”
“I was wondering, yes: did you have anyone specifically in — ”
Before I could finish my sentence, her arms had snaked out from beneath my jacket and her hands were grasping the back of my neck. With a gentle tugging, she brought my head down to hers. My coat slid off her shoulders and fell into the sand. I had opened my mouth and was on the point of protesting in order to rescue the jacket — it was brand new, after all — when fraŭlino Bernfeld’s upper lip filled it. (My mouth, I mean.) Her bottom lip slid wetly across my chin, and as it did, I thought it best to ignore the jacket, for the time being at least, lest I miss what, in my state of idiocy, I imagined would be a celebratory and thus solitary kiss, and not the first in an endless banquet of kisses. fraŭlino Bernfeld’s lips were soft and pillowy, and my lips seemed to sink into hers with the slow dulcet movement of a cherry blossom falling into a pot of honey. Because I didn’t wish her to think I possessed any notions of taking advantage of her — though in a public place, we were, as far as I could tell, completely alone and blocked from view by the colorful fence surrounding the children’s playground we were sheltering in — I began to pull away. fraŭlino Bernfeld’s hands tightened about the back of my neck, and she brought me to her again. Her mouth widened, gnawing at my own. A soft, purring murmur juddered inside her throat, and in truth, I nearly swooned at the sound of it. Though we were hardly moving, our two heads seemed to be lunging at one another rhythmically, until my hat fell off. I don’t know where my hands were before this, but fraŭlino Bernfeld’s hands somehow found them and placed them upon her lower back. She pulled me towards her, until my chest was pressed into the soft upholstery of her upper torso. Still devouring my mouth, she dropped her chin, so that my chin was now nearly grazing the upward-thrust pillows of her bosom. Her head dropped back and some sort of instinctual knowledge took over in me. Without hesitation, I kissed her along the inside of her neck. Her hands, rising across my back, found my hair. Her fingers entangled themselves in my locks and, yanking on my hair, she forced my head down until the buttons of her blouse raked against my cheeks. My pincenez, for a while sitting askew, fell off the bridge of my nose and dangled between the columns of our bodies. With my mouth pressed against the fabric concealing her breasts, I allowed my hand to spider its way up her midsection, thinking she might at any moment, in a fit of modesty, brush it aside, as, of course, it was her absolute right to do. A gentleman, I felt it only correct to give her fair and ample warning of my intentions. Counter to my growing disbelief, my hand however was allowed to proceed unimpeded, until at last it attained the desired summit.
A Curable Romantic Page 44
