A Curable Romantic

by Joseph Skibell

  “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.

  “Absurd?” Loë said. Her throat had turned a vibrant scarlet.

  “The Esperanto Language Committee is a chaos in which nothing can get done. Perhaps even intentionally so.”

  “No one’s making that claim,” Professor Ostwald said quickly.

  “On the contrary, Wilhelm, someone is making that claim. I am making that claim!” Professor Jespersen’s reddish face was flushing even more redly than usual. “Ostrich policies!” he cried. “You can’t tell me that Dr. Zamenhof doesn’t hide behind the Language Committee, doesn’t issue his dictatorial edicts through its mouth, doesn’t rely on its incompetence to table all talk of desperately needed reform!”

  Hearing himself, Professor Jespersen attempted to refashion his tone. “Don’t misunderstand me, madame. Everyone agrees on Esperanto in principle. Still, there is nothing that can’t be made better.”

  “In principle,” I said, when Loë said nothing.

  Professor Jespersen threw up his hands. “I ask you only this: how could a language invented by a fifteen-year-old boy not require improvements? No matter how brilliant that boy was, Esperanto is still the work of a single man, with all his individual blindnesses, whereas the committee possesses many capable men, each able to correct the other’s mistakes, don’t you see?”

  “Chiefly editors and doctors,” Loë said.

  “There is a linguist or two,” he replied coldly.

  “Two, I believe,” she said.

  “Two,” he conceded.

  “In any case,” Professor Ostwald took over, “when did a committee ever produce anything of value? No, I’m afraid, Otto, you’re entirely incorrect there. Rather it’s to the lone wolf of genius that humanity owes everything of worth!”

  “Well, and what do you have to say to all of this?” Loë fixed me with a determined look.

  I’d been poking through my salad of duck gizzards, pushing to the side of my plate anything that looked as though it had once digested food itself. I raised my head to look at Loë — she was speaking a little too loudly for my comfort — and laid down my fork. “Lower your voice, darling, please,” I murmured, an admonition that succeeded only in making her raise it.

  “You’re here as Rector Boirac’s second!” she said.

  “Here, in Paris, at the committee meetings, yes, I am Rector Boirac’s second,” I said through my teeth while contriving to maintain a pleasant face. Though they were pretending not to, both Professors Ostwald and Jespersen were listening to our conversation. “But not at this dinner table.”

  “Oh!” She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. “I can’t believe you’re being such an idiot!”

  “Loë!” I said.

  “Excuse me,” she said, standing.

  “Loë!” I said again, rising from my chair.

  “Madame,” Jespersen and Ostwald said politely. They stood as Loë made her way to the powder room. When we sat, Professor Ostwald cast an indulgent look at me. “Women,” he clucked.

  Professor Jespersen shook his head. “They understand so very little.”

  Professor Ostwald poured everyone more wine.

  “What do you think of Couturat’s theory of derivations?” Professor Jespersen asked him after a moment.

  “I’m not convinced of its value.
” Holding the stem between his fingers, Professor Ostwald watched the liquid rise inside his glass. “In any case, we’ll speak of it later.”

  “And why is that?” Professor Jespersen asked.

  “Because here he is now,” Professor Ostwald said, pointing with his chin, as Professors Couturat and Leau marched in with the marquis between them.

  “The poor man looks as though he’s being led to his execution,” Professor Ostwald said wryly.

  I’d noted the same thing. The marquis shuffled in so lifelessly between his apparent captors, he did in fact appear as though he expected to find not an elegant dinner, but a firing squad waiting for him behind the door of the private dining chamber into which the three men disappeared.

  “Or if not his execution, then something worse,” Professor Jespersen said.

  “Worse?” Professor Ostwald snorted. “And what could be worse than that?”

  “Another lecture on the subjunctive in Mundolingo, I suppose.”

  “Ach, Gott!” Professor Ostwald roared. “No, you’re correct there! I’d much rather be shot!”

  “WHAT IN GOD’S name were you thinking?” Loë asked me on our walk back to the hotel.

  “I wasn’t thinking anything. I merely accepted Professor Ostwald’s dinner invitation.”

  “But can’t you see what they’re up to?”

  “They’re not up to anything, Loë!”

  “How can you be so blind?”

  “Must you suspect everyone?”

  “Those damned egoists!”

  “They’re not egoists!”

  “They’re nothing but egoists!”

  “Yes, but must they be damned egoists?”

  “Nothing exists for them but their own points of view!”

  “They have strong opinions. They’re accomplished men, and so naturally they have strong opinions.”

  “Emphasis on ‘men.’ ”

  “Ah.” I could only sigh.

  “Well, why are there no women on Professor Couturat’s committee?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps none accepted his invitation.”

  “It’s 1907, for God’s sake!”

  “Worse. It’s October, so it’s almost 1908.”

  “Am I the only one living in the modern world?”

  “I’m living in the modern world.”

  “Oh, please!” She gave me a cutting look. “You really have no sense of who you are, do you, Kaĉjo?” Her laughter was scalding. “Sometimes you’re just such a Galitsyaner, aren’t you?”

  “Loë. Enough.”

  “These men tell you they’re impressive, and so you believe them. Well, why shouldn’t you? You’ve done it your entire life. The rebbe tells you he can fly to Heaven and, so of course, you believe him! Why would he say it, if it wasn’t true?”

  “We’re not having this conversation!”

  “No, we are having this conversation!”

  “I am not having this conversation!”

  “No, you are having this conversation! Do you know how frustrating it is for me, as a woman, to have to leave everything in your questionable hands?”

  As we crossed le pont de la Tournelle to the narrow streets of the Île St. Louis, I surrendered all hopes of the amorous night I’d been promised. Instead, we sat up in our nightclothes until nearly three, with Loë quizzing me on every detail of every day of the committee’s meetings, details we’d already thoroughly discussed, and razzing me on my naïveté, which she was certain would sabotage our case before the committee.

  “Let me tell you something, Dr. Sammelsohn,” she said when it was nearly dawn. “If anything unfortunate should happen during these last committee days, I’m not sure I’ll be able to forgive you. Do you understand me?”

  I sighed and closed my eyes. “Yes, I understand you. But, Loë, don’t worry!”

  “I don’t know why Dr. Zamenhof would send such a Galitsyaner to defend his work. Just look at you! Bedazzled by a couple of university professors!”

  Sleep was out of the question, and in the morning, despite copious amounts of coffee, I was good for little.

  WHICH WAS UNFORTUNATE because, immediately following the morning’s session, Rector Boirac was recalled to Dijon by his academic duties there.

  “There’s been another fire,” he said as I bundled him into a cab outside the collège gates. “It shouldn’t be too great a problem. The meetings are scheduled to continue until the end of the week, and I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.”

  I handed him his hat. “You’re certain?” Our breaths made small clouds in the cold morning air.

  “Absolutely.” He regarded me with a small smile. “I wouldn’t leave otherwise.”

  I nodded, conceding to his superior wisdom.

  “Continue with your reports to General Sébert. And if you get in over your head, call him.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Call him?”

  “Get in over my head.”

  “But if you do, do.”

  “I will,” I said, “but I won’t.”

  He bit into his cigar, lit it, and tossed the match into the street.

  “Nu, ĝis la revido.” He seated himself inside the motorcar.

  “Ĝis la,” I said.

  The engine barked and thundered, and I shivered as his taxi trundled off.

  CHAPTER 17

  The dénouement played out as anyone might have guessed.

  After lunch, when those of us remaining returned to the committee chamber, we discovered that in the interim some-one had placed a proposal on the table. There were copies pressed from a mimeographed stencil at every committeeman’s chair. Professor Baudouin pointed the pamphlet out with his cane as soon as we’d entered the room. “What’s this?” he asked suspiciously. “Professor Leau?”

  Professor Couturat said. Professor Leau shrugged and shook his handsome head.

  “Most irregular,” Professor Ostwald grumbled.

  “Hm,” Professor Jespersen said in a hollowish way.

  “It appears” — Professor Couturat affixed his pince-nez in order to leaf through the pamphlet — “to be an additional scheme, with a grammar and a partial dictionary.” He read through it irritably, giving each page a cursory perusal before flipping to the next.

  “A proposed system of reforms,” Professor Leau added helpfully, standing in much the same posture as his friend.

  “And who is the author?” Professor Ostwald demanded.

  Professor Couturat turned back to the first page of the document, as we all did, and the sound of rustling pages filled the hall. “The work is pseudonymous,” Professor Couturat said, looking up from the sheets. “The author gives his name only as Ido.”

  “Did you say Ita?”

  “Ido,” Professor Leau corrected me.

  “He’s not Japanese, is he?” Dr. Eötvös said.

  “No, no, Ido means ‘child’ in Esperanto,” I explained.

  “Ah, yes, so it does, so it does,” Professor Ostwald said, blushing, flustered. “Out of context, which is to say, rather, speaking in French” — he gestured with one finger, making little circles near his ear — “I didn’t hear it.”

  “Upon cursory examination,” Professor Leau said, “it appears to address much of what has been complained about in Esperanto.”

  “Exactly the sort of thing we’ve been asking for,” Professor Ostwald said.

  “Well, not exactly,” Professor Leau purred.

  “Neither of you two” — Professor Ostwald pointed with his great ursine head towards Professors Couturat and Leau — “are this Monsieur Ido, by any chance?”

  “No,” Professors Couturat and Leau both said, each looking at the other.

  At which point, the committee, as though one man, bowed its head and read the pamphlet through in silence.

  “Where is Boirac?” Professor Baudouin whispered.

  “Couldn’t be here today,” I said.

  “Well, I suggest you say something and quickly.”

&n
bsp; “Me?”

  “Who else?” Professor Baudouin scowled. “You’re Boirac’s second.”

  “Of course,” I said, but before I could stand and speak, before I could even examine my fly to see that it was properly buttoned, a familiar, oleaginous voice boomed out in the chamber: “May I speak?” We all looked up and saw the Marquis de Beaufront, standing in the doorway, dashing in a mauve frock coat.

  “In Rector Boirac’s absence,” Professor Leau explained, “I took it upon myself to phone the marquis.” He dropped his voice and said to me: “I hope I haven’t offended.”

  “Not at all,” I assured him, “not at all.” I was in fact relieved to see the marquis. Whatever problems I had with the fellow — he was, on his best days, an egomaniacal and duplicitous boor — he was the strongest defender against the array of reformists who continued to bedevil Esperanto like a cloud of annoying bees.

  “Step forward, Marquis, and address the committee,” Professor Leau said.

  The marquis took his time approaching the table, rapping his cane against the floor, scowling like an irritated choirmaster at a group of out-of-tune tenors. Unidentifiable ribbons — war medals? aristocratic insignia of some kind? — decorated the lapel of his morning coat; a boutonnière bloomed through the buttonhole on the other side. Rooting his cane to the floor, he stared down at the black-and-white tiles and pushed a long and weary sigh through his nose. He removed his pincenez and steamed the lenses with his breath, one at a time, before wiping each with a monogrammed kerchief. (I was perturbed, sitting near him, to observe that the initials of the monogram were not his own, but those of his employer, the Graf de Maigret, and that the insignia on his chest were simple Catholic medallions.) Returning his spectacles to their place, the marquis shot poisonous looks at the committee through them. With a flourish, he removed a copy of Ido’s proposals from the inside pockets of his morning coat (at the time, it didn’t occur to me to wonder how he’d come into possession of it) and slapped it against his open palm. “Well, gentlemen, I’ve had the opportunity to look over this … this little … pamphlet” he said, spitting out the word.

  NOW WAS WHEN I should have been at my most alert, when I should have been most on guard. Rector Boirac had departed the scene; the Trojan Horse of the Ido pamphlet had been rolled into the committee chambers; the conspirators had all put on their most pleasing masks; however, at that moment, I was at my most distracted. As the marquis was speaking, I happened to glance over his shoulder, my attention drawn to a diminutive figure standing on the other side of the tall chamber windows, peering in with his hands cupped on either side of his face, shielding his eyes from the sun.