Zany!. Jim Gold

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СКАЧАТЬ lead. Plus climbing Mount Ararat might straighten me out.”

      The next day he sat under a pine tree, booted up his computer, and composed the following:

      Dear Dr. Mashugi,

       (Or do you prefer Isaac? I’ve heard Israelis are informal.)

       I am Attila Zany. My father, the violinist Zoltan Zany, says he met you near Caesarea a few months ago. Is this true? Did you like him?

      My future goal: I want to become a prabbi. What exactly is that? For me, it unites science, metaphysics, biophysics, music, linguistics, philosophy, medicine, weaponry, defense, chemistry, history, and psychotherapy. I want to combine a universal vision with a job. My term for this as-yet-to-be-found occupation is prabbi.

      In order to prepare this letter to you, I studied Hebrew. I have also thrown in some Aramaic, Phoenician, and Ugaritic, just to make sure. During my etymological studies, I discovered the Hebrew root “shemesh” means “to serve.” Very poetic. I like it. The “shemesh” (sun) serves God’s purpose.

      I’m trying to find my “shemesh,” my own purpose. So far it has eluded me. Are my wanderings part of a cosmic question? I sense Higher Forces speaking to me, suggesting my student days are over. Time to move on, do something else. But what? My dear Dr. Mashugi, that is my question.

       Can you help?

       Your (hopefully future) student, Attila Zany

      A month later, Attila drove to his post office to pick up his mail. The clerk in the booth handed him a pile of letters, magazines, advertisement, and postcards. Among them was a letter from Mashugi.

      Startled, eyes wide in excitement and with trembling fingers, Atilla tore it open.

      Dear Boy Attila,

       The answer is yes. Yes, I want you to join my research expedition to Mt. Ararat!

      Now the advice: Best for health, happiness, and a Mashugi life style is belief in progress, improvement, and eternal life.

      Progress creates a positive attitude and helps cure unhappiness. Of course, since opposites attract, you need a descent into Hell, or Hades, as the Greeks call it, before progress can be made. Our trip to Mt. Ararat should provide that: a hell of a depression, which, as a good start, will be followed by an ascent on Jacob’s ladder straight to Heaven.

      Heaven leads to Hell, and vice versa.

      Avoid dualism. Seek Oneness.

       Now, my boy, the big question: Is there really a difference between Heaven and Hell?

       Think about it. Give me your answer when I see you.”

       Mashugi

       6

      FATHER AND SON

      DUE, ALAS, TO WHAT he lengthily described as “logistic and financial difficulties,” Cookie Mashugi postponed his Turkish research venture to the following year.

      Thus, after graduation, with linguistic degree in hand, trip to Ararat postponed, and no immediate job prospects other than his vague notion of prabbihood, Attila moved in with his father.

      Living in the attic of Zany’s quiet New Jersey home, the lad continued his etymological explorations. During this transition period, he studied for hours, sitting on a wooden stool, AK-47 at his side, language books piled high on a cedar table, the pages lit by a gooseneck lamp imported from Istanbul. As the weeks passed, he added Hittite, cuneiform writing practice, Akkadian, and bits of Ugaritic to his study ritual, as well as Turkish phrases, and exploration of Indo-European roots, Old English verbs, nouns, grammar, and, for relaxation at the end of each day, read passages from Beowulf.

      Evenings, he descended from his monastic heights to practice target shooting in the back yard and to visit his father.

      One day, he leaned his AK-47 next to Zany’s armchair and asked, “Father, why do you keep scribbling in that book? Wouldn’t your time be better spent studying military history, or learning the chemistry of bomb making?” He shot a few holes in Zany’s notebook while waiting for an answer.

      “Oh, stop it, Tommy,” Zoltan hissed. “You’re acting like Attila the Hun.” He pushed the gun aside. “ . . . As you know, your great-grandmother, the genealogist Zsuszi Kastoroszeg, told us that that famous bloodthirsty conqueror occupied something rather more substantial than a twig on our family tree. You were named after him. But that’s no reason to belittle my journal.”

      Attila lowered his gun, lips sank into a frown, and asked, “Father, why do you always call me Tommy?”

      Zany considered the question. “Tommy has always seemed to me to be a good nickname for daily life. Your mother and I knew such an appellation would get you through school without your fellow students mocking, laughing, or jeering at you. The name Attila is too powerful for the New Jersey educational system. Besides, our family believes in promoting disguises. Hidden names are a sign of strength. By hiding our identity, we become stronger. Now, Tommy, pick up your gun and listen to me.”

      Zany lifted his finger and rotated it in the air to promote circular thought. “Journal writing is a daily necessity. It clears the mind and helps preserve my sanity. The rich language in my garden of verbiage, especially when liberally sprinkled with Hungarian phrases and Finno-Ugric idioms, helps me dream and carries me to future places. In fact, through journal writing, I have even met your greatest of great-grandfathers, Attila the Hun himself.”

      Attila grabbed his weapon and riddled the ceiling with bullets of joy. Pride lit his face. “Meeting the Hun himself is no small feat! But, Papa, writing a journal still seems strange.”

      Dr. Zany disagreed. “Weapons may force others to acquiesce to your demands, but pens are powerful, too.” He coughed, grabbed a handkerchief, and blew his nose. “I hardly slept last night.” Reaching for his coffee cup, he took a meditative sip. “My mind is a confused mess today,” he said, waving his son away. “Now leave me alone.” He pulled out his pen, fixed his eyes on his journal, and unleashed a torrent of ink across the page.

      An hour passed. Attila sat in his chair, waiting. Finally, Zany looked up. Relaxed and contented, his mandibular muscles forming themselves into a smile, he offered, “Writing down my thoughts brings such satisfaction. What about you, my son? What gives you pleasure?”

      “Shooting.”

      “Anything else?”

      “Marking linguistic books. I also like to throw dictionaries and grammars.”

      “I thought you liked languages.”

      “I do. But I express my joy of study actively. Books in flight give me pleasure. They intensify a Talmudic love of learning.”

      “ . . . You are a very strange child. What sort of family do you come from? Shooting, anger, love, hatred, joy. What kind of combustible emotional combination is that for a young lad?”

      “Father, СКАЧАТЬ