The Greatest Jewish-American Lover in Hungarian History. Michael Blumenthal

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СКАЧАТЬ as long as it is superficial enough not to disturb my worldview. She prefers dark, slow-moving, romantic tragedies, set to the music of Jacques Brel, which linger in her imagination for many days after, causing her to question, or reexamine, almost everything in her world. She remembers the names of films and actors, and prefers actresses who embody a kind of low-key sensuality and dark reserve. I adore those who are brazenly sexual and whore-like in their demeanor. If, for example, as in Roman Polanski’s Bitter Moon, there are two women, one of whom is subtly beautiful, sensual, and slightly tragic, the other who is vulgar, brazen, hedonistic, and rather shallow, it is always certain that she will prefer the first. I always prefer the second.

      On those rare occasions when we’ve seen a film we both liked, she will, the next day—even the next month—remember every small detail of it: the weather in a particular scene, the shape of an awning, the way a blouse or a cloth napkin lay against the protagonist’s arm or lap. I, on the other hand, will remember nothing, not even the plot, as if some premature and obliterating dementia had overtaken me during the night. Somewhat sheep-faced, I will ask her to remind me what the movie was about, who was in it . . . on occasion, even, what it’s name was, all of which she will generously do, never even pausing to comment upon my infirmity.

      Though I am rather smart about books and literature, it is the rare film in which I am even able to follow the plot line, much less unravel the mystery, so that, after we leave the theatre (assuming I haven’t fallen asleep), I will usually need her to explain to me exactly what happened, who was related to whom, and why, at the end, a photograph of one character’s daughter mysteriously showed up on the wall of a seemingly unrelated character’s living room. When she does, I am inevitably embarrassed about my simple-mindedness and lack of insight, a shortcoming she seems either oblivious to or willing to overlook.

      I either love or hate people, and find myself utterly incapable of having any interest in those I am indifferent to. She, though often equally indifferent to the same people, always seeks to find something interesting and unique about them, a pursuit I have neither the time nor patience for. Something in even the most uninspiring person arouses, if not her conversation, then at least her curiosity, and—once she has been engaged with someone in any way—she retains a certain ongoing loyalty to them I can neither relate to or comprehend. Though far less extroverted than I am, she will carry on a correspondence with any number of people, in all sorts of countries, and keeps a list in her address book of all the birthdays of everyone she has ever known and liked.

      I consider every crisis a catastrophe, and will begin to fidget nervously and despondently whenever I am confronted with a late train, a rescheduled flight, or an incompetent waitperson. She considers each of these events a hidden opportunity, a portent from the gods, yet another manifestation of the world’s independence and revivifying fickleness.

      Though I have somehow been appointed the “breadwinner” of our family, I am extremely lazy: my favorite activity, as Freud said of poets, is daydreaming, my buttocks wedged firmly in a chair. She is never idle, raising domesticity to an art form, a Buddhist perfection in every ironed crease.

      Being a devotee of Bishop Berkeley’s formulation to the effect that, if you can’t see it, it isn’t there, I prefer neatness to cleanliness: My idea of housecleaning is to sweep the large dust balls under the bed, stuff plastic and paper bags sloppily into a kitchen cabinet, cover the bed hurriedly with a creased down comforter, cram my underwear (freely mingling with socks) into a dresser drawer. She is almost maniacally clean, sniffing each of my shirts and socks daily to make sure they don’t need to be washed, vacuuming in corners, changing the pillowcases and sheets with the regularity of tides.

      I like to buy cheap things, particularly clothes, frequently, wearing them until they fray or lose their shape, and then cart them from place to place without ever wearing them again. One of the things she seems to enjoy most is to go through my clothes closets, reminding me of all the cheap items I bought and never wore, or which I have worn once, washed, and which are now “totally useless.” She buys clothes almost never, but always things of good quality, preferring to wear the same few things (always immaculately clean) time and time again.

      I fancy myself a great dancer and a sex object. She thinks of herself as physically awkward and more sensual than sexy. I can type like a madman and, albeit reluctantly, use a computer. She considers a keyboard a frightful artifact.

      I like to drive. She likes to navigate. On those few occasions on which she drives our car, I nag her relentlessly about shifting at the wrong speeds, or squeezing too hard on the brakes. When she navigates and we begin to lose our way, I immediately become so ornery and hostile that, on at least one occasion in Budapest, she threatened to get out of the car and go home on her own. In countries known for their dangerous drivers, she insists I do all the driving, an affirmation of my manhood I accept reluctantly, though I don’t object to being in control.

      I am the kind of person who can do many things at once, most of them rather imperfectly. She does only one thing at a time, but always with a sense of perfection.

      I like to cook without recipes, freely mixing Marsala wine, mustard, artichoke hearts, candied ginger, maple syrup, and plums, hoping something capable of being digested will emerge. She always uses a recipe—except for things she has made before—but everything she makes is successful and delicious.

      I would have been a rock star, or a concert pianist—or perhaps, even, the proprietor of an illicit sex club—had I felt freer to follow my lyrical and immoral heart’s calling. She would have been a sister in a Carmelite Monastery, or a gardener.

      She is an enthusiastic and natural mother. I am a reluctant father.

      She could have been many things, all of them having something to do with taking care of others or using her hands: a nurse, a dentist, a carpenter, a potter, a refinisher of furniture, a restorer of antiquarian books. I could, though I like to imagine otherwise, probably have done only the one thing I am doing now: putting words to paper.

      I like to live part of my life in the if-but-only mode of wishful thinking and fantastical alternatives. She accepts the life life has given her as her one possible destiny, without complaining.

      She doesn’t like to think of money—in fact, her refusal to think about it has, on occasion, gotten her (and me!) into heaps of trouble. I, while I don’t like to think of it either, am usually left with the unpoetic task of having to worry about it. Since I have been with her, in fact, hardly a day has passed without thinking of it . . . almost constantly. She, on the other hand, worries about many other unpoetic tasks in our lives that have nothing at all to do with money.

      I can imitate people from many countries, and with many different accents. She is too much herself to imitate anyone.

      I like to have some kind of music playing whenever I am not reading or working. She usually prefers silence, or only to have music on when she is actually listening to it.

      I will continue to eat even when I am no longer hungry, just for the pleasure of it. She eats only as much as satisfies her hunger on any occasion. I abhor all forms of table manners, eating with my fingers, chewing with my mouth open, taking food freely from others’ plates, licking my fingers at the table, stuffing my mouth with large quantities, burping and passing gas. She never eats before being seated at the table, waits for everyone else to do likewise, chews only small morsels at a time, and eats so slowly, and with such deliberate pleasure, that I have usually finished what is on my plate well before she is actually seated. Only twice in our eight years together have I observed her passing gas. Burping, never.

      As soon as I make a decision, I immediately, and relentlessly, tilt toward wanting the other alternative. She immediately accepts, and begins to implement, any decision she has made. She often says that I am a neurotic and “special” kind of person; she feels СКАЧАТЬ