her just as he had when she had been his student, formally (though pleasantly, and almost always kindly), tolerantly (and some days only tolerantly, which both then and now disheartened and unsettled her), and sometimes with pride (then, when she had sung particularly well; now, when she behaved the way he wished her to—graciously, unchildishly, “as befits a gentlewoman.” Yentlevoman, he would say).
The form of their relationship had certainly changed, she thought. But had its contents?
This was such a coolly grown-up question that for an instant she was pleased, and praised herself for thinking of it. And all at once she was thinking of her English teacher, Mr. Inemer—her favorite teacher, the best one she’d had at Lincoln. He was the one who had taught her, junior year, to think about form and content—and now, as if it had been only last week that she’d sat in his classroom, she could hear Mr. Inemer saying sound, direction, rhythm, predetermined limitations, technique, imagery, devices. Wouldn’t he be pleased, and proud of her?
But what could she be thinking of? This was her life, not a poem. And yet—form, meaning structure, shape—she could not only hear him, she could see him perched on the front edge of his desk, counting off each term on his fingers, just as he always did. What do I mean by content? Anybody? Subject matter, theme, motif. Can anybody tell me what motif might be? Esther? I’m willing to bet that you can.
And she could, too. She always could.
But this wasn’t poetry or art or music, this was just her life, and Room 325—last row, first seat—was thirteen hundred miles away. Mr. Inemer was at this very minute saying the same things he’d said to her class to a group of kids she probably wouldn’t even recognize.
And she was here, in the Bohemian Café, beside her husband and her son. Of course things had changed—just look at how they’d changed. It was her wedding day, and she was no one’s student anymore.
Tears filled her eyes. Now? she thought. Now she was crying? She had been dry-eyed throughout the ceremony, though she had imagined she would cry, and she had even wondered whether or not she would hide her tears from Bartha. She stole a sidelong glance at him but he was pondering the wine list, not looking at her. When he spoke her name—still not looking at her—she started at the sound. Before he could say anything else, she said, sharply, “I’m fine.”
She held her tears back, blinking, as he turned to her. He looked at her quizzically but said only, “So, will you drink a little something? I have found a good wine.” He took one hand off the baby, briefly setting it atop hers where it lay on the tiled tabletop before returning it to its place beneath Alexander’s head. “Or…here is another which is very good.” He closed his eyes, deliberating. “Perhaps we might try both.”
“Both, yes!” Vilmos said. He slapped his menu down and rubbed his hands together like a character in a novel. “Two bottles of wine, why not?” And to the waitress, he said, “At this table we are celebrating!”
“The waitress isn’t interested,” said Clara. “Let her do her job.”
“Did you hear this, Alexander?” Vilmos said, and Esther thought he was about to complain about his wife for once, even if only to the sleeping baby, but he said, “See, we are ordering some good wine so that we may drink a toast to your health. Your family is all around you, little one.” He half stood and leaned over the table so that he could look down at the baby in his cousin’s lap. “Still sleeping? Alexander, you are missing the whole party! Time to wake up, darling boy.”
He said it quietly, certainly not loudly enough to wake the baby, but still Esther was about to protest, to warn him not to wake the baby, when, as if he’d heard and understood, Alexander did wake up—opening his eyes, yawning and smiling, reaching out with one hand toward Esther—and then suddenly he was asleep again, exhaling a great sigh, before Esther had had the chance to take him out of Bartha’s lap. His right hand had fallen palm-up on his forehead. “Look at him,” Vilmos said. “I think he is saying to us, ‘All of this happiness is making me very tired. Please go ahead and have the party without me.’ He is a very thoughtful baby, I think.”
“Or else he’s just bored,” said Clara.
“Bored? This baby? Never!” Vilmos said. “The brilliant are never bored, and our Alexander is a brilliant baby.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Bartha, laughing. “The most brilliant of babies.”
“Don’t joke,” Esther heard herself say, though she hadn’t meant to speak. “He is,” she told Vilmos, who as he sat back down reached for her hand.
“Of course he is, darling.”
Bartha wasn’t listening. He was busy with the waitress—telling her which wines he’d chosen, and which one of them to bring out first. As soon as he finished, as the waitress turned to leave, Vilmos called to her, “Excuse me, miss, but have you ever in your life seen such a baby? Tell the truth.”
“A beautiful baby,” said the waitress, without turning.
“Yes, that’s right,” Vilmos said. “A beautiful and brilliant baby. An excellent baby! What more could one hope for? My own little cousin! My own—oh, now you must tell me, Clara”—he winked at Esther—“tell me if I have this right. My own first cousin…three times removed?”
“No,” Clara said. “Are you making a joke?”
“A joke? Naturally not. I am only—”
“I don’t understand why this is so hard to remember.”
“I don’t understand either,” Vilmos said sadly, “yet somehow I cannot.” He took his wife’s hand now and at the same time winked again at Esther. “Tell me once more, Clara, please.”
“Only once more,” Clara said, “and that’s all.” To Esther she said, “I’ve been through this with him half a dozen times. He just can’t keep it in his head.” She shrugged, and Esther shrugged too, looking down at Clara and Vilmos’s linked hands. It always came as a surprise when Clara spoke to her. “Listen closely this time,” Clara said. Then, in a singsong: “You and János are first cousins twice removed. Your grandfather was János’s first cousin. Your great-grandfather, József, and János’s father, Béla—”
“I remember him very well, my cousin László,” Bartha interrupted her. “We were good friends, very close. But that was long ago. I saw him last before the war, in Budapest. His father, my Uncle József—you have an excellent memory for names, Clara, it is remarkable—he was quite something. Such a temper! László used to come—”
“—were brothers,” Clara cut in, raising her voice, “and therefore you are twice removed as a first cousin to János, because you are two generations removed from his first cousin. But Alexander and your father are of the same generation”—here she cast a meaningful, angry-looking smile at all of them—“which means that they are second cousins, and you”—once more she flashed that chilly smile like a triumphant scowl—“are thus a second cousin once removed from Alexander.”
Vilmos slapped his forehead. “Therefore? Thus? To me it’s not so simple, not so obvious.” He sighed. “János is right. You are remarkable.”
“Don’t be silly,” Clara said. “It isn’t difficult at all. It follows simple rules.”
“Yes,
