and kibbutzim Beth Ha Hitchil and Jacov Makom ha Sevastopol. The morning before his Tel Aviv concert, the doctor had visited an archaeological site on the beach at Caesarea. There he’d chanced upon a group of archaeologists excavating Roman relics; they were joking loudly with one another in a strange tongue. The language he heard was not Hebrew, Russian, German, French, Arabic, or Hindi.
Piqued by his love of sounds musical and oral, and hoping some day to commission his friend the composer Ludwig von Batterhaven to write a Concerto for Violin Linguistics, Zany had moved closer. Finally, in frustration, he had asked the muscular, tanned, white-haired, mustached digger nearest him, “Slicha, Mr. Gentleman, do you speak any of the English tongue?”
Shouldering his shovel, the archaeologist had pushed back his sun hat, brushed the dirt off his hands, and eyed Zany suspiciously. He’d picked up his knapsack, reached into it to pull out a falafel, taken a manly bite, swigged it down with water from his canteen, and asked, “Who wants to know?”
“So you do speak English.”
“Everybody speaks English, even the termites.”
“Good. Thank you. I’m a violinist. I’ve never heard such strange sounds. What language were you just speaking?
“Babylonian.”
“Really?” Zany had been impressed. “Is there such a thing as Babylonian?”
“B’vadai. Of course.”
“Is there much Babylonian spoken around here?”
“Only by us. We practice whenever we excavate archaeological sites. The Tower of Babel is my speciality.” The archaeologist had reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “I’m Dr. Isaac Mashugi, from Hebrew University. I like violinists. I play fiddle myself. I’m a Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, and Botticelli fan.” He’d handed Zany the card. “If you want to play quartets or hear more Babylonian, give me a call. But decide quickly. Tomorrow I leave for Mt. Ararat.”
Zany, squinting in the sun, had replied, “I was on a concert tour of Armenia three years ago. I saw the peaks of Ararat from my hotel window in Yerevan.”
“That’s nice.”
“ . . . Mr. Mashugi, my son is a linguist. He’s graduating this year with a degree in Etymology from Bustard University.”
“Very good.”
“Why are you going to Turkey?”
“Linguistic research. I’m looking for Noah’s ark on Mt. Ararat. If I find it, I’ll know what really happened at the Tower of Babel. But more important, I’m searching for linguistic information on the first word ever spoken by mankind! I have a feeling it’s hidden in Noah’s ark, perhaps among the animals.”
“Aha!” Zany’s mind had instantly leaped across the Atlantic to Attila in Colorado and the lad’s passion for languages.
“Tell me, Mr. Mashugi . . . ”
The archaeologist had relaxed, smiled, said, “My friends call me ‘Cookie,’ ” and extended his hand. “You are now my friend. Call me Cookie.”
“Okay, Mr. Cookie—”
“Just plain Cookie.”
“Okay . . . Cookie. I have a son who is graduating from college. He has a passion for linguistics. Is there any chance that you, a lover of violin and scholarship, could help and guide him, become a kind of . . . mentor?”
“Ayn beaya. No problem. Some I ment, others I de-ment. I ment many. What kind of menting does he need?”
“Well, he needs to be put on the right path,” Zany had explained. “Mostly life guidance. I’m sure he’d be a helpful addition for your Mt. Ararat adventure.”
Mashugi had thought it over before asking, “Is he strong? Can he carry provisions?”
“Of course. Attila has built up his trapezoids, biceps, rhomboids, and rotators by carrying piles of books to his mountain cabin. He cut down trees to build an outhouse, hauled and chopped wood for the fireplace, decorated the cabin interior himself. He has strong hands from loading his AK-47, strong fingers from shooting it. We are of Hungarian origin with historic roots in Central Asia. That’s why we named him after Attila the Hun. The lad’s trigger finger is especially developed. He can protect you. He’s an excellent shot.”
“A gunner, eh? These archaeological trips are sometimes dangerous. We can always use more protection.” Mashugi had glanced upward, then spat on the ground, uniting heaven and earth as he considered the future. “Here’s what we’ll do: Tell your son to write me. In the letter, have him detail, not only his qualifications for a Mt. Ararat linguistic adventure, but also his passions, interests, hopes, and dreams. Let him tell me what purpose and direction he wants his life to take. That sort of thing. Then I’ll know what kind of kid he is. It will also set him thinking about his future.”
“Excellent idea, Cookie. You’re quite wise. I’ll do exactly that.” Zany had in turn extended his own hand. “Thank you, Mr. Cookie. I’ll call my son right away.
Mashugi had nodded. “Very good.—tov meod, as we say in Hebrew!”
Zany had returned to the USA a month later. After unpacking and settling in, he’d polished his violin, dusted the books in his library, and paid Martha her monthly salary. Then he penned a Hungarian style, shamanistic-based, fiddle-tinged letter to his son at Bustard U.
Kedves Attila,
Soon you’ll be graduating. Congratulations. Csodalatos! You’ll depart from the safety and security of your intellectual nest. You’ll enter the world at large, a place of pestilence, sickness, violence, thrills, studded with uncertainty, wild emotions, and directional meaninglessness. It is a period of search and wandering for most youngsters—or middlesters, as may be the case with you. However, I have found a guru and mentor for you, one who can ease your pain of entry. I met him last month at an archaeological dig on my concert tour of Israel. A nagyon jo kind of guy! I had a short but fascinating talk with him. A linguist, researcher, adventurer, and teacher, I sense he is a master of men. Isaac Mashugi is his name. His friends call him ‘Cookie.’ This Mashugi would be wonderful to meet, study, and learn from. He is leading an upcoming archaeological and linguistic research expedition to Mt. Ararat in Turkey.
I spoke to him about your talents. He wants you to join him on this Ararat venture! However, before he can accept you into the program, he needs a letter about your interests, hopes, passions, and dreams—what you want your future direction in life to be. That sort of thing.
You’ll find his address on the card enclosed is this envelope.
I know he’d be of great help during this adventurous stage of development.
With love,
Father Zany
Three weeks before graduation, Attila was nervously pacing his cabin. Uneasy about his future, confused about his goals, he pulled out his father’s letter out of the desk drawer. Carefully, he read each line. The pace of his pacing increased.
Finally,
