This is Balzacian territory. The truth of this statement hit me once when I was standing in a bazaar waiting to purchase a NY hoodie (wrong colors, faulty zipper, but hey). His obnoxiously French ghost must have swooped in behind me and tickled me under the armpits. At least something goaded me on to push ahead of a babusya and make the purchase that finally landed me a sweet Hallie bag. “Ivan Franko, Onore de Balzac, Moisey Hinzberg: all these people are closely connected with the town,” writes my new host sister, O—–. By “closely connected,” she means he passed though one day on his way back to Western Europe. Most of this was explained to me today in the form of a dramatic play. The teacher performing it appeared to be mourning the loss of a husband, possibly Balzac. She read by candlelight, wearing a fluffy red dress with a little pink flare at the end suggesting fire hazard—a sneaky but somewhat effective attempt at pathos if you could’ve seen how close she really got to the flame. She read Balzac passages made to look like letters and dropped them one by one onto the stage, her head bowed in flamboyant sorrow, as if she were a widow left behind in our little town, ravished and abandoned by the great novelist a few centuries ago. The act must not have been too convincing , though, because the award for best district teacher went to a woman who did a black-and-white tango number with two of her older students. It was a pedagogical beauty pageant and nothing less.
Add to this the fact that there is apparently (so I’ve been told) factual evidence of a Kennedy connection in a book that’s been tossed aside long ago. If anything so much as brushes against the little town of R——-, it’s going to be recorded forever in the long and knotted history our townspeople love to repeat. Poor Balzac was only passing through (a ten minute trip from one end of town to another by foot), and yet somehow R——- now has a permanent claim to this tiny fragment of his biography. I’m a nobody and I’ve been here only a day, but I’ve already had to decline autographs and marriage proposals. Makes me wonder what the next two years will really be like. As for the Kennedy family, they’re just cursed.
The one thing I’m sure I won’t have here is privacy. Right now my host brother
S—- (they’re twins, the two host siblings) is sitting at the edge of my bed taunting me with his middle finger (the Ukrainian index finger). “All I have to do is one thing and you’ll be very angry,” he says, pointing to the power button. Earlier: “I know your password because I saw you type it.” How could you, S—-, really, if you were on the other side of the room practicing your new jazz dance routine? Did I mention he’s also my critic—probably the only serious critic I’ll ever have. He wants me to add the part about the Dark Polish prince, Mikola Radzivil, who founded our town. Probably all the guy really did was stop in for a drink somewhere and got stuck with the title. Anyway, he’s apparently a big figure around here, and I can’t wait to see the play.
On a more relevant note: Christmas in Ukraine doesn’t happen at the same time, in case you’re wondering. I’m pretty sure it’s celebrated on January 7th. On December 25th I think they might light a big Christmas tree in the town center. I tried to ask my teachers what day I’d start working, but it seems the schedule changes every second and there’s a holiday for every day of January. I’m not really sure if the Messiah’s Big B-Day Bash could get any more flexible. One thing’s for sure: at some point I’m gonna teach the students how to sing Christmas carols and watch White Christmas on repeat (thanks Mom!). I can hear it now: “I wanna wash my hands, my face, my hair with snow! I wanna wash my hands, my face, my hair with snow! I wanna—” But now S—-‘s calling me to go watch figure skating with him. I’d better go before he cancels my new book deal.
Best seasonal wishes
and a special toast to your health,
HUGO
the 7th then.
T O