The Polyglot Lover by Lina Wolff

Author:Lina Wolff
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary fiction;literary fiction;novel;translation;translated fiction;crime;comedy;drama;love story;realism;women’s literary fiction;rite of passage;metoo;sexual misconduct;women’s rights;gender roles;book prize;Roxane Gay;Maggie Nelson;Miranda July
Publisher: And Other Stories Publishing
Published: 2019-03-26T23:19:09+00:00

Ruben and Mildred Rondas

Cultural Journalism and Paranormal Phenomena

I recognized the name “Ruben” immediately. I was sure it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, and because the subheading said “cultural journalism,” I understood that he was someone I should know about. And so, this woman was called Mildred Rondas and she worked with “paranormal phenomena.” I laughed. Paranormal phenomena. I imagined calling a writer colleague of mine when I got home, a colleague who’s also a close friend, and I could see us laughing together about this, because if there’s one thing we don’t believe in, if there’s one thing we’ve never believed in and that we despise, even, then it’s paranormal phenomena and people who believe in stuff like that. Airy-fairy pathetic people who’ve never heard of Darwin. OK, I thought. With a body like Mildred Rondas’ next to you, you could probably put up with any old brain. An island is an island, and if you find one like that, you can’t complain that the grass is too short, the ground too rocky, or the water levels too low. If you find an island, you’re the king of the island and so you hold your tongue. Seized by a sudden calm, I walked back across the lawn, down the path, and on toward our house.

When I arrived home my wife was still sleeping in her room. I walked quietly so as not to wake her, and after I had changed out of my wet clothing, I went into my study. I called my colleague to get information about Ruben Rondas.

“Ah,” he said. “Ruben Rondas. Don’t you know him? He’s written an entire thesis on your suite of novels from the nineties.”

“Must be insufferable reading,” I said.

“Not as insufferable as the suite of novels,” said my colleague.

I knew I was supposed to laugh, but I don’t laugh when people joke about my books. It’s not because I don’t have a sense of humor. I have a great sense of humor, but only if what’s been said is funny. And the problem with a book is that a book is like a child to the person who made it. Is a mother supposed to laugh at her child? Make fun of it because it happens to be a little lame, because one leg is longer than the other, because it has an unruly whorl on its head? Is she supposed to clap when someone bullies it in the schoolyard? No. Likewise, an author shouldn’t be expected to hold in esteem someone who’s slaughtered his progeny.

Ah well. My novels were not the important thing now.

“Do you know anything about his wife?” I said, trying to sound uninterested.

“Oh, his wife… You mean the beautiful Mildred?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“She’s blind.”

“Yes.”

“She works with paranormal phenomena, or so I’ve heard. Which is interesting.”

“Are you joking?” I said and laughed.

“Not at all,” he said.

“So tell me, what exactly does a medium do?” I asked, skeptically.

“A medium does an analysis of your life path number, charts your horoscope, and reads your cards.

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