university of chicago essay (prompt: fictive brunch with whoever you want)
Marinetti arrived early, just after the olive oil spilled all over my wrists. I smiled my panicky-hostess smile and beckoned him in, apologizing in trembly falsetto about the mess. He smiled, nodded, muttered something unintelligible in Italian, and sat himself incongruously on the plaid cushions in my kitchen. Italian suit on Dutch-wood kitchen-table, scuffed leather shoes on Formica. I tried not to feel his eyes burning into me as I sliced tomatoes, but in vain. When I looked up, his eyes weren't burning my cheeks but rather the blender, all glass and blades sitting proudly on the counter. He was staring at it with exactly the glassy and slightly worshipful gaze his manifestoes would suggest: my sweet Kitchenaid, humble but undeniably "illuminated by the internal glow of electric hearts." I took a deep breath.
"Mr. Marinetti," I said, switching it on--noting his palpable inhalation--"would you like to examine the blender a little more closely?"
He'd stood and cupped the whirring bowl before he remembered to answer. "Si, per favore," he said, pressing "hi" and then "lo" and "hi" again. I turned back to the cheeses, panic momentarily allayed. By the time I finished the platter Herman Melville had knocked dourly on the door, and I nodded and bobbed perilously close to his beard as I drew him into the dining room.
"Hello, Mr. Melville," I said, dotingly, drawing the curtains open. There was a pause. His moustache loomed over silent lips. The blender whirred.
"I just have a few things I need to finish up," I said, feeling my courage wane. With artificial perkiness, I added: "It's no Atlantic, but there is a pool out back if you'd like a waterfront view!"
With the dipping vegetables nestled in their cradles and Marinetti prodding the eggbeater, I hurried to the front hall in time to catch Emma Goldman poking the bell with her umbrella. Enormous hat drooping over her eyes, she handed me a volume of Greek epigrams and bustled into the dining room.
"Some salon this is," she said ruefully, taking a chair. "Nearly an hour out of New York. And I'd like to knock down a few of your neighbors' houses." She eyed me sharply. "Were you here before the brick monstrosities on your street, or were they spawned earlier?"
I nearly grinned: of course she'd caught the folly of the two identical brick mansions, squat as fat toads, swallowing the block! "They were both built very recently, I assure you, and I apologize, Ms. Goldman. There really--well--this was the largest space available to me intimate enough for a meeting of great minds."
Her gaze was keen and hot and she turned it to the walls: a drawing of a Torah scroll, Japanese prints, candlesticks from Tsfat, all felled before her. I felt quite naked. She pressed her lips together.
"Very well, Miss Lavin; intimate and Judaic enough for me. But where are the other guests?"
I cleared my throat. "F.T. Marinetti is in the kitchen," I said, jerking my head in the direction of the persistent buzz. "Herman Melville is..." I sucked in a breath. "...probably by the swimming pool. The others--Hugo Ball, Hans Arp, Tristan Tzara, and a contemporary poet, Ilya Kaminsky--are due any moment." I turned to her with wide wet eyes. "Please, Ms. Goldman, let me bring out the hors d'oeuvres; I'm certain the others are on their way. Signor Marinetti arrived a bit early and I--well, everything's a bit anarchic."
"Anarchic, eh?" she said, with a little laugh. She thumped the table. "Strong oak, a little schnapps, interesting men: Miss Lavin, if you can bring me those, I won't regret coming. And if we dance, I might even enjoy myself."
"If you can't dance, it's not your revolution, eh?" I said, with a melty, ingratiating little smile. Within minutes I'd set out platters (cheese, veggies with a little onion dip, herb Triscuits) before the famous anarchist. She regarded me sternly over her spectacles, crunching a celery stick. The doorbell rang thrice and I dashed to the front, feeling my curls frizz up like striking vipers. Half-tempted to pant out "Nike!", I opened the door to admit the three founders of Dada and stammered out greetings instead. Tristan Tzara, monocle glinting and impeccably suited, stepped forward and gave me a brisk handshake; Hans Arp, handsome and Germanic, stepped smiling up beside him; Hugo Ball, long-nosed and ascetic in demeanor, crossed the threshhold in ponderous silence.
Tzara and Arp struck first at the onion dip. Ball munched dourly on a fistful of carrots; Emma Goldman was nowhere to be found. I heard the sound of raised voices and frenzied whirring from the kitchen, then impact on steel and an unmistakable shattering of glass. Placating the Dadaists with a few smiles and imprecations to stay put, I dashed to the kitchen only to find the blender shattered and whirring fitfully midway between an incensed Goldman and a rageful Marinetti.
"Fascist pig!" she called out, squeezing her umbrella tightly. The clear sign of an umbrella-tip-shaped indentation on my refrigerator made me wince.
"Anarchist buttock-broker!" he fumed, crossing his pinstriped arms at his breast. The blender buzzed mournfully to a halt. I clenched my teeth.
"My dear lady and gentleman," I began, gingerly picking up the blender. "I understand that your views are--ah--somewhat different, but I would ask... for the sake of all present... that you marshal your strengths and suppress your hatred. Such passion can greatly serve our little symposium, but only when channeled appropriately! Now, won't you please avail yourself of the snacks while I clean up this little mess?"
"All right, Miss Lavin," Emma Goldman said, removing her spectacles. Her jaw was still taut with rage. "I shall endeavor to remain in a room with this--man--without outburst. But I must simply say I question your choice of guests."
Marinetti nodded at me, mustachioed lips drawn tightly in. "Scuse, signora," he said curtly before exiting into the dining room. I leaned against the fridge door, feeling exhaustion creep up behind my eyes. I turned toward the kitchen window: Herman Melville was seated on the chaise lounge by the pool, gazing into it. Three ducks were bathing themselves in the water. The sun was setting over the bikeshed. His eyes were distant, the yellow light spilled on his beard, and for a moment I wished greatly to sit beside him, my thoughts running with his: fate and the eternal roiling sea... But a clamor from the other room tore me from my reflections. A hubbub--had I left the Dadaists and Emma Goldman alone too long in my dining room? As I left I caught Hugo Ball slipping out to the backyard in the corner of my eye.
By the time I dashed in they were nowhere to be found. A vague sound of chanting came from the hallway, and I rushed out: Tzara and Arp had taken down the collection of Nepalese weaponry my father had acquired during his post-college trip around the world (traded for quinine: bows, spears, a machete), as well as the African mask hanging over the living-room mantel; Tzara had it draped over his face, and Arp was beating "The Coffee-Table Book of Modern Art" with a spear. Tzara began a chant of one of his poemes negres:
"Who wants to throw the Zigendung?
Zigendung!
That I want to throw in the sky
Sky!
That it may let some water fall on me
some water!
That the burned grass may grow a little
fresh grass!"
Arp began a dance up the carpeted staircase, still drumming his absurd drum. Emma Goldman followed after him, joining the chant with nonsense syllables in her hearty voice. The three of them danced up and down the stairs in a writhing line. Just then the doorbell rang: it was Ilya Kaminsky at last, a bouquet of Queen Anne's lace in his white hand. His cheeks were flush with cold, eyes bright behind his glasses. Dusk had fallen; the lampposts on the front lawn had begun to glow. I took the flowers reverently, staring at him. His gaze was directed at the chanting trio on my stairs, so I took the opportunity to drink him in: deaf and glorious, whose poetry had brought me keen insight into my art, my Judaism, my very self--so unpreposessing in person, and bringing me flowers! I shook myself and led him from the dim front hall.
"That's Emma Goldman, Tristan Tzara and Hans Arp," I explained, as the trio disappeared upstairs. I could hear the sounds of battering; I prayed they wouldn't enter my sisters' rooms. "As for Fillipo Marinetti... I'm not certain... but Hugo Ball and Herman Melville are in the backyard, and I..." I smiled wanly. "I am alone with the hors d'oeuvres. It appears no one's very hungry."
Ilya smiled, the transformative smile of someone raised in the cold, his eyes kind.
"I am hungry," he said, taking my hand and patting it. His voice was strong, thickly accented, with a strange cadence lent by his near-deafness. Saying little more we moved the tray of crackers to the kitchen table; the light was dim, and brilliant moonlight outlined the drying roses in the window. I saw the dark silhouettes of Hugo Ball and Herman Melville moving towards us, and then it was the four of us at table. Dim chanting could still be heard from upstairs; I thought Marinetti had probably found my computer; but the night would stretch long before us, and for now I was entirely content.
"Mr. Marinetti," I said, switching it on--noting his palpable inhalation--"would you like to examine the blender a little more closely?"
He'd stood and cupped the whirring bowl before he remembered to answer. "Si, per favore," he said, pressing "hi" and then "lo" and "hi" again. I turned back to the cheeses, panic momentarily allayed. By the time I finished the platter Herman Melville had knocked dourly on the door, and I nodded and bobbed perilously close to his beard as I drew him into the dining room.
"Hello, Mr. Melville," I said, dotingly, drawing the curtains open. There was a pause. His moustache loomed over silent lips. The blender whirred.
"I just have a few things I need to finish up," I said, feeling my courage wane. With artificial perkiness, I added: "It's no Atlantic, but there is a pool out back if you'd like a waterfront view!"
With the dipping vegetables nestled in their cradles and Marinetti prodding the eggbeater, I hurried to the front hall in time to catch Emma Goldman poking the bell with her umbrella. Enormous hat drooping over her eyes, she handed me a volume of Greek epigrams and bustled into the dining room.
"Some salon this is," she said ruefully, taking a chair. "Nearly an hour out of New York. And I'd like to knock down a few of your neighbors' houses." She eyed me sharply. "Were you here before the brick monstrosities on your street, or were they spawned earlier?"
I nearly grinned: of course she'd caught the folly of the two identical brick mansions, squat as fat toads, swallowing the block! "They were both built very recently, I assure you, and I apologize, Ms. Goldman. There really--well--this was the largest space available to me intimate enough for a meeting of great minds."
Her gaze was keen and hot and she turned it to the walls: a drawing of a Torah scroll, Japanese prints, candlesticks from Tsfat, all felled before her. I felt quite naked. She pressed her lips together.
"Very well, Miss Lavin; intimate and Judaic enough for me. But where are the other guests?"
I cleared my throat. "F.T. Marinetti is in the kitchen," I said, jerking my head in the direction of the persistent buzz. "Herman Melville is..." I sucked in a breath. "...probably by the swimming pool. The others--Hugo Ball, Hans Arp, Tristan Tzara, and a contemporary poet, Ilya Kaminsky--are due any moment." I turned to her with wide wet eyes. "Please, Ms. Goldman, let me bring out the hors d'oeuvres; I'm certain the others are on their way. Signor Marinetti arrived a bit early and I--well, everything's a bit anarchic."
"Anarchic, eh?" she said, with a little laugh. She thumped the table. "Strong oak, a little schnapps, interesting men: Miss Lavin, if you can bring me those, I won't regret coming. And if we dance, I might even enjoy myself."
"If you can't dance, it's not your revolution, eh?" I said, with a melty, ingratiating little smile. Within minutes I'd set out platters (cheese, veggies with a little onion dip, herb Triscuits) before the famous anarchist. She regarded me sternly over her spectacles, crunching a celery stick. The doorbell rang thrice and I dashed to the front, feeling my curls frizz up like striking vipers. Half-tempted to pant out "Nike!", I opened the door to admit the three founders of Dada and stammered out greetings instead. Tristan Tzara, monocle glinting and impeccably suited, stepped forward and gave me a brisk handshake; Hans Arp, handsome and Germanic, stepped smiling up beside him; Hugo Ball, long-nosed and ascetic in demeanor, crossed the threshhold in ponderous silence.
Tzara and Arp struck first at the onion dip. Ball munched dourly on a fistful of carrots; Emma Goldman was nowhere to be found. I heard the sound of raised voices and frenzied whirring from the kitchen, then impact on steel and an unmistakable shattering of glass. Placating the Dadaists with a few smiles and imprecations to stay put, I dashed to the kitchen only to find the blender shattered and whirring fitfully midway between an incensed Goldman and a rageful Marinetti.
"Fascist pig!" she called out, squeezing her umbrella tightly. The clear sign of an umbrella-tip-shaped indentation on my refrigerator made me wince.
"Anarchist buttock-broker!" he fumed, crossing his pinstriped arms at his breast. The blender buzzed mournfully to a halt. I clenched my teeth.
"My dear lady and gentleman," I began, gingerly picking up the blender. "I understand that your views are--ah--somewhat different, but I would ask... for the sake of all present... that you marshal your strengths and suppress your hatred. Such passion can greatly serve our little symposium, but only when channeled appropriately! Now, won't you please avail yourself of the snacks while I clean up this little mess?"
"All right, Miss Lavin," Emma Goldman said, removing her spectacles. Her jaw was still taut with rage. "I shall endeavor to remain in a room with this--man--without outburst. But I must simply say I question your choice of guests."
Marinetti nodded at me, mustachioed lips drawn tightly in. "Scuse, signora," he said curtly before exiting into the dining room. I leaned against the fridge door, feeling exhaustion creep up behind my eyes. I turned toward the kitchen window: Herman Melville was seated on the chaise lounge by the pool, gazing into it. Three ducks were bathing themselves in the water. The sun was setting over the bikeshed. His eyes were distant, the yellow light spilled on his beard, and for a moment I wished greatly to sit beside him, my thoughts running with his: fate and the eternal roiling sea... But a clamor from the other room tore me from my reflections. A hubbub--had I left the Dadaists and Emma Goldman alone too long in my dining room? As I left I caught Hugo Ball slipping out to the backyard in the corner of my eye.
By the time I dashed in they were nowhere to be found. A vague sound of chanting came from the hallway, and I rushed out: Tzara and Arp had taken down the collection of Nepalese weaponry my father had acquired during his post-college trip around the world (traded for quinine: bows, spears, a machete), as well as the African mask hanging over the living-room mantel; Tzara had it draped over his face, and Arp was beating "The Coffee-Table Book of Modern Art" with a spear. Tzara began a chant of one of his poemes negres:
"Who wants to throw the Zigendung?
Zigendung!
That I want to throw in the sky
Sky!
That it may let some water fall on me
some water!
That the burned grass may grow a little
fresh grass!"
Arp began a dance up the carpeted staircase, still drumming his absurd drum. Emma Goldman followed after him, joining the chant with nonsense syllables in her hearty voice. The three of them danced up and down the stairs in a writhing line. Just then the doorbell rang: it was Ilya Kaminsky at last, a bouquet of Queen Anne's lace in his white hand. His cheeks were flush with cold, eyes bright behind his glasses. Dusk had fallen; the lampposts on the front lawn had begun to glow. I took the flowers reverently, staring at him. His gaze was directed at the chanting trio on my stairs, so I took the opportunity to drink him in: deaf and glorious, whose poetry had brought me keen insight into my art, my Judaism, my very self--so unpreposessing in person, and bringing me flowers! I shook myself and led him from the dim front hall.
"That's Emma Goldman, Tristan Tzara and Hans Arp," I explained, as the trio disappeared upstairs. I could hear the sounds of battering; I prayed they wouldn't enter my sisters' rooms. "As for Fillipo Marinetti... I'm not certain... but Hugo Ball and Herman Melville are in the backyard, and I..." I smiled wanly. "I am alone with the hors d'oeuvres. It appears no one's very hungry."
Ilya smiled, the transformative smile of someone raised in the cold, his eyes kind.
"I am hungry," he said, taking my hand and patting it. His voice was strong, thickly accented, with a strange cadence lent by his near-deafness. Saying little more we moved the tray of crackers to the kitchen table; the light was dim, and brilliant moonlight outlined the drying roses in the window. I saw the dark silhouettes of Hugo Ball and Herman Melville moving towards us, and then it was the four of us at table. Dim chanting could still be heard from upstairs; I thought Marinetti had probably found my computer; but the night would stretch long before us, and for now I was entirely content.