with his father.
Living in the attic of Zany’s quiet New Jersey home, the lad continued his etymological explorations. During this transition period, he studied for hours, sitting on a wooden stool, AK-47 at his side, language books piled high on a cedar table, the pages lit by a gooseneck lamp imported from Istanbul. As the weeks passed, he added Hittite, cuneiform writing practice, Akkadian, and bits of Ugaritic to his study ritual, as well as Turkish phrases, and exploration of Indo-European roots, Old English verbs, nouns, grammar, and, for relaxation at the end of each day, read passages from Beowulf.
Evenings, he descended from his monastic heights to practice target shooting in the back yard and to visit his father.
One day, he leaned his AK-47 next to Zany’s armchair and asked, “Father, why do you keep scribbling in that book? Wouldn’t your time be better spent studying military history, or learning the chemistry of bomb making?” He shot a few holes in Zany’s notebook while waiting for an answer.
“Oh, stop it, Tommy,” Zoltan hissed. “You’re acting like Attila the Hun.” He pushed the gun aside. “ . . . As you know, your great-grandmother, the genealogist Zsuszi Kastoroszeg, told us that that famous bloodthirsty conqueror occupied something rather more substantial than a twig on our family tree. You were named after him. But that’s no reason to belittle my journal.”
Attila lowered his gun, lips sank into a frown, and asked, “Father, why do you always call me Tommy?”
Zany considered the question. “Tommy has always seemed to me to be a good nickname for daily life. Your mother and I knew such an appellation would get you through school without your fellow students mocking, laughing, or jeering at you. The name Attila is too powerful for the New Jersey educational system. Besides, our family believes in promoting disguises. Hidden names are a sign of strength. By hiding our identity, we become stronger. Now, Tommy, pick up your gun and listen to me.”
Zany lifted his finger and rotated it in the air to promote circular thought. “Journal writing is a daily necessity. It clears the mind and helps preserve my sanity. The rich language in my garden of verbiage, especially when liberally sprinkled with Hungarian phrases and Finno-Ugric idioms, helps me dream and carries me to future places. In fact, through journal writing, I have even met your greatest of great-grandfathers, Attila the Hun himself.”
Attila grabbed his weapon and riddled the ceiling with bullets of joy. Pride lit his face. “Meeting the Hun himself is no small feat! But, Papa, writing a journal still seems strange.”
Dr. Zany disagreed. “Weapons may force others to acquiesce to your demands, but pens are powerful, too.” He coughed, grabbed a handkerchief, and blew his nose. “I hardly slept last night.” Reaching for his coffee cup, he took a meditative sip. “My mind is a confused mess today,” he said, waving his son away. “Now leave me alone.” He pulled out his pen, fixed his eyes on his journal, and unleashed a torrent of ink across the page.
An hour passed. Attila sat in his chair, waiting. Finally, Zany looked up. Relaxed and contented, his mandibular muscles forming themselves into a smile, he offered, “Writing down my thoughts brings such satisfaction. What about you, my son? What gives you pleasure?”
“Shooting.”
“Anything else?”
“Marking linguistic books. I also like to throw dictionaries and grammars.”
“I thought you liked languages.”
“I do. But I express my joy of study actively. Books in flight give me pleasure. They intensify a Talmudic love of learning.”
“ . . . You are a very strange child. What sort of family do you come from? Shooting, anger, love, hatred, joy. What kind of combustible emotional combination is that for a young lad?”
“Father, I go for high-octane joy. It creates a threat to my existence. I like that. When I feel joy, I want to vomit. Innards pop out, bile rises, esophagus contracts; I burp, cough, spit, and with power-pumping blasts, I expel suppressed bits of the devil. I see ancient faces and hear voices in my eyes. I’m afraid others may criticize me and ruin my fun.”
“So,” Dr. Zany suggested paternally from his armchair, “it is not joy you’re afraid of, but the reaction of the audience to your joy! In their emptiness, you hear them shouting: ‘How dare you have so much fun? How dare you enjoy yourself as long as others in the world still suffer?’ ”
He waited for his psychological insight sink in before adding wisely, “Fear is but one expression of the higher powers. Ills will pass. Through self-knowledge, your body heals itself.”
“ . . . How?”
“Do you know about the curative power of endorphins.”
“I’ve heard of them. Where do they fit in?”
“My son, as a Zany child, you were born with a fiery imagination. This gift gave you a landscape to work with: mountains, abysses, peaks, and pits. It gave you both freedom and terror. In order to harness these wild forces, your imagination created discipline, the creative road from fear to glory. Use it!”
Attila silently contemplated the dialectics of these opposites. After an hour, he rose, shouldered his AK-47, bowed to his father, and returned to the attic.
There among his books, sitting on his three-legged mahogany trinitarian thought-stool, he remained in a half-lotus for the next six hours. Deep in meditation, he visualized Finno-Ugric linguistic roots and Latin diacritical marks floating down his inner Nile. Biblical giants waved in the distance.
7
SEEDS
FINALLY! SEEDS IN MY garden,” Zany purred, staring out the living room window. “How I love spring. Petite flowers of Zanyhood blossoming, trees flourishing, brooks flowing in many new directions. My flowers are my vegetable children. And now that my flesh-and-blood Attila is on his way, I can focus more attention on these fragrant beauties!” He observed the shining sun with cosmic pleasure.
The doorbell rang. Martha opened the front door to find St. James the Apostle standing in the doorway. The six-foot-eleven- inch business consultant was wearing his signature blue trousers, pin-striped shirt, and bow tie. “I’m here to plant hyperboles,” he said.
Zany called his friend from his armchair. “My dear St. James, welcome to our spring festival. What took you so long? Flowers are popping. The garden is ready. Have you asked Loco Flores for her flowering maps? Wives know truths about gardening that mortal violinists fail to comprehend.”
St. James winced. “Don’t call Mad Mother Loco my wife. I’d never ask her. She knows nothing of the virtues of gardening.” Zany yawned. Martha left the room as the apostle continued his tirade. “Why I married that woman, I’ll never know. Since divorce is forbidden under the Metaphysical Gardening Statutes, Section 2—”
“Apostle,” Zany snapped, “stop whining! I can’t stand hearing your annual complaints. Can’t you see the wisdom in her decision? Remember how she rescued you during your Crimean period, when the Tartar mustache roses got stuck in the lawn mower?”
“Stay out of my business, Zany!” St. James picked up the spring hoe lying beside Zany’s armchair, swung it over his head, slammed it into the rug. He was about to dig a trench across the living room but stopped immediately. Winded, he leaned on the hoe and grunted, “Planting seeds is no easy task. Conquer the Kingdom of Speed and its dictator, Velocity. Wait for time to work its magic . . . . But you’re right about one thing, Zany.” The Apostle lifted the hoe to his shoulder. “By waiting so long to marry me, Mother Loco demonstrated that patience is the key to success. She sprinkled legato on my trees and flowers. The aquerosa vixen flower is my model for patientia. I’ll admit, Mother Loco taught me the virtues of hardiness, resistence, stubbornness, and endurance. Slow planting, that’s the way to go. In times of upheaval and tumult, only a hero dares to go slow . . . . You know, Zoltan,