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visa? How would we live on his modest stipend? What
would happen to me in a distant world whose language I
did not speak, alone, and dependent on the ups and downs
of his mental health? The balance tipped several weeks
before our wedding when I started to vomit secretly in the
morning. I would stay on in Vienna without him.
I had been his lover, his confidante, his nurse, but in
Grinzing I discovered the loneliness of living together. His
manias did not stop at measuring a spoonful of sugar a
hundred times. They governed every one of his actions. I
had to recognize that he had not left his obsessions behind
in the room at Purkersdorf. They were alive and kicking in
our midst. His egotism was not a side effect of his ill health
but intrinsic to his character. Had he ever thought of
anyone but himself? I hid my condition. Ten years of
patience had certainly earned me a small lie of omission.
I had begged my father to avoid talking about politics on
my wedding day. At lunch, after a few glasses, he could
restrain himself no longer. My fingers tightened on my
napkin as he called for silence. After clinking his knife
against his glass, he declared with wavering solemnity, “To
the bride and groom, to our Czech friends, and to a lasting
peace in Europe, finally!”
I watched Rudolf, our Czech “friend,” scowl and bite back a
stinging retort.