Had he been born a century later and on the other side of the pond, and if by some good grace he wasn’t caught up in making money, as you do when there, via the sweltering dot-com bubble at the time, for example, had attended my suburban high school, then I’m certain that Zweig would’ve written about Nela Bodovich. She’s the perfect Zweig character.
Bodovich. That Eastern European mysticism. A perfectly situated mole above her lip. Pure class. With a glance, you knew right away she was immune to the frivolities of us teenage boys, there would be no hand venturing up the blouse, an implicit knowledge that she was untouchable radiated from her aura. Could’ve also been the fact that during the long Canadian winter she was whisked away to sunny down under to participate in a Grand Slam; the junior qualifiers at the Aussie Open, notably absent from our 11th grade discussions about Tess form the Durberville, or well, all of our curriculum. Her bronzed skin magnified against our February palor when she returned a few weeks later.
What drove her family to emigrate? Was someone caught doing the naked dosey-doe with a member of the nobility? A little too strong opposition to Tito? Or was it the dream of Levi’s Blue Jeans?
Tanned, however returning empty handed and the Anna Kournikova dream dashed, the project of grooming the daughter began, to bequeath her to the North American equivalent of nobility, CASH MONEY. Now, the family wasn’t bumpin the Hot Boys and Big Tymers, c’mon now, they weren’t into iced out candy-coated helicopters with leather covers, their aim was real wealth.
Most of us left high school to overpay for the chance to sit at lecture halls housing five hundred others at University (a helluva business model). Some left to learn the trades at college. Others, well I don’t know what the fuck they did, often those ones resurfaced many years later to lead successful real estate careers, the pinnacle of which meant having their face plastered on the uptown Bus Number 50, next to the bold typeface proclaiming Guaranteed Sold - Anything Less is Second Best! On sunny days the teeth would sparkle at exactly the moment you read it and you kinda cursed yourself for not smoking weed in the parking lot all those years to end up with this small town fame.
But not Nela. This is all Facebook based observational research, it seems to me that the family wasted no time. Before the tennis training physique wore off, all suitors were vetted, before settling on a doctor, specializing in blood transfusions, 20+ years here senior. Made his name treating the poor in Calcutta. No, of course not. His claim to fame was treating none other than Tiger Woods and several other high profile athletes. The only way to the top, and also the way I intend to condition my offspring, by the way. Heck, it’s a nut I’m still trying to crack myself. Do this, and all the world's riches come your way. Mansions, estates, twenty year olds with wide child bearing hips.
On the surface, life is good. I mean VERY good. The butlers and servants don’t feature in the reels, but I”m certain they’re there. On this particular point, I’m particularly bitter about, since these days I’m so balls deep into domestic work that I hardly have time to read. The offspring attend a private school that costs some 50,000 CAD per year. And you can times it by three, over 18 years - you do the math. This kind of wealth sends me cowering with fear. One post featured the daughter when asked which person she’d like to dine with and she named some dead obscure author. Doesn’t mean much here, but we’re talking North America where 999,999 out of 1,000,000 of teens would be naming Mr. Beast or Taylor Swift. Meanwhile while the husband was out doing a promotional tour, Nela had the gumption to make a hashtag with ‘Science’, taking me back to the time when I visited a high street in some Germany uber capitalist town with a bookish girlfriend and she shit her pants when she saw a book entitled ‘Plants’ in the bookstore. What the fuck kind of books do they sell here!
In Zweig’s story Nela would have some sort of mental affliction. Or maybe a tryst at the lakeside manor leading to an intense paranoia. Nothing some #Science couldn’t solve, or 80 mil in the bank account.
His stories dragged on a little, I suppose a little like this one.