The Idiot

by Elif Batuman

“Oh.” I handed him the book. “Well, see you around.” “Thanks,” he said, glaring at the poster. “This is the man who beats his wife, forces her to solve his mathematical problems, to do the dirty work, and he denies her credit. And you put his picture on your wall.” “Listen, leave me out of this,” I said. “It’s not really my poster. It’s a complicated situation.”

Why was “plain” a euphemism for “ugly,” when the very hallmark of human beauty was its plainness, the symmetry and simplicity that always seemed so young and so innocent.

“Hello, Reni,” I said. “Hello,” said Reni. “Zoltán, this is Reni. Reni, this is Zoltán.” “Hello,” said Reni. “Hello,” said Zoltán. “Laci,” said the boyfriend. “Zoltán,” said Zoltán. We stood a moment in silence. “Hello,” Reni said finally. “Hello,” said Zoltán. “Hello,” said Laci. “Hello,” said Reni. “Hello,” I said. Reni and her boyfriend continued on their way. “You should say something,” Zoltán told me, after a minute. “I think it’s raining,” I said. “It’s raining,” he said, nodding. He looked at me expectantly. “Why don’t you talk a little?” I said. “Tell me something about yourself.”