Is It Safe (to Love You)?

Here’s a question for you. Have you ever seen the movie Marathon Man and, in particular, the scene in which Dustin Hoffman’s character gets tortured by having his teeth drilled into without the saving grace of anesthetic? A Nazi war criminal played by Laurence Olivier is uneasy about his appointment to collect some diamonds from a bank, leading to this exchange between Olivier’s Dr. Szell and Hoffman’s Babe:

“Is it safe?”

“Yes, it’s very safe, it’s so safe you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Is it safe?”

“No, it’s not safe at all, it’s . . . very dangerous.”

Which answer can be trusted when one’s life feels at risk? Isn’t that always the question? That was certainly true when I was first getting to know my wife, who after a few dates dared to ask me in an earnest, plaintive whisper: “If I let you into my heart, will you promise not to break it?”

Doesn’t any question invite another question? Life’s a long hall of mirrors. Or a cubist painting, as simulated in verse by Getrude Stein when she writes: “There ain’t no answer. / There ain’t going to be an answer. / There never has been an answer. / That’s the answer.”

Why do I love Bob Dylan (the singer-songwriter, not the man behind the lyrics, whomever that might be)? Is it primarily because he wrote “Blowin’ in the Wind” with its series of rhetorical questions? Or “How does it feel?” to give “Like a Rolling Stone” a chorus that gathers momentum as it plunges the knife in? What is his later song “What Was It You Wanted” if not a pack of dogs howling at their own paranoia? What if I can’t say? What if I don’t know?

Let’s say Marathon Man isn’t my favorite movie of all-time. Maybe I prefer Stalag 17, in which William Holden’s character outwits first his fellow prisoners and then the Nazis by flying the coop. Does Holden lying on a cot with a black eye make the film work? Who knows? Who cares? And by the way, have you ever been to Ruthenia?

I haven’t. But does it matter that I once came close to it? You see, my future wife and I were on what we jokingly refer to even nowadays as “our first date” on account of my having an appointment to give a talk in Vilnius, Lithuania.  “Will you join me there if I promise to take you to Prague afterwards?” I asked. Maybe she said, yes. Maybe I made the mistake of having us drive there on Polish roads seemingly not updated since Hitler’s blitzkrieg blew eastward across the country.

Speaking of history writ large and small, could it be that in the Marx Brothers’ movie Duck Soup the mythical country of Freedonia is really Ruthenia?  Not a chance, you say, given that Ruthenia was free for only part of one day in the 2oth century, i.e., March 15, 1939. What happened then? Hungary goosestepped in while the Wehrmacht was busy swallowing the rest of Czechoslovakia.

Who knows that Andy Warhol remains the most famous person of Ruthenian heritage ever? Who comes in second? Why not my future wife’s maternal grandmother, who took a boat from Bremen, Germany as a 16-year-old girl to escape an abusive father? What did she find in America? If I were to say, an abusive, alcoholic husband, would that mean this essay is finally headed someplace real?

Let’s imagine for argument’s sake that my future wife’s mother resembled a cactus, capable of emotionally flowering but ever so briefly every now and again. Would that comparison be apt, offensive or trivial? Who’s the judge?  What if that same mom could only manage, “Your wedding’s not that important to me” when told her daughter was now engaged?

Fast-forward to marriage, where might the bride want to go for her honeymoon if her favorite movie is the mockumentary Best in Show about the cut-throat world of dogs on parade? Would you believe the Galapagos Islands? Would you believe the inspiration was the opportunity to observe in person the odd creatures that helped inspire Charles Darwin to write The Origin of Species and thus enshrine a phrase he never actually wrote, i.e., “survival of the fittest”?

Speaking of survival, did you overhear my brother-in-law, a former Seattle cop, stump-the-chump by asking me the day on which he had to field the largest number of domestic disturbance calls? What’s the answer? Try Mother’s Day, when moms and their daughters battle over great expectations gone awry.

Speaking of expectations, what happened when we were on the seemingly endless, slowly sloping sandy beach at the south edge of Isabela and my bride waved me ashore? Did I come? Did. I. Do. So. Readily? You be the judge. You weren’t there, so you’re the perfect witness in a world none of us understands fully.

Was it safe to be splashing about in the waves? Yes and no: was that my answer? Maybe so.

Would Groucho, Bob or Gertrude save me from drowning? Who needs to go to sea anyhow? Wasn’t the next closest piece of land south of me, namely Antarctica, nearly 9,000 miles away? Despite not having any business phone calls to take or make—for once—why not abandon pure bliss? Isn’t that what you should do when your bride is frantically waving you ashore because she’s not ready to be a widow, now or anytime soon you hope.