{"id":2829,"date":"2010-07-19T12:57:29","date_gmt":"2010-07-19T16:57:29","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=2829"},"modified":"2013-01-09T15:56:55","modified_gmt":"2013-01-09T20:56:55","slug":"the-end-of-the-date","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2010\/07\/19\/the-end-of-the-date\/","title":{"rendered":"The End of The Date"},"content":{"rendered":"

An epilogue. <\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"

Photograph by Stephanie Berger.<\/p><\/div>\n

10:35 P.M.<\/strong> I spot Amelia and Anne in the crowd walking back to the ferry. Amelia thinks that Stepan Trofimovich must really have been supposed to look like Marx: when he was dying in Varvara Petrovna\u2019s arms, that was nascent Marxism being stifled in the embrace of the serf-based order. Heat lightning flashes above the bay. J. points out the roof of the Merrill Lynch building where he once interned for a twenty-three-year-old investment banker and realized that the corporate world was not for him. We are joined by The New York Post<\/em> writer, who knows J. from journalism school. She has already submitted her six-inch article via cell phone. <\/p>\n

10:45 P.M.<\/strong> Inside the ferry, it\u2019s incredibly hot and stuffy. As in some strange dream, the actors are there too, sitting on benches along the walls. Some of them no longer resemble their characters, while others appear virtually unchanged. Stepan Trofimovich still has a wild black beard and wild white hair. Maybe he was born that way. His presence, I realize, makes me vaguely uneasy\u2014as if part of me fears that he might start coughing and dying again.<\/p>\n

10:55 P.M.<\/strong> In the past ten minutes, the ferry hasn\u2019t gotten any less hot, stuffy, or stationary. \u201cMaybe they have to dismantle the set before the boat can start,\u201d J. suggests, producing a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.<\/p>\n

11:00 P.M.<\/strong> \u201cYou know what I\u2019m really craving now, is breakfast cereal,\u201d J. remarks.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, really?\u201d I reply. \u201cI\u2019m craving an enormous glass of Scotch.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cWell, sure, that would be OK too. But just picture a big bowl of raisin bran, with cold milk. Doesn\u2019t it sound fantastic?\u201d<\/p>\n

I give the matter some thought. \u201cIt sounds totally irrelevant to my life and problems,\u201d I confess. <\/p>\n

11:05 P.M.<\/strong> J. introduces me to the Post<\/em> reporter. \u201cI saw you in the audience,\u201d she tells me. \u201cYou were writing the whole entire time!\u201d I explain that I was taking notes for a minute-by-minute account, designed for the insatiably curious readers of The Paris Review<\/em> website. \u201cNow I have to go home and write it up,\u201d I say, in tones that came out sounding more despondent than I had intended.<\/p>\n

\u201cNext time you shouldn\u2019t take so many notes,\u201d she says. \u201cThe more notes you take, the more notes you have to read later. You\u2019re just creating more work for yourself.\u201d <\/p>\n

I give this advice some thought. \u201cThanks for the tip,\u201d I say. <\/p>\n

11:08 P.M.<\/strong> \u201cAre you going to talk to them?\u201d someone stage-whispers to the Post<\/em> reporter, jerking his head toward the actors.\t<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she says. \u201cWhat would I say to them?\u201d<\/p>\n

Amelia, however, is having a lively conversation in Italian, with Dostoevsky\u2019s narrator. The mayor\u2019s wife, sitting on the narrator\u2019s other side, looks studiously elsewhere, as if afraid that she might end up included in the conversation. I wonder what Amelia and the narrator are talking about, but not enough to get up and find out.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait\u2014is she interviewing him?\u201d J. asks. Sure enough, I see now that Amelia is nodding vigorously while writing in a notebook. She is definitely interviewing him. Where does she get her lively disposition from?<\/p>\n

\u201cI have no journalistic instincts left,\u201d I sigh. \u201cLife has trampled them out of me. I don\u2019t even know how much I would have to be paid to go over there and talk to those people. But it\u2019s definitely more than I\u2019m getting paid.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat doesn\u2019t mean you have no journalistic instincts left,\u201d J. tells me. \u201cYou\u2019re just tired. They\u2019re all tired, too. It isn\u2019t the right time to do an interview.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stare at him. What a considerate guy. And really good-looking\u2014seriously, I\u2019m not making that part up. This whole thing is just so weird. <\/p>\n

11:11 P.M.<\/strong> Something is progressively tightening in my chest. Could this be a panic attack? A meta-panic attack? <\/p>\n

11:15 P.M.<\/strong> It isn\u2019t like a play\u2014it\u2019s like life: this remembered utterance by Marx (Patricia, not Karl), echoing in my mind, suddenly seems inexpressibly sinister. I am struck by a terrible thought. What if the play hasn\u2019t ended? I imagine the rest of life going by like this, with shrieking and Fourierism in Italian, bathroom breaks every seventy-five minutes, and every night a big bowl of lettuce and breadcrumbs. Twelve hours in a motionless ferry, and then on to\u2026 where? Staten Island? Great Neck? Sheepshead Bay? <\/p>\n

11:17 P.M.<\/strong> The ferry is moving! A barely perceptible breeze wafts through the window, like the first faint breath of hope. Is it possible I might someday see my home and my cat again?<\/p>\n

11:25 P.M.<\/strong> Disembarking the ferry in Manhattan, we notice a poster advertising a whole series of Lincoln Center Composting Demonstrations on Governors Island. \u201cThis looks like a serious program for them,\u201d J. observes.<\/p>\n

11:30 P.M.<\/strong> Bidding us a hasty goodbye, the Post<\/em> writer races down the gangplank to the subway station. J. asks whether I, too, will be taking the subway. I entertain the prospect for about a microsecond. <\/p>\n

\u201cThe Paris Review<\/em> is paying for a taxi,\u201d I announce grimly. We wonder whether it makes sense to share a cab. It doesn\u2019t\u2014we are headed in opposite directions. Traffic has become congested in front of the ferry terminal, so we walk a couple of blocks west.<\/p>\n

11:35 P.M.<\/strong> I thank J. for sticking around all night. \u201cI\u2019m getting an ulcer even thinking about how miserable I would have been there all alone.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cIt was great to meet you. I\u2019m just sorry my pants kept coming undone. I have these weird pants.\u201d While buttoning his pants with one hand, he hails me a cab. We decide we might meet for dinner the next time I\u2019m in New York. The taxi glides to a stop before us. I climb inside, close my eyes, and fall almost immediately into a deep sleep.<\/p>\n

Missed the rest of Elif’s blind date with Dostoyevsky? Read part 1<\/a>, part 2<\/a>, part 3<\/a>, and part 4<\/a>. <\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

An epilogue. 10:35 P.M. I spot Amelia and Anne in the crowd walking back to the ferry. Amelia thinks that Stepan Trofimovich must really have been supposed to look like Marx: when he was dying in Varvara Petrovna\u2019s arms, that was nascent Marxism being stifled in the embrace of the serf-based order. Heat lightning flashes […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":31,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[419],"tags":[425,431,422,424,423,420,449,44],"class_list":["post-2829","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-arts-culture","tag-drama","tag-elif-batuman","tag-fyodor-dostoyevsky","tag-governors-island","tag-lincoln-center-festival","tag-the-demons","tag-the-possessed","tag-theater"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nElif Batuman and The Demons | An Epilogue<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"July 19, 2010 \u2013 An epilogue. 10:35 P.M. I spot Amelia and Anne in the crowd walking back to the ferry. 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