In nine years as a mother she had somehow adapted, learned, gone on instinct. But this was new territory. How would she broach such a touchy subject with her brilliant son? This would have to be an adult conversation, and while he had many of the worst characteristics of an adult—and some of the best—Marilena was ever conscious that he was emotionally still a child. On the drive back from Blaj, she urged him to read while she chatted softly with Viv in Hungarian. “What will we do?” she began. Viv smiled and patted her hand. “We? Now it’s we. Now it’s not so bad someone else has been drawn into this crisis?” Marilena took it well. That was funny. Yes, her jealousy seemed misplaced now. She didn’t want to be alone in this. “I know I must bear the brunt of it,” she said, “but believe me, I am receptive to any advice. In my heart of hearts I long for, ah—” she struggled to find the right foreign word for her son without mentioning his name—”my progeny to use his incredibly gifted mind for the betterment of mankind.”
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