Later, another day

 Or,  

Later, another day.

Antonius Barth

I said, “When writers kill off characters, they’re dead. In real life, they hang around like Banquo’s ghost.”

     “Who said that?” Roz said.

     “I did, just now.”    

     “No, I don’t think so,” she said. I always try to tell the truth, and she knows that. So why doesn't she always believe me?

     “Maybe I read it somewhere,” I decided.

     “Where?”
     “Maybe Markus Barth, his commentary on one of the Thessalonians.”
     “You can’t say ‘Markus Barth,’” Uncle Albert said. “He’s a real person.”

     “Who is he?” Roz said.

     “He’s a Bible scholar,” Uncle Albert said. “And he’s real. The son of Karl Barth.” He paused. “The theologian.” 

     “What do you mean, ‘he’s real’? Why wouldn’t he be real?” She looked straight at Uncle Albert. He shrugged, not because he didn’t know what he meant but because he didn’t want to explain. “Why shouldn’t he be real?” Roz put the question another way. Uncle Albert shrugged again; his poor old shoulders barely move, he can hardly lift them.
     “How real is he anyway, at this point? In any case,” I said. “Isn’t he dead?”

     “I don’t know. Look it up.”

     So, I did, on my cellphone. “He’s dead.”

     “Well, he was real. So, you still can’t use him.” And he paused. “You should be talking to Dr. Feight about this. And he should be doing something about it.”

     “Antonius Barth, then,” I said. “Antonius Barth said it.”

     “About what? Dr. Feight should be doing something about what?” Roz asked. She looked again at Uncle Albert.

     “No, nothing,” I said. Maybe too quickly. There is no way to strike a happy medium; either you don’t answer quickly enough, or you’re jumping in too soon.

08.28.21

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Illustration: Antonius Barth from the artist’s photo on the dust jacket of his 1957 travel book, Moldovan Beaches. Badly colorized by a “friend” of the blog.