In these unspeakable times, it should come as no surprise that Henry Betsey Jr., a Floridian citizen of gentle manners and many passions, managed to marry three different women in three counties without the state suspecting that something smelled like Tolstoy. What is truly fascinating, however, is not his gift for marital simultaneity, but his particular devotion to nineteenth-century literature: the man maintained vast libraries in each of his marital residences.
Yes, dear reader. While plotting his little bureaucratic harem, Betsey Jr. surrounded himself with editions—more or less noble—of French and Russian realism, as if his bigamy were merely an excuse to spread his love for Stendhal and Dostoevsky throughout Florida. And although each home had its own collection (because even liars need aesthetic consistency), it was in Michele’s house—the third in chronological order and, presumably, the favorite—where the real gems were kept: annotated first editions, spines bound in worn leather, and even an illustrated copy of The Brothers Karamazov that, had it not been in his possession, one would suspect belonged to some Russian aristocrat before being shot by the Bolsheviks.
As for the defendant’s motives, his wives (Tonya, Brandi, and Michele, in that order and without pause) agree that his literary fervor was accompanied by an equally voracious appetite for joint bank accounts and the collateral benefits of newly divorced women. According to statements collected by the local press, Henry had a disturbing ability to switch from “beautiful soul” to “did you open the bank app yet?” without missing a beat.
For two years, this curious enthusiast of Tinder and Tolstoy managed to circumvent a marriage registration system that seems to have been designed by Kafka on a bad day. Getting married in different counties in Florida, where each courthouse acts as an autonomous principality with an eye on express weddings, allowed him to string together marriages without any official bothering to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.
The house of cards came crashing down, as it often does in the novels he so admired, when Tonya—the first wife and therefore the most suspicious—began searching for his name in civil registries county by county, as if investigating a Balzac character. What she found was less a love story and more a legal soap opera.
Now, Henry Betsey Jr. faces charges of bigamy, restraining orders, and, what is probably most painful for him, the possible seizure of his literary collection. He has pleaded not guilty—because, apparently, a love of literature does not exempt one from a love of fraud—and awaits trial while residing, according to reports, with a “Christian friend” in a house presumably free of Anna Karenina.
The case has sparked calls to review marriage registration laws. Some suggest creating a national database that would prevent other future polygamous bibliophiles from traveling the country founding sentimental branches without consequences.
The question remains whether the authorities, when raiding his homes, took the time to browse his bookshelves. Because if this story makes one thing clear, it is that crime, sometimes, does not rest on passion… but on a well-stocked library.
