Triptych

by Margit Liesche

  Only by going to Budapest could I possibly learn the answers.

  ***

  “My first trip abroad,” I say loudly, projecting my voice toward the living room while shuffling from dresser to bed where Irina’s giant suitcase awaits the small stash of undergarments I’ve gathered up in my hands.

  Edmundo Suave makes no comment. Edmundo, my longtime listening post who has, through the years, stood by, staring stoically with dark wistful eyes while I pour out whatever might be on my mind or in my heart. Today it’s decisions of what to take to Budapest.

  Light from outdoors seeps through the stained-glass panels of the headboard and bathes the open suitcase in gold. My gaze wanders momentarily to the green opalescent hearts set into the rich golden swirl glass. How such romantic symbols came to be fixtures in the bedroom of one so unlucky in love seems ironic, or did luck play a part at all? That I have had a decades-long string of lovers, each with artistic gifts, a romantic side, and always—as the most vital prerequisite—a “something” that cancels him out as a lifelong mate has been my choice, hasn’t it? In Vaclav, his marriage was my safety net. What is Gustav’s forbidding flaw?

  A band of muted emerald light juts off in the direction of the Louis XV-style dresser I salvaged from a yard sale. The green halo circles the keepsakes I have set aside for my carry-on bag, my mother’s prayer book among them.

  Yesterday, Mariska and Zsófi had been astonished when I had pulled the prayer book from my purse and showed it to them, along with Kati’s photograph. Then, I had turned the photo over. A. Hadjok.

  Mariska’s voice had brimmed with emotion. “Yes, Anikó Hadjok. It is her, your mother’s friend. I will make some telephone calls. Get names in Budapest for you to contact.”

  “Mariska, please,” Zsófi had interjected, “you must be careful. There is no more AVO, but there is now eyes and ears of KGB.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mariska had said.

  Afterwards, she had stayed on the phone until late into the evening. Besides contacting local Hungarians, she had called my deceased cousin’s daughter, Gyöngyi, in Budapest, who spoke some English. My parents’ siblings had all passed away while other close relatives had either moved out of the city or spoke no English. Gyöngyi is now set to act as my conduit once I arrive in Budapest.

  Early this morning, I had stopped by Irina’s to borrow a suitcase before returning to my condo to pack. I scan the room, deciding what to put in next. On the dresser, the band of soft green light reminds me of a river, of the Two Princesses triptych, of what Gustav thought he saw in the second panel. Not the enchanted kingdom of my imagination, but AVO headquarters, the Danube, a floating head. For the millionth time, I regret not having given my full attention to my mother as she described what she had been doing in Hungary during the last days of her life.

  I walk over and pick up the daisy piece. “There is connection here,” I say out loud to steadfast Edmundo, repeating Vaclav’s words of long ago. “A bridge to a time in my mother’s life, in my life, when things were simple. Innocent. My mother captured that. I wanted to undo this, make it into something that represents the adult, modern me. Vaclav wouldn’t let me. I have free will, of course. Still, inside, I knew he was right. How could I remake this to represent my vision when I don’t know who I am?”

  I press the embroidered linen to my breast. “And now I’m going to my mother’s home, Budapest, where she left her heart, where something crushed it. Then she died. And for all these years, I haven’t been able to look in a mirror without thinking, ‘You’re responsible…’

  The door bell rings. No doubt my neighbor curious about the sounds of life coming from inside my place. I had told her I would be gone for another week yet.

  I peer through the peephole. “Gustav—” He is holding flowers.

  I open the door. He enters, bringing the perfumy fragrance of roses with him.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurt, unable to contain my surprise. Before I can ask the logical follow on question—and how did you know where to find me?—he is apologizing for his appearance. Not his clothing—he is wearing a clean gray t-shirt and jeans. He rubs the salt and pepper stubble on his face and finger combs his disheveled hair while explaining he’s wired on coffee, he got little sleep last night and didn’t have time to shave this morning.

  Of course, he had a big night. “So it was a success?”

  He looks at me like I’m speaking Martian. “Oh, the gallery show. Yes, it went well. Many people came.” He pauses. We are still in the entry way. He looks over my shoulder, takes in the living room behind me, and turns his attention back to me. “Nice place. You look nice.”

  I laugh. My hair is knotted on top of my head and I’m wearing old shorts and a ribbed tank top—the only items of clothing so far I know I’m not taking to Budapest. “I’m packing, but now you’re here.” I catch a glimmer of what—sadness? pain?—in his eyes. “What is it? Why are you here? And flowers?”

  He’s holding out an amazing bunch of red and pink roses. The brightly colored bouquet is so generous his hand barely contains the stems. I’m about to add I can’t keep them, I’m leaving town, but Gustav speaks first.

  “From my garden.” A hesitant smile. “I want to apologize, explain. Yesterday, at my place, I was rude. Abrupt.”

  I have to agree. After we’d discovered the shadow box and his destroyed textile piece, he’d ignored me completely, busying himself with cleaning up. He hadn’t even said so much as a good-bye when I’d left. Now, looking at the roses, seeing how wrung out he looks, hearing the regret in his voice, I cannot help but melt, forgive him.

  I accept the bouquet. “It’s understandable. Your apartment had been ransacked. A photograph that’s precious to you was stolen.”

  He nods. Yes.” He shakes his head. “I mean no. Those are reasons to be upset but not to be rude. I was confused, not myself. I meant what I said. Being relieved of that photo is a kind of symbolic closing of a door to the past. A good thing, but it was upsetting to me, too, to let go. Even when I wanted to. So you see, my emotions were jumbled. I’m sorry if I hurt you. But now…” He looks away.

  Too late. I’d seen it again. That look of anguish. Like the deep torment I recognize in Tibor’s eyes. From the horrors he has seen and known.

  “Come inside.” Holding the flowers in one hand, I grasp his hand with my other, leading him into the living room.

  We sit on the white sofa. I place the flowers, their stems secured in tissue, on the coffee table. My heart thumps with anticipation over what he is about to reveal.

  “What’s happened? You were saying, ‘But now—’”

  His shoulders heave. “But now I know. In truth, you do not ever really vanquish the demons from the past. You bring them with you on your life journey, along with the good memories. That’s what I need to do. Try to make peace with my demons, make space for them.”

  I frown. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Day after tomorrow, I am going to Budapest.”

  My mouth falls open. Words refuse to form.

  “Last night, I received this.” He removes a yellow cablegram from his jean’s pocket, opening it and holding it so I can read the text. But it’s impossible. It’s Hungarian. “My only remaining relative, my uncle, is dying. You remember, I told you about him. He gave me my first camera.”

  My thoughts are still awhir with the news that he’s going to Budapest when I’ll be there. I manage a nod. “Y-yes, of course. I’m so sorry.”

  Gustav has slouched forward. He straightens up. “He has asked to see me. What can I do? I have decided I must go.”

  Behind him, on the narrow table aligned against the sofa’s back, my porcelain deer letter-holder holds my airline tickets. I stare at them numbly saying, “Of course you need to go. But I’m going to Budapest. Leaving tomorrow.”

  Gustav nods, forces a wear
y smile. “I know. Of course I did not know this until I went to Karinthy Travel this morning. Mrs. Karinthy told me of the coincidence, and then I visited Mariska and Zsófi. They told me about what is going on, about your mother, what you hope you will find.”

  He leans forward again, hands folded, elbows resting on his knees. He contemplates his hands. “Putting the past to rest. It is strange. You are going to Budapest to unravel what happened to your aunt, your mother…” The heels of his palms rub against one another. “At nearly the same moment, the universe has shifted for me, causing me to step into my past. It seems we are on a similar course.”

  Mariska told him? Gustav will be in my mother’s homeland on a similar mission to mine? I feel a twinge of irritation, then immediately regret it. Mariska and Zsófi are big fans of Gustav’s. I cannot deny that my affection for him has been deepening as well. Maybe my luck in love is about to change? In Budapest?

  I can feel Edmundo’s eyes on me. You’re going there to connect with your mother. Get answers. Peace.

  “This is so last minute,” I say. “You got a flight? Isn’t there an exclusion list? A list of Hungarians not allowed back into the country?”

  Gustav’s eyes are bloodshot from lack of sleep. He studies me. “Yes, there is a so-called war criminals list,” he says. “It was extensive in the sixties and seventies. But now, for tourists, Hungarians living abroad, it is easier. In a bad economy, Communist or not, money speaks. The old, hard-line ways they are becoming passé.”

  “Oh, I see. Good.” I say hesitantly. “Well, similar courses, but big city, different families, much ground to cover. It’s not likely we’ll even see one another while there.”

  He holds my gaze and, for a moment, my churning thoughts calm. His fingers brush my arm, creating goose bumps, then I feel the weight of his hand on mine. The sound of my own heart, which Gustav’s touch has sent racing, nearly drowns out his next words.

  “This is not what I hope,” he says, softly. “I hope that while in Budapest we will find much common ground to cover together.”

  ***

  After he leaves, my fingertips linger on my lips, savoring the tenderness in Gustav’s hesitant good-bye kiss.

  At the French dresser, next to the daisy embroidery and the prayer book, is the final keepsake I plan to take along—the heart-shaped locket that had been clenched in my mother’s hand when she died. I pick it up. My thumbnail finds the slit, works apart the two halves. The image of the little girl inside seems familiar. She ought to. I’ve pondered the determined face hundreds of times.

  “It’s a complicated knot,” I tell her, “but it’s up to me to undo it.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “It is important what you are doing, visiting your mother country,” Irina tells me when I arrive at her store to say goodbye. “I understand this. Part of me is wishing that you would be seeing instead Paris, or London, or Rome. Places with culture and beauty and history, without the shroud of Communism hanging over. Wait and see. You will feel a heaviness in the air. Faces without expression, voices with no inflection. The memory of life like this has never left me. It will stick with you as well. Your personal Party souvenir.” Irina shakes her head. Her tone lifts. “When will you leave? Tomorrow did you say?”

  “Yes, late afternoon. I bought some calendars with photographs of downtown Chicago. Gifts for my cousin’s daughter and maybe others I’ll meet. Wish I’d had time to think of something better. At least it’s something and easy to pack. You don’t suppose I’ll have a problem with customs there, do you?”

  A carefully groomed eyebrow lifts. “This I am not sure of. Should they be confiscated, at least you are assured you will not have donated something key to advancing the Communist cause.”

  I smile. “Maybe I’ll check with Mrs. Bankuti. She went a few years ago.”

  “Mrs. Bankuti. Her name came up the other night when I am having dinner with Mariska and Zsófi. She is related to the woman called Eva, yes? An aunt?”

  “No, no relation. Mrs. Bankuti, her husband, Eva and Eva’s parents, all lived in the same apartment building in Budapest. After Eva had been in Toronto for awhile, she found the Bankuti’s through the Hungarian grapevine. They invited her to stay with them and go to art school. Why?”

  “The other night, the two of you were going out. When she stop by, I think I recognize her, this Eva.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “After, it nags at me and as we ladies talk, it comes out about Eva’s story. How she comes to Chicago. And it is then I recall knowing her long ago, in Toronto. 1960. She was fifteen.”

  “Eva? Are you sure?”

  “No doubt. I was teaching at ballet school. She was my student.”

  “Wow, small world. I’m surprised she didn’t recognize you. She didn’t say anything at dinner afterward. Have you tried to get in touch? Will you go see her?”

  “Not yet, but perhaps soon.” Irina is standing with her hands clasped behind her back, her feet turned out. She is wearing flats, and she lifts up and down on her toes, sucking in her cheeks, holding back a smile. “I hear you have a new man in your life. A handsome, talented, unmarried Hungarian man.”

  I have to laugh at how she had slyly sandwiched unmarried into the mix. And how, levitated by joy, she was nearly en pointe when she had said it.

  “Yes, I met a man. Thanks to Zsófi’s bulldog persistence. He seems nice. And…” I wag my eyebrows. “I just learned he’s going to be in Budapest while I’m there.” Irina is grinning. I wave my hands crisscross in front of me. “No, no, don’t jump ahead. Like you said, he’s available. And you know how I’ve always shied away from that sort.” Irina’s expression has turned serious. I smile. “At least until now.” Then I immediately shrug. “But this trip is about my mother. Her last days in Budapest. What she learned. And he, Gustav, has family business to attend to as well. We may not even cross paths.”

  Irina’s mouth forms a sly smile.

  I ignore it and check my watch. It is only a couple of blocks from my place to Irina’s shop. Walking here with a large suitcase had been manageable, but just barely. The train station is an additional six blocks.

  The shallow entry space outside the door provides some shelter from the sun, but it is still quite warm while we wait for a cab. A mother with two young daughters, one on each side, both wearing sundresses, both holding their mother’s hands, stroll past. I waggle my fingers, waving as one of the girls peers back over her darkly tanned shoulder.

  “When you taught Eva, she would have still been living with the family that brought her out of Hungary, adopted her after her parents died. There were two daughters. They became like her sisters, Eva once said. Did you meet them?”

  “Sisters? No. But I meet the mother, Mrs. Fekete.”

  “Fekete? That can’t be right. Fekete is Eva’s given name. Her real parents, in Hungary, they were Fekete.”

  “No.” Irina’s response is adamant. “The family in Toronto was Fekete. Eva’s surname it was Benedek.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. You may ask Mariska. We discuss this when I visit.”

  “But she never …No one ever told me.”

  Irina shrugs. “Is this so important? Many people in wartime change names.”

  The heat is getting the best of us. Irina and I maneuver the suitcase across the sidewalk, hoping for relief beneath the shade of the curbside tree.

  “Better,” I say.

  Irina agrees, adding, “A minute ago, you say something that surprise me. Eva did not like those sisters. My class was her escape from them and this was good. They were mean to her, she once told me. Hide things from her. Break her things. Tell lies to other kids in school so they make fun of her, do not want to be her friend. She was the outcast. The parents were ignorant of this. Or if they knew, they did nothing.

  “I tell Eva, the sisters the
y just jealous. Ignore them. Make them more jealous. Accomplish big things. And it was in her, the potential to do this, to be successful ballerina. Her body was the right shape, her movements expressive, and she worked hard. Having the physical activity, something special, it helped her, I think, very much with the problems at home.”

  I shake my head. “Well, I never heard anything about bad sisters. Maybe they got over it. Grew up. Began to see her in a new light. ”

  “Of course, this is possible. I did not hear of anything more serious or see signs of physical punishment. At least not from home. Only what the normal ballerina must go through. Ankle sprain, torn cartilage, bloody toenails.”

  I shudder dramatically. “How long did you torture, er, teach her?”

  Irina chortles. “One year, only. Then I move to the States, Chicago. Eva was visiting the Bankutis around then also. What do we know? Maybe we pass one another in the street, cannot recognize who we are. How wonderful the way things they have turned out. She is very accomplished. It was in her. I recognized this.”

  In the corner of my eye, I see the taxi approaching.

  “You have many gifts as well,” Irina adds. “You are excellent teacher. Your students, they appreciate you. You show through quiet example. Maybe you can inspire those in Hungary.”

  Dragging the suitcase closer to the curb as the cab pulls up, I roll my eyes. “Now there’s a tall order.”

  ***

  Mariska and Zsófi have convinced me to spend my last night with them. They want to cook a special meal and also brief me on things to expect. In Chicago at the El station, I grab another taxi. It drops me at Duna Utca.

  From the back, Mrs. Bankuti’s dark hair looks modish, strands standing on end, poking out in every direction. I’ve been around her long enough to know the wild look has nothing to do with hairspray or gel. Mrs. B has a finger-twirling habit.

  She is standing with Mariska beside the magazine rack just past the counter. Their conversation is so intense, the bells are ignored, but at the clunk of my suitcase hitting the floor, Mariska looks up. She smiles and the two women greet me with animated enthusiasm.