The Reluctant Trophy Wife

by Judith Petres Balogh

  Just then the telephone rang. Clyde was calling. Even though he could not see her, out of habit she put on the customary smile and answered all his questions cheerfully and added with absolute sincerity that the location, the house and the arrangements are more than perfect.

  “I am glad you like it. And how do you get along as far as the language is concerned?”

  “Superbly. I did some shopping today and it was most successful. Juli néni and I are communicating very well. She in English, I in Hungarian, although truthfully, our vocabulary is somewhat limited. At this time, we just mastered the ‘OK-Hello’ level .I don’t think I can advance much beyond this. It is a mystery to me, how anyone can learn a language when people speak it backward. They greet each other with a word that sounds like ‘see ya’ and finish a telephone conversation or chance meeting with ‘Hello’. I don’t think anyone speaks English, except the parish priest.”

  “Do you have any wishes, dear?” Clyde was true to himself as he put a stop to her chattering. For him the telephone served as a means to convey some important information and nothing more .He never used it to conduct inconsequential, but amusing conversations.

  “No thank you, I do not have any wishes. I assume it is too early to ask how things are developing at home, since I just left and I suppose you have not yet seen Adrienne.”

  “Both assumptions are correct. Can I do anything for you?” He carefully avoided giving comments on what she said.

  “No, Clyde. You have done everything to cover my needs and as always you arranged things perfectly. I am very grateful for all this.” After a short pause she added, “There is one thing though. Juli néni …”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t think I need a housekeeper. ”He laughed at that.

  “Yes, you do. For one thing, you are not familiar with the house, the shopping situation or the local customs. You need someone to ease your way. Second, now that you have time on your hands you would want to start your book. That is what you wanted to do and that is what the media believes you are doing there. You have a unique opportunity to accomplish your goal. Household tasks should not keep you from creative work. Also remember, I agreed to hire this woman for a certain period of time. This job means a lot to your Juli néni and I would hate to take it from her. Of course, I could pay her the full salary on which we agreed, and then fire her, but I suspect she is too proud to accept such a solution. Get used to her, and it will work out fine. Take care of yourself, enjoy your vacation, and start working on your book. I’ll stay in touch.”

  This was Clyde. Efficient, curt, caring and controlling.

  EIGHT

  Some times after her first venture into the village instead of taking the customary path toward the settlement and the lake she turned north and headed into the hills. Less than a mile from her house she came upon a charming cottage, set among a tangle of flowers and shrubs. According to the calendar it was just past the middle of May, but apparently the flowers in this village operated on another schedule, because the garden, just like the cemetery, was already in riotous bloom. She stopped for a moment to admire the wild beauty of it, not realizing that someone was observing her.

  “Isn’t this grand? I can never have enough of this decadent overabundance of loveliness and the rich, sensual colors,” announced a voice from the arbor. A throaty laugh followed the words and instantly a woman emerged. She was well past middle age, short and solidly built. Her hair was a mass of white windblown curls, the clear blue eyes had the inquisitive look mostly seen in young children. She fairly glowed with the joy of youth, or the contentment and wisdom of old age. The dimples on her cheeks did not yet deteriorate into furrows. Troubles and heartaches, if she ever had any, did not leave their mark on her face. An aged cherub, or putto, Lena thought with amusement. The woman was dressed in an extremely colorful and comfortable gown, more like a tent .Her face lit up with welcoming smile radiating generosity and loving-kindness as if she wanted to embrace this imperfect world and then keep it warm, happy and probably well fed. Lena suppressed the silly exclamation of ‘are you American?’ which, of course, was obvious.

  “I am Sarah Isenburg, and you must be my distinguished American neighbor, whom I so wished to meet. Ever since you came I wanted to make your acquaintance, but did not want to intrude until you came on your own. Credit me for having lots of consideration and good breeding. I do not always show this much grace. Come in my dear and enjoy the garden. Fear not the colors; they are good for you. Colors make you happy and happiness seems to be the ultimate goal for smart people,” the old woman announced.

  “I couldn’t help looking at your place. I have never seen such a luxuriantly verdant garden at this time of the year.” “Isn’t it wonderful? Cold is one of the enemies of old age and the love of flowers is the gift and the compensation for all ills. In this part of the world summer starts earlier and lasts longer. We can enjoy the warmth and the abundance of flowers seven months of the year. Although this is not Goethe’s ‘das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn’, but it is indeed sub-Mediterranean. At other places the timid spring is still trying its level best to assert itself; here it parades already in mid-June magnificence. No lemon trees and such, but flowers everywhere. This is one of the reasons we love this place. Naturally I also have a special relationship with my plants and that helps them grow.”

  “You mean you talk to them?

  “Don’t you?”

  “No, I never tried. What do you say to them?”

  “What do I tell them?” At this, the woman lowered her voice to a dramatic

  register and slowly, menacingly whispered, “ Have you pray’d to-night Forsythia?” “But that is a threat! And you are quoting Othello!” Lena laughed with

  delight. It struck her too funny and bizarre that during a morning walk among

  well-tended Hungarian vineyards she would meet a woman, dressed to resemble

  a bird of paradise, who quotes Shakespeare to her plants.

  “Of course I threaten them! My well-educated plants know exactly what I

  mean and they shake and shiver in terror down to their roots. Then for good

  measure, I add my own brand of incantation and tell them that unless they start

  producing something spectacular on their scrawny branches and stems, I’d rip

  them out roots and all and they’ll end their inglorious and short life on the

  compost pile. Off with their heads! You should see how they scramble and get busy!

  That is the true secret. I am not a fan of permissive education and I demand

  absolute performance.”

  After Lena introduced herself and they were past the initial exchanges they

  settled in the arbor. Sarah served champagne and strawberries.

  “I hope you are not the type who thinks that alcohol is only proper after

  sundown. I think in the old times they used to refer to the yardarm. It was OK

  to drink when the sun was over the yardarm, whatever it is, or was.” “It has to do with part of a sailing boat…”

  “Anyhow, I enjoy the bubbly with my breakfast and I like to sip it until

  lunch, or actually any time whenever I feel like it. I do not care over what sort of

  yardarm or other structural device or location the sun happens to shine. When I

  feel inclined to have a glass of wine I am indulging, and the hell with the yardarm

  and the liver. If it can’t take the daily dose, then it is its problem, not mine.”

  Without waiting for an answer she filled a flute for Lena. “I’m burning with

  curiosity. Why have you come to this out of the way place, only frequented by

  migratory birds? You are obviously young and rich, and could choose the Riviera

  or any other fancy watering place where the beautiful and the famous go to see

  and be seen.” Lena was ready with the answer, authored by Clyde. “The place was recommended by friends for its quie
t solitude which I need,

  as I am planning to write a book.” Sarah laughed at this, but there was no malice

  in it.

  “Heaven help us! An author is loose in the village! As if a book could not

  be written anywhere, where paper and a pen are provided! Or if you want to be

  updated, than note this: one can write anywhere as long as e working computer

  is at hand. What did you commit for which they exiled you? Tell me, for I

  haven’t heard a good story for ages in this God-forgotten place.”

  “I was involved in a murder,” answered Lena, knowing quite well that she

  won’t be believed.

  “Yeah, and I am Robin Hood, but keep your secret if you must. Are you

  enjoying your stay?”

  “So far yes, very much.”

  “In other words, you haven’t started writing, because with writing the agony

  of self-doubt starts.” This woman is uncanny, Lena thought. She has such insight

  that she could probably count the red blood cells and detect calcium deposits on

  well-hidden bones. To change the subject Lena deftly turned the focus on the

  old woman and asked the reason for choosing this so-called god-forgotten place

  for her stay.

  “My story is so dull that at times I am tempted to jazz it up a little in order

  to make it interesting. I was not involved in a murder, was not kidnapped and I

  did not choose this place. I am not Hungarian, nor is my husband. Most things,

  like this house, just happen to me without having the advantage of choice.” She

  nestled comfortably into the pillows on the wicker chair and swept some of the

  unruly white curls from her face before she continued.

  “My husband is German. To be more exact, he is originally from a region

  which until not so very long ago was called East Germany. After the war he was

  lucky enough to slip out of there while slipping out was still possible, and at the

  first chance he had he immigrated to the USA, the land of limitless

  opportunities. With hard work, ingenuity and lots of luck he was soon quite

  wealthy; fabulously so, if I may be vulgar enough to mention it. Somewhere

  along the line he found me, or I found him; we married and had children. After

  he was getting used to his good fortunes, a powerful homesickness packed him.

  He very much wanted to reconnect with his family in Europe. You are

  indecently young, so my guess is that you were just getting over the diaper stage

  during the end of the Iron Curtain Era. Still, you might have heard that for

  someone from the western countries to visit East Germany was just as

  impossible as for someone from the Soviet Bloc to visit the western zones, let

  alone the US. I guess the master plan of the Communist leaders was to prevent

  people under their rule to get fancy and possibly revolutionary ideas from the

  decadent West, so they said ‘nyet’ to most of such applications. It is never good

  for poor people to see how the other side lives, especially if the other side lives

  sinfully well. Anyhow, at that time Hungary was called the ‘Goulash Communist Country” and was considered paradisiacal by those, who lived in the rest of the Communist Bloc countries. And with good reason. Life here was far better and easier than elsewhere behind the Iron Curtain and the powers were more tolerant than at any other place in the Soviet Bloc. Not really benign or loving to be sure, but in relation to the others, almost saintly. What is more, Soviet-Bloc citizens, who could never dream of stepping west of the Iron Curtain, found it possible to visit countries within the Bloc, including Hungary. It was the cherry on top of the sundae that Americans were also admitted here as tourists. Problem solved. My husband, meanwhile a naturalized American citizen, ingenuously arranged to meet his family in Hungary. He could enter here as a tourist, and his family also could obtain permission to come here rather easily. Thus the loving family was united for a few weeks and almost everybody was

  happy.”

  She paused for a short time to discourage a bee that was trying to drown

  itself in her wine. With a silver spoon she fished out the drunkard and placed it

  gently on a flower to sleep it off, then sat down again to continue her story. “At

  the time it made sense to buy this house, because it was more comfortable to

  camp out here than in a hotel. The place is not all that spacious and there were

  too many of us, because we all brought our children along, but it worked out

  fine. It was also more discreet. The last thing they wanted was to excite attention.

  The price of the house, converted into our currency at that time, was a joke and

  irresistible. We used to spend more than that on our yearly vacation. I am not

  sure how my husband arranged it and am not even sure that it was quite legal,

  because tourists were hardly encouraged to purchase real estate behind the Iron

  Curtain. However, my husband is a man, who can find the one tiny crack on a

  fortification where a clever and very thin person can slip through. I guess, this is

  one of his remarkable talents that helped him to financial success. At any rate, he

  bought the house. During all those years the cottage served fine for the yearly

  get-togethers for his rather large family. Actually, this is the end of the story. As

  you see, there is nothing exciting or romantic about it.”

  She refilled their glasses, and Lena wondered just how much alcohol can be

  consumed in the morning without the scandal of disgracing herself on a first

  visit. After all, she had a Spartan breakfast of only two slices of bread. “Are you still having family meetings here?”

  “Not any more. After the Iron Curtain fell the formerly poor relatives

  became rich. Travel to any part of the world was not just possible, but standard.

  Since then the family can meet at luxurious places and live the pampered life to

  which they were not accustomed. They now go where room service is a fact of

  life and luxury a constitutionally guaranteed right. The newly rich family of the

  East would no longer consider spending a vacation here chez Isenburg, this being

  below their new standards. They now are choosing trendier places. But the house

  is still our property.” She shrugged her shoulders and an irresistible smile spread

  over her kind face as she related her story. She offered more of the juicy strawberries, then dipped one into the sparkling wine and ate it with obvious enjoyment.

  “Wonderful strawberries. There is a farmer nearby, who claims that he has a special field with a southern exposure and it is graced by the earliest and warmest spring in the entire country. He also claims that he has a special sun to shine on his special field. He says that his berries grow outdoors and because they enjoy this privileged location and this special sun they not only ripen earlier, but also are better and juicier than what all the rest of the farmers produce. He is lying, of course. He grows these early berries in a hothouse, like everybody else, but he is so charming in his dishonesty that I forgive him and always buy the

  first berries from him.”

  “Whether these come from a hot house or a field, they truly are

  wonderful,” complimented Lena. Sarah fascinated her and she wanted to hear

  more of her story. “Do you live here?”

  “No, but I like to spend my long summers here. I’ll tell you a dark secret.

  Since I am spending time here sans famille, I enjoy this place, as I never did

  before. I do not have much in common with his family. I do not speak their

  language, do
not enjoy their beer, and did not like the role of a season-long

  housekeeper-cook-maid-chauffeur-washerwoman in one person. When they

  decided henceforth to meet at more glamorous places I used the flimsy excuse of

  having to take care of the cottage. Using my undeniable charms I convinced my

  dearly beloved spouse that it makes sense to vacation in separate countries, and

  of course, he agreed. The family did not object to my absence and so with

  perfectly insincere regrets I bowed out of future family reunions. I was honestly

  relieved, and on nights when there is a full moon I howl my own special and

  simple incantation into the great beyond in the general direction of the Moon,

  with the simple refrain ‘Good riddance’. This life here suits me fine. I like to play

  the temporary hermit and love this splendid isolation. At this time my husband

  and family are somewhere in Bavaria at a gemütliches alpine Gasthaus, eating

  Sauerbraten with grapefruit-sized knedlis that shimmer and wiggle, and always

  remind me of the exposed breasts of a woman who ought to start dieting. They

  are drinking lots of excellent beer and are reminiscing about the good old days,

  which are good only in hindsight and in the blessed security that those times will

  never come back. I happen to have an excellent memory and do clearly recall the

  laments of how awful everything was back then. Fortunately for them my

  mother, a true southern belle, trained me to behave like a lady and therefore I

  never remind them of the past, and never point out the inconsistency of their