“I don’t know. I was hoping you might want to. Aren’t you even curious?”
“Desperately,” he said. “But I won’t participate in your undoing. Not even as a spectator.” And he called the waiter over and requested the bill, then firmly changed the subject.
In the morning Andras brought Tibor to the École Spéciale, where they met Vago at his office. When they entered, Vago was sitting behind his desk and talking on the telephone in his particular manner: He held the mouthpiece between his cheek and shoulder and gesticulated with both hands. He sketched the shape of a flawed building in the air, then erased it with a sweep of his arm, then sketched another building, this one with a roof that seemed flat but was not flat, to allow for drainage-and then the conversation was over, and Andras introduced Tibor to Vago at last, there in the room where he had been the subject of so many morning conversations, as though the talking itself had caused Tibor to materialize.
“Off to Modena,” Vago said. “I envy you. You’ll love Italy. You won’t ever want to go back to Budapest.”
“I’m grateful for your help,” Tibor said. “If I can ever repay the favor…”
Vago waved the idea away. “You’ll become a doctor,” he said. “If I’m lucky, I won’t need your favors.” Then he gave them the news from the hospital: Polaner was holding steady; the doctors had decided not to operate yet. Of Lemarque there was still no sign. Rosen had kicked down the door of his rooming house the day before, but he was nowhere to be found.
Tibor sat through the morning classes with Andras. He heard Andras present his solution to the statics problem about the cathedral buttress, and he let Andras show him his drawings in studio. He met Ben Yakov and Rosen, who quickly exhausted the few words of Hungarian they’d learned from Andras; Tibor bantered with them in his sparse but fearless French. At noon, over lunch at the school café, Rosen talked about his trip to Lemarque’s rooming house. He looked depleted now; his face had lost its angry flush, and his russet-colored freckles seemed to float on the surface of his skin. “What a rathole,” he said. “A hundred cramped dark rooms full of smelly men. It stank worse than a prison. You could almost feel sorry for the bastard, living in a place like that.” He paused to give a broad yawn. He’d been up all night at the hospital.
“And nothing?” Ben Yakov said. “Not a trace of him?”
Rosen shook his head. “I searched the place from basement to attic. Nobody had seen him, or at least they claimed they hadn’t.”
“And what if you’d found him?” Tibor asked.
“What would I have done, you mean? At the time, I would have choked him to death with my bare hands. But I would have been a fool to do it. We need to know who his accomplices were.”
The student café began to clear. Doors opened and slammed all around the atrium as students filtered into the classrooms. Tibor watched them go, his eyes grave behind his silver-rimmed glasses.
“What are you thinking about?” Andras asked him in Hungarian.
“Lucky Béla,” Tibor said. “Ember embernek farkasa.”
“Speak French, Hungarians,” Rosen said. “What are you talking about?”
“Something our father used to say,” Andras said, and repeated the phrase.
“And what does that mean, in the parlance of the rest of the world?”
“Man is a wolf to man.”
That night they were supposed to go to a party at József Hász’s on the boulevard Saint-Jacques. It was to be the first time Andras would spend an evening at József’s since the beginning of his liaison with Klara. The idea made him anxious, but József had invited him in person a week earlier; a few of his paintings were to appear in a student show at the Beaux-Arts, which Andras must be sure to miss because it would be a terrible bore, but after the opening there would be drinks and dinner at József’s. Andras had demurred on the basis that Tibor would be in town and that he couldn’t burden József with another guest, but that had only made József insist all the more: If Tibor were in Paris for the first time, he couldn’t miss a party at József Hász’s.
When they arrived, the company was already drunk. A trio of poets stood on the sofa and shouted verse in three-part cacophony while a girl in a green leotard performed acts of contortion on the Oriental rug. József himself presided over the card table, winning at poker while the other players scowled at their dwindling piles of money.
“The Hungarians have arrived!” József said when he saw them. “Now we’ll have a real game. Pull up a chair, men! Play cards.”
“I’m afraid we can’t,” Andras said. “We’re broke.”
József dealt a hand with dazzling speed. “Eat, then,” he said. “If you’re broke, you’re probably hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” He didn’t look up from his cards. “Visit the buffet.”
On the dining table was a raft of baguettes, three wheels of cheese, pickles, apples, figs, a chocolate torte, six bottles of wine.
“Now that’s a welcome sight,” Tibor said. “Free dinner.”
They made sandwiches of figs and cheese and took them to the large front room, where they watched the contortionist become a circle, a bell, a Spanish knot. Afterward she posed erotically with another girl, while a third girl took photographs with an ancient-looking camera.
Tibor watched in a mesmeric trance. “Does Hász have parties like this often?” he asked, following the girls with his eyes as they shifted to a new pose.
“More often than you’d imagine,” Andras said.
“How many people live in this apartment?”
“Just him.”
Tibor let out a low whistle.
“There’s hot water in the bathroom, too.”
“Now you’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not. And a porcelain tub with lion feet. Come see.” He led Tibor down the hall toward the back of the apartment and paused at the bathroom door, which stood open just enough to show a sliver of white porcelain. A glow of candles emanated from within. Andras opened the door. There, blinking against the glare from the hallway, was a couple standing against the wall, the girl’s hair disheveled, the top buttons of her shirt undone. The girl was Elisabet Morgenstern, one hand raised against the light.
“Pardon us, gentlemen,” the man said in American-accented French, each word delivered with drink-soaked languor.
Elisabet had recognized Andras at once. “Stop looking at me, you stupid Hungarian!” she said.
Andras took a step backward into the hall, pulling Tibor along with him. The man gave them a wink of drunken triumph and kicked the door closed.
“Well,” Tibor said. “I suppose we’d better examine the plumbing later.”
“That might be best.”
“And who was that darling girl? She seems to know you.”
“That darling girl was Elisabet Morgenstern.”
“The Elisabet? Klara’s daughter?”
“The.”
“And who was the man?”
“Someone awfully brave, that’s for sure.”
“Does József know Elisabet?” Tibor said. “Do you think the secret’s out between them?”
Andras shook his head. “No idea. Elisabet does seem to live her own life outside the house. But József’s never mentioned a secret cousin, which I’m certain he would have, as much as he loves to gossip.” His temples began to pound as he wondered what exactly he had discovered, and what he would tell Klara.
They wove their way back to the sofa and sat down to watch the guests play charades; a girl appropriated Andras’s coat and wore it over her head like a hood while she stooped to pick invisible flowers. The others called out the titles of films Andras had never seen. He needed another glass of wine, and was ready to get up and look for one when Elisabet’s lover staggered into the room. The man, blond and broad-shouldered and wearing an expensive-looking merino jacket, tucked his shirt into his trousers and smoothed his hair. He raised a hand in greeting and sat down on the couch between Andras and Tibor.
“H
ow are we, gentlemen?” he asked in his languid French. “You’re not having nearly as much fun as I am, from the look of it.” He sounded like the Hollywood stars who did commercials for Radio France. “That girl’s quite a firecracker. I met her on a ski vacation over Christmas, and I’m afraid I’ve become addicted to her.”
“We were just leaving,” Andras said. “We’ll be on our way now.”
“No, sir!” the blond American crowed. He put an arm across Andras’s chest. “No one goes! We’re staying all night!”
Down the hall came Elisabet, shaking drops of water from her hands. She’d hastily rearranged her hair and misbuttoned her blouse. When she reached the front room, she beckoned to Andras with a single urgent sweep of her hand. Andras got up from the sofa and excused himself with a half bow, then followed Elisabet down the hall. She led him to József’s bedroom, where a deluge of coats had overflowed the bed and pooled on the floor.
“All right,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Nothing!” Andras said. “Not a thing.”
“If you tell my mother about Paul, I’ll kill you.”
“When would I tell her, now that you’ve banished me from your house?”
Elisabet’s look became shrewd. “Don’t play innocent with me,” she said. “I know you haven’t spent the past two months hoping I’d fall in love with you. I know what’s going on between you and my mother. I could see how she looked at you. I’m not a fool, Andras. She might not tell me everything, but I’ve known her long enough to be able to tell when she’s got a lover. And you’re just her type. Or one of her types, I should say.”
Now it was his turn to show a self-conscious flush; I could see how she looked at you. And how he must have looked at her. How could anyone have failed to see it? He glanced down at the hearth; a silver cigarette case lay among the ashes, its monogram obscured. “You know she wouldn’t want you to be here,” he said. “Does she know you know József Hász?”
“That idiot who lives here, you mean? Why, is he some sort of notorious criminal?”
“Not exactly,” Andras said. “He can throw a rather rough party, that’s all.”
“I just met him tonight. He’s some friend of Paul’s from school.”
“And you met Paul in Chamonix?”
“I don’t see where that’s any business of yours. And I mean it, Andras, you can’t tell my mother about any of this. She’ll lock me in my room for life.” She tugged at her shirt, and when she saw she’d buttoned it wrong, pronounced an unladylike curse.
“I won’t tell,” he said. “Upon my honor.”
Elisabet scowled at him, seeming to doubt his trustworthiness; but behind her hard look there was a flash of vulnerability, a consciousness that he held the key to something that mattered to her. Andras wasn’t certain whether it was Paul himself she loved, or whether it was simply the freedom to carry on a life beyond her mother’s scrutiny, but in either case he understood. He spoke his pledge again. Her tight-held shoulders relaxed a single degree, and she let out a truncated sigh. Then she fished a pair of coats from the pile on the bed, brushed past him into the hall, and returned to the front room, where Paul and Tibor were still watching the charades.
“It’s late, Paul,” Elisabet said, throwing his coat onto his lap. “Let’s go.”
“It’s early!” Paul said. “Come sit here with us and watch these girls.”
“I can’t. I have to get home.”
“Come to me, lioness,” he said, and took her wrist.
“If I have to go home alone, I will,” she said, and pulled away.
Paul got up from the sofa and kissed Elisabet on the mouth. “Stubborn girl,” he said. “I hope this gentleman wasn’t rude to you.” He gave Andras a wink.
“This gentleman has the deepest respect for the young lady,” Andras said.
Elisabet rolled her eyes. “All right,” she said. “That’s enough.” She shrugged into her coat, gave Andras a last warning look, and went to the door. Paul snapped a salute and followed her into the hallway.
“Well,” Tibor said. “I think you’d better sit down and tell me what that was all about.”
“She begged me not to tell her mother that I saw her with that man.”
“And what did you say?”
“I swore I’d never tell.”
“Not that you’d have the opportunity anyway.”
“Well,” Andras said. “It seems Elisabet has figured out what’s going on between her mother and me.”
“Ah. So the secret’s out.”
“That one is, anyway. She seemed not at all surprised. She said I was her mother’s type, whatever that means. But she doesn’t seem to have any idea that József’s her cousin.” He sighed. “Tibor, what in God’s name am I doing?”
“That’s just what I’ve been asking you,” Tibor said, and put an arm around Andras’s shoulders. A moment later József Hász appeared, three glasses of champagne in his hands. He passed them each a glass and toasted their health.
“Are you having fun?” he said. “Everyone must have fun.”
“Oh, yes,” Andras said, grateful for the champagne.
“I see you’ve met my American friend Paul,” József said. “His father’s an industrial chieftain. Automobile tires or some such thing. That new girlfriend of his is a little sharp-tongued for my taste, but he’s wild about her. Maybe he thinks that’s just the way French girls act.”
“If that’s the way French girls act, you gentlemen are in trouble,” Tibor said.
“Here’s to trouble,” József said, and they drained their glasses.
The next day Andras and Tibor walked the long halls of the Louvre, taking in the velvet-brown shadows of Rembrandt and the frivolous curlicues of Fragonard and the muscular curves of the classical marbles; then they strolled along the quais to the Pont d’Iéna and stood beneath the monumental arches of the Tower. They circumnavigated the Gare d’Orsay as Andras described how he’d built his model; finally they backtracked to the Luxembourg, where the apiary stood in silent hibernation. They sat with Polaner at the hospital as he slept through the nurses’ ministrations; Polaner, whose terrible story Andras hadn’t yet told Klara. They watched him sleep for nearly an hour. Andras wished he’d wake, wished he wouldn’t look so pale and still; the nurses said he was better that day, but Andras couldn’t see any change. Afterward they walked to the Sarah-Bernhardt, where Tibor lent a hand with the closing-down. They stowed the coffee things and folded the wooden table, cleared the actors’ pigeonholes of ancient messages, shuttled stray props to the prop room and costumes to the costume shop, where Madame Courbet was folding garments into her neatly labeled cabinets. Claudel gave Andras a half-full box of cigars-a former prop-and apologized for having told him so many times to burn in hell. He hoped Andras could forgive him, now that they’d both been cast upon the whims of fate.
Andras forgave him. “I know you didn’t mean any harm,” he said.
“That’s a good boy,” Claudel said, and kissed him on both cheeks. “He’s a good boy,” he told Tibor. “A darling.”
Monsieur Novak met them in the hallway as they were on their way out. He called them into his office, where he produced three cut-crystal glasses and poured out the last of a bottle of Tokaji. They toasted Tibor’s studies in Italy, and then they toasted the eventual reopening of the Sarah-Bernhardt and the three other theaters that were closing that week. “A city without theater is like a party without conversation,” Novak said. “No matter how good the food and drink are, people will find it dull. Aristophanes said that, I believe.”
“Thank you for keeping my brother out of the gutter,” Tibor said.
“Oh, he would have found a way without me,” Novak said, and put a hand on Andras’s shoulder.
“It was your umbrella that saved him,” Tibor said. “Otherwise he would have missed his train. And then he might have lost his nerve.”
“No, not him,” Novak said. “Not
our Mr. Lévi. He would have been all right. And so will you, my young man, in Italy.” He shook Tibor’s hand and wished him luck.
It was dark by the time they left. They walked along the Quai de Gesvres as the lights of the bridges and barges shivered on the water. A wind tore through the river channel, flattening Andras’s coat against his back. He knew Klara was in her studio at that hour, teaching the final segment of her evening class. Without telling Tibor where they were going he steered them down the rue François Miron in the direction of the rue de Sévigné. He traced the route he hadn’t walked in weeks. And there on the corner, its light spilling into the street, was the dance studio with its demi-curtains, its sign that said MME. MORGENSTERN, MAÎTRESSE. The faint sound of phonograph music reached them through the glass: the slow, stately Schumann she used for the end-of-class révérences. This was a class of intermediate girls, slender ten-year-olds with downy napes, their shoulder blades like small sharp wings beneath the cotton of their leotards. At the front of the room Klara led them through a series of sweeping curtseys. Her hair was gathered into a loose roll at the base of her neck, and she wore a practice dress of plum-colored viscose, tied at the waist with a black ribbon. Her arms were supple and strong, her features tranquil. She needed no one; she had made a life, and here it was: these end-of-day révérences, her own daughter upstairs, Mrs. Apfel, the warm rooms of the flat she’d bought for herself. And yet from him, from Andras Lévi, a twenty-two-year-old student at the École Spéciale, she seemed to want something: the luxury of vulnerability, perhaps; the sharp thrill of uncertainty. As he watched, his heart seemed to go still in his chest.
“There she is,” he said. “Klara Morgenstern.”
“God,” Tibor said. “She’s beautiful, that’s for certain.”
“Let’s see if she’ll have dinner with us.”
“No, Andras. I’m not going to do it.”
“Why not?” he said. “You came here to see how I live, didn’t you? This is it. If you don’t meet her, you won’t know.”
Tibor watched as Klara lifted her arms; the children lifted their arms and swept into low curtseys.
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