Strangers in Budapest

by Jessica Keener

  Annie wondered if after eight months of living in Budapest, her own smile had grown wan like Jane’s. She drank more beer. God. She hoped not.

  “Give it more time,” Betsy said to Annie.

  “I’m not sure how long we intend to stay. Has anyone taken that ferry to Vienna?”

  “Never done that,” Betsy said.

  “We drove once,” Valerie said. “Took us six hours. The traffic near the border was horrendous. Those two-lane roads in Hungary. Horrible.”

  “Valerie, you’re giving Annie a terrible impression of this place.”

  “Does this feel like home to you?” Valerie asked Betsy.

  “It’s where I live. I do my best.”

  “And you’re leaving.”

  Annie looked around at the coterie of woman laughing and chatting, exchanging barbs and witticisms. They sounded desperate and worldly. Strange combination. She didn’t know how to contribute.

  “Do you all live in houses?” Annie said, trying to take part. She knew the question sounded naïve—almost silly. She figured they all lived up in the Buda Hills where the houses were.

  Valerie hesitated long enough to convey surprise and slight irritation at Annie’s question. “Of course, why?”

  “We’re renting an apartment near the river,” Annie said. “I guess I’m missing our house. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to be in a house, although our apartment is nice.”

  “If you stay awhile, you should get into a house,” Betsy said. “You’ll feel more settled.”

  “There are some good ones in the hills,” Lisa said. “Modern conveniences. We all live pretty close to each other.”

  Annie nodded, regretting her question. “I’d heard most Americans lived there.”

  “The air’s cleaner, too,” Betsy said. “The air in the city is pretty bad.”

  “High rate of asthma,” Valerie said.

  “That’s why we’re on the seventh floor,” Annie said. “The air is better higher up. That’s what I read, anyway.”

  Listening to all this talk of houses, she felt a sudden longing for her beautiful white colonial house in Massachusetts, the one they’d sold and left without a second thought, happy to be on their overseas adventure, flush with a new baby and sense of purpose for their life moving forward. Eight months later, she was missing it, missing what she had taken for granted—as Edward pointed out—wondering why they had not been content with owning more than enough. She drank the rest of her beer. Thinking like that was akin to trying to catch those white lines on a highway while you’re speeding ahead, the lines slipping behind you into the past. That was her old life. She didn’t know when they planned to go back or when they would return to the States to visit. As for furniture, they had put theirs in storage, in one of those air-conditioned lockers in Boston. Annie nodded again as the women talked about their houses, how their small front-loading washing machines worked better than they expected—superior, in fact—to their top-loading American ones.

  She ordered another beer, catching the waiter’s eye and pointing to her empty mug. Then she turned to Jane.

  “What do you know about the Gypsies?”

  “Be careful,” Betsy said, overhearing. “They’ll rob you.”

  “Did you read about that wallet scam?” Valerie asked everyone. “Watch out for Gypsies. They’re professional thieves.”

  Annie thought about mentioning the skinheads and what happened to Will, then changed her mind. Valerie would tell her, again, how horrible it was here, and she didn’t need to hear that one more time. But it did bother her that people assumed the scam was run by Gypsies. Even Stephen said the two wallet thieves were Ukrainian. Not Gypsies.

  “Isn’t that a stereotype, though?” Annie asked. “Not all Gypsies are thieves.”

  “Of course not, but many are,” Betsy said.

  “Gypsies are second-class citizens here,” Jane said. “Worse than that.”

  The others nodded out of what seemed like respect or tolerance for Jane. Unlike the others, Jane spoke without sarcasm or irony.

  “They’re like any group of people who are treated as second-class citizens,” Valerie said. “Except they’re not interested in assimilating.”

  “I believe the American Women’s Club tried to start a tutoring program for some of the Gypsy children,” Betsy said, trying for a more serious tone. “It never got off the ground.”

  “What happened?” Annie asked.

  “The woman who started it left for South Africa. From what I heard, a few Gypsies showed up once but didn’t come back.”

  “I used to work with homeless men,” Annie said. “It takes time to build trust.”

  The woman stopped talking and looked at her.

  “You can start anything you want here,” Valerie said. “That’s one thing. You can be queen if you want to be.”

  WHEN THE HOUR ended at the Grille, the women exchanged farewells, some making reference to future plans to visit the Herend Porcelain factory, a two-hour trek west of Budapest.

  All of them, including Jane, jangled car keys for the drive back up to the Buda Hills, those American neighborhoods Annie had been so determined to avoid. She was still relieved that she had listened to her intuition about that. What other secret whisperings did she need to attend to?

  She started her walk home along the river, a bit drunk in the middle of the day, thinking, You can be queen if you want to be. Oh, yes. She was queen of her own private queendom. Queen of Leo. Queen of her cell phone and fax machine and Hungarian babysitter, which reminded her that she should check—she fished her cell phone out of her bag. A missed call from Mr. Weiss. No message. Over an hour ago. She hoped he was all right. Concerned, she pushed the redial button and waited for his number to ring.

  Eleven

  He heard three knocks on his door, the same three knocks he heard yesterday when Ivan, the Hungarian boy, came to deliver his air conditioner. Today he came with groceries.

  “Egy pillanat! One minute.” The language wasn’t as hard as everyone made it out to be. He’d learned a few useful phrases. Edward knew the boy was coming but had dozed off on the couch after his lunch, his glucose levels rising from too much sugar, his diabetes rebelling.

  “Egy pillanat!”

  He pushed up on his elbow slowly. And if he couldn’t blame his sugar intake, then it was the heat, clinging still to ninety-five, -six, -seven degrees. His ragged crescent of silver hair was damp against his neck. He checked his watch: twelve thirty. The standing fans—he’d added a second one—plus a small air conditioner, which Ivan had mounted in the kitchen window, kept the place tolerable. Yes. He’d conceded to his daughter’s pleas, but the air was stale because of it, with moisture dripping on the sill.

  The boy knocked again.

  “I heard you. Christ. I heard you.” He looked down at his swollen feet and lifted his torso off the sofa, leaning forward on his thighs to balance himself and give time for his blood to find a steady level in his head. When he reached the door, he unhitched the chain and yanked on the handle, the door swollen from humidity. He let the boy in, shut the door, and slid the chain back on its track.

  “Over there, please. I cleared off the counter.”

  He pointed to the kitchen, then shook his head at himself. He had the unfortunate habit of overdirecting people. The boy knew what to do.

  “Yes. I know,” Ivan said.

  “Thank you,” Edward said, his voice conciliatory.

  He liked Ivan, had liked him the instant the boy extended his long arm to shake hands at the airport. Rose had made the arrangement. A lean young man with a gentle demeanor. “I am Ivan. You are expecting me. Let me take those.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  “I take you,” Ivan had said. “The bus is here.”

  Edward had stood on the sidewalk while Ivan mounted his three suitcases into the back of the bus, then scurried back to help him get into the bus. The steep stairs stole Edward’s breath.

  �
��You are tired? Trip is too long,” the boy had said. “Sit here.” He said something to the bus driver.

  “Long wait in Frankfurt,” Edward told the boy once he was seated next to him on the bus. “You understand my English?”

  “Yes. Quite well.” Ivan nodded. “I studied English in school.”

  That layover in Frankfurt had been tough on his arthritic limbs. Couldn’t sit in one place, so he paced the long hallways, perused the duty-free shops. There were no direct flights from Boston to Budapest.

  “How far to the apartment?”

  “Not so far. Forty minutes.”

  Edward was satisfied. The boy’s kind demeanor appeased his physical pain. He settled in for the ride.

  “IT’S WORKING WELL,” Ivan said, heading for the kitchen. The boy carried several meshed bags bulging with groceries and mounted them on the countertop.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Edward followed him. He watched Ivan unpack the goods.

  “This heat not good but the air conditioner helps, yes?”

  “Can’t stand the damn thing.”

  “But for old—”

  “Yes. Yes. I’m old. Seventy-six times the sun has circled the earth in my lifetime. Insignificant in the big picture. You understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Persze,” Ivan said, nodding.

  He was wise, this young kid. Edward could see that in his eyes—a curious green gray. Not spoiled, like young Americans. He stopped to consider this fact. “Tell me,” Edward said, pouring glasses of water for himself and Ivan, “what is that? What do you call this sausage?” Edward pointed to a package wrapped in wax paper.

  On the counter, Ivan lined up a kilo of cheese, two loaves of dark rye bread, bananas, three tomatoes, a carton of milk.

  “Debreceni. You will like it.” Ivan was about his height—six feet—friendly and serious. “They run out of Gyulai sausage. Run out—that’s what you say in America, yes? Run out?”

  “That’s right. Smart boy.” Edward laughed. “We run out. Americans run out of everything.” He looked at Ivan with appreciation.

  “Debreceni is good. You tell me next week if you like it best. The cost is same.” Ivan took the glass of water and drank it.

  “Okay. I’ll tell you.” Edward handed Ivan a wad of money. He paid the boy each week to shop for him—three thousand forints, about thirty dollars, to shop and deliver groceries, plus another two thousand for the boy’s time. Everything was so damn cheap in Hungary; it was ludicrous. He gave him an extra two thousand forints to deliver the air conditioner. Resourceful and smart, the kid carted the air conditioner across town with a dolly, knowing he had hit the jackpot. Working for an American meant good money—a week’s salary for a few hours’ effort.

  “What are you going do with all that money I give you?”

  “I am saving it.”

  “For what?”

  “To buy a flat, after I go to university.”

  “Good. Good for you.”

  The boy lived with his mother across the street from Edward. Ivan’s father had died suddenly of an aneurysm when the kid was six. I don’t remember it, he told Edward. He had one older sister, married with two kids, who lived in the countryside where it was more affordable. His mother never remarried.

  “Twice in one week,” Edward said. “I haven’t scared you away yet?”

  “Nem. No. Of course not. I enjoy knowing you. It will be hot again tomorrow. You have to stay inside. It’s the only way.”

  Edward shrugged him off.

  Ivan looked at the door. “Someone is here. Are you expecting?”

  “No.”

  Then Edward remembered he had called Annie earlier. He wanted to ask her to come over again—not to drive him along the river. No. He decided that was a stupid idea. He headed for the door, stopping to look through the peephole.

  A man he recognized. No.

  “It’s Van,” the man in the hallway said. “Van Howard, sir.”

  Edward’s arms became numb. He leaned into the door.

  “How did you know I was here?” He talked into the wood.

  “Mr. Edwards?” Ivan said behind him.

  He waved Ivan away.

  “Nan gave me your address but not your phone. Did she tell you?”

  The door was old and thick. Howard’s voice came through like dull thuds. The peephole gave Edward distorted glimpses of an ear, his eyes, his nose as he shifted to make out his whole face.

  Him.

  Edward unlocked the door but kept the chain on, opening the door wide enough for a man’s foot. “You know I’ve been here several weeks.”

  “I should have written. I’m sorry. Would you like me to come back? Is this a bad time?”

  “You don’t live far, isn’t that right?” Edward blocked the door opening.

  “Yes.”

  In the wave of heat from the hallway, Edward smelled something sweet—a strong aftershave.

  “Tell me,” Edward said, lowering his voice. “Do you think you can get away with it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Howard shook his head. “Please not that.” He turned to leave.

  “Just a moment,” Edward said. “I’ll unchain this.” Edward stepped back. The boy was behind him. The idea that Howard might try to harm them crossed Edward’s mind. He was an old man. But Ivan was young, lean, and strong. “Where in Pest do you live exactly?”

  Howard, his blond hair swept back, looked scrawnier than last winter after the funeral.

  “By the river. Downtown. Why don’t I come back another time and we’ll talk.” Howard glanced toward the stairs. “If Nan had given me your—.”

  “You’re not a talker. You’re a liar.”

  Liar propelled out of his mouth, pent up in his throat for too long. Oh, he had a long, long history of this. His mouth vomiting words, stinking up the whole goddamn place.

  “You won’t get away with this! Do you hear me?” He yelled, but by then Howard was leaping down the stairs to the street.

  LATER, AFTER IVAN had left, Edward went through this scenario for the rest of the day, his mind looping like water in a circular sluice, round and round: how he had asked Ivan to chase Howard, how Ivan returned to tell him Howard had disappeared, out of sight by the time he had reached the sidewalk. Round and round, for the rest of the afternoon and into the night, he went over this scene, berating himself for his stupidity. He should have invited Howard in, befriended him. Caught the liar in his lies. Another round and he’d called Nan and insisted she read the letter again—how many times had she read it to him?—ignoring her request to please, please calm down. Dad. Dad. What was the postmark on the envelope? A PO box number for a return address.

  He had it memorized now. Every word.

  Dear Nan,

  I am writing to you because you of your kindness to me at Deborah’s funeral. How does life go for you? I moved to Hungary. There are opportunities here that distract me from the pain of losing Deborah. Everything about Boston reminds me of my wife and the future we planned together. Every street has a memory. I can’t believe she is gone. I wonder if it was God’s way of sparing her from her worsening condition. Who knows? You’re a nurse. Maybe you know what I mean. I hope your father will come to understand that there are more sides to her story than he has imagined. Thank you for letting me know where to find him. I live near the river, and the beautiful views of rocks and statues offer comfort.

  With sorrow,

  Van

  He was paying for his stupid impulses. You and your stupid mouth, Sylvia had said.

  Why hadn’t he talked to Howard calmly? Time would undo the wrong. Sleazeball shows up with his slimy, polite face. Unannounced. Funny how Howard failed to give him his phone number or exact address. “Live near the river,” Howard had said.

  Edward grunted. Couldn’t bear it. Wanted to shoot him on the spot, but the boy was there. Besides, that was not his plan.

  Get the hell out!

  I don’t know wha
t you’re talking about.

  Howard ran. Of course he did. Disappeared like an ant into the sprawling nest of Budapest. Afterward, Edward told Ivan to leave, too. He needed to calm down. Jesus Christ. Liar knew precisely what he was talking about.

  When the phone rang, he told Annie he couldn’t talk to her right now. He would call her back. He promised. A day or two. He shut her off. “God help me,” Edward groaned. He turned on the couch, weeping, at last. “What have I done?”

  Twelve

  Bernardo wants you to do what?” Annie wore black heels, a black pencil skirt, and a sleeveless white blouse for the occasion, but she was not looking forward to this dinner with Will’s former boss at the Kempinski Hotel downtown. Will strode beside her, his face taut, his eyes squinting the way they used to when he worked at Fendix. It was twilight and the city crowds had shifted to nighttime activities. Thankfully, the heat of the day had surrendered to more comfortable temperatures. Everywhere, she saw couples like herself and Will, plus singles in their twenties, all scurrying to meet friends for dinner or drinking, for a performance at the Liszt music academy—something she and Will often did—before they went out to the clubs. Gallery openings and summer street musicians added to Budapest’s thriving night life. There were no children on the sidewalks at this hour. Leo was back at their flat under Klara and Sandor’s care.

  “He’s involved with a group of venture capitalists,” Will said. “They’ve got software that lets you log into your computer anywhere in the world. He wants someone to cover the Eastern countries. It’s an opportunity. I’ll hear him out.”

  The word opportunity made Annie suspicious. Will’s telephone venture wasn’t exactly speeding along. She was learning that Hungarians could take years to decide whether they wanted to engage in a business transaction.

  They crossed the Duna—over the Chain Bridge—a gorgeous sight at night with its looping chains lit up like a roller coaster at a fancy amusement park.

  “How do you discern between reality and all the marketing hype?” Annie asked. She wanted to believe in those über – buzz words that Americans binged on with unabashed, boundless, unquenchable greed: opportunity, venture money. But she was losing her taste for them. A breeze rose up from the river below. Decorative lights on the tourist boats twinkled. The city glittered in darkness, became magical. She reached for Will’s hand.