Gypsy Hearts

by Robert Eversz

  “Several young women,” I repeated, with all the arch dryness I could muster from the frantic chase of my heart. “Name one.”

  “Please, we are not stupid,” Zima said.

  “Neither am I. If a specific person has made a specific charge against me, I want to hear it.”

  Zima lifted a form to rheumy eyes and, after careful study, produced the name Victoria Goddard.

  Ah, Victoria. The first word she screamed after realizing her money had disappeared was police. I tried to convince her that the local law was not as friendly or competent as her neighborhood bobby, but she insisted on making the complaint. I had no choice but to let her go, alone of course, and hope her lack of Czech and the laziness of the local law would spell the end of it. Apparently, it hadn’t. Never underestimate the indignant outrage of an Englishwoman.

  “I am aware Miss Goddard had her purse picked, but I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

  “You were there when it happened.”

  “So were a couple hundred others. She lost her pocket-book at Lávka on a crowded Saturday night. You certainly don’t expect me to believe that Victoria accused me of taking it, do you?”

  Zima allowed the question to hang in the air, then dropped his eyes back to the file folder. A persistent clicking chipped away at my concentration. I traced the sound to a ballpoint pen in Bortnyk’s hand, the tip extending or retracting with each rhythmic plunge of his thumb. Zima cautiously turned aside the top form in the file folder and, without moving his eyes from the next document, fumbled at a familiar spot on his desk, shook a cigarette from a pack of Czech Spartas, and lit it. The clicking of the ballpoint was as annoying as a dripping faucet. Did he really think such low-level psychological harassment would unnerve me? Zima must have hoped his long pauses inspired terror of the unknown, but all I felt was a suffocating heat. The office was unbearably hot. I cursed the decision to wear a sport coat. In a matter of minutes, I had sweated through my clean white shirt. Neither Zima nor Bortnyk seemed to be troubled by the heat. What evidence did they have? Several more rabbits could spring out of that hat. Anna, Hanna, Helga … several others whose names I couldn’t recall. The trouble was not knowing. If I knew what they planned, I could defend myself. I could prepare answers. I fought a desperate urge to loosen my tie and wipe my brow. I must show no weakness. What if they had evidence? I was certain the sweat was popping out my forehead. There could not be any evidence. I had been careful, and no searches were made. I didn’t have to say anything. I wished I could stop sweating. One look at the sweat on me and I’d be condemned. But neither paid the least attention. Zima read, preoccupied with his papers. Bortnyk stared out the window, clicking his pen. They knew nothing.

  I cleared my throat and said, “I asked a question. Did Victoria Goddard accuse me of any impropriety?”

  Zima didn’t bother to look up from his papers.

  “Why do you think you’re here?” Bortnyk asked. The question was artfully ambiguous. Did he call for supposition on my part, or was the reason for my presence so obvious only an idiot couldn’t see it?

  “I don’t have any idea—” I began.

  “Margit Szabo,” Zima announced, interrupting me.

  “—why I’m here,” I finished.

  I waited for Zima to continue, because though I’d deliberately completed my sentence, displaying my calm and lack of guilt, the name was not meaningless. It had been called out to make me jump. But Zima had no intention of rushing his investigation. He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another, and returned to his documents. I had met Margit during the first cold month of spring. At the time, I was certain she hadn’t suspected anything. How could she? I was a perfect gentleman. Margit was barely twenty, as fresh and sweet and lightly browned as unpasteurized cream. She was so grateful after I rescued her from an embarrassing financial situation that we frolicked nonstop for three days. In fact, it was difficult getting rid of her. She had secret yearnings to be a movie actress. My experiences in Hollywood suitably impressed her, and I think she was overwhelmed by my generosity. I was the rich and famous American of her fantasies. She was crying when I put her on the train to Budapest.

  “So, you know Margit,” I said, twisting around in my chair to face Bortnyk.

  It was the only possible explanation for the absurd scene the two were playing, though Bortnyk did not respond to my question with so much as a glance.

  “Are you a friend or family?” I asked, and noted with satisfaction a determined nonreaction in the tensing of muscles along the ridge of his jaw. “I’ve heard that in some countries a foreigner dating a local woman risks being abducted at gunpoint and threatened with death. Is this the Hungarian variation on that theme? When a foreigner compromises a relative’s virtue, you resort to legal harassment?”

  His dark face went darker still.

  Zima looked up from his documents. His eye met Bortnyk’s. Bortnyk dipped his head, terse and murderous.

  “Margit Szabo,” Zima repeated. The name was a broken shell, drained of its ability to inspire fear. “I want you to say me how you meet this young woman.”

  I crossed one leg over the other and examined the handsome cut of my Italian loafer. I was a bit of a cad, if the truth be known, not above taking amorous advantage of a young beauty who wanted it. No crime. Many would admire me. That would be the limit of my confession. I risked a quick sweep of my brow. “I met the young lady in question at the café in Obecní Dům, where we shared a table by chance.” I turned to address Bortnyk. “Obecní Dům is one of the world’s finest Art Nouveau buildings. I don’t suppose you’ve been there?”

  Bortnyk nodded, reluctant to be engaged.

  “Inside, in the café? Then you know how crowded it can be when tourists are in town. There wasn’t a free table that afternoon, so I was forced to share one with Miss Szabo. Not that I found her disagreeable. I had hoped for a little privacy, to work on a screenplay for a film I plan to have produced here.”

  “You walk into café and see Miss Szabo. You sit at her table,” Zima said, not interested in my screenplay.

  “Is it a crime to share a table in a crowded café? I thought it was local custom.”

  “You misunderstand!” Zima exclaimed, though he knew I understood perfectly well. “We do not formally accuse you of crime. Please continue.”

  “There isn’t much to it. As I said, I sat at her table and jotted a few notes down. Miss Szabo and I began to talk. When it came time to leave, she looked in her purse, and—”

  “Who spoke first?” Zima interrupted.

  “I don’t see how that matters.”

  “An unimportant point, but please answer.”

  I made a show of rifling through the rusted cabinets of memory.

  “I did. My pen ran out of ink. I asked her for a pen. I keep a full supply of pens just on the verge of going dry, you understand, so that I might use them as a pretext for starting conversations with pretty young girls.”

  “Where did Miss Szabo get pen?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You did not see her take it from purse?”

  “If I did, I certainly don’t remember now. This happened two months ago. A silly little tragedy with a happy ending.”

  “Where did Miss Szabo keep purse?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “She put it on chair between you, for safekeeping?”

  “Miss Szabo’s purse was the last thing on my mind.”

  A sharp exhalation of breath from Bortnyk blew across the room.

  Zima asked, “Did you leave table at any time, say, for example, to go to toilets?”

  “I may have. I really don’t remember. It’s quite possible I did. Coffee is a powerful diuretic.”

  Neither of them had the faintest idea what I meant.

  “It makes you pee,” I explained.

  That they understood. Zima even smiled.

  His line of questioning carefully traced the logic of the crime. Choose the victim, establis
h contact, gain her trust, snatch the wallet, and slip off to the bathroom to dispose of all but the valuables. The moment comes to pay the bill, and poor Miss Szabo can’t find her wallet. She’s confused, flustered, alone in a strange country. The handsome young man at her table gallantly offers to pay. Miss Szabo gratefully accepts, too upset to ask herself why her eye didn’t catch, when she opened her purse to loan the pen, the glaring breach of a missing wallet. If she did not notice the wallet was missing then, it was picked after the handsome young man joined her.

  “This is embarrassing to both of us,” I said to Zima. “You have a colleague, maybe a friend as well, upset because a young American seduced his relative. He invents a ridiculous charge and convinces you it’s the truth. But if you look at the logic of it, that I stole Miss Szabo’s wallet so I could get rich on her zlotys or florins or whatever the hell the Hungarian currency is, the accusation makes no sense. These are not convertible currencies, and Miss Szabo herself told me the sum she lost was insignificant by Western standards.”

  Bortnyk slipped behind my chair and whispered, “You are a smooth operator, Mr. Miller.” His position forced me either to twist uncomfortably or allow him to shoot accusations into the back of my head. I looked at Zima, who gazed out the window. Bortnyk’s voice breathed in my ear. “I asked myself many times if you were crazy. You did not need the money. Only a crazy man would take such stupid risks. But now I know you are not crazy. You are a very clever man.”

  “Do you know how much money I spent bailing Miss Szabo out of her jam?” I complained to Zima. “First, I paid all her expenses: meals, drinks, entrance fees. She needed money to buy a little something for her mother, and I gave it to her. I even bought her train ticket back to Budapest!”

  “You used the money from her purse, didn’t you?” Bortnyk whispered.

  “Absurd!”

  “You stole her money and then used that same money to wine and dine and win her gratitude.”

  “Are you her father?”

  “I think you like to steal from young women so you can rescue and then seduce them.”

  “You’re her uncle. That’s it. Her uncle.”

  “These women think you generous, romantic. But you laugh at them. They are fools! You steal their money and they sleep with you! It is ingenious, this scheme of yours. A great joke!”

  But it’s just a game! I wanted to cry out. A harmless erotic amusement, a charade of financial bondage. No one gets hurt. I give full value. A romantic tour of Prague, bed and breakfast included. What woman on holiday doesn’t yearn for a romance with a sympathetic and sexy man? I enliven dull vacations, provide fodder for postcards, am something to tell the friends back home and reflect upon in old age. I have a drawer full of letters thanking me for my generosity. One or two mailed bank drafts as repayment, which I returned, complaining that to be repaid cheapens the deed. I haven’t pocketed a haler or kopek from anyone. If any change remains after our time together, I discreetly slip it into a pocket, to be found later, with fond thoughts of my kindness. I defy anyone to show me the harm done.

  “You are a sick and repulsive man. A thief. A petty purse snatcher.”

  Calumny!

  “I think you’ve said enough,” I began, quite calmly, despite the rage bubbling from my chest. A petty purse snatcher! Me! “I refuse to discuss this without the presence of consul from the American Embassy. I am in Prague to write a multimillion-dollar screenplay for Paramount Pictures, a production which I hope will be of benefit to both our countries. To be hauled into a police station on a Sunday morning and slandered by a cop from Budapest is an outrage! Obecní Dům is a notorious hangout for Gypsies. Every day, one long table is packed with these creatures—black marketeers, money changers, thieves—and yet, based on the jealousies of this cop, you allow me to be accused of the crime of Miss Szabo’s missing wallet. You have no evidence, and the logic of the accusation sounds ridiculous. I did it as a joke? I have been very patient with you, but now I must protest! I am an American citizen! I can speak with Ambassador Shirley Temple Black tomorrow! Are you looking to create a diplomatic incident?”

  I must admit to shouting toward the end of my speech, overwhelmed by the injustice of the accusation. A petty thief indeed! Zima’s eyes lifted apologetically to Bortnyk. Wary sarcasm returned to his voice. This was intended to be a friendly interview, he said, and he was sorry if I had taken offense, when no offense was meant. I was free to go.

  “You’re not filing charges, then?” I asked.

  “Not at this time.”

  “Can I expect more police harassment in the future?”

  “Please, Mr. Miller, it’s time for you to go.”

  I stood to leave, but couldn’t help a last attempt to satisfy my curiosity regarding Bortnyk.

  “You’re her uncle, aren’t you?”

  “I’m her fiancé, you fool.”

  “A little old for her, aren’t you?” I said, without thinking.

  He was on me before I had a chance to react, landing a right hook just above my ear. I threw my arms over my head and staggered back against the wall. His fists slammed into my ribs. I imagined one breaking off to pierce my heart. Zima slowly rose from his desk, decided his friend had revenge enough, and pulled him off. I straightened up and noticed a tear in my custom-tailored dress shirt. Savage bastard!

  “You’re a witness,” I said to Zima. “I will be in touch with Ambassador Black in the morning. Charges will be filed.”

  4

  The week I arrived in Central Europe I noticed with preternatural awareness that something foreign had lodged a few inches deep in my cerebrum just above the right eye. The tumor seemed no larger than a speck at the time, a few hungry cells at most. The symptoms were not much different from those reported by migraine sufferers: light sensitivity, striations of color rolling down the back of my eyelids, and a dim awareness that some alien living thing, lodged behind the skull, gorged on brain tissue. It was no use consulting a doctor, certainly not in Czechoslovakia, where medical science had barely advanced past the hammer-as-anesthetic stage. If I flew home, the family neurologist would predictably conclude that nothing in the CAT scan was indicative of a tumor. How could a doctor locate something not yet visible? Meddling friends and family would ridicule me privately as a hypochondriac. I estimated a year or two before the tumor gathered enough mass to be noticeable. After my night at Lávka and morning at the police station, I was not surprised to feel my brain swelling up in rebellion. With any luck, aspirin and the quiet dark would shrink the pain to a bearable throb.

  When I approached the front door to my apartment building, a voice called my name in a piercing shriek that dispelled hope of suffering peacefully. Andrew darted across the street, shouting my name as though he found a long-lost brother.

  “Must you be so loud?” I whispered, pressing the spot on my forehead behind which the tumor must lie.

  Andrew laughed with the peculiar idiocy possessed by the innocent, a good-natured sing-along kind of laugh. “Hung over, are you?”

  He followed me through the door. A letter from the States poked from the mailbox. I plucked it out and climbed the stairs, Andrew babbling behind. He apologized for hitting me, didn’t know what came over him. He had been a little drunk, not that alcohol was an excuse, though in all honesty it had to be considered a contributing factor. His ridiculous complaints about being unable to find toothpaste—which he realized made him sound like the spoiled young American he suspected we all were—and then the desperate act of slapping me so upset him that he wandered all night through the streets of Prague. As he watched the sun streak through clouds over the city at dawn, his spirit had suddenly cleared, and the course of his future action gleamed straight as the rays of sunlight striking his eye.

  It was too much for me to bear. His insistent sincerity nibbled at my patience, until I could no longer restrain myself and cried out, “Murderer! Get me the aspirin.”

  Andrew hurried into the bathroom. I tore open th
e letter. Vexing news, written in my Cousin Dickie’s childish scrawl. He planned to visit Prague upon graduating from that surfers’ college he attended in Santa Barbara. I crumpled the paper and tossed it aside, upset that I needed to plan my vacation around his visit, to ensure I wasn’t in town when he arrived. Prague suddenly didn’t seem far enough away. Andrew rushed up with the bottle, fumbling at the childproof cap. I lined up the arrows and popped the top. Four pills spilled into the palm of my hand. I chewed them to pulp and washed it down with mineral water.

  Andrew opened a window and lit a cigarette, blowing his smoke out of the room. “I’ve lived with myself for a number of years. I have a certain self-image. What I won’t do. What I’m not. What I want to be and sometimes think I am, until an incident like this happens. Then I realize I’m perhaps the opposite. My true self is not the same as my ideal self. Am I making any sense?”

  “You’re apologizing for trying to kill me,” I guessed.

  “Don’t exaggerate.”

  I approached the mirror and examined my mouth for cuts and bruises. “You knocked loose half my teeth.”

  Andrew’s face appeared over my shoulder in the mirror. He dismissed my injuries with a smirk, and said, “I’ve decided to leave Prague for the summer.”

  “To teach English at the refugee camp?”

  “Don’t you sometimes feel—particularly here in Prague, where so many people have nothing—don’t you feel like you have too much privilege? Like maybe it’s wrong? That a little bit of hardship and suffering is good for the character, good for the soul?”

  The laughter howled out of me.

  “You think I’m being naive?”

  “I think you’re being a saint.”

  Andrew flicked his cigarette into the courtyard and closed the window. “You know, Nix, I don’t want to offend you or anything, but it’s difficult to be your friend.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For one, it’s impossible to tell when you’re joking.”