My heart thrills at those words. This is what I have come for.
As we drive through the outskirts of the city, I press my nose against the window, craning my neck to see every detail. Everything looks older than in the US, and more run-down. Even the roads look tired. But Budapest is a far cry from India. Traffic moves at a moderate pace and obeys all of the laws. There are no cows or heavily laden handcarts, no chaos and sensory overload. We reach the heart of the city, and I draw in a wondrous breath. The buildings become grander, with ornate arches and spires. There are leafy, green parks and cafés with tables set out under awnings.
“Wow, great examples of Austro-Hungarian architecture,” Kai says admiringly as we pass building after building.
Rosie glances up briefly but then resumes texting on her phone. I wonder who she’s texting. Is it Lars? She’s missing the view.
The feel of Budapest is one of calm and order, of quiet contentment. It’s a little puzzling. Where are the refugees, the people we are trying to help? Nothing I’ve seen in the city matches any of the news photos we’ve been following closely for the past few days. I ask Laszlo about it.
“The refugees aren’t here in the city,” he says, gesturing around him. “Some are gathered at Keleti train station, but most are at the Hungarian border, in the Röszke refugee camp. You will see them tomorrow.”
We pull up to Hotel Central Basilica, an elegant cream-colored stone building with tall arched windows just a stone’s throw from St. Stephen’s Basilica. Laszlo handles the check-in process, and soon Rosie and I are ensconced, sans her suitcase, in a tastefully appointed room. Winnie is next door in a single, and the men have two rooms across the hall. From our window I can see the plaza and the magnificent basilica with its high dome and two spires. I want to pinch myself. It amazes me that people live with this beauty surrounding them every day.
Rosie flings herself onto one of the queen beds with a groan of dismay. “My suitcase! I have no clothes, no makeup, nothing,” she exclaims. “What am I going to do?”
Just then the room phone rings. Rosie sits up and answers it.
“Yes, this is Rosalie Jasper.” She listens for a moment. “Really? Are you sure? Well, thank you, I’ll be right down.” She hangs up the phone.
“They found your suitcase?”
Rosie shakes her head. “No, but the next best thing. That was Laszlo. Apparently Lars contacted him and had him arrange for a personal assistant to take me shopping to replace some of the things I lost. She’s waiting downstairs. Isn’t that the sweetest?”
“How does Lars even know about your suitcase?” I ask, starting to unpack my backpack. “You found out it was gone less than an hour ago.”
Rosie blushes a little. “I texted him on the way from the airport,” she confides. “I was so distraught. I don’t even have a second pair of panties.”
“Well, I sure hope you didn’t tell him that,” I mutter, wondering for a moment if there is more going on between them than I realized. Have they been texting often? Does Rosie know Lars’ secret yet?
“Laszlo says we’ll be back in time for dinner,” Rosie says breezily, grabbing her purse and slipping on her shoes, the only belongings she has left now. “See you at the restaurant. When we meet again, I will be a brand-new woman.”
Chapter 28
That evening we dine with Laszlo at a tiny restaurant a few streets away from the hotel. Rosie arrives wearing a new outfit she found at Zara—a daring jumpsuit in black and gold paisley that looks like a pair of very expensive, avant-garde drapes.
“We didn’t have time to do much shopping, but at least I got a toothbrush and some mascara and a pair of pajamas,” she tells me. “Oh, I do so hope they find my suitcase.”
We squeeze around two cozy tables in the traditional Hungarian restaurant, and Laszlo orders the three-course fixed menu for all of us. The food is hearty and good—goulash soup, crispy duck legs with purple cabbage, and warm apple strudel for dessert.
As we polish off the last of the strudel, Laszlo outlines the plan for the next day. He will pick us up at eight o’clock from the hotel and drive us to the makeshift refugee camp. He sets down his fork and gazes around the table. “The border where we will go tomorrow is not like here. Budapest is very nice, very beautiful. The place you will stay, the camp where you will volunteer, everything is more difficult. Be ready for that.” With this caution, he gestures for the bill.
After Laszlo leaves us, Milo, Rosie, and Jake opt to visit the rooftop bar of a nearby hotel for a nightcap.
“Anybody else want to come along?” Milo asks.
“Not tonight,” Abel says, declining politely. “I think I must turn in.”
Winnie yawns. “I’ll pass.” They head back to the hotel.
Kai glances at me. “Want to see the city?” he asks, and I accept immediately. There’s something so genteel about Budapest, so stately and civilized. I can’t wait to see more.
After admiring the basilica, we meander through the cobblestone streets and squares. All the shops are closed at this hour, but the cafés are open, spilling light and music onto the sidewalks. People linger at tables under café awnings, enjoying a cappuccino or a digestif. I am entranced by the soft music, the clink of wine glasses, the gentle burble of conversation. Hungarian sounds so different from Hindi, the words more bulbous and round. Hindi strikes me as a lilting, spiky language, beautiful but sharp.
We reach the Danube River and follow a walking path south. Lights rim the banks of the river like a luminous pearl necklace. Riverboats bob in the water below us, and small clusters of people dot the grassy riverbank, laughing and talking and drinking wine. The air is soft and smells of dusty paving stones and budding trees with a dank undercurrent of muddy river water.
We pause to admire the proud and imposing palace and the dreamy, fairy-tale spires of Fisherman’s Bastion rising high on the other side of the Danube. As Kai points out a few notable architectural features, I suddenly catch a snippet of English conversation from a couple sitting a few yards away. They are facing the river, side by side on the grassy bank. Their voices sound familiar. With a jolt of recognition, I see it’s Winnie and Abel.
Winnie has a bottle of beer in one hand and is gesturing with the other, animatedly telling a story. She takes a drink and sets the beer down on the grass, then leans back, her dreadlocks cascading down her back. She looks so at ease. I’ve never seen her like this. I gawk for a moment, feeling voyeuristic but captivated. Abel says something too low for me to catch, and Winnie laughs—not the harsh derisive laughter I’ve heard before from her, but a genuine laugh of amusement. The sound is rich and husky. It takes me completely by surprise.
I stare at the two of them, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. Winnie and Abel? I can’t understand it. But it is obvious that they are enjoying each other’s company. I wonder what in the world is actually happening between them and how long this has been going on.
“Want to keep walking?” Kai asks. He doesn’t seem to notice them, and I don’t point them out. If they wanted us to know about whatever this is, they wouldn’t have sneaked away together. I give them one last curious glance before turning to follow Kai back up the river.
A moment later all thoughts of Winnie and Abel are driven from my mind as Kai takes my hand, lacing his fingers through my own. It seems like the most natural thing in the world, and at the same time I can’t breathe, can’t think.
He’s relaying some architectural fact about the palace having been destroyed six times in Hungary’s long history of conflict and conquest, but I can’t concentrate on his words. All my attention is on our joined hands. His fingers are strong and warm, entwined with mine. My heart is beating very fast. Our hands fit together, yet holding his hand feels so alien to me. This is not Ethan’s hand; this is not Ethan.
We walk for a few minutes holding hands, but then I panic. What am I doing? I like Kai, so very much, but this is not the time or the place for a new romance to bloom. I be
nd down and make a pretext of adjusting the laces on my Converse sneakers. When I rise, I move away from him slightly, putting a little distance between us. I don’t take his hand and he doesn’t initiate again.
“I think I might need to turn in,” I say. I’m starting to feel the effects of the long travel day and jet lag.
“Yeah, we should get some sleep.”
Kai turns around and starts back the way we came, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look at me, and I wonder if he feels rebuffed, or if he regrets holding my hand. Oh, it’s all a muddle.
Wordlessly we retrace our steps. Already my mind is far away, focused on what tomorrow may bring, but walking beside Kai, keeping pace with his long, easy strides, I can still feel the warmth of his fingers laced through mine.
* * *
Back at the hotel, I see that I missed a call from Henry. Exhausted but worried that it might be about Nana Alice, I return his call while Rosie is in the shower.
Henry answers, shouting to be heard above the ruckus in the background. It sounds like the shrill siren of a toy fire engine punctuated by the high, tinny jangle of a kid’s piano being pounded indiscriminately.
“Hey, tiger,” Henry yells. “How’s it going? Where are you?”
“Budapest,” I say, pitching my voice loudly to be heard over the background noise. “What’s up?”
“Just checking on you. Mom and Dad asked me to make sure you got to Hungary okay.”
Not about Nana Alice, then. Relieved, I flop back on one of the beds, relishing the sensation of being horizontal after so many hours of travel.
“I’m okay. We just got here this afternoon.” I kick off my shoes and stretch my toes. “Did Mom and Dad make it to Moldova okay?” I have to almost yell into the phone. One of the twins has begun singing the ABC song in a high monotone while also banging cymbals together.
“Yeah, they called yesterday. They got there safely, but they don’t have good internet. They sounded fine, though. Better than fine. They sound great.” Henry is using a pitch of voice generally reserved for TV reporters standing in the midst of gale-force winds. “Holy smokes, Oliver,” he snaps finally. “Can you not play all the instruments at the same time? Choose one.”
“Smokes!” Oliver shouts, the piano louder.
“I want to personally disembowel whoever invented those plastic toy pianos,” Henry says. “They’re a hand tool of the devil.”
I laugh. The noise abates somewhat as Oliver apparently chooses just the cymbals.
“Hey, who’d Mom and Dad get to run the farm while they’re gone?” I ask, suddenly remembering that I don’t actually know. In the whirl of the last few days in India and then our travel to Hungary, I haven’t kept up with my parents.
“Us,” Henry says. “We’re actually at the farm right now. We got here yesterday.”
“What? You’re at West Wind?” I’m astonished. Henry flew the coop as soon as he could. He always seemed to feel about the farm the way I do, glad we grew up there and glad he left.
“Yeah, Christine and I just needed a break from the city for a while. I want the kids to hike a real hill, play on the beach.” He exhales loudly. “Last week I took the boys to the park, and Auden kept falling down on this little incline. I realized he’s never climbed a hill. He’s grown up with flat pavement and manicured backyards all his life. It was completely ridiculous. And sad.” Henry interrupts himself to confiscate both the piano and the cymbals. “Here, look, Auden, Oliver. String cheese!”
Silence descends on the other end of the phone. Henry comes back on with a groan of relief. “I think the makers of string cheese should get a Nobel Prize. The boys would sell their souls for that stuff.”
“Where are Christine and Maddie?” I ask, making myself get up and find my pajamas.
“They’re running the shop right now while I ride herd on the boys. So far Maddie loves the farm. She says it smells like Grandma Meg.”
“Wow. How’s it feel to be back home?” I’m still trying to visualize them at the farm. My parents have visited Henry and Christine in Chicago every year since the kids were born, but I don’t think the kids have ever been to Sequim. I shimmy out of my travel clothes and slide a soft cotton T-shirt over my head.
“Weird, good. Like time stopped here. It feels exactly the same.” Henry sighs. “I’m glad we’re here. We needed some time away. Christine’s up for a major promotion at work. It’ll be longer hours, more travel.” He sounds weary. “We wanted to really talk about it, make sure it’s the best decision for us.”
“Sounds complicated.” I sense a thread of discontent in his words. Henry has never loved Chicago, but Christine’s work is there. I wonder what he would change if he could choose a different sort of life.
“Yeah, it always is,” he says, then sharply, “Auden, stop stuffing Cheerios up your nose. Not cool, dude. Not cool.” He comes back on, sounding resigned. “Sorry, got to go. I have to find the tweezers.”
“Second shelf of the medicine cabinet, next to the Tylenol,” I say automatically, picturing the tweezers in the place they’ve occupied for as long as I can remember. “Have fun playing farmer.”
I pull on a pair of blue-striped cotton boxer shorts and shake out my curls. I am so ready for a solid night of sleep.
“Sure thing. Be careful out there,” Henry admonishes. “We’re watching the news. We’re proud of you, sis.”
Chapter 29
At 7:50 the next morning there’s a sharp knock at our hotel room door. I’m already dressed, my backpack at my feet, ready to go. Rosie is standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pinning up her hair. She is wearing the same drapery-esque Zara jumpsuit from the night before, looking a little like a seventies lounge singer who’s had a hard night. Her meager belongings are gathered in a plastic shopping bag on the bathroom counter.
When I open the door, a porter is standing in the hall. He rolls a huge shiny silver suitcase into the room. “For Miss Rosalie Jasper from Mr. Lars Lindquist,” he says with a little bow.
“What’s this? For me?” Astonished, Rosie comes out of the bathroom and accepts the suitcase while I fish around in my wallet for some forint coins to tip the porter.
When I close the door, Rosie is already on the bed, unzipping the suitcase. It is stuffed with bags from Nordstrom. She shakes out a Clinique makeup bag brimming with mascaras, blushes, and lipsticks in a rainbow of pinks and reds. She unpacks a sleek leather jacket, blouses, several pairs of jeans, and a stack of sundresses. “Citizens of Humanity,” she announces approvingly, holding up a pair of jeans. Everything appears to be in her size and in colors that complement her skin tone.
“Lars sent you all this?” I ask, incredulous. Just how did Lars know her size and colors? And how in the world did he get it here overnight?
“Isn’t he a dear?” she says with a dreamy sigh. “Look, these are Gucci.” She shows me a pair of watermelon-colored suede flats with fringe. “I should lose my suitcase more often. These things are far nicer than the clothes I had.”
“Although one could argue that watermelon suede flats might not be the ideal footwear for a refugee camp,” I observe dryly. It looks like a suitcase of swanky items chosen by someone who thinks that cocktail hour is a daily part of life.
“True.” Rosie frowns and holds up a Topshop dress in a succulent plum shade. “But bless his heart for thinking of me.”
She rifles through the rest of the suitcase, pulling items out to admire. A silver leather clutch. A pair of Balenciaga cat-eye sunglasses in a tortoiseshell print. He must have spent thousands stocking this suitcase. What does it mean, that he has done this for Rosie?
Looking at the swath of expensive items on the bed, I feel a twinge of unease about the status of their relationship. I don’t want Rosie to get hurt, thinking Lars can offer her everything she dreams of when in fact his condition would almost certainly make that impossible. I bite my lip, torn over whether to intervene, while Rosie happily organizes the contents of the
suitcase into two piles.
“These I will admire in private, and these I will wear,” she explains. The wearable pile is substantially smaller than the admiration pile. Two dresses, three tops, and two pairs of jeans. The leather jacket and sunglasses. A mascara and bright red lipstick. A pair of leather ankle boots, the watermelon suede flats, and a pair of flowered leather mules. She changes out of the jumpsuit and dons the dark plum dress and ankle boots, then stops to text Lars a thank-you before we head down to the lobby to meet the others.
“Rosie,” I say, ready to deliver a warning.
“Yes?” Rosie looks up. She looks so happy, so delighted to be cared for that I can’t complete the sentence. Let them figure it out between them. Rosie is clever and astute and does not suffer fools lightly. And Lars seems like a good man. Perhaps he could change, or they could work it out somehow. I shouldn’t stick my nose into whatever is or is not going on between them. Besides, how serious can it be when they are a continent and an ocean apart?
“How do I look?” Rosie poses in front of me, then snaps a selfie, no doubt to send to Lars.
“Like you’re definitely going to win an award for best-dressed volunteer at the refugee camp,” I say, hoisting my backpack onto my shoulders and grabbing my satchel. It’s a few minutes after eight. Laszlo and the team will be waiting for us in the lobby. “Now come on, we don’t want to be late.”
* * *
“Mia, if we have an accident, I will be crushed to death by cucumbers,” Rosie whispers fifteen minutes later, eyeing several crates stacked beside her seat.
“What a way to go,” I murmur. “I’ll be buried under bread rolls.”
Crammed into the white passenger van, we are headed west toward the Serbian border. Every available square inch of the van is piled high with food and supplies for the refugee camp, compliments of Lars Lindquist’s generosity. We are wedged in among dozens of liters of bottled water, crates of apples and oranges, bags of white rolls, and packages of diapers, among other things.
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