The Collected Stories of Deborah Eisenberg

by Deborah Eisenberg

  Márta looked up from her book, raising her eyebrows in pleasant inquiry. “István?” she said.

  Judit snorted.

  Poor Judit. All those girls, and never Judit. And it never would be Judit.

  But despite Judit’s pronouncement, István did call. He called the very next day. Judit handed the phone silently over to Márta and left the room with a look of gratified persecution.

  “Did you get home all right last night?” István said. His voice was silvery with sarcasm.

  “Yes, thank you,” Márta said. “I was accompanied.”

  “I am aware of that,” István said.

  “I felt ill,” Márta said. “When I got home I had to lie down.”

  In the silence she felt a little giddy—István was supposed to have been apologizing by now. “I didn’t like to interrupt you,” she said. “You were having such a good time.”

  “I know what this is about,” he said. “This is about nothing. I don’t even know that girl. I only wanted her to meet you—that’s why I was talking to her.”

  “What girl?” Márta said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” István said. “She’s only just arrived. You would be able to help her so much if you would only think of someone besides yourself for a change.”

  “How can you even—” Márta began.

  “If only you would dare to be a little kind to someone. A little friendly. Eva has no job yet, she has no friends here—”

  Márta stared at the phone in incredulity. What about her? She had arrived alone and almost penniless only eight months before. The only reason she had survived was that she had taken the trouble to plan, painstakingly, from Budapest, so that she would not have to exploit other women’s escorts at parties. And for all her trouble, what did she have? What she had was, yes—a jealous flatmate, a shiftless roué of a lover, and a dull job in the store of a Hungarian goldsmith. Hardly enough to be tossed out in handfuls to passing girls. She hung up loudly and waited, but the phone was silent.

  No matter, she thought, her eyes stinging.

  But the days went by and István still didn’t call. So then, when Carl did, relief transformed her terror into a tremulous elation.

  Carl took Márta to dinner in a pretty French restaurant. The china was thin, milkily luminous in the candlelight, gold-rimmed. On their table were a few flowers so exquisite they seemed about to perish with a little cry. And all around them from the other tables was a soothing rustle, like that of foliage, or money.

  Outside, too, was the London Márta had come to but had never before entered. The great green floating parks, the pantherlike cars, the lofty ivory-colored crescents and terraces, the darkly shining shop windows, behind which salesgirls who looked like whippets showed one jewel-like dress, then another, to customers with excellent shoes and handbags.

  Márta had begun to think that London might close her inescapably into the brittle émigré life she dreaded, some contemporary version of the lives of relatives she’d heard about in Paris and New York, great-aunts and distant elderly cousins whose apartments were like satellites crammed with dried old bits of uprooted finery. They drank streams of tarry coffee in tiny cups, they ate those few local pastries to which they could resign themselves, as they waited to be orbited back to prewar Budapest.

  But, no—Deliverance was everywhere. Márta closed her eyes in thanks, then directed at Carl a smile of gratitude so forceful it almost knocked over a passing waiter.

  The smile Carl returned was somewhat puzzled. Indeed, he seemed not to be saying anything much of interest. His firm, he was telling Márta, manufactured machine tools. It was based in Stuttgart but exported goods all over Europe, the United States, and Canada. He would prefer to be on the theoretical rather than the applied end of things, but—he shrugged—this was not bad for now. He enjoyed the irregular schedule, the travel, the flexibility…He picked up the saltcellar and examined it, frowning.

  “And how is it that you’re working for a German company?” Márta asked.

  “Why not?” He glanced at her. “After all, I am German…Of course it’s rather…That is, technically I did grow up there”—he hesitated—“as I think I was saying to you the other evening…”

  The other evening! At the party? At her flat? She’d had so much on her mind! “My father and stepmother…” Carl coughed. “But I spent all that time here, of course—school, university. Those holidays at Andrew’s…Actually, people do tend to take me for English.”

  “How wonderful it must be,” Márta said, throwing a hasty cover over her confusion, “to be as much at home one place as the other.”

  Carl laughed sadly. “‘As much at home.’ Indeed…”

  “But to travel, as well,” she added encouragingly. Perhaps he didn’t appreciate his own good fortune; she herself would love to travel, to be able to travel, to be able just to delve into this new, this real, London. Not to have to worry, always, about money.

  “Yes,” Carl was saying. “It’s good, isn’t it, traveling. Sometimes you get a feeling that things could change. Or open up. You thought it was an endless dark tunnel, but then…” He picked up the saltcellar again.

  “But yes,” Márta said. “Oh, I would like so much to see things the way you have seen them. Places that you can see so easily. France, Italy—Perhaps even this summer I will take a little time from my job…”

  “Yes?” Carl said quietly.

  A couple brushed by on their way to a table, glancing at Márta and Carl with interest, admiration. Márta smiled at Carl, and his eyes, as he smiled back, were moist. Oh, how could she have expended so much longing on someone like István, who had such a low opinion of her?

  In the morning the London she opened her eyes onto was Carl’s—the blue sky, the serene green-and-ivory city. But all that week Carl didn’t call. That week and the next and the next. What on earth could have happened? Dinner had seemed so…special. A special, private atmosphere had embraced them. But perhaps, she thought, it embraced Carl and everyone—the person from whom he bought his toothpaste, the parking-lot attendant…Still, when he’d put her in a taxi to go home and kissed her caressingly on the cheek, she had the sensation of dissolving beautifully, like some sugary confection.

  Perhaps he was working—he could have been called away unexpectedly.

  Or perhaps he’d spent the evening with her out of pity. For the hideous foreigner.

  The mirror told her one story, then another, while from one day to the next the lovely façade of Carl’s London wore slowly away. Behind it, the dirty brick industrial city squatted, waiting to entrap Márta.

  “By the way,” Judit said one evening. “I happened to see István today.”

  “Yes?” Márta said, turning away to steady herself.

  “He was with that girl from the party,” Judit said. “They were talking together so seriously.”

  At work, Márta flirted recklessly with the men who came in to buy necklaces or rings for women. The men were sickeningly receptive. She smiled as she put their jewels into boxes, and amused herself by seeing them stuffed into hateful pink hunting coats, sailing off big nervous horses, and hurtling clumsily through the air.

  At the end of the third week Carl did call. And Márta was astonished to find, at that moment, that she wasn’t angry. On the contrary, she experienced, as she held the phone, a bridal gravity, as though the entire period of Carl’s silence had been a preparation of some kind.

  When Carl came to pick her up, he, too, was subdued, almost quizzical. He stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, looking at her. New calm began to emanate from her like light. Ah, yes. Clearly something had altered and intensified between them since they’d seen one another.

  That evening’s restaurant was sleek and Italian. Márta sipped her wine with contentment, beautiful again, safe again in London. Carl leaned back languidly while she talked; he seemed to take in what she was saying through his eyes, rather than his ears. Freed by his attention, she talked easily
. Her life seemed to her to be pleasurable, and of interest. “Will you stop back for a drink?” she asked, and blushed.

  Judit was in the sitting room when they came in. As Carl took her hand Judit’s sullen expression transmuted into one of canine grief. “Please excuse me,” she said, standing. “I must sleep.”

  Carl had gone to the window, where he stood looking out.

  “Yes,” he said after Judit’s door closed behind her. “Well.” He glanced delicately in the direction of Judit’s room. “Am I staying?” he asked.

  He was sculptural, fastidious, ritualistic, consecratory. His silky hair slid through Márta’s fingers. Oh, those blind combustions with István! Márta cried out briefly in regret and then forgot István altogether. In the morning when she woke, Carl’s eyes were already open. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head. “Birds,” he observed, and ran his thumb lightly along her collarbone. She listened: Yes, birds! How marvelous.

  She lay wrapped in the sheet, watching as Carl dressed. Already he seemed far away. “My sister will be arriving on Thursday,” he said, adjusting his shirt. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen her. Would you come meet her? I’d like that so much.”

  Carl’s sister. Márta saw her perfectly. A tall girl in a fluid dress, pale blond and lovely. She and Carl strolled together, reunited, through sun-splashed green. A flock of pigeons lofted before them. Márta shivered—a little familiar chill of exclusion. “How splendid,” she said. “I long to meet your sister.”

  A few evenings later Márta found her way to the address Carl had given her on the phone. It was a large white house that faced a silent square. Not a breath of air disturbed the shrubbery. Behind the door, maple and silver glimmered. The walls were covered with something dark and precious. Carl led Márta up a flight of stairs and into the recesses of the house, where there was a smallish kitchen. A tall girl with long, lion-colored hair turned to Márta, resting a red nail against her mouth.

  Márta stepped forward as though magnetized, her legs trembling slightly. She felt terribly unhappy. “You’re very pretty,” she was dismayed to hear herself saying reproachfully.

  The girl swept her hair back as though it were a burden. “You are, too,” she said in a swooping English drawl. Her eyes narrowed and gleamed as she smiled. “Very pretty…”

  “Márta,” Carl said, “Jane. And this is my sister, Dee Dee.” Márta swiveled in the direction Carl indicated: a girl of indeterminate age—fourteen or fifteen possibly, Márta guessed—sat at the table, scowling through a fringe of preposterously black hair. Márta started to speak, and stopped. No one could say this girl was pretty.

  “The poor child’s been sleeping,” Jane said. “She just got in this morning, and she’s disorientated.”

  “I’m tired,” Dee Dee corrected inattentively. “Sort of. Not every minute.” The flat American assertions were like a series of little shoves. “Where are you from?” she said to Márta. “You have an accent.”

  “An accent,” Márta said faintly. How could this girl be Carl’s sister? “Really.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Dee Dee said. “I get it. Well, I’m from Long Island.”

  “‘Long Island.’” Márta inclined her head. whatever that might be.

  “Would you like some tea?” Carl asked.

  “No,” Dee Dee said. “Yes. But I want some food.”

  “Thank you,” Márta said. Where was she? She sat down across from Dee Dee and rubbed her forehead.

  Jane reached into the refrigerator and held out at arm’s length a white cardboard carton. “Disgusting,” she said, and tossed it into the garbage. “Poor pet. Oh, why is there never anything to eat around here?”

  “I’m starving,” Dee Dee said. She sighed noisily and put her head down on the table in an apparent access of self-consciousness.

  “Andrew will be here soon,” Carl said. He spoke gently. “And then we’ll go.”

  “Someplace fun, I hope,” Jane said. “I’m going up to change.”

  “Jane—?” Dee Dee said.

  “Yes, sweet,” Jane said vaguely. “I’ll be down soon.”

  Out the window a rain began to fall, as fine as dust. In the silence, Dee Dee slurped her tea.

  “Hello,” a man said from the doorway of the kitchen. He directed an odd little smile at Carl. “Hello, love,” he said to Dee Dee. His handsomeness was like a thrown gauntlet. “You’ve had some sleep, I trust.”

  “Uh huh,” Dee Dee said. She smiled, then frowned. Her glance swept the sink, the man’s face, the ceiling. She opened her mouth and pretended to yawn.

  “Andrew,” Carl said. “I’d like you to meet Márta.”

  “Ah, yes.” Andrew turned to Márta as though he hadn’t seen her before. “So very pleased to meet you.” Irony, conspicuously absent from his greeting to Dee Dee, leaked now into his smile.

  “Hello,” Márta said. They looked at one another for a minute before Andrew turned away. “Good,” he said. “Well, is everybody ready? Where’s Jane? Jane the drain?”

  The restaurant was a solid block of noise, around which chrome and glass flashed harshly. At the bar, women pulsating with jewelry and men in suits as voluptuous and dark as storm clouds snagged one another on heated, gloating, scornful glances. Several turned to look, Márta noted by means of the mirror, as she passed by. No, to look, more likely, at Jane—Jane in her bare green reptilian dress. Márta smoothed down her little skirt and sniffed.

  At the table Andrew handed Dee Dee the wine list. “Preferences?” he said.

  Dee Dee looked at him dubiously.

  “I forgot,” he said. “Americans only drink champagne. Champagne it is, then.”

  How long was it exactly, Márta wondered as she sipped at her champagne, since Carl had seen this sister of his? She looked at the two of them. There was no resemblance. Well, actually, though, there was the faintest resemblance—subterranean, impossible to pinpoint. And at the moment, in fact, Carl looked just Dee Dee’s age. No, younger than Dee Dee. Lost. His elegance had reduced into the elegance of a privileged and neglected child. “Are you here on holiday?” Márta leaned over to shout at Dee Dee.

  “Holiday?” Dee Dee shouted back. “Oh, vacation. Well, that’s one way to look at it, I suppose. I mean, I don’t have to be back at school until September, but basically Mother’s just dumped me on Carl.” Carl raised a languid hand in demurral, but Dee Dee was in full swing. “She wants to romp around with her new boyfriend in private. Actually, she just got furious because I pointed out a few facts. Like the fact that she’s old enough to be Kevin’s—well, I don’t know how old he is exactly, but probably about a quarter of her age. And the fact that she kicked my father out of the house, but I mean who actually paid for it, if you see what I mean. Not that my father’s the most—but on the other hand, she married him, I didn’t. And he does have his good points. Like, for example, he’s not a gigolo.”

  Carl was gazing dreamily toward the larval roiling at the bar. “Strange,” he said. “I always think of her as very young. Of course, I can’t picture her with any precision—to me she’s just a sort of princess with the face smudged out.”

  “You don’t—” Márta began, not loudly enough. Talking here was like pitching something over a fence. “You don’t remember your mother?”

  “Well, she wasn’t my mother for very long,” Carl said absently.

  “Yeah, but that’s exactly what she looks like anyhow,” Dee Dee said. “A princess with the face smudged out. Nightmare on Elm Street Part Seventy. When she and her friends are sitting around there are so many face lifts that if someone tells a joke there’s this tearing sound. Her hair still looks exactly like yours, Carl. Isn’t that amazing, har har? And you should see the house. Thank God I’ve only got one more year before college. Brass everywhere. Little marble stuff. Chandeliers. It looks like a whorehouse.”

  The waiter loomed over them threateningly. “Partridge for me,” Jane said.

  “Yes, yes,” Márta said hur
riedly. “For me, too.” If Jane were just to reach out and swat her, Márta thought as Carl and Andrew conferred over Dee Dee’s order, she would be sent sprawling.

  A silence rocked unsteadily in the wake of the departing waiter. Everyone frowned, except Dee Dee, who smiled. Smirked, Márta thought. And why not? She had succeeded in stupefying all of them.

  Americans seemed to feel the need to talk, Márta had observed before. And yet theirs was a country into which the concept of conversation seemed never to have penetrated. Dee Dee! So charmless, so graceless, yet she evidently considered it perfectly appropriate to crawl out to the center of the stage and wave her rattle, as though she were of special interest simply by virtue of her parents’ shortcomings; astounding to think that she actually must be near seventeen! She spoke of the ordinary confusion of her private life with respect, even awe, as though she were describing the play of monumental cosmic forces. But obviously life was grotesque—there was no personal credit to be extracted from that, Márta thought; if life progressed in a natural fashion she herself would be alone somewhere now with Carl.

  The waiter refilled Dee Dee’s glass for the third—Márta counted—time. Madman. Soon he would be hauled off in chains, to prison, where he belonged.

  Jane was delicately picking her partridge to pieces with her fingers, working away at the little bones with her teeth. On Márta’s own plate a carcass lay horrifyingly mauled. Besides, so what if Dee Dee’s mother had had a little tuck here or there—obviously she could afford it! Did Dee Dee consider herself entitled to some shrunken old saint in a babushka? Surely no one was supposed to believe Dee Dee’s hair had come into the world black like a telephone.

  The swelling foreignness of the evening, the noise—Márta was shrinking into a darkness from which she could only peer out at the giant shining creatures who sat so distantly around the table. The huge seesaw sounds they made could not be folded into her tiny ears. She saw Andrew lean over to Jane and say something. She saw Dee Dee watch with adoring round-eyed humility as Andrew and Jane looked at each other and laughed. Far away next to her, Carl nodded pleasantly. Why didn’t he help her?