I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready?” It was Antoine. “She’s agree to meet you.”
“Today?” I asked.
“Today. Now.”
I followed Antoine through the narrow streets of Buda, wondering how he remembered his way among the twists and turns. If he suddenly disappears, I thought, I’ll never find my way back to the hotel.
Finally, we turned into the courtyard of an apartment building, with a dry fountain at its center. I suppose the courtyard had originally been for carriages, so they could drive around the fountain and drop off their passengers. Now the bottom of the fountain was covered with dead leaves. We walked up to a wooden door, twice as tall as Antoine. “This used to belong to the Von Graffs,” he said. “They would stay here when they came to Budapest.” He opened the door, and we walked into a hallway that smelled like stale bread.
I followed him up the central staircase. Our footsteps echoed from the walls. They were painted ocher, but the paint was peeling and marked with water stains. At every landing, we passed closed doors. On one landing I smelled tobacco smoke, and I thought of your pipe, János.
“Who lives here?” I asked.
“Old people, who come out only to buy bread and vodka. Sometimes I hear the grandmothers, muttering to their cats. One more, now.”
When we reached the fifth floor, Antoine pulled out a key. Here there was only one door. He unlocked it, and I entered the apartment of Támora Von Graff.
It was dim, the light from outside filtering through lace curtains too long for the windows. Their bottoms pooled on the floor. Wallpaper, gray with soot, had peeled from the walls, leaving bare patches of plaster. But the ceiling was still covered with molding, and although the room was mostly bare, the furniture would have made you choke on the stem of your pipe. I saw a pair of French chairs you could have sold for a hundred American dollars. But as I said, there wasn’t much, and the upholstery was frayed and ragged. From the ceiling hung a chandelier, without lightbulbs. On the far side of the room was a double door, with panes of frosted glass.
“Támora!” said Antoine. “Come meet your visitor.”
One of the glass doors opened, and she walked in. I had been right, she was Medusa, although of course considerably older. Her hair was gray, and twisted up around her head in a sort of braid. But her face was not hard or cold. She was smiling and holding out a hand with a paintbrush in it. She looked down at the paintbrush and laughed.
“Forgive me, Mr. Pál.” Her voice was low, and reminded me of Mother’s voice, telling me stories when I couldn’t sleep. “You see I’ve been working. Would you like to see my latest painting?”
“Please call me István,” I said, wondering why I sounded so hoarse. Anna had been pretty enough, and Támora Von Graff was not pretty at all. She had a thin, curved nose that looked like the beak of a hawk, and pale lips. But her eyes. You will laugh at me, János. I tell you, they were Medusa’s eyes. They knew everything.
Antoine put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, yes,” I said, with a cough in my throat. “I would, very much.”
“Come, then.” Taking my arm, she led me through the glass door and into her studio. This room looked like the other, with the same dim light, the same peeling wallpaper, but the only pieces of furniture were a table covered with paints and sheets of paper, and a long divan. By the windows stood an easel.
She led me to the painting resting on it. “I finished it this morning,” she said. “What do you think?”
I could not answer. Although it still shone with fresh paint, it was even more magnificent than her Medusa. Beneath a tree lay a man and a woman, completely naked except where her dark hair covered them both. The ground was bare, the branches of the tree were bare, and a gray sky stretched above everything. The woman’s hair covered her face as well, except for her closed eyelids. But the man’s face was turned to the viewer, and his eyes were open, wide open. His mouth was open also, perhaps in astonishment or because he wanted to cry out, and on his face was a look of absolute despair, as though he had just seen death.
“Do you like it?” she asked. “It’s based on a poem by the Englishman John Keats. Oh what can ail thee, knight at arms, alone and palely loitering?” She smiled at me, and her fingers tightened on my arm. “That is the question I attempted to answer. And Sergei was kind enough to pose for the knight.”
I turned around. Sergei must have entered the room while I was looking at the painting. He was not as old as Antoine, but he looked older than the knight in the painting. He put his hands in his pockets and scowled at me.
“You must forgive Sergei,” said Támora. “He’s jealous that I have such a young and fascinating visitor. But soon we will all get along, like a family.” She pulled me toward the table. “István, let me offer you a glass of wine.”
On the table, among the paints and brushes, was a decanter of wine—and the sketches for my Leda.
I stood and stared, not knowing what to say.
“Do you like these sketches?” she asked. “Sergei bought them on a recent trip to Erdélyország. The artist has an astonishing talent.”
“But they’re mine,” I said. “I drew them.” Why had Anna sold them? She must have been angry with me, when I left without telling her. “Look.” I picked up a piece of charcoal on the table, turned one of the sketches over, and drew a swan on the back. It was identical to the swan on the front. I added water, and a overhanging tree like the one in Támora’s painting.
She took the sketch and held it up in the dim light. “Remarkable! We were destined to meet, István. I had lost faith in the younger generation of artists. They had seemed to me lacking in technical skill, and passionless. But you! You must let me see the painting created from these sketches.”
Then, while Antoine sat on the edge of the table, refilling our wine glasses, I told her about my Leda. I don’t know if it was the wine or her sympathy, but I’m ashamed to admit that by the end of my story I was crying, with a case of the hiccups. The room was silent, and I realized that both Sergei and Antoine had left. Támora and I were alone.
She led me to the divan, sat beside me, and put her arms around me. I leaned my head on her shoulder. It was like putting my head on Mother’s shoulder, late at night. I felt as though I could stay there forever and be perfectly content.
“How difficult it must have been for you, István,” she whispered. “But all that is over now. You must stay in Budapest, with us. Now that we’ve found you, we never want to let you go.” I felt her lips on my forehead, and her hair tickled my ear.
“János would miss me,” I whispered. Her perfume reminded me of the incense in old churches.
“Don’t you think János would want you to do what is best for your art?” She stroked my cheek. “It must have been difficult for him, getting you into art school.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. Because of the wine, or perhaps her perfume, I was getting sleepy.
“Don’t you know about your father, István?”
“He sold furniture in a town called Szent Imre.” I added, as an afterthought, “Sometimes we would go fishing on the weekends.”
“Not just furniture, István. Your father sold paintings. Paintings came into Erdélyország, from Italy and France. And paintings by Erdélyi artists went out of the country. But sometimes, behind those paintings, there were other paintings, by artists the Party did not approve of. Sometimes letters, about artistic methods and ideas. Did you believe your father died accidentally?”
János, is it true? Why didn’t you tell me? That painting I remembered in Father’s office, of the towers without doors. Why did you tell me I had imagined it? I understand now why you discouraged me from going to art school. It must have reminded you of Father’s death, when I applied. Forgive me for being so ungrateful, for running away. But you should have told me. That was why you had to sell Mother’s bureau, wasn’t it? To pay the Director. He wouldn’t have wanted to admit the son of a traitor.
You m
ust understand why I have to stay in Budapest. I want to be with Támora, and learn everything she has to teach me. She seemed to sit for hours with her arms around me, describing how it would be, living and working with her, and Antoine—and Sergei. We would drink wine in cafés, and paint for days at a time, and live for art. She leaned down to kiss me on the cheek, like a mother, and I turned my head so she would have to kiss me on the lips. I had no intention of being her child.
But just then Sergei came into the room. “Isn’t it late for the boy to be out?” János, he acts as though Támora belongs to him, but I’ll show him whom she really prefers.
Támora said, “Sergei is right. Tonight you should return to the hotel. Tomorrow Antoine can help you carry your things here.”
I would have liked Antoine to walk me to the hotel, but it was Sergei who showed me the way back. The light was fading, and the street lamps were coming on beside the Danube. I watched their reflections in the water. Sergei was silent, walking with his hands in his pockets. Once, he stopped beneath a street lamp, looked toward the river, and said, “I was an artist, in Leningrad. Sergei Vasilev. Have you heard of me, boy?”
“No,” I said. If I had heard of him, I would still have said no.
“They destroyed my paintings. I had to draw comic books. Red-nosed Ruski, the Circus Clown. That was me.” From his pocket, he took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and tossed the match into the river. “She doesn’t like smoke. Says it gets into the curtains. Want one? They’re Gauloises.”
I shook my head and said, “You should be glad, then. To be here, with her. Painting together.”
He laughed and started walking again. The tip of his cigarette glowed in the darkness, like a miniature street lamp. “Boy, I haven’t painted for years. And neither has your friend Antoine.”
I shook my head again, but he was ahead and couldn’t see me. Certainly an artist who drew comic books could lose his desire to paint. But an artist like Antoine, who had painted the Minotaur. An artist like that never stops painting. I followed him back through the narrow streets, to my hotel.
So here I am, sitting at this table, with an empty coffee cup beside my elbow. Without coffee, I don’t think I could have finished this letter. János, if you’ll forgive me for running away, I’ll forgive you for not telling me about Father. Brothers should forgive each other, and be friends. Out of my window, I can see the moon over the rooftops. It is a crescent, as though the night itself were smiling at me. I think—I put down my pen for a moment, not knowing how to write this. I think I’m in love. Am I in love with Támora, or Antoine, or the painting on the easel? Perhaps I’m in love with all three of them—certainly not with Sergei! I’m going to lie in the moonlight, imagining the feel of her lips on mine. Goodnight, my dear János.
The candle flame, which had been burning steadily, flickered for a moment, and János felt a chill on the back of his neck. He looked up, but the shop was dark and silent. He picked up the photograph of the two boys on the riverbank and rubbed his thumb over it, as though to wipe away an inadvertent mark. Then he put the photographs back in the tobacco box and pushed the box into its corner of the drawer, next to a pile of receipts. He looked down again at the paper in front of him. Anyone standing in the darkness of the shop, beyond the candlelight, would have seen that János, who was only thirty-one, looked old. The candlelight emphasized the sagging skin under his eyes and the furrows that extended from one side of his forehead to the other, making it resemble a plowed field. János closed his eyes for a moment and held the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. When he opened his eyes and picked up the final sheet of paper, his fingertips left wet marks that blurred the ink. It began,
János, please help me. I’m sitting in a doorway close to the Erzsébet Bridge. Everything I own, except the money in my pockets, is in the apartment of an artist named Támora Von Graff. As soon as I finish this letter, I’ll find a post office and mail it to you. Then I’ll try to find an American student I met on the train from Kolozsvár. He gave me his address, and if he’s still in Budapest I may be able to stay with him for a few days. Please send money to the postal box number on the envelope. I’ll check the post office as often as I can, but I have to be careful. I don’t have time to explain why.
The painting was dry. I brushed against it accidentally, while I was waiting for her in the studio. Nothing came away but a layer of linseed oil. For the first time, I looked at it closely and noticed the crackling underneath. It had been varnished long ago, and the reds were already faded. Why didn’t I realize, the first time I saw it? And why didn’t I realize that the woman with the closed eyelids was—her, always her? I suppose I didn’t want to realize it because I was in love—with her, or something she represented, I don’t know. Perhaps I’m still in love with her. But if I stayed, I would become like Antoine or Sergei. She would paint something even more magnificent than her Medusa. That’s what she told me, and I suppose I should be flattered. But I would never paint again. She smiled when she saw that I understood, and I imagined the snakes twisting around her head, their red mouths grinning.
Why am I writing things you won’t understand? I should rewrite this letter, but this is the only paper I have. I begged it from one of the students sketching on the Fisherman’s Bastion. Please send money soon. Even now, sitting here not knowing how to finish, I can imagine her eyes
That was all. János put this paper on top of the pile and stared at it, as though it were a riddle he could not comprehend.
A voice spoke from the darkness. “You are a methodical man, Mr. Pál.” A woman stepped into the candlelight. Her hair was gray, but she might once have been beautiful, with her hawk’s nose and black eyes. She was not beautiful now.
“The bell—” said János, then stopped, as though uncertain how to continue.
She smiled, and the candlelight, which darkened the hollows under her cheekbones and at the sides of her temples, gave her face the contours of a skull. “We didn’t want to disturb your reading.”
“We?” János’ fingers fumbled with his pipe, which had already grown cold.
“You must have heard of Antoine and Sergei.” Two men stepped into the candlelight. “And I have a new friend, Mr. Petru Iliscu.” János saw another standing behind them, his face still obscured by the darkness. “He knew István well.”
The pipe rattled against the desk. János put his other hand over the one holding the pipe, to stop it from shaking. “What have you done with my brother?” It came out too shrill. As though frightened by his own voice, he added, in a whisper, “Anna Kovács died in the hospital—”
She walked toward him until she stood on the other side of the desk. She leaned forward for a moment and touched the pile of papers, with a sort of caress. “When I heard that a young man had been asking about me in the art galleries of Budapest, I sent Sergei to—investigate. He can be so impulsive. But the girl is not important. István—I will miss István. You understand, Mr. Pál, those who refuse to join us are capable of betraying us. Would you like to see him? Come, Petru. Show Mr. Pál my latest work of art.”
The man in the darkness stepped forward and lifted a painting he had been holding in his right hand. It still smelled of linseed oil, although the vibrancy of its reds was already fading to the color of dried blood. János’ head fell in his hands, and he let out a choked sob.
“I think it’s the best of all my paintings. I call it La Vampiresse. I would like to keep it near me, but one cannot live by art alone, particularly with a growing household. Mr. Pál, I would like you to help me sell this painting. I believe I know a potential buyer, a Chairman Molnár.”
János raised his head. “Do you think I would—”
“Yes, Mr. Pál. I think you would do a great deal. It was you, after all, who denounced your father to the Secret Police.”
The man she had identified as Antoine said, “Did you really think we wouldn’t find out, we Fantaisistes? After his death, who would agree to sel
l our paintings?”
In the candlelight, János’ cheeks were slick with tears. “It was for István. The police were already suspicious. If I had said nothing, all of us would have been imprisoned. He was only eleven years old—”
The candle flame guttered, and the darkness closed around her. She smiled again, but this time he could see only her nose and the line of her mouth.
“Good night, Mr. Pál. Remember that I expect a good price. I intend to finish another painting soon. And I’m thinking of moving back to Kolozsvár, where the opportunities are so plentiful. I expect we will be doing business for some time to come.”
The flame flickered and went out. The papers in front of him rustled in a chill draft. Then, just once, the bell on the shop door rang, and János Pál was left alone in the darkness.
THE WINGS OF MEISTER WILHELM
My mother wanted me to play the piano. She had grown up in Boston, among the brownstones and the cobbled streets, in the hush of rooms where dust settled slowly, in the sunlight filtering through lace curtains, over the leaves of spider-plants and aspidistras. She had learned to play the piano sitting on a mahogany stool with a rotating top, her back straight, hair braided into decorous loops, knees covered by layers of summer gauze. Her fingers had moved with elegant patience over the keys. A lady, she told me, always looked graceful on a piano stool.
I did try. But my knees, covered mostly by scars from wading in the river by the Beauforts’ and then falling into the blackberry bushes, sprawled and banged—into the bench, into the piano, into Mr. Henry, the Episcopal Church organist, who drew in the corners of his mouth when he saw me, forming a pink oval of distaste. No matter how often my mother brushed my hair, I ran my fingers through it so that I looked like an animated mop, and to her dismay I never sat up straight, stooping over the keys until I resembled, she said, “that dreadful creature from Victor Hugo—the hunchback of Notre Dame.”
In the Forest of Forgetting Page 11
