by J. F. Collen
But her real love is history. One of her many hobbies is traveling to historical sites around the world and reading the biographies of the people who affected these places. Her books depict modern dilemmas in historical settings, with a touch of humor. Since only one of her parents had a sense of humor, however, Jane feels she is only half as funny as she should be.
Much to her husband’s dismay, they still live in New York.
~~~
Please keep reading for....
More from Evolved Publishing
We hope you loved FLIRTATION ON THE HUDSON as much as we did, and that you’ll take a moment to post your heartfelt review at whatever retail site you purchased it. Your reviews are so important to what we do as a small independent press, and to our authors, of course.
~~~
~~~
And... be sure to check out the full catalog of our great Literary Fiction books (just some of which are pictured) at the link below:
Literary Fiction Books from Evolved Publishing
~~~
Please keep reading for....
Special Sneak Preview
This feud between two families has spanned two continents, and its tentacles reach back to World War II.
~~~
~~~
Please enjoy the Special 2-Chapter Sneak Preview we offer below, or....
~~~
GRAB THE FULL EBOOK TODAY!
FIND LINKS TO YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER HERE:
LANETTE KAUTEN’S Books at Evolved Publishing
~~~
Please keep reading for....
CHAPTER 1
~~~
The rhythmic pounding of the drum echoed behind Amanda, pulling her from her exploration of the city square. Erratic tones of the folk song entranced her as though she were a member of Odysseus’s crew.
In front of the café where she had enjoyed her first taste of the area’s cuisine, a plump woman in blue jeans fiddled on a cracked violin. Her dark hair danced and jerked with the movements of her playing. A boy, no older than fifteen, sat behind her beating a drum, and an older man whose face had been baked in the sun provided harmony on his accordion. In his yellow and crimson tunic, the man was the only one who wore the traditional garb of his people.
Amanda had read that Gypsy bands had gone out of style, yet this group of musicians easily gathered an audience on the corner of a walking path in Pécs, Hungary.
A gasp drew Amanda’s attention to a man who somersaulted out of the crowd. He must have been lurking among the spectators, waiting for his cue. He wore a gold vest over his bronze muscles, reminiscent of idol statues often seen in India. His quick steps moved to the music, and he slapped his body in a rhythmic percussion. The audience clapped as the music escalated faster and louder as the dancer kept in time. The fevered pitch consumed every movement and every thought on that corner. Everything in sight became the song. Then at its crescendo, the song ended.
After brief bows, the musicians started another tune—this one slower and more purposeful. The dancer raised his arms and snapped while he moved with precision through the gathering. He selected a couple of women, a few children, and a man and brought them to the front. The audience seemed to know what to expect next because they took several steps back and formed a larger semi-circle in front of the entertainers. The dancer led his chosen participants into a series of moves by first demonstrating and then having the others follow.
Amanda weaved forward to join those in learning a traditional Gypsy dance. The music moved her feet with boundless energy. Every note and rhythm prickled through her. To stand still would have denied the music and the drive to feel it in every inch of her body. To stand still would have been a lie.
The man in the gold vest winked at her, sending an unexpected thrill through her as though she were still sixteen. She smiled back and concentrated on each step. If she stumbled, she was sure the dancer would find the mistake endearing, but she wanted to impress him, not flop around like a silly damsel. Her college dance classes were finally coming to good use.
After a few more numbers, the performers collected forints from those generous enough to express their appreciation for the impromptu entertainment while Amanda leaned against the stone wall of the café, waiting for the rest of the spectators to disperse back to their shopping or jobs, or whatever they were doing before they answered the call of the Gypsies’ song.
“You danced well.” The man in the gold vest spoke Hungarian as he approached her.
Amanda raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
He stopped several feet in front of her while the musicians packed their instruments. “You don’t speak Hungarian. Are you American? British?”
“America,” Amanda said.
He nodded and glanced back. “Beautiful lady doesn’t speak Hungarian.”
“I could help her understand the exchange rate,” the drummer said. He rose from his seat, and Amanda gawked at his stature—shorter than the other musicians by a good four or five inches.
The only woman in the group secured her violin in its case. “Pali, don’t you rob that girl.”
“She’ll be fine.” Holding onto the leather strap, Pali slung his drum over his shoulder. “I’m sure she has a return ticket. As long as she gets home, what’s the harm?”
“We’re not thieves.” The woman’s fingers clutched the handle of the violin case.
“Not all of us are educated like you.”
“That’s enough.” The oldest man in the group spoke with a soft voice. His eyebrows hung low, scraping against his lashes. Despite the quiet tone and aged appearance, he commanded a presence no one would argue against. “Let’s go.”
The dancer lingered near Amanda. He opened his mouth to say something, but the old man cut him off.
“Luca. Time to move.”
Luca looked once more at Amanda. “I wish you could understand me.” Then he leaned closer and whispered, “Maybe it’s best you don’t, because then I can tell you I’d like to grind my hips against yours.”
After Luca and the musicians left, Amanda fell back against the wall in laughter. She’d understood every word they said.
After a day of touring and shopping for a souvenir to pacify her mother, Amanda walked into her cousin’s apartment. Amanda wafted the scent of fish and herbs towards her nose. “Your cooking smells...” she made a mental search of the correct Hungarian word. “Csodálatos.”
She set her mother’s gift, a ceramic egg from the famous Zsolnay factory, on the television stand. Amanda had adjusted to living in cramped quarters with strangers after the first night, but the pint size tube made her miss the forty-two inch flat screen at home.
“Thank you,” Malika said. “Let’s have dinner on the porch. It’s a beautiful day.”
“Perfect. I’ll set the table.”
Malika placed a stack of plates on the counter for her cousin. While the women worked, Amanda kept the door propped open so they could talk. “I saw a group of Gypsy musicians today.”
“Don’t call them Gypsies.”
Amanda stopped and cocked her head. “What do you call them? Race impaired?”
“Sometimes you say the silliest things. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Amanda fumbled with her fingers as she fought with her mental translation. “Then tell me. I can’t be expected to know the culture.”
“You know the language.”
“Grandpapa taught me.”
“And what did he call them?”
“He called them ‘stinking Gypsies.’ Said they were lazy and dirty and would rob you blind.”
Malika bent over her pot of soup and spoke so quietly that Amanda leaned closer to hear. “Part of what he said may be true, but they’re also people. You should be wary of them, but they’re people with culture and history.”
Amanda flopped on the couch facing the kitchen, waving her hand as she talked. “I take it Gypsy is a... what’s the word, derogatory term?”
> “Yes, they’re Romani, but many people here don’t offer such respect. Stop flinging your arms around. Act like you were reared by a proper Hungarian.”
From the porch, situated on the side of a mountain, Amanda looked out over the city. The stone and brick buildings broke the glow of the setting sun in a picturesque outline. Occasional street noises rumbled in the otherwise quiet evening, but they were far enough away from the center of the city to not hear much noise.
The door opened, and Malika sat in the chair beside her cousin and reached for her hand. The two sat in silence, watching the view from the street-level apartment.
“I just put Bandi to bed.” Malika spent the evening with her son, helping him with his studies and chasing him through a nearby park while her husband, István, rested after his job at the brewery.
“Will István join us?” Amanda asked.
“No. He’s watching the television. Something political. Sometimes I wonder how I can be Hungarian and not care about politics.”
Amanda laughed. One thing she had noticed in her visit was how much talk of government and economics consumed people’s conversations. Two days ago, she had sat at a bar listening to three men and a woman argue over healthcare, which led into a discussion over the role of government in business before concluding with the control of city water. Unlike similar conversations she had witnessed or been a part of in America, no one appeared angry with others who held differing views. They complained bitterly about their government, but even in their opposition, the goal was to share philosophical ideas.
“Did you learn anything today?” Malika cut through the silence.
“I... got distracted.”
“Again?”
Amanda shook her head. “I’m amazed by this place. The more I see, the more I want to explore.”
Malika squeezed her hand. “You distract easily. Did you forget why you’re here?”
“I haven’t forgotten about Grandpapa.” She stood up and spread out her arms. “I’m here. I’m walking the ground he played on as a child. The buildings he saw are still standing. I may not know anything about his life in particular, but I get to experience what he lived.”
“Is that enough for you?”
Amanda breathed deep, taking in the sweet smells of peaches and flowers blooming nearby. She held out her hand. “Let’s take a walk.”
“I’m not as young as you. I want to relax.”
“Thirty’s not old. You’re a young woman.”
“I’m older than thirty.”
“I don’t care. Let’s go.” Amanda tugged on Malika’s hand.
Malika pushed herself off the chair and allowed her younger cousin to lead her down the steps.
They walked in front of the apartment wall, which connected to other walls and other houses in an unbroken chain as it whipped along the side of the mountain in dramatic lines and curves.
“Three months ago, after the heart attack, I sat by his bed, comforting him in his last hours. Grandma sat on the other side, giving him sips of water. I can still hear the sound of the heart monitor, beeping to let us know he was alive for another second.”
“You two were close.”
“Very. At least when I was a child. In college... there were distractions.”
Amanda looked away from her cousin, shame burned her eyes. Blinking, she took a deep breath and started again. “I asked him about his life in Hungary, the same question I had asked several times during my life.”
“He wouldn’t tell you?” Malika asked.
Amanda shook her head.
“Some people prefer to live in the present. The past doesn’t matter. I’ve known several people, especially from your grandpapa’s generation, who believe that way.”
“I don’t understand why Grandpapa left. That’s what I really want to learn,” Amanda said. Something else pricked at her conscience. Grandpapa had never been the type to invite trouble or stand out in any way. Yet, his refusal to talk about the scars spoke loudly. She needed to learn the language of his silence.
“He left under communist rule. What’s hard to understand about that?”
“It wasn’t like Russia. You had freedoms here. Communism was practically a joke in this country.” Amanda thrust her hand up for emphasis before letting it drop, slapping her thigh.
Malika pursed her lips and blew out a plume of air. “You don’t understand. My father used to say we ran like animals in a large cage. Small cage, big cage, it made little difference. We could leave, but we always returned to our masters. Your grandfather was one who never came back.”
“What was it like back then?”
Malika remained quiet as the two climbed north. Darkness settled over this part of the city quickly, but the moon and the lights attached to the buildings provided enough illumination to light their path. “We were more afraid of Russia than we were of our own government, but the government was afraid of its people and so were the rest of us.”
“I don’t understand what that means.”
“We had a revolution in 1956. It was bloody. Many died. We lived in fear of that happening again, so we kept the Russians satisfied with a careful façade while the communist elite in this country lived fat and happy.”
“It’s that way with the elite everywhere.”
“Perhaps, but it’s different under communism. Communist rule covered every aspect of life, society, education, and even our work ethic. We used to have a joke: You pretend to pay us, and we pretend to work. When government reliance changes the very essence of the people, we forget who we are.”
They stopped at an intersection and looked down on the houses and apartments to the west. Red tiled roofs next to gray and yellow buildings broke almost even with the conifers and almond trees like the rows of ornately carved statues in the center of the city.
Yesterday Amanda had visited St. Péter and Paul Cathedral and marveled at the beauty of the hand-painted frescoes. “This is the most beautiful city in Europe.”
“You don’t want to learn about your grandpapa. You want to fantasize he never left and that you grew up here. Haven’t you listened to what I said?”
Amanda swung the other woman’s arm. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I should settle down with a nice Hungarian man and raise my future children here.”
“A nice Hungarian man would be embarrassed for his wife to talk with her hands.”
Amanda playfully nudged Malika with her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll marry a Romani and scandalize everyone.”
Malika shook her head in disgust. “Why are you really here?”
The sudden turn from the playful banter stopped her. She held her cousin’s hand—a familial contact with skin. Such a subtle gesture made her feel as though she belonged. The void of her grandpapa’s death had left a mark, but the mark could not be covered with a simple sign of acceptance.
“I don’t know.”
CHAPTER 2
~~~
Amanda walked through the expanse of the courtyard, crisscrossed with cement pathways, into the arched doorway of the registrar’s office. The map showed that the library was somewhere along Rákóczi út, but after passing one of the many university buildings three times without finding it, she surrendered to the inevitability of asking for directions.
Further along the corridor, a woman hurriedly exited an office. She crumpled a paper and tossed it in a nearby trashcan as she walked with purposeful, if not grim, determination in Amanda’s direction. Familiarity made Amanda pause—a vague recognition that she had seen the woman somewhere before.
Dark locks hung, obscuring the woman’s features. She passed her fingers through her hair, sweeping it from her face. Suddenly Amanda knew exactly where she’d seen the woman and began moving to intercept her, but a group of students hurried past, forcing her to stop and letting the woman move further away. Amanda followed, now hurrying as the woman had already stepped through the front door.
Abruptly, she paused in her pursuit. This is silly. She did
n’t actually know the woman, and it hadn’t been the woman who interested her, but the man Amanda had seen her with. She remembered his dark eyes, dark hair, and those broad cheekbones. He’d been dancing when she first saw him, though really it was his smile that had seduced her. His smile and his moves could melt her clothes off. His type was forbidden and for good reason.
Ridiculous or not, she rushed after the woman. “Excuse me.”
The woman continued walking, not reacting at all.
Amanda continued her pace until she came alongside the dark-haired woman. “Excuse me. You played the violin the other day.”
The violinist turned around. She remained expressionless as she studied Amanda. “You speak Hungarian.”
Amanda brought her hands up to her face in a flutter. “I’m sorry. I never said I didn’t know the language, but—”
The other woman’s lips slid into a sly grin. “You wanted to hear what we said about you without us knowing you could understand. I’m smart enough to figure you out, but this place tells me I’m not suitable to be a prospective student.”
Amanda sucked in a breath of air. Sudden coldness hit her as the excitement rushed out. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. I worked hard, but they relegated the Romani to special needs classes during primary education. I had to struggle to catch up during secondary school. Maybe if I had gone to university right after instead of starting a family....” The woman looked off down the path of the courtyard as if she could envision her past and future play out on the cement walkway. “Are you an international student?”
Amanda shook her head. “I graduated in America last year. I’m here for family research.”
