Rudolf, Eva. The loves of his life. He’d loved them both so fiercely. All he’d ever wanted to do was to love them, embrace them, live his life with them, live in their brightness. Yet they’d both skimmed the parameter of his life like shooting stars. Burning, fading into darkness, disappearing.
* * *
The next morning, after watching the sun soar over Manhattan on his terrace, Aleandro walked back inside and poured himself a tall whiskey. The ice clinked in the glass as he glanced around the living room with a cold, discriminating eye. The place was precisely the way he wanted to leave it: fresh flowers in Chinese vases, bills neatly stacked on the granite countertop, pillows fluffed. Even his letters (few as they were) he’d arranged and rearranged on the foyer table countless times, leaving no chance that they would go unnoticed when later the bellman opened the door with his master key.
The whiskey was warm and comforting, fueling his courage as he began his last task. No thoughts at all occupied his mind as he made his way to the foyer table and ran his fingers over the rich, lacquered surface to the drawer down below. He fumbled inside it, pushed out of the way some old bills and fan letters he’d never opened, a stale Cuban, some loose change. Finally, he found the bottle of pills and extracted it gingerly.
Would he have the courage this time? Would today be the day? He’d gone through this exact exercise a number of times, and each time he’d lost his nerve. Each time he’d taken down the prewritten letters, put the pills back in the drawer, then finished his drink overcome with disgust for his cowardice.
Yet it was what he wanted, he was certain of it. It was. To be free as he’d once been when the roof over his head was mostly the starry sky. Perhaps he needed a couple more drinks beforehand. It was certainly worth a try, even though it was barely seven in the morning.
Soon he was settled on the sofa, second whiskey now in hand, staring at the bottle of pills before him. Summoning his courage, he reached for them, then a sound ripped through the room. A sharp sound, like a gunshot, which set his heart in a somersault, changing his trajectory. He listened again. A swift relief surged through him, realizing what it was, only to give way, almost instantly, to an intense irritation.
Frank. Frank pounding on that brass knocker as if his life depended on it. Only his assistant could get up here unannounced at this hour, but damn it, today, of all days? Cursing under his breath, he ambled back to the foyer in his bare feet, shoving the pills in his pocket. Drawing in a breath, he retied his robe and wrenched open the door.
“Frank, what are you…”
The man on his threshold was facing away, but even before he turned, Aleandro’s words trailed off. That stance, those shoulders, hunched forward a little as if he were bracing against some invisible wind. Aleandro would have recognized him anywhere.
“Aleandro, my God. What took you so long? Didn’t you hear me knock?” An unsuspecting smile spread over the man’s good-natured face. “I tried to call from downstairs. Hell, I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday. You had me worried!”
Gripping the doorknob with all of his might, Aleandro scrambled for something to say. “Hans! What are doing here? I thought you were out of the country. I thought…”
“Yes, well, I decided to come back early. A deal I’d been working on was falling apart, and I couldn’t very well let that happen. Can I come in for a moment?”
There was no reason, no reason at all that Aleandro could reach for quickly enough, and then it was too late. He watched Hans unbutton his jacket, then raise his hands up to Aleandro in an amused, baffled gesture.
“Well, may I? It’s early, I know, but I have something to share with you that I think you’ll find very interesting. So are you going to let me in now, or do I have to put it in a memo for you?”
* * *
The expression on Hans’s face, the way his eyes flickered with understanding and horror, crushed Aleandro’s heart. Such an oversight, he thought now, miserably. Such a stupid, grave oversight not to stash away those letters before opening the door. It took Hans less than a second to spot them. And to notice the one bearing his own name.
Still, for a moment Aleandro could have salvaged the situation. When Hans asked jokingly, in such clear jest, “Are you bidding farewell to the world, Aleandro? Are you finally going to take that long trip?” he should have laughed. He should have replied something just as ironic, not stood there as all the blood drained from his face. Maybe Hans wouldn’t have grabbed that letter from the entrance table so quickly.
But now Hans sat across from him on the sofa—still in his blazer despite the heat in the apartment, skimming the letter over and over—and the way he buried his face in his hands was more than Aleandro could bear. Hans, with his mild manner and gentle heart, had never looked at him in such a way.
“Why?” he said simply. “Why would you want to do such a thing?”
No answer came, only a sigh as Aleandro lowered his head and interlaced his fingers at the back of his neck. “Just life, Hans. I’m tired, that’s all. I’ve grown tired of it.”
“You’re tired? That’s it? That’s all it takes for you nowadays to even consider something like this?”
A sole tear slid down Aleandro’s cheek. “I know this is a hard concept for someone your age to understand, Hans, but all I wanted was to be free. No one needs me anymore here. You have your life, and your mother seems happy enough there in the land of laissez-faire sunshine and hippies. To be honest, I didn’t think it would matter all that much. Lately, I’ve been feeling like a burden, even to myself, and that’s the one thing I won’t be.”
“A burden? A burden, Aleandro? And no one needs you? What’s all this nonsense? I need you, Aleandro; I need you! You’ve been like a father to me all these years; you’ve given me a start in life! You paid for my schooling, you bought my mother a house in Sonoma Valley, for God’s sake! If she is happy now, it’s only because you’ve given her a second chance for happiness. How can you say that no one needs you? Ah, all this self-indulgence has got to stop! Because that’s the trouble with you! You hole yourself up in here, inside your memories and your self-pity, you drink, and you lose sight of life, and then you say no one needs you!”
He was angry, and it made Aleandro even more remorseful. “Oh, Hans. It doesn’t matter now. It’s over. I’m sorry to have upset you.”
Hans only scoffed. After a while he got up and took off his jacket, tossing it carelessly on the sofa. “So, where is it? Where is… whatever you were going to use. Gun, rope, where is it? I can’t even believe I’m asking you these questions! Well, go on, goddamn it, show me!”
“No rope. No gun.” Aleandro extracted the pills, handed them over to Hans. “Like I said, it’s over now. You don’t have to worry.”
“No, you’re right,” Hans said, examining the bottle, and drawing a deep breath through his nose. “You’re right about that.” He shoved the bottle of pills into the pocket of his jeans. “Because I’m not leaving you here. I’m not leaving without you. Get dressed, because you’re coming with me. And please don’t even try to talk me out of it. All right?”
“All right,” agreed Aleandro, and he sighed, knowing that indeed there was no reason to put up a fight. His resolve had been crippled, and he felt drained all of a sudden, beaten, old. He was an old man, no more than that—an old man whose bones hurt and whose heart had long turned to dust—so he shuffled off to his room to gather his clothes. In the doorway, he turned toward Hans one last time.
“Tell me, Hans, why did you come here this morning?”
Arms crossed, Hans regarded Aleandro with that same unabating weariness. “It hardly seems to matter now, but while I was in London, a package arrived at my home. I opened it, and it’s a sketchbook. A sketchbook of portraits, of a young girl. Something that looks a great deal like your work, even though they are not signed. None of the portraits are signed.
“There was…” Hans slowed as Aleandro ambled back to the sofa and plunked himself down
, overcome with weakness. “There was also a letter, addressed to you. That, of course, I did not open. Ah,” he said with a dismissive flick of the hand, “it’s probably nothing. It’s probably just a copycat, or an emerging artist trying to get your attention. I can’t tell you how often people try to dupe me into some fraudulent art scheme, but I wanted to ask you regardless if you’d like to— Aleandro, are you listening?”
“Where did it come from?” Aleandro asked, feeling as though he’d fallen into a cavern. “Who sent it?”
“Like I said, no idea. It came from somewhere in the city, via private courier and with signature required on delivery. But I don’t think that’s important right now. What’s important right now is that you go and get yourself dressed and—”
“Do you have it with you?”
“No, I don’t have it. It’s back at my place. Look, it’s probably nothing to get yourself worked up over, and there’s plenty of time to talk about this later…” But he was speaking into a vacuum, for Aleandro was already halfway to the door.
“So let’s go, then, yes?”
Another sigh came from Hans as he waved his hand around in Aleandro’s direction. “You are wearing a robe. You’ve got no shoes.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right,” said Aleandro. “My shoes.” He ambled to his room to fetch them, leaving Hans behind, utterly exasperated.
38
HE SAT. SKETCHBOOK IN HANDS, he sat on Hans’s white leather sofa as the shadows deepened behind him, turning from gold to azure to darkness. Lights from the towers across from Hans’s penthouse softly illuminated the contours of the room. It was late. Hans had gone to bed long ago; Aleandro could hear him snoring softly in the depth of the apartment. His tea mug was empty when he brought it to his parched lips, and only a bitter drop lingered on his tongue. He dared not turn on the light. He feared that it would wake him, that he would find himself wrenched from a dream.
He realized, in the course of this lingering, that he’d forgotten her face. That time had erased the minute details of her lips and her eyes, that he’d forgotten the honesty of her gaze, the shape of her fingernails, the way her smile curled just slightly to the left, or that she never reclined in a chair, but rather always perched herself on the edge of her seat.
His fingers passed over the sketches, and in his fingers he could see the passage of time. His hands as they once were, when they painted and moved, when they painted her in the square. Time. Time had been his enemy, but also his friend. For had he not wanted to forget all these things?
Another page, the last one. On this one, he pulled another recollection from the dusty corridors. She, in a red dress, her honey hair mussed by the wind, her feet bare, sliding into the sand, into the golden light of a bonfire. The night they thought they were parting. The night that had been their beginning—and end. He didn’t realize he was crying until a wet drop landed on the page, right at her feet.
He drew himself back and placed the sketchbook down on the sofa, still open beside him.
There were no more pages. Their story was over again.
The letter was on the coffee table. A simple envelope of regular stock, his name written in a careless handwriting, which he knew couldn’t have been Eva’s. He picked it up, knowing that he was on the edge of another precipice. And took comfort, strange as it was, that he’d almost not lived long enough to know this moment. It seemed a gift now.
Whatever the letter said, he was ready.
Dear Mr. Szabó,
My name is Bianca Kovaks. I’d elaborate further, out of sheer politeness, but I believe you know who I am. My mother is Eva Kovaks. Formerly Eva César. And I believe that you, sir, were once in love with her.
I hope you’ll forgive my brazenness. But I believe what I’m saying is true.
How to begin. You see, I knew virtually nothing of your role in our lives, until five years ago, when my beloved father, Eduard, passed away. It wasn’t until then that my mother, Eva, confided in me that it was your donation to the Hungarian National Gallery that secured our visas to join him in Vienna after we were separated in the days of the revolution. To say that I was shocked would be putting it mildly, but, as she so reasonably explained, we all have our angels. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that if it weren’t for your kindness, I might not have fulfilled my dream of becoming a violin virtuoso. As grandiose as that sounds, your gesture gave me the chance to see that dream through, as much as returning my father, Eduard, to me.
Which brings me to the reason for my sending you this sketchbook, along with this letter. When my mother decided to return to Sopron last year, she left it in my possession. There weren’t many explanations offered, only that it was the sole thing of value she could bequeath to me, and she hoped that someday, if needed, it would provide a safety net. What my mother never understood is that I never feared poverty nor placed much value in money, and so I thought of it as nothing more than a memento to keep on a bookshelf and share with friends over dinner or wine. (Yes, it does indeed make for a great conversation piece.)
Yet, as I studied the portraits, I became aware that they connected my mother to a past I knew nothing about. You will pardon my directness, but even a child could discern in these portraits that there was more between you than friendship. I suppose we all harbor our secrets, do we not? Well, whatever it was that you and my mother shared before her marriage, it is not for me to judge. As I’ve made clear, my allegiances belong, and always will, to my father, Eduard.
Regardless, as this sketchbook surely means much more to you than it does to me, I hope in all earnestness that it will reach you. Yet, should it not, then I am comforted that your ward and close friend, Hans Luben, will cherish it every bit as much as you would. Either way, I believe I’ve done the right thing by releasing it into his hands.
Incidentally, since the Eastern European borders opened again the winter before last, I’ve had the chance to return to my native Budapest and view for myself the pieces that secured our freedom. And I have to confess that I was deeply stirred. It was surely not easy to part with something so close to your heart, and for that I owe you my gratitude. In conclusion, think of the sketchbook as a returned favor, and a thank-you gift.
Yours,
Bianca Kovaks
39
Sopron
Summer 1991
AT THE EDGE OF THE pond, Eva sat with her usual array of objects—a book, a shawl, a thermos of tea, and a large Tupperware container to transport the freshly caught fish back to her cottage. She didn’t have to come down here for this. The kind fishermen were more than happy to bring the fish back to her, scaled and filleted, ready to be dusted in spices and plopped into a sizzling pan.
But here was where she spent the best moments of her day, here in the tall, undulating reeds among the smell of marigolds and the musky earthiness of the pond, here in the shade of a willow, watching the fishing canoes bob over the glassy water, where the sun-scorched young men scooped trout out of the water in their nets.
She didn’t feel like reading today and found herself absentmindedly running her fingers alongside the smooth spine of her Jane Austen novel, letting the sun warm the planes and grooves of her face. How strange she found it, that in all of her seventy years she’d never stopped long enough to absorb the beautiful emptiness of a quiet moment. Why was it that only staring at the looming finality of life was she able to grasp that contentment could not be chased, that it need not be chased, that if one stilled long enough, it would come on its own accord?
Back in Vienna, her life had been so frantic that she would have found the notion utterly absurd. She still remembered those early days, when she first arrived in Vienna, and how it was no more than a day later that she took a bus through a city she did not know, and showed up unannounced at the clinic that Eduard had opened in her absence with Tamara’s help. Eduard had insisted that she get herself settled in first and rest, but she did not need to rest; she needed to get herself in motion again. A year had pa
ssed since Aleandro had gone back to New York, a year of waiting for the visas he’d bought with his paintings to actually land in her hands, and now that she was here, she was aching to get back to life, to resume her work. The low-cost clinic, crowded with people and children from the poor sectors of town, proved the perfect opportunity.
And so she had begun her new life in Vienna, comprising at first mostly fifteen-hour work shifts. She analyzed patient files, set Eduard’s appointments, stocked the medicine supplies, took lab work, balanced books, which on most days showed just enough profit to keep the lights on. Soon it was her seeing the patients who couldn’t get on Eduard’s booked calendar, and not long after that, it was her with whom they requested to consult.
Tamara had watched her with her quiet scrutiny, and, of course, to be expected, with some resentment for crossing her turf. But Eva also earned some respect. Something the other woman had only reserved for Eduard.
Despite the fact Eva would never know fully what had been between Tamara and her husband, in the wake of Eduard’s sudden passing, five years prior, their relationship began to fuse into one of mutual understanding. Eva, after all, knew what it had been like for Tamara all these years, and in their shell-shocked grief, they found the seeds to what eventually would become a close friendship.
Beyond the walls of the clinic, her life had been no less busy. What she remembered now, between the larger details, was this constant state of running. Running home after dark and picking up groceries on her way, running to Bianca’s recitals, running through a flurry of snow to attend some medical lecture that she was always late for. And yet, in all that time, she never experienced a sense of full contentment, this absolute, undemanding peace that only Sopron could offer her—here, now, always.
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