Triptych

by Margit Liesche

  “The country, it is like here. Flat, open.” She began describing the crops in the distance, the marshland, a bridge, and I tuned out. I was sixteen. She was right. It was like hearing about “here.” Why should I listen? I wasn’t the least bit interested, even when she talked about meeting a farmer’s handsome son.

  “Mother, I’m going to the prom tomorrow night with Steve. You remember, don’t you? Steve, the quarterback of the football team? Real football, not football like they play in Hungary, or maybe you’re jet-lagged. Maybe just getful.” It was my cruel period.

  I know so little about my mother beyond the stories I coaxed from her as a child. Stories about China, about how she came to marry my father, about her love for “home.” What did I know about that home? The world she grew up in, the world she fretted over in the parsonage in America, the world which, when she finally returned to it, had made her sad?

  I stare at the tapestry, wanting more than anything to know what she had seen that day in the Hungarian countryside. Why hadn’t I listened?

  Like the unfinished portion of the third panel, I want to know what’s missing.

  The brass bells on the entrance door jingle. I turn, expecting to see Zsófi. It’s a man in his mid- to late forties with disheveled salt and pepper hair and a noble Roman nose in a strong, chiseled face. Mikhail Baryshnikov, I think immediately. He’s wearing an olive green t-shirt, jeans, and beat-up tennis shoes. When he turns to shut the door I notice his build—fit, broad shoulders—also very Baryshnikov. Not Baryshnikov is the Tupperware-covered cake plate he is carrying.

  “Hello,” I call.

  He returns the greeting, smiling as he crosses the store, his posture straight, long gait easy, almost graceful, plastic container secure in his hands.

  I like his smile, it’s friendly, but it is his eyes that captivate.

  Hazel. They are hazel eyes.

  “For Mariska,” he says, gingerly setting the plastic housing on the countertop. “How is she?”

  My tone is upbeat, “Doing well. Her doctor is highly optimistic. A mild heart attack. Damage to the heart muscle was minimal,” he said. “She’s responding well to medications, but he wants her to take it easy for a week or so. She was released this morning. She’s upstairs in the flat, catching up on all the missed zzzs…”

  It isn’t like me to carry on like this, but something about the man unnerves me. His quiet composure? The absolute sense of calm? So opposite the emotional rife in Vaclav’s DNA.

  But Vaclav is part of my past now. I breathe in, adopting the man’s quiet reserve. “Zsófi and I have been taking turns checking on her.”

  “And Zsófi? Is she with Mariska now?”

  I detect a slight accent.

  “She’s next door, grabbing our lunch.” I chuckle. “No, I’ll bet she’s been grabbed by Mrs. Bankuti. You know how she likes to gab.” I laugh nervously. “I’m sorry. I caught your accent, assumed you live in the neighborhood, know the Bankutis. I haven’t even introduced myself. Ildikó Palmay, Mariska’s niece.” We shake hands. I am aware of the rough texture of his skin, the unexpected warmth of his palm.

  “Szigeti, Gustav.” He laughs. “That obvious?”

  “Well, you did come bearing the national colors.” I nod to the sealed translucent container. It did not hold a cake as I’d expected, but a heart-shaped Jell-O mold layered top to bottom, red, white, green. “Did you make this?”

  Gustav shrugs. “An experiment. I like to cook.”

  Bold orange, yellow, and red nasturtium blossoms festoon the top of the heart. “And garden?”

  “Another hobby. Thought bright color will bring some cheer. Hopefully, the taste is refreshing too.”

  “It’s glorious. Auntie Mariska will be tickled. But this heat…” I jiggle the plate, checking to see how the molded heart is holding up. Better than mine. It wiggles jauntily. “No puddling yet. But I should get it to the fridge.” I check my watch. “Gabfest and all, Zsófi ought to be here soon. I’ll take it upstairs, then.” I smile apologetically. “Sorry, no visitors.”

  Gustav’s attention is pinned to a spot on the wall behind me and I doubt that he’s even heard me. I clear my throat. He nods to the triptych. “Your mother’s, yes?”

  “Yes, how did…”

  A finger presses the corner near his eye socket. “The eyes.”

  “You…you knew my mother?”

  “I have been away recently, but mostly I work in the neighborhood. I come here often. Back then…when your mother was alive, too.” A melancholy smile. “It was she, your mother, who arranged my first official assignment.”

  “My mother?”

  He nods. “1964. I was starting my business. She heard—maybe from your father, maybe Mariska—St. Elizabeth’s wants to commission a church directory with members’ photos. Your mother, she insisted they use me.”

  “Insist? My mother would never insist on anything.” I gesture sideways with my head. “She embroidered.”

  Another melancholy smile, a lift of the eyebrows.

  “I remember her working on this.” He nods at her handiwork. His brow furrows and he looks suddenly troubled.

  I track his gaze to the center of the second panel. “It’s a palace. Primitive, I know, but I think she meant it to be symbolic of the enchanted kingdom. Not a good place like you’d assume, but a dark place.”

  The furrows in Gustav’s forehead deepen. “That is no palace. That is AVO headquarters.”

  “Wha—What?” I say numbly. “AVO headquarters on a lake?”

  “The Danube. See there, in the lower right? A bridge support tower.”

  He is gesturing across the counter to a tallish gray rectangle in the corner of the stretch of blue that I’d always assumed was a mistake. She’d run out of blue thread. Used what was on hand to fill in.

  Gustav circles the counter to join me near the tapestry, bringing with him the limey scent of aftershave. “This…” he says, his fingertip tapping the glass over a speck of brown in the water. “This, I suspect is a head.”

  I had suspected another rogue stitch. “A head? You mean a person? Swimming?”

  I feel as if icy river water is rushing through my veins, remembering the story Tibor (Tibi my mother had called him then) had told long ago, in 1957, about a tunnel under AVO headquarters spilling into the Danube which was used for the convenient disposal of bodies.

  Beside me, Gustav is gesturing to another form in the panel. “That boat though is a puzzle. The prow is up out of the water.”

  We are standing so close I am aware of the sinewy muscle in his upper arm. The sensation is not unpleasant, but the notion of being attracted to another man so soon scares me. I inch sideways a little.

  “It’s tipped from the weight of an invisible man sitting on the floor in back,” I say. It’s Gustav’s turn to look bewildered. In spite of myself, I have to smile. “He’s tailing the princess because he’s in love with her, hopes to solve a riddle, save her from an evil spell.”

  I blink. Blink again. Maybe not so invisible!

  Earlier, my focus had been on the fair-haired princess. Now the vessel has my attention. At the boat’s center, the rowing prince faces the back of the boat which is low, nearly taking on water. The prince’s feet are thrust out, wedged into the darkness of the boat’s interior, as if he’s pressing into it to give him more thrust. Off the tip of his shoes I now see blush-colored threads, identical to the princess pink my mother used for a flower in the embroidered linen piece I’d designed as a child. Deliberate? Another hurried mistake?

  Gustav leans forward, closing the gap I had created between us. I feel his weight against my bare shoulder. I step aside once again.

  Gustav turns. “What’s wrong?”

  What’s wrong? The stranger beside me knows more about my mother’s triptych than I do.

  My finger taps th
e glass over the gray rectangle, the speck of brown, and the blotch of pale pink thread. “Nothing’s wrong.” I reply. “I’d planned to unstitch these. I suspect they’re mistakes. She was in a hurry, didn’t have time to fix them.”

  “You’d unstitch your mother’s handiwork?”

  I look up, expecting judgment, but his eyes are kind. “It’s what I do.”

  “Reinvent another person’s creation?”

  I curse my karma with men. A sharp retort is on the tip of my tongue when, behind us, the doorbells jingle. Finally, Zsófi. A brown paper bag rests in the crook of one arm. She doesn’t immediately see Gustav. She concentrates on closing the door with her free hand, stepping back so her full skirt won’t get caught as it shuts.

  Zsófi is fifty. Her once-auburn hair has faded to apricot, pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. Wiry bangs and loose strands frame her face. As she turns, her eyebrows shoot up, then waggle playfully.

  “Gustav.” She beams, fine lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes. “Ahh, you have come for your special order? Sorry, but it is not yet arrived.”

  Zsófi sets the bag on the counter, then shoves the bridge of her new horn-rimmed glasses so they sit properly on her nose. The collection of thin silver bracelets at her wrist rattles. Gustav returns to the other side of the counter.

  “Mr. Szigeti has brought something for Mariska,” I say. “Look.”

  “Szép, lovely!” Zsófi exclaims. “Mariska will soon be ready for her lunch. I’ll take it up. It is like a magazine advertisement. Have you preserved this in photograph, Gustav?” Turning to me: “Gustav is famous photographer, did you know?”

  I shake my head. “No, we just met.”

  Across from me, Gustav’s face has turned pink, a shade not unlike the threads at the back of the boat. “Not famous, please, Zsófi. I am the neighborhood portrait photographer. Passports, babies…”

  Zsófi wags her head side to side, her drop earrings swinging decisively. “He is shy. Gustav’s work, it has appeared in big magazines. He photographs beautiful models, has gallery shows, wins many awards. He is also a preservationist. Many years now, he is taking photographs of Chicago neighborhoods. The changing people, changing architecture. To make a book.” She nods to the art book section. “We will carry copies.”

  Smiling broadly, Zsófi walks away, pauses, looks back. “Maybe you will want to turn your lens on another landmark …our Ildikó?”

  Gustav salutes her good naturedly, then squares his fingers to make a frame, looks through it, points it at me.

  “I have an appointment. Maybe we could have coffee sometime?” He looks up at the churning ceiling fan. “Iced coffee?”

  “Sorry.” And, surprising myself, recent breakup be damned, I meant it. “I’m needed here.”

  Zsófi is standing near the doorway to the stairs leading to the upstairs flat. “Not every hour. You have been with us three days and you have not left this building. You work too much. A few hours someplace special is deserved.” She looks pointedly in Gustav’s direction. “What about the Art Institute? There is that textile exhibit. Ildikó is a needlework artisan. The beauty of the art would do much to refresh her spirit. Maybe that is good reason for taking time off…Gustav?” she says with an expectant smile.

  I had no idea Zsófi could be so assertive. From the determined look on her face, I’d wager she would let the Jell-O heart melt before she’d leave without getting the answer she wants.

  Chapter Nine

  After lunch, Zsófi sends me on an errand. She’s learned from Mrs. Bankuti that Eva has come home to work on the statues at St. Elizabeth’s, part of the restoration work going on there. Zsófi would like Eva to join us for dinner, thinks it will help to cheer Mariska.

  I am cheered at the prospect as well. It has been a while since I’ve seen Eva. We first met in 1966, the year after my mother died. She had dropped by Duna Utca while I was also in the store following up on my mother’s last trip into Chicago. I had been wrapped up in where my mother actually went that fateful morning, and it was only later that I would learn more about Eva and how she had come to live with the Bankutis.

  Mariska and Zsófi always thought the match between Eva and their beloved neighbors was the result of some sort of divine intervention. Eva’s parents had died in the ’56 revolution. Afterwards, she was taken in by family friends. Eventually, Eva with her adopted family, escaped to Toronto. When Eva was in her teens she visited the Bankutis, also acquaintances of her deceased parents. That snowballed into more visits. Finally, as Auntie Mariska told it, “Magda—well, you know how loving and generous she is—she and György recognized right away Eva, she has talent. They think of our Art Institute.” The Bankutis invited Eva to live with them, then generously footed her tuition through the Institute’s art school.

  Eva is four years older than me, and while I was graduating from high school, she was completing her degree at the Art Institute. An apprenticeship in Italy followed and she stayed on in Pietrasanta for the next fifteen years, returning to the States periodically to visit the Bankutis.

  During the summers when she was home and I was working at Duna Utca, we’d get together now and then, go out to dinner, maybe see a movie. Most recently, our paths crossed a few years ago when Eva accepted a job offer with a large Chicago-based company specializing in church renovation and design. I had attended the party the Bankutis threw to celebrate her homecoming. Not that she is actually in Chicago much. Eva’s skills as a restoration artist are in high demand all across the country.

  It is only three blocks to St. Elizabeth’s, but by the time I reach the grand veranda which runs the entire width of the church, my aerated top is damp, pasted to my back and underarms. Above me, spires and the tall steeple of the Gothic cathedral soar heavenward. Discreetly, I wag the hem of my shirt to cool myself as I go up the steps and through the wide wooden doors.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light. I am in the vestiblue at the back. Before me, the doors to the majestic nave are propped open, allowing a panoramic view of the ornately carved, white Italian marble altar. I was raised a Lutheran and in my adult years I have not practiced any religion, but I have attended Mass with Mariska and Zsófi at St. Elizabeth of Hungary Church several times. And each time, the grandeur of this holy sanctuary and its Gothic design impresses me anew.

  Evidence of the renovation is everywhere. Sections of scaffolding have been erected throughout and many of the wooden pews are covered with drop cloths. I pan the nave, seeing an abundance of statues, but no sign of Eva or anybody else. Where are the workers? Ahh, it’s the tail end of the lunch hour. Fumes from paint and varnish permeate the air, and it’s my guess the craftsmen found a place to escape them.

  Soaring, pointed arches pull my attention to the vaulted ceiling. Glorious plaster reliefs, embellished with gold leaf flourishes, are striking against a backdrop of deep blue, the shade so familiar that for an instant it as if I am looking into Vaclav’s eyes. His announcement—Manka, she is with baby—loops through my brain for the millionth time since our final rendezvous. I feel a pain so sharp in my chest that my hand leaps to cover it.

  Lovemaking without emotional entanglement. I’d had no other expectations from Vaclav. I am not in love with him. Yet I had come to love his company, had looked forward to our scavangings. Is that it? What’s behind this fierce pain? I’m lonely, afraid to admit I’d like someone besides Edmundo to come home to? Constancy? True love?

  Approaching footsteps. I wrest my gaze from the dome. It’s not Eva I see, but Tibor. Tibor Varga.

  He recognizes me in the same instant. “Il-di-ko!” he booms. Tibor’s voice is deep, melodic. He draws my name out, emphasizing the syllables as if he is singing it.

  “Tiiiiiii-boooooorrrrr, hulllllooooo.” My own tune echoes flatly through the cavernous interior.

  He smiles, displaying prominent, capped front tee
th, snowy-white against a dark, careworn complexion. Tibor is the janitor at St. Elizabeth’s. He wears his usual short-sleeve white cotton shirt, pen protruding from the pocket, and dark slacks—clothing more befitting the mechanical engineer he was training to become at the Technical University in Budapest before the uprising. His straight posture and deliberate steps also suggest the student he once was, although now he is fifty-two.

  We hug, then separate. I can’t remember when I last saw Tibor, but it’s been months.

  Tibor, his hands on my shoulders, holds me at arms’ length, studying me. “Gyönyörű, beautiful,” he says. The smile fades and the expression lines around his mouth and eyes go slack.

  There can be no mistaking the horrors Tibor has seen and known. It is in his eyes. Eyes so sad, you want to look away. But I stare deep.“Gyönyörű.”

  Tibor’s hands drop from my shoulders. I glimpse gnarled fingertips.

  “And how is Mariska?” he asks.

  I recap what I’d told Gustav earlier. Everything I say is positive, yet Tibor looks skeptical, but then he always does. His hairline is receding, and he has a high forehead accented with dark brows, inverted Vs fixed in a quizzical expression.

  “She’s fine,” I repeat.

  “Good. It is good to know. I have been worried.”

  Tibor and Mariska have known one another for a long time. Before the Soviets took control, his family and Mariska had attended the same church in Budapest. My parents helped to reunite them in 1957 after Tibor, or Tibi then, had come to our parsonage with the disturbing news of Kati’s disappearance. It was years before I would learn Tibor had not also been a freedom fighter like I’d thought. A student, he had participated in revolutionary debates at the university and he was already interned at the camp before the fighting began. He had been lucky. In the final days of the revolution, dissidents storming the labor camp released him, and he escaped Hungary shortly afterward.

  The day after his arrival, we had driven Tibor to Duna Utca in the city. Among Mariska’s many bookstore customers was a Hungarian-American who owned a small tool and manufacturing company on the West side. Mariska invited Tibor to stay with her and Zsófi until introductions were made and the factory owner had hired him.