by Peter Nadas
At Kútvölgyi Hospital, the porter refused to give him any information. He should come back tomorrow morning. Until then no one would tell him anything. It probably would help to get up to the ward and ask the nurse on night duty but the porter refused to allow that; he tried to give him some money, how dare you, shouted the porter.
The lobby was empty. For a while, he pondered which way to go, how to get around the burly man, but the porter was watching him no less attentively. He made one little move, and the man shoved him between the wings of the revolving door and then out to the street.
Shit on him, he’d look for the service entrance. He had to go around the building, climb across a fence, and then there were two such entrances, both closed with heavy metal doors.
Through one of these entrances he could get to the sixth floor.
This is where his dead uncle was too, somewhere inside this enormous building with its lit-up windows. But by then the old fascist had been taken down to the basement to be prepared for transportation. Kristóf stayed for a long time, leaning against the flue of the wheezing, puffing ventilating system; he tried to follow his uncle on his way.
But he did not find Klára on the gynecology ward in this hospital when he returned early the next morning.
In the meantime the sky became overcast again and March turned very wintry.
He got on the bus in front of the hospital and decided that no matter what, he would ring Andria Lüttwitz’s bell, she must know what had happened.
He did ring the bell, but he said not a word about the mink coat. They stood in the hallway where nothing had changed in the past decade and Andria Lüttwitz leaned on the same silver-handled cane. Klára was in the hospital on Üllői Road, after all, and it’s a good thing Kristóf showed up because, on top of everything else, Simon must go out of town early tomorrow morning. She can’t find Klára’s mother because she must have gone to Nagymaros. Kristóf went back to Üllői Road. Where everything started all over again. They did not let him in. He should come back tomorrow during visiting hours. The rear entrance was carefully guarded; a slovenly guard was stacking dishes full of leftovers. Kristóf took the streetcar to Újvilág Street, where perhaps somebody had found the mink coat in the meantime.
The house was wrapped in grave silence.
He rang the bell for a long time before a young man, about his own age, whom he must have interrupted in some engrossing activity, came to the door. Very reluctantly, he said he knew about the matter but nobody had found a mink coat.
Kristóf still wanted to come in.
The young man would not let him.
The next day, during visiting hours, he found a very pale and terribly weak Klára, a Klára whom he did not know but loved more insanely than ever, loved with bated breath. For a while, he sat politely on a chair by her bed, and then they held each other’s hands and stayed that way. Klára closed her eyes as if to doze off; he watched the wonderful vaulting of her eyelids, and when she started up from her sleep, they leaned against each other and cried, moaned, whimpered, and sniveled in the big ward, where seven other women lay in their beds in conditions similar to Klára’s. These women also had visitors, but Kristóf and Klára were so far away from them and everything was so stark, bare, and bleak that they did not reach them with their voices, pain, or looks.
He came at a good time, because she was going to be left alone for a while, she didn’t know for how long.
They could weep freely, nobody heard them, and if they did nobody cared. They were not very loud, anyway; they showed remarkable discipline with their pain.
Simon’s travels are strictly confidential, now he has gone to Brussels and Paris, but Kristóf must not know this.
From that moment on he took care of her. He came to visit her several times a day, bringing fruit, flowers, compote in a small bowl and delicious chicken soup from Andria; he took and washed her laundry so Klára would have a clean nightshirt every day; she had to change her underpants frequently too.
She washes and rinses them in the sink.
No.
When she had to get out of bed, she could hardly stand up. She couldn’t walk out into the corridor without holding on to something.
He found a way to get into the hospital outside visiting hours.
Klára waited for him.
It was a quiet happiness, but they were very happy with each other and because of each other.
And he did not say a word about the disappearance of Andria’s coat. He had a strategic plan about it.
Because of the mourning and the preparations for the funeral, the apartment on Teréz Boulevard was constantly filled with dissembling people. It was not simple to carry out his plan. One sunny morning the prime minister showed up with his secretary, Karakas, but luckily Kristóf happened not to be home. These dissembling people repelled him, they seemed to be light-years from the quiet, painful happiness he was sharing with Klára, and, since she had given him a key to take or return things she needed, he preferred to stay in Simon and Klára’s apartment in Dembinszky Street, sleep in their bed. When he had to go home for clean underwear, some clothes, or his notebooks—because he did go over to Buda to look in on some lectures at the teachers’ college—Ilona told him what had been happening or what could be expected to happen and when. Gyöngyvér will not move out after all, oh no, now everything has changed; they will be getting married just as soon as possible. They will do it in the greatest possible secrecy, avoiding all formalities, not to crush Nínó completely.
They will go on their honeymoon right after the funeral, which is something she, Ilona, doesn’t understand, what’s their hurry, she doesn’t understand that either. But something has really changed between them; all day long they bill and coo, behave as if nobody had died in the house.
They’ll simply go over to the district council office, Hansi and André will be the witnesses, then they’ll go out to eat somewhere; not only is she, Ilona, forbidden to cook anything, but she’s not even to know about this.
She begs Kristóf too not to know anything.
One doesn’t do something like this to one’s dead father or mourning mother, she doesn’t understand it.
She does not understand them, simply does not.
Andria Lüttwitz picked her words carefully when he dropped in on her. It’s clear that Klára will have to stay in the hospital for at least ten days. Such a tremendous loss of blood.
When they bring her home, though, Andria would like to see her mink coat again. Kristóf shouldn’t misunderstand her, not because she needs it, she no longer goes around in such coats, no rush either, there’s no need to hurry, Kristóf shouldn’t trouble himself too much.
The elderly woman’s shyness was touching, and Kristóf was furious that Pisti had done this to him and to Andria.
Andria waited anxiously for Kristóf’s response and, looking for his goodwill, added, when I die it’ll be hers, anyway, because I’ll leave everything to her.
Even if he knew where to look for Pisti, he didn’t have the courage to squeal on him.
No matter how weak Klára still was, Kristóf had to tell her about it.
The coat had not reached her consciousness or she did not care, which made Kristóf’s situation easier. Klára fell asleep, Klára woke up, Kristóf fed her, gave her something to drink, holding her by the elbow, he took her to the toilet; he was on good terms with the nurses, who were curious to know who this handsome young man was, who was not her husband, who had so suddenly disappeared.
First he went to see his uncle in the apartment on Damjanich Street, where he had not been for years. To find out whether it was possible to purchase a mink coat in Budapest, preferably a full-length one, new or used, any kind.
The real question was how much would one spend for it.
Kristóf was very interested in this question.
It would depend, of course, on the quality of the animal, and for whom the coat was to be made, if I am not offending you with my quest
ions.
Actually, Kristóf enjoyed talking about this as dispassionately as if they were real merchants. He did not yet want to say more to his uncle. He wanted to figure out whether his plan could work. This is where he learned from Irén that he had to move out of the Teréz Boulevard apartment because he had irrevocably offended Nínó. He didn’t care; how could he have offended her. And he did not even believe it, because he knew Nínó better. Then he looked up in the telephone book whether that certain photographer, István Stefanek, still existed on Köztársaság Square.
He had to do it before the front gates were locked, so that neither Balter nor old Mr. Pálóczky, helpless since his wife’s death, would see him. He figured he’d do it on the eve of the funeral. The body was indeed lying in state in the lobby of the academy, on a splendid catafalque surrounded by huge clusters of floor standards, and the next day it would be taken from there to be buried.
The widow with her son and brand-new daughter-in-law had not yet come home from their audience with the president of the academy.
He chatted for a while with Ilona, and when he was left to himself in the passageway used as the dining hall, he simply took the painting of the 1848 battle scene off the wall. In his room, he wrapped it in an immaculate lightly starched sheet but, before tying it carefully with string, he had to admit to himself that this would not be enough. He took another painting off the wall of his own room, packed it along with the first one, and left the apartment unnoticed. He chose these pictures because they were not so large that he couldn’t take them by taxi and he guessed that their value would cover the cost of a mink coat.
He made the phone call the next morning, but he was so terribly excited that he had to start several times; he could hardly swallow, let alone speak.
Mrs. Stefanek picked up the phone and put on her husband immediately.
He did it exactly as his grandmother usually did, as dispassionately and briefly, whenever they ran short of money.
What would you say about a small Egry, Kristóf asked.
About what, asked the photographer crossly.
What I just said, about an early Egry.
The quick-thinking photographer had to restrain his astonishment.
And what would you say about an 1850 Neudorfer.
The photographer mumbled something to the effect that he would have to see.
He could come over with the paintings.
Gyöngyvér related almost everything to Ilona, who in turn passed it on to Kristóf on the day of the funeral. They would go to the Rhodopes for their honeymoon; they’ll fly to Sofia and from there they’ll be taken by car to a beautiful house in the mountains, where Ágost’s Bulgarian friends had invited him earlier. Ágost is crazy about mountains. Ever since being recalled from Bern, he doesn’t know how he has survived in this bleak Hungarian wilderness. They might even encounter snow.
Gyöngyvér has never been in the high mountains or in an airplane; true, she hasn’t seen the sea either.
But Ilona did not understand why they were doing it, why they had to do it like this.
However risky Kristóf’s undertaking was, his timing turned out to be good. On the day of the funeral no one noticed that two paintings were missing. Afterward Kristóf himself forgot the whole thing. Empathy for his aunt overwhelmed him—not because of the death but because he understood, from the proportions of the dignified ceremony and the sight of the assembled mourners, how dependent his aunt and uncle had been on each other and what burdens the two of them had carried on their shoulders together, no matter how ridiculous he had thought them.
The young couple left the following morning.
Which for long days literally paralyzed Mrs. Lehr; shocked, she seemed physically to become one with her black garments.
That her own son should do this to her.
She swallowed the secret wedding; she didn’t have time not to because she had to maintain her dignity until the funeral.
She even liked the idea that at the funeral her son did not have to hide his mistress.
But to leave for their honeymoon the next day, well, that was too much.
Kristóf could not let her be alone, even if he had to keep running to the hospital. Mrs. Lehr forgot that she had wanted to kick him out of her apartment. Luckily for her, her memory could retain Geerte van Groot, because she had no one else left, literally not a single human being.
She did not even say good-bye to her son and daughter-in-law.
André Rott drove them to Ferihegy Airport.
Kristóf stole money again from Ágost’s drawer, so he could take a cab to Klára.
Gyöngyvér was about to raise her voice in the almost empty waiting room of the airport and complain that until now Athens had not been part of the itinerary, and what was this new plan anyway.
Think of what I told you last night, in detail, before we went to bed. I hope you can still remember.
Ágost spoke so quietly and pitilessly that she immediately fell silent.
If you want me to, I can repeat it for you.
She concluded from various circumstances at the Athens airport that they would not actually be visiting the Greek capital, because they were going to continue to either Tel Aviv or Istanbul. In her brand-new cream-colored two-piece suit, with a pillbox hat of the same bouclé fabric, she was now keeping her peace with the discipline of an appointed diplomat’s wife. It was as if she were hearing Margit Huber’s ringing encouragement, not so timidly, Gyöngyvér, sustain, sustain. Don’t control your breathing, that happens by itself, with your abdominal wall. Cheerfully she asked no questions and, carefully nurturing her smile, did not comment on the surprising developments, regardless of what might happen.
She did everything the way Margit Huber would have done.
Ágost could be very satisfied with her.
She saw great benefits in her newly gained self-discipline.
They sat on a comfortable leather couch in the waiting room at the airport for about ten minutes, no more. They hardly spoke because Ágost had to look through his freshly bought newspapers. He took off a glove to stroke the fine leather of the couch. The airport was bustling; objects, mysterious people, and their even more mysterious actions arrested Gyöngyvér’s attention. Occasionally something was announced in a number of languages of which she barely understood anything, but she could not truly listen because of her excitement.
She did not quite register when Ágost put down the newspapers and stood up.
Excuse me, he said with peremptory sternness, and this made Gyöngyvér look up and pay attention. He took off across the large hall with his briefcase.
He could have left it on the couch, but the stupid man even took his overcoat with him.
For the first time in her life, Gyöngyvér was left all alone in the echoing waiting area of an airport. Had she not always been left alone, she probably would not have reacted so vehemently; primal fear would not have awakened in her with such force. She wanted to call after him that she too needed to pee and would like to go along. But it was clear that she had to stay put and keep smiling, if only because of their luggage. Don’t be anxious, Gyöngyvér, remember, the job is to sustain, sustain, and she sustained. This helped a little. Ágost did everything with such apparent assurance, was so maddeningly at home everywhere, that she had to leave things to him.
At least she could see where to go when she’d have to. She was terrified that someone might speak to her and she would not understand.
She could still see, and she never forgot, that Ágost, in his hazel nut-brown millepoint traveling suit, at the far end of this white marble hall divided by pilasters, walked at a very leisurely pace down the marble steps. That is when, and in this way, she saw him for the last time. Later, though, she told the Greek security people interrogating her that, quite inexplicably, he had taken with him not only his briefcase but also his sand-colored Burberry coat.
The basement washroom she found at the bottom of those steps had no
other exit, at least she could not find one when an hour later, having lost her patience and already in tears, she managed to entrust the luggage to somebody.
It wasn’t even his briefcase.
What briefcase.
A very nice, brown leather case, she thought it was brand new, she thought it was calfskin, which, along with their other luggage Ágost had taken out of the trunk of his friend’s car at Ferihegy Airport.
What friend.
Now she was confused, uncertain whether to reveal the friend’s name.
Had she seen the briefcase before.
Was she familiar with the contents of the briefcase.
She knew she didn’t have to answer these questions, she should not have mentioned the briefcase at all, or anything else for that matter, because they enjoyed diplomatic immunity, as Ágost had explained in detail the previous evening, but by now it was very late.
It was the same car, André Rott’s, in which one summer morning, after having awakened so happily in the maid’s room of the Pozsonyi Road apartment, they had driven to the Tisza.
As they say, they were as happy as larks that long-ago morning.
She saw that the security men were hooked on the briefcase like fish on the bait.
They jotted down André Rott’s name, but she corrected them, saying she had made a mistake earlier, his real name was András Rott.
As a very suspicious-looking interpreter translated it, she had not seen her husband with that briefcase before and its contents were unknown to her.
Gyöngyvér was living proof that the Hungarian government, in accordance with an agreement, wanted the Eichmann papers delivered to the court in Jerusalem.
Her confession was calculated into the game.
The disappearance of the embassy’s chief counselor on the way to his post was duly recorded, and this official record included the missing person’s overcoat and briefcase.
A Fecund Apricot Tree
He was free at last.
And if he had thought about anything specific during the last happy weeks, anything related both to his everyday activities and to his entire life, then it was this condensed sentence, only four quietly jubilant words, which kept repeating: I’m free at last.