by Ann Bridge
“Kirkland,” said Hope, holding out her hand—like Hempel, the newcomer kissed it. But Hope had noticed how he too checked at the sight of a stranger in the room, and that he eyed her suspiciously, nervously almost, even while he went through the motions of politeness, and she determined to do her errand as quickly as possible. She opened her purse and took out the envelope in which she had put the two passports and the dinars and dollars, and handed it to the young man called Stefan, saying—“I was asked to give these to you personally.”
He took it, with a word of thanks—his French was as good as his Mother’s—and saying, “You will excuse me?” he opened the package. At the sight of its contents he gave a smothered exclamation—the bouncy Jurek hurried to his side to take a look, snatched the passport with his own photograph and waved it in the air. “Papers! Now we have papers! Money, too, Stefan! Look, Aunt Sophie,” he exclaimed, but very low, under his breath—and he thrust the passport under the old lady’s nose, hugging her as he did so; while she put on her spectacles to peer at it he executed a sort of war-dance of triumph, on tiptoe.
But Hope was watching the other. Over his rather severe face too there came an expression of joy and excitement—as for the old lady, when she saw the passport with young Hempel’s photograph she seemed quite overcome with delight; her hands trembled as she asked rather quaveringly—“Stefan has one too?”
“Yes, yes! And dollars!—dollars!” Hempel exclaimed, but still in that curious, almost whispering tone. “Now we are all right! Oh Mademoiselle, whoever you are, I thank you from my heart!”
“Yes,” said the old lady, rising and going over to Hope. “Will you permit me also to thank you, Mademoiselle? You have done great things for us.” And she took the girl’s hand between hers and pressed it.
Hope was both embarrassed and astonished by all this. After all, everyone had pasports! But what impressed her most, came really as a shock, was that all this relief and excitement should be expressed practically in whispers. Could it be that they were afraid of being overheard? Yes: quite plainly they could be, and were.
The young man called Stefan now asked her abruptly, almost sharply, but still in a very low tone—“Who gave you these, Mademoiselle?”
“A friend in Belgrade asked me to bring them.”
He studied her face.
“Do you mean Sam?”
“Yes.”
“He is in Belgrade still?”
“No, he’s gone on to Istanbul.”
“Doesn’t he return here, to Pest?”
“No.”
The young man looked concerned—so did Hempel. Obviously for some reason Sam’s presence or absence was very important to these people, herded together in this poor room. But some feeling other than shyness prevented Hope Kirkland from asking why. She was tremendously intrigued by the whole thing, but she had a vague sense that she had better not get too much mixed up in it—whatever it was. She had done Sam’s job, and—good Heavens, it was after four, she noted, glancing surreptitiously at her diamond wrist-watch—and that was enough.
But Stefan Moranski’s dark eyes were still on her.
“He sent no other message?”
“No, nothing.” She wasn’t going to tell this unknown Pole that Sam had in fact planted the passports on her in a box of chocolates, without a word.
The old lady, while this questioning went on, had set a cheap kettle on the gas-ring; clearly it had not long been off it, for it began to sing very soon. Helped by Hempel she set out glasses with spoons in them on the round table, and very carefully measured out a little sugar into each; she took a teapot and began to make tea, saying in her beautiful French—“Mademoiselle, I hope you will take a glass of tea with us?”
There was nothing for it but to accept, of course. While the tea drew old Madame took a small green apple from a dish which stood on the window-sill, peeled it carefully, and then cut thin slices which she added to the sugar in each glass; Hope noticed that for these operations she used a beautiful little silver fruit-knife, with a mother-of-pearl handle—she left it on the table, and when the tea was poured out and young Hempel drew up the three chairs and a stool from by the big bed, as they took their seats Hope saw that set in the gleaming handle was a small silver shield with a crest, and a monogram below it.
“How delicious the apple makes the tea taste,” she said politely, as she sipped the scalding fluid. This was really quite a difficult social occasion; she had never encountered anything in the least like it before, but she had been trained by her Mother to keep conversation going somehow, and Hope was really very conscientious. The well-meant remark was not a great success—Stefan looked slightly embarrassed, and a faint blush crept into the lady’s cheeks as she replied—“I am so glad that you like it.” Poor Hope could not know that Poles habitually takes slices of lemon in their tea; but lemons being far too expensive then in Budapest, they were reduced to the small bitter green-apple slices instead.
She was able to take her leave at last, saying that her Mother would be expecting her. Stefan sprang up and said that he would see her home.
“Oh don’t bother—there are buses. And I live quite near.” But she said it half-heartedly; she had an idea that if she got this dark intelligent-looking young man alone she might learn the answers to some of the many questions that were knocking round in her head; and when she left, after renewed earnest thanks for her goodness from Hempel and the old lady, Stefan Moranski accompanied her down those shabby but dignified stairs.
But it was he and not she who asked the questions. As they walked along through the chilly dusk towards the lights of the Andrássy ut he turned to her and enquired—“Have you lived long in Budapest?”
“Eight years—we came when I was quite a child.”
“So.” He appeared to be digesting this information. “But you are an American, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes—my Father is in business here. Of course we go home on holiday sometimes,” Hope added, as they emerged into the Andrássy ut and turned left along it. There was a bus-stop about a hundred yards further on, but when they reached it she did not pause. Stefan was interesting, and he looked quite distinguished too, in spite of his shabby raincoat and hat. Of course most refugees must probably be poor, she realized that—but really he might be anything!
His next question surprised her. “Do you work with Sam?” he asked abruptly.
“Work with him? Good Heavens, no! I’m not a journalist,” she said.
He stared at her, when she said that, in a way that made her feel that she had said something silly. “Sam’s—well, he’s a great friend,” she added.
“Ah, yes.” He appeared to digest this too. “But you saw him in Belgrade?”
“Yes, I did—I was down there,” she replied, almost defiantly.
The young man smiled suddenly, a smile of the most beguiling sweetness.
“You must forgive my questions, my interest. You—and Sam—have done something very important for us, more important that you understand, I see. But let me just ask you this—Sam gave no other message? No instructions?”
His smile and his apology completely melted Hope’s incipient irritation.
“No, nothing at all. He just asked me to give those things to ‘Stefan’”—she said the name with a little smile—“and to no one else. I didn’t even know your other name.”
“So,” he said again. His silence this time gave her the impression that he was for some reason disappointed.
“He said he’d be writing me from Istanbul,” she said. “If I hear anything more I’ll let you know, shall I?”
“Do, if you please,” he said.
They continued to walk up the long crowded street, each busy with their own thoughts. Hope had a curiously strong impression that this stranger felt sympathetic towards her, and yet didn’t trust her. Well, no wonder—she was just as strange to him, and probably if you were a refugee you didn’t trust anybody; and there was obviously some monkey-business goin
g on with which Sam was mixed up.
His question about whether she “worked” with Sam came back into her mind—could it be that S. Harrison, the journalist, was in some way regularly connected with refugees and underground doings, that it was a part of his real work? She suddenly felt that she wanted to know, she ought to know, and began to think how to frame a question that her rather silent companion would be willing to answer. He was not, she already realized, an expansive chatterbox like young Hempel.
But just at that moment one of those tiny things happened that so often deflect human intentions. They came to a side-turning down which a car, hooting violently, was coming; the shop on the further side had mirrors in the window, and as they waited for the car at the kerb Hope saw herself clearly in the glass. Good Heavens, her hair! She must have something done to it, or her Mother would notice; Mrs. Kirkland always wanted to see her hair-do when she came back from the coiffeur.
“Oh, could you get me a taxi?” she said rather breathlessly.
“Yes, certainly. But I thought you were going home? Can I not take you?”
Hope began to laugh. “Yes, I was, but you see I had to make some excuse at home when I came out, and I said I was going to the coiffeur. And if I go back with my hair just as it was, my Mother will know I didn’t go—and then there’ll be all sorts of questions.”
He laughed too. “Yes, I understand that. You are very right—I see you are discreet.” His face, grave again, looked at her with approval; this pleased her more than she could have expected. He gave a clear loud whistle to a taxi passing down the further side of the wide street, and lifted his hand with the gesture of one who was accustomed to calling up taxis as a matter of course—as the little car swung round to cross the stream of traffic he turned to her.
“Would you give me your address? In case it should be necessary? Do you mind?”
“No, of course not.” She opened her bag, took a card from her card-case, and handed it to him. He studied it, and then handed it back to her.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, do keep it,” she said.
“Thank you, no. I am accustomed to remembering addresses; it is better.” He dropped the card into her bag again; the taxi had drawn up and was waiting at the kerb. “And the telephone number?”
She said it to him in a low voice—from habit she used the Hungarian numbers.
He repeated it after her, under his breath. “Thank you—I have got that. So you speak Hungarian?” he said, again with that grave look of approval.
“Well naturally. I’ve been here so long. I don’t speak it really well just fluently.”
“Just fluently usually suffices—with Hungarian it is even uncommon,” he said, laughing a little.
“I’ll say it is! What a language! I think the only way is to pick it up as a child, like I did. They say you can learn any language that way—even Chinese.”
“I have been told that Hungarian is more difficult than Chinese,” Stefan Moranski said.
The taxi-man now leaned out of his little cab—it was one of those minute affairs which in Budapest are called “kistaxsi,” leading to facetious remarks; only the word is in fact pronounced kish, and merely means “little”—and asked in German if the Herrschaften wished to go anywhere? He spoke politely, but clearly wondered why a gentleman should call him, and then stand talking with the lady on the pavement.
“Where shall I tell him to go?” Moranski asked.
“Oh, Rubinstein, in the Fehér utca. No!—that won’t do—Mother goes there! Alphonse, in the Vörösmarty Tér.”
Smiling again, the young man gave the order; bowed over Hope’s hand and kissed it, and held open the door. She got in, and was driven away.
3
Hope looked forward with a good deal of pleasure to Bill Hershey’s party at the Arizona; she was fond of Bill, and he gave good parties as a rule. But when it came to the point she found it somehow less amusing than she had expected. Perhaps, she told herself, she was really a bit too tired—it had been a rush getting that quick Eau-de-Cologne friction and set at Alphonse’s in time to get home and satisfy Mrs. Kirkland’s maternal glance at her sleek little head, though she had got by with that. But all through the evening—laughing with Bill, parrying questions about Sam in Belgrade from little Mrs. Linklater, who was really a dear but would be arch, watching the floor-show, dancing with her compatriots, exchanging civilities with Mme Arizona (who sure enough stalked about in one of her amazing costumes, her silver fox on its silver chain padding round beside her, baring its teeth at the clients to whom she was being polite)—all through the noise and lights and music and laughter Hope kept finding her thoughts straying back to the room in the Radolny utca, and the people in it: the little timid old lady, with her beautiful French and her gracious manners, the cheerful bouncy Hempel, and that grave and rather intimidating young man Stefan Moranski. They seemed to have some quality which made them more alive than her immediate companions; anyhow she couldn’t stop thinking about them.
“Hope’s distraite tonight—I expect her thoughts are away in Belgrade,” Mrs. Linklater said at one point, when Bill had had to speak twice before he got an answer. And though Hope smiled civilly she felt a sharp irritation with the good-natured little woman, for her thoughts had not been in Belgrade at all, but in a shabby pension in Pest.
The impression faded a little as the week passed, and on the night of the ball at the Park Club she was not in the least absent-minded, and enjoyed herself enormously. Hope had only been “out” for a year, and it was the first time that she had been at one of the big balls attended by Hungarian society. In the end they dined, not at the Kis Royal but at Ludlábkirályné, “La Reine Pédauque”, a restaurant of quiet elegance where the food was exquisite, much patronized by the Hungarians. There was a small gypsy orchestra of four or five, mostly strings; all through the meal they played, rather softly, haunting Hungarian melodies, passionate or yearning or gay—the music hung behind the conversation like a curtain, instead of drowning it in a brazen roar. During the latter part of the meal the first violin, according to the local custom, walked round among the diners and played to one table alone, or even to a single individual at it, leaning over them, fiddling practically in their face, his head bent sideways across his instrument, his eyes under half-closed lids gazing at the person to whom he was playing.
This trick of gypsy musicians, however flattering, is often disconcerting to a newcomer; there is something hypnotic about those parrot-like drooped lids so close to one’s face; you feel that the player is forcing the music into you, compelling you to feel what it means, and what he means it to mean. And this particular first violin not only drooped his eyelids like a parrot, raising and lowering them like shutters—he looked rather like a parrot himself, with his hooked nose and pale fleshless face.
Presently he approached Count Zichy’s table. “What shall he play?” the young man asked Hope.
“Oh, Szép Rózsa” (Beautiful Rose), the young girl said.
The gypsy smiled secretively, showing white teeth, pleased at a foreign lady who knew Hungarian tunes by name. He swung round on his heel towards the little orchestra as he broke into the opening bars, his body flexed to the rhythm; the others switched smoothly into the fresh melody and fiddled away, bending, twisting, playing with their whole bodies as gypsies do. Szép Rózsa is a lively well-known tune, and soon half the restaurant were keeping time with some part of themselves, while a few of the men hummed or sang the words. Gypsy musicians can only fully do themselves justice when they are warmed up by appreciation and sympathy, which is why, to those who know how they really can play, their records and radio performances seem thin and lifeless. The leader turned round again to Hope, then, playing to her and for her; she knew the drill and leaned back in her chair, unembarrassed and faintly smiling at him while he thrust his violin close under her chin, moving one hand gently in time with the music. Presently with a deep bow he moved away. Tibor Zichy put out his hand with
notes in it, which the man took, bowing, before returning to his little band.
“You like our music, I see,” the old Countess said to Hope. She was painfully accustomed to foreigners who became hysterical under the hypnotic treatment, and asked to have the violinist removed.
“I adore it,” Hope said. That was true, but so far she had only heard it in restaurants, played for people who were chiefly concerned with their food or their friends; later that evening she learned what gypsy playing really can be, when it is devoted to its main traditional purpose, dancing. A normal, rather good band played the normal sub-Spanish or sub-African dance tunes in the great ballroom at the Park Club till about two in the morning; then, just as most of the foreigners were leaving, Berkés and his gypsies arrived, and took the place of the other band on the dais.
And then the real thing began. Old Berkés stood well forward in front of his brightly dressed troop; his violin as he played the opening phrases of a famous csárdás tune rang out like a tocsin, a call to action to the assembled company—and as if summoned by some powerful incantation the performers of that bewitching dance moved out into the middle of the floor and took their places in pairs, facing one another, hands on each other’s shoulders, and began to go through the immensely rapid and complicated steps. A thing Hope noticed was that the dancers did not move mechanically, nor did their faces wear the blank mask-like expression usual in performers of jazz, and so horribly caricatured in Noel Coward’s terrible ballet “Dance, dance, dance little Lady”—they looked absorbed and concentrated, but they looked at one another, with smiles and animation.
As in duty bound, after a turn with another partner Tibor Zichy led his guest out. She had taken lessons in the csárdás, and practised it, but the skill of her partner’s footwork, his minute and delicate steps, together with Berkés’ dynamic rhythms left her gasping and completely out-classed. “Oh Tibor, I can’t do it so fast”—she panted out.