ii
The village is branded into a hillside greener than I had expected and lies like some Andalusian white-town in siesta. I rest the wagon beside an uprooted tree and continue on foot. A path leads up to a cluster of stone buildings huddled together under crumbling orange roofs. Pastel greens. Shaded whites. As I pass, some old women in black shawls have appeared, staring from the shadows of their doorways. One of them has come up to her gate and smiles at me. Isten hozott, she whispers. Her skin hangs dark and leathery, but in her eyes burns the distinctive sparkle of wisdom - she had always expected me. I pass by. It's only a short walk to the centre. There's hardly a sound. Dust tracks seem to disappear into bushes of shadow that are doorways. I'm walking into an oven, into a baking, crumbling maze of stone.
I find the house sign I am looking for and knock, conscious of sudden emptiness pressing my chest as if I am bruised there. As I wait, my thoughts become filled with her, infused with the illusions of memory. I tell myself that I miss her. But I do, I miss our fights in the 'corner' bar, the kiskutya in her tears, the bitter flowers of her kiss. The shadow of a figure appears at the window, and someone is coming to the door. My heart is pounding. What will I say? Seconds pass as hours. My head is floating and the pit of my stomach is stoned with hunger. I see her - just as she was the first time she walked with me, hesitant, beautiful, leaning against a door, laughing almost. To be meeting her again - for the first time - feeling again the brush of her arm as we walked through that alley... Seconds pass as days. I am slipping, into the desperate stores that once were ours, memory and memories, peeling away like untied ribbons - it's easy to laugh at such things - shutters of spontaneity, unexpected packages of freedom, of illusion...
I catch my first glimpse of her, footsteps echoing about me, surprised glances. In the austere office on the second floor I found three women busy behind computer screens. I'm standing at the door with a letter in my hand, to a professor in the city of Pecs, a letter that I need translating. The stern one in the middle beckoned me over. Her name was Anna and it was all very easy, I pay in the next office and collect the document four working days later. I don't know what it was, her or me, but I didn't want to finish that brief conversation. Something in her closed manner immediately halted me, attracted me, caused me to want to pry her open. That same evening, driven by an over-confidence I seem able to muster only in places where it is certain nobody knows me, I waited outside the building and asked if she'd have a drink with me. She didn't even seem to know me. I couldn't tell if her reply was positive or negative. Oh, it's you! Look, this is not convenient! And I'm in a hurry. Goodbye. I returned apprehensively to pick up my letter the following week and she accepted me at her desk with what appeared to be a glint of humour in her eyes. I pulled a chair over next to hers and she went through the letter with me, clause by clause, seemingly cheerful about something, looking very much the unruffled cowgirl in her jeans and brown boots.
You're a composer? she asked.
I hesitate. Well, you know, trying. She's waiting for me to go on. I'm getting some, you know, musicians together... to put on some concerts here. I had a sudden and urgent need for water, or, absurdly, a cigarette. I heard myself swallowing. What else could I say? I play in a hotel. Maybe you know...
But why here? she laughed.
Well... Budapest is such a mysterious place! I like the folk music... and then there's lots of tourists... I was trying to explain that tourists meant concert-goers, people willing to hand over larger amounts of readies for a holiday treat, or so I imagined, ensuring the musician's commitment and time, the hiring of halls... She's looking at the screen. I'm boring her already. She turned to face me. Then she looked down. You know, I was really surprised last week. We get some crazy people around here. Really! My friend Katia had to run onto a trolley one time! He was following her like a dog!
A clear autumnal day in a fabulous new city! Gold rims on the photo frames on her desk, catching the afternoon sun. Points of light darting about on the whitewashed ceiling. Her stern office face had vanished. In its place a mitigating, almost cheeky smile.
Yep, there's a lot of us shifty ones about, I add.
She twiddled her eyebrows.
I'm sorry if I surprised you.
I like surprises. She laughed again, softly, softly...
I tried to catch the colour of her eyes and momentarily seemed to lose my balance. Both her colleagues - big women with matching horn-rimmed glasses - were looking over. I felt her gaze shift from my forehead to the side of my face. Some strands of hair had fallen across her eyes and with her fingertips she now placed them back behind her ears. She leaned forward to set up the printer and my vision became blurred with the scent from her skin. She prodded a couple of keys and slipped out to collect the printout. I heard someone calling, someone who used to live inside me a long time ago - go on, she's changed her mind, she likes you... go on y'egit... but something resisted, something doubted still. Even then I had the distinct feeling that keeping my composure was more important than gambling with possible rejection, as if asking someone out for a second time would ruin me... In her absence I wondered how many times this had happened. How many opportunities had passed through my silences, my unbreakable layers of insecurity? And how many more before the voice I know is there is able to say simply, quietly: I like you, come on, let's go for some coffee?
She returned with the letter, some copies in an envelope and to my surprise said she'd accompany me to the alleyway that lead to the street. As we walked along together I felt the brush of her sleeve against my arm, my heart rattling against my bony chest. We approached the iron gate that served as door. She lifted up her hand towards the heavy handle. I felt unable to say a word, unable to break the stubborn uneasiness multiplying within me. In the chambers of my inaction I could hear my own hesitation cursing me! She held the handle firmly, then leaning against the frame looked down to the stone floor, smiling - laughing almost. With webs of hair clinging to her face, she lifted her eyes up to meet mine and broke the seal with my own words:
And about that drink? she laughed.
The door opens. Two old faces appear from the darkness. I am greeted with timid smiles and open arms. Strangers are overjoyed that I have come. I feel as if I know them well. Their eyes and hooked fingers beckon me into a small room.
Kiskutya - A Musician's Tale Page 2