“I don’t know, dear. That’s wasn’t true for me.”
“Don’t say you went to a southern college, Cassandra,” Archie said.
“Archie, what does it matter?”
“Background, background,” he said. “I’m working on your profile for the Gleaner.” Suddenly he thought of a solution to this uncomfortable conversation. “Okay, Jack. Cassandra. Let’s talk about travel. I want to hear about the best trip you ever took.”
“Best as in best, or best as in worst?” asked Jack.
“The best trips are always the worst trips,” I explained. “Terrible journeys become delightful in recollection, chiefly by becoming even more terrible than when experienced.”
“I think I see,” said Archie. “How about the best of the worst then?”
Jack and I pondered this. Was an earthquake worse than dysentery? Was being lost worse than being on a bus ride from hell, crammed in between goats and sick children? There were so many ways that travel could go wrong. Some problems—transport that arrived late or not at all, unwelcome male attention (that irritant of our youth had diminished as we’d grown older, though never entirely), food that did not agree—had happened to each of us so often that they seemed more inconveniences than disasters. The bottom line was that the things you were afraid of in travel were the things you were afraid of in life. To get through fear was to survive, and to tell a story about survival was to testify both to your own inner strength and to the general beneficence of the universe.
Jack began. “I was on a bus in Bolivia. I’d been traveling with my friend Edith from Germany, but she got dysentery and ended up in a hospital in La Paz. They didn’t think I had it, but in fact I did, and was getting progressively sicker. I’d left La Paz and was on my way to the Yungas valleys. The bus was a local and very slow. Because it didn’t have a loo and I was needing to relieve myself pretty often, I’d get off at every stop and look for someplace halfway hidden. We were passing through a stark, high landscape, gaining in altitude; it was bitterly cold and night was falling. I couldn’t see my way very well away from the bus and fell into a kind of gully. While I was squatting, something stung me, I couldn’t see what, but I panicked, thinking it was a scorpion.
“I staggered up from the gully, weak from dysentery, with a stinger in my behind, and saw the bus roaring off without me. I tried to run for it, but because of the twilight I couldn’t see a thing, and tripped and sprained my ankle. All my stuff, except for my passport and money, was on the bus.
“I hardly ever cry, but as I lay there on the ground, I thought, This is the absolute end, this is the worst moment of my life, nothing could be worse than this. Then I heard footsteps…”
Jack paused so that we could imagine rescue and went on. “When I looked up, two men in uniform were standing over me with submachine guns pointed at my head.”
“Don’t forget their German Shepherd,” I murmured.
“And they had a huge German Shepherd that looked ready to tear me limb from limb.”
“And you didn’t speak enough Spanish to explain.”
“Cassandra, I’m telling this! So I’m lying there, thinking, Go ahead, put me out of my misery. But no, they say something, and then when I don’t move, they haul me up and drag me to their guard house and they…”
Archie interrupted anxiously, “Is this something Cathy shouldn’t hear?”
“Dad, you keep treating me like a baby. I’m not a baby!”
“And they dressed my ankle, pulled out the stinger and showed me it was just a nettle, gave me some hot soup, and put me into a warm bed with blankets. And the next day they drove me to the hospital in La Paz, where I spent the next two weeks!”
Bree said, “You’ve lived such an incredible life, Jack!”
“I’ve got a South American story too,” I said. “Jack and I had been traveling in Ecuador [“Not fair!” Jack poked me in the side], and had decided we wanted to go to the Galápagos Islands. Actually it had been my big dream for years to get there. We’d made our boat reservations from Quito and then the day before we were supposed to leave we traveled to the port city of Guayaquil.
“The next morning we had a big argument about something…”
“You were being completely obnoxious…”
“And I took my stuff and said I’d meet up with her at the boat at six that evening. I went to a bank to change some money and a few blocks later someone robbed me at knifepoint and took my bag with all my money and identification.
“This turned out to be one of the times when having two passports was a very mixed blessing. When I went to the police station to report the loss, I told them I was American. Meanwhile, someone had found my bag and brought it in. It had my boat ticket to the Galápagos and my Irish passport. Apparently the thief had decided to keep the American one. The police found this all very suspicious. They said I wasn’t going anywhere until they found out who I really was.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever had one of those dreams where you’re late for the airport and you haven’t packed and you have too many clothes to fit in the suitcase and your taxi hasn’t come and all the time the clock is ticking very round and large on the wall, and you keep only having five minutes before departure but you know you’ll never make it. Well, that was what my day in the police station was like. They locked me up in a cell and wouldn’t let me make any phone calls. I kept telling them that I had a boat to catch and that my friend would be worried about me, but they ignored me until finally they got a confirmation from the American Embassy in Quito that I really was an American citizen. They let me go just before six o’clock.
“I raced to the dock. I knew that Jack would have been terribly worried about me, and that she would have been searching the entire city, and that she would never let the boat leave without me…”
“I just thought that you were mad at me and had decided not to come,” Jack said. “Hell, I’m going to be hearing this story for the rest of my life! Aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are! I still haven’t been to the Galápagos, and now there are too many tourists.”
“Well,” said Archie. “If that’s the life of the world traveler, maybe it’s better to stay home. I’m glad I don’t have stories like that to tell.”
“But our first trip to Romania was a little like that, Archie,” said Lynn. “Don’t you remember the day when we were in a taxi with our lawyer Eugen and suddenly we were surrounded by a gang of men in blue shirts and blackened faces who were supposed to be miners? They surrounded the taxi and smashed one of the windows and were rocking it back and forth. We were terrified; we made it to the American Embassy but the doors were locked. Finally we got back to our hotel with the other people looking for children, and we had to barricade ourselves in for two days.”
Cathy looked at her father accusingly. “You never wrote about that, Dad.”
“Well, it’s not an experience I like to remember,” he said. “Besides, I’m sure it wasn’t directed at us personally.”
In the robin’s-egg-blue house, it was as if time had stood still. Emma and her grandfather were still practically in the same positions, fiddling away. We could see them through the window.
An irate and tired-looking Zsoska came out of the house. Her frosted hair was piled loosely on her head and she was wearing a rayon negligee with a sweater over it. She made sawing motions with her arm.
“Driving me crazy. No sleeping, only music.”
“She’s like that at home, too,” said Archie. “We have to take the violin away from her at night.”
“Hello,” said Lynn, holding out her hand. “You must be Zsoska. I’m Lynn, Emma’s adoptive mother.”
“Emoke staying,” said Zsoska, not taking Lynn’s hand, but regarding her suspiciously and crossing her arms over her chest.
Lynn just smiled and went over to Emma.
“Hello, Emma,” she said.
Emma appeared glad to see her. At least she stopped playing for a moment and smiled at Lynn and allowed he
rself to be embraced. I wondered if Archie had ever noticed that his wife didn’t actually talk very much. Next to the laconic Lynn, Emma’s speechlessness didn’t seem so unusual.
Cathy’s voice broke urgently through the quiet reunion. “Mom, maybe we should just leave Emma here, I mean, this is her real family and everything. She’s got a mom and grandparents and everything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cathy,” said Archie, trying to interpose himself between her and Zsoska, so the latter wouldn’t understand. “How can you even say such a thing? Emma’s your sister. She lives with us. We went to a lot of trouble to get her.”
“You spent a lot of money, that’s what you did! You bought her! I saw that show on 60 Minutes.”
“Emoke staying,” said Zsoska, arms still folded, her face looking more hawk-like than before.
“Archie,” said Lynn easily. “Why don’t you bring in the food from the car?”
Eating put Zsoska in a better mood. While Jack and Bree went out to explore the village, Zsoska invited us to sit down. She was prepared to bargain. “I going United States. With Emoke.”
“But Zsoska,” said Archie. “You wouldn’t want to leave your parents. Not your old parents.”
“Mother, father coming too. You building us house, Snapp.”
“Well, Archie,” said Lynn. “There’s always that prefab yurt you’ve been threatening to put together for the last five years.”
Archie didn’t smile. “It’s not that you aren’t welcome to visit anytime, Zsoska, but think about it. You live in a fascinating culture, the Székely culture. Your roots are here, your folklore, your traditions. It wouldn’t be fair to your parents.”
Zsoska said something in Hungarian to her father. Bright-eyed, he slapped his knee and nodded. “Igen, igen”—the Hungarian word for yes.
“My father wanting come to America.”
Cathy said, “Mom, you’re not going to let these people live in our backyard in a yurt, are you? It’s too totally weird. Everybody in the neighborhood already thinks we’re completely insane. You should just leave Emma here if she’s happy.”
“I suppose we could see about getting them all visas, Archie,” said Lynn. “I don’t imagine that Zsoska has much of a future here.”
“What’s she going to do in Ann Arbor?” Cathy demanded. “Work at Denny’s? She’s a terrible waitress, Mom.”
“Lynn, think about it,” pleaded Archie. “The complications. Who would be Emma’s mother? You don’t know Zsoska, she’s out of control. She’d be running our lives with her temper tantrums and whims. And her parents? We haven’t even met her mother. What if she’s like Zsoska? No, Lynn, it’s one thing to meet the relatives, it’s another to give up Emma. We’re going to have to…” he touched his pants pocket lightly to indicate his wallet. “You know.”
The gesture wasn’t lost on Zsoska.
“Money not enough now, Snapp. United States of America. Or Emoke staying.”
“Mom, why don’t you ask Emma if she even wants to go. Maybe she’s happy, maybe she wants to stay here.”
“All right,” said Lynn, turning to Emma, where she sat watching everything with her usual lack of expression.
“Lynn, Emma doesn’t know what’s going on,” said Archie. “You can’t ask a four-year-old what she wants. Especially when it’s a question that will have a major effect on her whole life.”
Lynn ignored him and stretched out her arms to Emma. “Emma. Do you want to come back home with Daddy and Mommy and Cathy, or do you want to stay here?”
“Emoke,” said Zsoska, and presumably repeated the same question in Hungarian. She also stood with her arms out, but more as if she were imitating Lynn than expressing her natural desires.
While Lynn looked like Athena, balanced and fair, Zsoska was more like Lilith, cast out of heaven for not being subservient enough, defiant, rebellious, a she-demon dangerous to men and small children.
“Emma doesn’t understand what’s going on,” moaned Archie. “This is inhuman.”
“She’s nodding,” said Cathy. “She wants to stay.”
Emma was nodding. She stood in the middle of the room between the two women with their arms outstretched and she nodded her head up and down, just like her grandfather a few moments before.
And then she opened her mouth and said, “Igen.”
I left the house after this, partly to tell Jack and Bree the amazing news that Emma had spoken for the first time, and partly to escape the argument that ensued. As with any Delphic oracle, interpretation was everything. Had Emma meant yes, she wanted to go back to America, or yes (igen), she wanted to stay in Lupea?
I found Bree down the road videotaping some picturesque chickens in a yard hung with the bright red and pink washing of a Gypsy family, and Jack examining in great detail one of the carved gates in front of a nearby house.
“I was just reading somewhere,” she said, “that there’s a centuries-old tradition in this part of Europe of women illustrating embroidery and other folk art with images of the Goddess. Isn’t that incredible, that in spite of domination and repression, women have been able to keep their own traditions alive? To find a non-verbal way to tell their own stories? It was women’s work, so nobody noticed.”
She traced a stylized pattern on the tall wooden gate. “I think I see some Goddess imagery here too.”
“You’re seeing Goddess imagery in so many places that I’m starting to see it too. And I’m not a spiritual person.”
“You can’t fight the Zeitgeist,” said Jack. “The Goddess is returning.” She flashed me her wicked white smile. “I’m thinking about going over to the States for a while,” she said.
“You hate North America.”
“This is the second Californian I’ve been involved with in four months,” she said. “It might be a sign. You know the women’s spirituality movement is very big in California.”
“What about Eva? Aren’t you supposed to be running a business in Budapest?”
“Eva just needed a tax write-off, a financial break, my Australian passport number. It’s time to move on.”
“Then why not come to China with me? It’ll be like old times. It’ll be more of an adventure than California, that’s for sure. You don’t want to lose your edge.”
For a moment Jack’s gray eyes lit up. I knew she had never been south of Shanghai. Then she shook her curly head. “The ley lines are calling me,” she said.
“I give you two months with Bree. Max.”
“Not every relationship between an older and a younger woman fits the evil headmistress model, Cassandra. Which you should know very well.”
I thought about Dede, who used to joke that I had seduced her. Was that the reason I’d been so edgy around Bree? Because I saw myself at her age, myself with her wild, frightening desire? I’d been less self-assured and more repressed than Bree, unable to name what I felt, but still driven to act. There had been no political movement, no obvious role models to emulate or rebel against. The words for how we felt and what we wanted weren’t in print or spoken aloud, though if you knew where to look, you could see the signs everywhere.
“Just don’t let her put you in a lesbian vampire film,” I said.
“I’m surprised that the subject of vampires hasn’t come up more often,” she said. “After all, we are in Transylvania.”
“Frankly,” I said, as we watched a big car come roaring up the dirt road towards us, “I’m starting to think that vampires are the least interesting thing about Transylvania.”
What was a Mercedes doing in this part of the world? What was a new Mercedes with German license plates doing stopping in front of Zsoska’s house?
A husky blond man in his thirties, dressed in a form-fitting training suit and Adidas sneakers, got out of the car, carrying a big shopping bag and a boom box playing an amplified polka. There were gold chains around his neck and more on his heavy wrists, along with a huge gold watch that shone in the sun.
Could it be Zs
oska’s jealous Saxon lover, Rolf?
“Excuse me,” I said to Jack. “I think the third act is just beginning.”
Chapter Nineteen
SOME YEARS AGO, when I was visiting Taiwan, a Chinese friend pointed out a poster of the film Rebel Without a Cause. The title had been translated as “To Give Birth To Children Without Teaching Them Whose Fault It Is.”
In the extended Reilly family, where the Cult of the Baby was diligently practiced, birth control was forbidden and motherhood was sacred, but motherhood had less to do with raising children than with procreation for the glory of it. Every Reilly woman who became a mother was a goddess of fecundity, but every Reilly child who survived was on his or her own. My mother might think she had too many children, but she never seemed to feel she’d had too many babies. She loved babies so much that she wanted everyone to have them, even Maureen, especially Maureen, who would rather have had an abortion if she’d only known where to go.
Does giving birth make a mother? What about women who are forced to be mothers? Maureen, who had sobbed hysterically on her wedding night and whined bitterly throughout her pregnancy, said, “Once I held that little innocent in my arms, I couldn’t imagine not being his mother.” But not every reluctant mother feels that way.
Is a mother merely a gateway through which a new soul passes into the physical universe? Is she a snack bar open twenty-four hours a day but only for nine months? Is a mother a house you can live in through your childhood and longer, a house big enough to hold you both, a house where the rooms connect and the doors are open? Or is a mother a hotel? Sometimes with a vacancy, and sometimes full up.
The man was so tall and deep-gutted that he made the front room of the little house seem to shrink to playhouse size. I had missed the first moment of greeting, but Zsoska and Rolf were still at it when I came in. Rolf had lifted Zsoska off the ground and was kissing her vigorously, while the others looked on: Grandpa and Emma indifferently, the elder Snapps in some bafflement, and Cathy with an expression of intense repulsion and curiosity. The atmosphere had changed from that of a Greek tragedy to a television domestic farce. The Bavarian pop music had followed Rolf inside and now sat blaring polkas on the table. A glow of German prosperity transformed the room. Part of it had to do with Rolf, who must have just splashed himself with cologne before he got out of the car, and whose gleaming gold jewelry, solid girth and engineered tan suggested access to all the fabulous riches of the West; and part of it had to do with the riches themselves.
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