Strangers in Budapest

by Jessica Keener

  “And you’re not American?” She was joking of course. She took another swig of water, letting the water spill over her chin.

  He laughed, showing white symmetrical teeth. “I’m as American as they come. I’m as Hungarian as they come, too. There’s no denying both sides of me.”

  “My old neighbors are Hungarian—Hungarian American. They came to the States after the war.”

  “Yep. We’re everywhere. You can take the Hungarian out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of . . . You know what I mean.”

  “Sure.” She tasted salty drops sliding into the corner of her mouth. “You know, you were right. The policeman said that the wallet stealing was a racket. How did you know? Did you hear about it?”

  Stephen bent over to pick up a twig, then twirled it in his hand, considering. “I read about it in the paper. Listen. Money is replaceable. You have identification papers. That’s the important thing around here. Whatever you do, don’t lose those.” He flicked the twig into the air. They both watched it arc then land in the street.

  “You’re well informed.”

  “I know the drill. My uncle and a few cousins still live south of here. Near the Yugoslavian—now Croatian—border.”

  “Things are bad there, aren’t they?” She’d been reading about the increasing number of refugees crossing the border into Hungary.

  “It’s a sad situation.” He made a gesture toward his shirt pocket to light another cigarette, then changed his mind. Instead, he sighed a long, heart-heavy sigh. “I need to go down there. Have you traveled the country outside of Budapest?”

  “Not much. Not yet, anyway. We will, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll take you and Will sometime. Show you the country the way the natives see it.”

  “That would be great. I’ll tell Will.”

  She reached up and tugged on a leaf stem again until it broke off. Even in the heat, the soft, green membrane felt cool between her palms.

  She handed him her leaf. “Feel this. Ever wonder how leaves withstand the sun beating down on them all day?”

  He said something, twirling the leaf and letting it fall, but his words got lost in the noise of a truck rumbling past them, its brakes screeching, before entering the main boulevard. They both laughed simultaneously at the raucous sound.

  “Don’t get stuck behind one of those on the highway,” he said. “Take it from me. It will drive you insane.”

  “What made you decide to move here?” Annie asked.

  “I didn’t decide.” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “The truth? I came for my dad. My parents fled after the ’56 uprising, but it was hard on them. Very hard. Dad took his life when I was six.” He closed his eyes, summoning something inside, and said, “I came back here for him.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He opened his eyes, his whole face inviting her to be with him in his sadness. “Thanks. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. We’ve just met. You’re easy to talk to, but it’s not a great way to endear myself to you.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. I lost my brother that way.”

  She felt his hand on her arm. “Sorry, Annie.”

  She let out a short breath thinking how differently Stephen and Mr. Weiss had responded to the same two words: I’m sorry. Stephen soaked them in. Edward repelled them. For a moment, she allowed herself to share an exchange of silence under the tree. She scuffed a pebble with her sneaker, the street quiet except for dull sounds of traffic and horns rising from the boulevard.

  “I have a theory,” Stephen said. “People like us, we have a kinship. I sensed something in you at Luigi’s. The moment I met you.”

  She shifted her stance and took another swig of water. She wanted to say that she felt comfortable, too, when she met him but instead said simply, “Thanks. That’s sweet,” and let the moment settle between them before directing the conversation to what was really on her mind. “I have a question. What do you know about the Gypsy population here? They can’t all be thieves.”

  “They’re not. But you need to be careful. They live by a different set of rules.”

  “What about the children? I’m sure they need clothing, money, books?”

  “They’re cut from a different cloth. What are you thinking?”

  “They’re terribly poor. The other day I saw two little Gypsy girls without shoes. They couldn’t have been older than six or eight or ten. Maybe I could donate money for clothing.”

  “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

  “You have our number.”

  “I sure do.”

  Stephen straightened his stance and waved at someone behind her.

  “Excuse me, Annie. There’s my client. I’m afraid I’ve got to get going. Thanks for listening to my sidewalk confessional. I think I did most of the talking.”

  She turned and saw a tall, dark-haired man walking toward them. The man stopped about a block away.

  She shook her head. “Not at all. It was mutual.”

  “Good.” Stephen tipped an invisible hat, offering a half smile, his eyes sweeping over her in a gentle, beckoning way.

  “See you soon,” she said.

  “I hope so.”

  He hurried down the block to join his client.

  She stayed under the tree, bending over to tie her sneakers, which didn’t need tying, but she didn’t want him to look back and see her heading toward Mr. Weiss’s building. Did it make her a liar to be deceptive in this way? She had promised Mr. Weiss. So she waited and watched as Stephen and his client kept walking toward the main boulevard in the direction of Luigi’s. Another block and they veered toward the center of town, crossing a wide intersection over trolley tracks, then disappearing down a side street. Only then did she proceed down the remaining three blocks to Mr. Weiss’s building.

  This time she didn’t hesitate to enter the foyer and start up the center stairway. She had little hope that Mr. Weiss had found Will’s wallet on the floor, but it would be the reason she would give him, the excuse, she decided, for showing up once again unannounced. And it wasn’t a fabrication. The wallet could have fallen out of Will’s pocket when he was lifting the jogger up the stairs. Or maybe someone found it and turned it in to the building super. Every building had a super in Budapest.

  She stood in front of Mr. Weiss’s door and knocked twice. The peephole in the door lightened.

  “It’s me.”

  She lifted her now-empty water bottle to say hello and listened to the metal chain sliding off the track, the double locks unbolting.

  “You again? What is it? Where’s your boy?”

  “Home. I’m sorry. I would have called, but I didn’t have your number. I won’t stay. Will lost his wallet Saturday. Did you happen to find it? I was hoping it might be here.”

  He grunted. “No. But come in and look. See for yourself. You don’t think I would have called you?”

  He had on a different set of pajamas—she was glad to see that. But he didn’t look well, though she saw he had made an effort to comb his hair, and he smelled of fresh paint, not burned toast.

  “Thank you.” She stepped inside. Will was right in presuming Mr. Weiss would have called. What did she really know?

  “What kind of businessman loses his wallet?” he asked her.

  She felt provoked but ignored the comment and glanced at the floor. Everything looked the same—the long electric cord leading from the fan to the wall socket, the standing fan buzzing and turning, some magazines and those paintings in a stack on the floor by the easel. She saw that he’d opened the curtains wider for more light.

  “We think someone stole it, unfortunately.” She stood near the door, ready to leave. “May I have your phone number? That way I won’t worry about disturbing you. I see you’re painting.” She turned toward the easel.

  “Never mind that. You’re here. Why are you running in this heat? That’s not smart, is it? Drink some water. Fill up your bottle. Go on. Help yourself. The
n I’ll give you my phone number.”

  She went into the kitchen.

  “Let it run a minute,” he said.

  She stood at the white ceramic sink and waited for the stream of lukewarm water to cool. The man’s paternal manner surprised her. She couldn’t remember the last time her own father expressed such a simple concern for her well-being.

  “Thanks.”

  She walked back into the living room and stood, not sure whether to sit down or to leave. She remained standing. He sat on the couch.

  “What did the police say to you?”

  “Thieves go after tourists, Americans. We went to a restaurant after we left you. Well, first we bought some flowers. Will said two men bumped into him on the sidewalk. I didn’t see it happen. I guess they set him up.”

  “They spotted an easy target. I can see that.”

  “What do you mean by that?” She felt offended. Easy target—those words again.

  “Come on. You’re a neon sign. Americans with money. What are you doing here? You’ve got a life. A baby.”

  “The baby’s happy here.”

  She sipped her water, insulted now by his goading. Why couldn’t he simply say, “I’m sorry that happened,” and let it be?

  “Look, you’re floating, that’s what I think. You’re here with your kid and your husband, but what about you? What are you doing here? You don’t want to be one of those women following her husband around. What did you do before you came here?”

  She couldn’t believe he was saying these things to her. How could he possibly know what she needed or who she was?

  “I worked with homeless men in Boston. At a shelter. Maybe Rose already told you.”

  “Ah. Perfect.” He grinned a little too gleefully. “You’re a social worker, is that it? A helper type. You know what I say to that? What for? Who are you helping? My daughter was that way. I could never understand it. Maybe you can give me an idea.”

  “What did you daughter do?”

  “She helped vampires. They sucked on her until she got sick and then she kept helping them anyway.” He gritted his teeth.

  “What is she doing now?”

  He shook his head, his face twisting. “Dead. Gone.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He swatted the air.

  She glanced at the framed torn photo of a woman in a wheelchair and assumed it was his daughter.

  “Enough with the apologies. Look, you’re too young to waste your time here. You have a family. Your son. Go home and make a life for yourself. You’re wasting your time here.”

  He spoke as if he heard her private, nagging thoughts, and it made her want to cry. She felt her eyes watering.

  “I have to get back. Could I have your number?”

  She tried to steady herself by focusing on his neck, wrinkled, with stray gray chest hairs poking out of his V-neck shirt.

  Edward squirmed on the couch. “Don’t cry. I’ve upset you now. Don’t get mad at me. I’m an old, decrepit man, but I’ve lived longer than you, remember? You’ll be old one day. I don’t have time for BS, I told you that. I’ll tell you what I see. Social workers, people like you, they make it their business to help other people, but let me tell you, if you dig a little, you’ll find you’re trying to help yourself. It’s about you, not them.”

  She didn’t know whether to pursue this talk any further. Yet something inside her nudged her to be direct and uncensored with him. It felt like the only way.

  “I find comfort in helping people in need. They open up in ways others don’t. Not always, but often. Like you, they cross lines. They talk about how they feel.” She looked at the windows facing a view of another brick building across the street, and at his painting—dark, simple shapes of hills and a sky. “There is something honest or real about people who have suffered. I’m drawn to that.”

  “The question is why,” he said, his eyes searching her face. “My daughter took in strays. Couldn’t resist them. Drove me nuts.” He covered his mouth with his palm. She remembered noticing his hands yesterday, his nimble fingers.

  Again, she turned to go. He was all over the place. Nice. Mean. Direct. Secretive. Provocative. What was his game? What would he throw at her next? It angered her, too. “My sister,” she finally said. That’s why. My sister is brain-damaged from an accident. I grew up with that.”

  She watched him take in this information, surprising herself with her own directness about a topic she usually avoided. She didn’t tell people, let alone strangers, that her sister had brain damage. Her brother had asked her long ago not to talk about it, and now he was gone. He couldn’t forgive himself for that day his baseball changed the whole family. From that early age of four years old, she learned to be careful and quiet, and to help, do what she could to prevent accidents from occurring, but in the process, she dug a hole for herself, buried some living part of herself there.

  She didn’t say those things now. Instead, she felt the weight of the memory pressing on her neck, choking her. She put her hand on her throat and said, “Why are you here?”

  “I’m here to find someone.”

  “Why the secret?”

  This startled him. He leaned forward, breathing, as if deciding on something.

  “I’ll get to that. But, first, you offered to help me and I think I know how you can. You said you lived by the river. Where exactly? Do you have a car?”

  She nodded. “We live on the Buda side, a few blocks from the river, about a mile from here. Not far from the center.”

  “I would like to take a ride along the river to look at the buildings. The apartment buildings.”

  ‘It’s a long river,” she said. “What part?”

  “Not far from you—but on the Pest side. Can you go tomorrow? Early. I tire easily. I’m getting tired now.”

  She thought it through while the fan head swiveled toward the windows, stopped midarc, then shifted toward her again.“Yes. I have to make sure Will doesn’t need the car. I’ll call you.”

  SHE LEFT WITH his phone number in her pocket, a scrap of paper torn from a grocery ad, feeling energized as if she had sealed a pact, earned something from him—something like trust, a sense that she had a mission to accomplish even if she had no idea what that mission would be or where it would take her or what it meant. She moved quickly, jogging back over to Margaret Island where she knew she would find Klara and Leo at the sprinkler in the park. The city felt different today than it had on the weekend. The workday was under way, which meant fewer crowds on the sidewalks and more cars jamming up the streets—the ubiquitous small Ladas from Russia, noisy cars with their smelly blue exhaust smoke. Buses and trolleys pushed through, following well-established routes. At times she could almost pretend that she belonged here, was living a normal life, and maybe that is what Mr. Weiss gave her today—a sense of purpose.

  As soon as she walked through the park gates, the air felt different, the sounds from the streets hushed by trees and expansive lawns. Margaret Island was a two-hundred-acre refuge of green in the heart of the city. A parkland with meadows, formal flower gardens, a spa, a small zoo, playing fields with swings, hidden paths in the woods for lovers, grassy knolls for Frisbee throwers. There were ancient ruins, too.

  She spotted Leo swinging high, Klara and Sandor standing guard near the swing. She waved at her son, who shrieked when he saw her coming.

  “Hello, pumpkin!”

  Leo pointed to the sky. “Wing!”

  “He is happy today,” Klara said. “Every day he is happy.” Klara held a daisy in her hand, then said, “We have our anniversary today. Me and Sandor. Four years we are together.”

  Klara wore a yellow ankle-length skirt and white cotton blouse. Sandor wore a formal white shirt and brown pants, his lean height accented by a fedora. How sweet that they had dressed up for the occasion.

  “Congratulations. That’s a long time. How did you meet?”

  “In school,” Klara said, looking at Sandor.

  “Tak
e the rest of the afternoon for yourselves,” Annie said. “Go enjoy.”

  “No. That is okay,” Klara said.

  “Go on. I’ll pay you the same. Don’t worry about that.”

  The couple looked at each other and, in the serious manner of Hungarians, nodded but didn’t smile. Klara gave Leo a kiss and Annie took her place behind the swing. She watched the couple walk away, arms down at their sides, withholding any public display of their affection.

  Nine

  Her chest felt heavy with pent-up energy as Annie put the Saab’s stick shift in gear. Maybe this was a mistake to go to Edward’s. She would tell Will tonight. Why was she doing this? She settled her feet on the clutch and gas pedals and pulled out of their parking spot in front of their building. The drivers here won the prize for worst ever, worse than Boston drivers. Here, they cut in front of you without apology. They honked ceaselessly. They drove too close to get an edge on the traffic. And the exhaust had a peculiar spoiled-egg smell from cheap petrol. Awful. Yet she felt compelled to go, to follow her gut urging her on, though she didn’t understand why or what. Nothing was adding up. Nothing.

  She crossed Margaret Bridge and managed to get through tangles of traffic before turning onto Edward’s quiet street. There he was, waiting outside by the mailboxes. She parked, and before she could get out of the car to help him, he was shuffling down the short walk. Once again, she worried about the heat of the day and its obvious effect on him—his slow, listing walk. Thankfully, their Saab was air-conditioned, though the sun scorching the windshield caused the car to fill with sticky moisture.

  She pushed the electric control button and waited until the passenger window was halfway down before calling out to him. “Are you all right?” What a sight he was in those pajamas—another set of them. He wore sneakers and every few steps stopped to catch his breath. He clutched a rolled-up paper in his hand.

  “I’m not dead yet,” he said, his voice both strident and friendly. He stopped midway on the walk, looked up, and smiled at her, his face changing to something open and inviting as if they had known each other for years, a lost uncle found.