“Take your time.”
She forced herself to watch him take the last halting steps to the car, open the door, and slowly lean in before landing safely in the leather bucket seat. His balance was off. The bad knee, or whatever it was, caused him to lean to one side. He yanked on the door handle and lifted himself to get his legs in right.
“If you can believe it, I used to be pretty athletic.” He grunted and settled in. The effort caused him to break into a sweat.
She closed the window, then reached around and pulled the seat belt so he could snap it in.
“Thank you, miss,” he said.
He was dripping with sweat.
“Before we go, let me show you,” he said. He unrolled a map and pointed to the road along the Duna.
“I believe a good many residential buildings are on this end,” he said, pointing to the fifth district. “Drive along the causeway and then you can turn around and take me back.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“All right.”
She put the car in gear and inhaled the odor of his cinnamon-scented aftershave and his coffee breath.
“I appreciate this,” Edward said, nodding. “I won’t take up more than an hour of your time. Assuming your son is with the babysitter? She comes every day?”
“Yes. He’s fine. They have a great time together.” She wanted to close the door on any suggestion of doubt around that. What was his issue with Hungarians, anyway?
“What do you do, then? You have a lot of time on your hands.”
“I do,” she said, nodding, clenching the wheel. She needed to concentrate on driving. She was entering the boulevard again and the crowded intersection, loud with trucks and Ladas, and stinking with the smell of petrol and exhaust, overwhelmed her senses. She shifted gears.
“There’s a lot of traffic this morning.”
Finally, she got in line and turned onto the road that ran alongside the river, moving slowly, wedged between cars ahead of her and behind, until the swarm of traffic came to a complete stop.
“There’s an accident ahead. See it?”
“Take the next exit,” he said, pointing to a street a few blocks ahead. “Mission aborted.”
He swiped his face, then dried his hands on his pajama pants.
“Bad timing,” he said, more to himself than to her.
“You sure?” She looked at him.
“Sure.”
The traffic began to move again, advancing slowly up the block, so she said, “Can you tell me who you are looking for? You said no bullshit, remember?”
“Fair enough. I’m looking for someone who lives in a building on the river. I don’t have his address, only a PO box number.”
“I’m confused.”
She signaled to turn and finally got out of the jam.
“My daughter Nan told me the return address is in Budapest.”
“Your daughter?”
“Nan, my youngest, lives in Massachusetts. Deborah’s dead. I told you.”
“Yes.” She stopped herself from saying sorry again. She didn’t want to agitate him. She nodded sympathetically but said nothing. She was even more confused with the mention of Nan and the PO box number.
“A parent’s worst nightmare. Thank your stars you don’t know.” He flinched in his seat, and grabbed the inside handle on the car door. “This was a terrible idea,” he said.
“I kind of do know,” she said.
“What’s that mean?”
“I lost my brother. It’s different, but not really.”
He didn’t say anything, which surprised her. His silence felt louder than his sharp retorts.
“When was that?”
“Five years ago. Suicide.”
“My condolences.”
“Much good that does, right?” she said, feeling both angry and sad. She could feel him looking at her. Maybe now he wouldn’t give her such a hard time. She felt almost smug as she turned onto his street.
“Here we are.” She parked in the same spot in front of the brick building and shut off the motor, relieved they’d made it safely back, her shoulders and arms tense from the drive.
He sighed and fumbled for the door handle.
“I’m walking up with you.” She would not take no for an answer and braced herself for a rude response. She didn’t care. She would ignore it.
“Okay, Miss Annie. Thank you.”
She almost laughed.
“Good. I never know what you’re going to say.”
She got out and walked around to open the car door for him. He let her take his arm and together they pulled him out of the car. All of it took enormous effort.
He shook his head. “My body doesn’t do what I want it to. You can’t imagine the frustration. Aging is a crock of shit, I can tell you that. You lose things. People die on you. What’s the point?”
She nodded, deciding again not to engage or pursue this philosophical argument. She wouldn’t win and it wasn’t about winning. If only she understood what this was really about. “Take your time. That’s all I ask,” she finally said.
Inside, they took the elevator up two floors. It opened up around the corner from his apartment door.
“You did a good thing for an old man today,” he said, pushing the key into the lock. “Come in and get yourself a glass of water before you leave.”
She followed him back inside as if they were old friends. It was much darker, the brown curtains drawn shut, the only light coming from a small window in the kitchen area. The fan was on, rattling and turning.
“That fan works hard at nothing,” he said. “I need to take these damn shoes off. They’re too tight.” He moved toward the kitchen. “I’m thirsty. You thirsty?”
“Yes. I’ll help myself.” She started to follow but stopped when she heard a cell phone ringing, the bell extra loud for his bad hearing.
“That’s your phone,” she said. She saw it on the sofa. “You want me to answer it?” He was in the kitchen downing a full glass of water, so she picked it up and in the process saw the framed picture of the woman in the wheelchair lying faceup on the sofa. His daughter had a big smile on her face, open brown eyes. The picture was missing its other half, but she could see a set of man’s hands on the daughter’s shoulders. She pushed the answer button and handed him the phone.
“Hello? Hello? That you, Nan?”
He held the phone awkwardly to his ear.
“Let me call you back in just a minute, okay? I need to sit down. I’ll call you right back.”
He clanked the phone on the countertop and it fell to the floor. “Christ.” He leaned over to get it, but she rushed in and picked it up and put it on the counter.
Enough was enough.
“Mr. Weiss, my son and I go to the hotels and sit in the air-conditioned lobbies to cool off,” she said. “Would you like to come with us today? You can’t stay in this oven. It’s dangerous.”
“Look, I appreciate your concern. I’ll tell you what. You call me later this afternoon. Call me in a few hours. Can you do that? I’ll be fine. I’ll take a cold shower and then I’ll sleep. I need to do that now.”
He became overly polite again and pointed to the door. This aroused her anger. But other than lasso and drag him with her, she could see he was determined to stay.
SHE LEFT IN a private huff, mad at herself more than anything. Will was right. She had allowed herself to get caught up in someone else’s business, and for what? Edward was impossible to pin down. She wanted to help because Rose asked her to. Like Will said, they had done their job. The old man had their phone numbers. They had his. He knew to call if he needed something. Here she was doing what she herself despised: insinuating herself into his life. Didn’t she hate it when people did that to her? She was done with this silliness. She needed to focus on herself.
She got back into the hot car and rolled the windows down for a breeze while she drove to dispel the feeling of being trapped. She wante
d to get back before Will showed up or needed the car. She didn’t want him to know she’d wasted a morning with this aborted errand. Will might think someone stole the Saab if he noticed it was gone. Car thefts were a huge concern in Budapest. This was one scam they did know about. They’d read about it in the travel books before they came over. “They weren’t that innocent”—she said aloud in the car—responding to Mr. Weiss’s provocative remark he’d made earlier. In fact, they’d purchased a special antitheft lock for the steering wheel for that very reason and with good results. No one had stolen it in these past eight months. The wallet scam was a quirk. A fluke. Or too new to make it into the travel books. They hadn’t read or heard anything about it.
In the parking space outside her apartment, she locked the steering wheel in place and made up her mind to meet those American women. Enough of this self-imposed isolation. Enough.
Ten
Wearing a long summer skirt and sandals, she walked into the small restaurant downtown and heard their loud American voices before she saw them waving at her from a round table in a corner. After eight months, the banter and quick smiles hit a hungry spot in her chest. She hurried over, feeling starved for American conversation.
“Terrific! You found us! This is Annie,” Betsy said, then pointed to an empty chair beside her. “Sit down. We’re glad you made it.”
“Thanks. Hi, everyone.”
It was Betsy’s ad in the Budapest Reporter that Annie had clipped out months ago. For newcomers and old, the ad said. Sharing expat stories, laughs and a few drinks. Call Betsy.
Valerie and Lisa said hello from across the table, and next to her, on the other side, was Jane—all of their names, so easy on her ears.
“Homesick yet?” Betsy asked. “It helps to know a few people. Believe me. It will save you time.” Betsy was pretty in a petite, perky kind of way, her brown hair boyishly short. On the phone she told Annie she’d moved to Hungary from Washington, DC, several years ago. She was a diplomat’s wife. “We’ve all been where you are. I’m glad you finally decided to give us a try.”
“I’m sorry it took me so long. Where’s home for all of you? I mean, before here?”
“Home? Who has a home? That’s a loaded question, my dear.” Valerie shook with silent laughter as she reached for her Bloody Mary and drained it, her high forehead and long dark hair smoothed back with a yellow headband.
“You don’t have a Boston accent,” Betsy said. “Didn’t you say you were from Boston?” Betsy worked in marketing before she had three kids and moved overseas. She wore a white sleeveless dress splashed with carnations.
“I grew up in Maine. I moved to Boston for graduate school.”
“Your husband, too?”
“No. He’s from Florida. We met in graduate school, in Massachusetts.”
Valerie lifted her arm to flag the waiter.
“Maine has a beautiful coastline,” Betsy said. “Bet you miss that.”
“Sometimes I miss everything American.”
This spawned an outburst of hilarity around the table, except for Jane who was noticeably quiet.
Across the table, Lisa, her face freckled from the sun, reached for the salt and sprinkled it into her Bloody Mary. “I grew up in Maryland. Lived in England, then Pennsylvania, England again, now this.” She shrugged. Her blonde, shoulder-length hair was almost metallic-looking.
“Annie, what do you drink?” Valerie asked her.
“I’ll have a beer. Hungarian. Any type is fine.” Annie unfolded a cloth napkin, draped it over her lap, and settled in.
“You drink that?” Valerie asked, surprised.
“Sure. I like it.”
“I can’t drink that stuff anymore,” Lisa said, agreeing with Valerie.
“To each her own,” Valerie said. “I’m so done with Hungarian drinks. We’ll have another round of Marys. How about you, Jane?”
Jane shook her head and cupped her water glass. “I’m fine, thanks.”
Both Lisa and Valerie looked crisp and coiffed in similar-print cotton dresses and gold necklaces. Annie was surprised by how quickly she disliked them. She guessed the two best friends shopped together, did everything together.
“Michael Jackson is in town,” Lisa said, shifting the topic. “He’s at the Kempinski. Did you hear?”
“Right. He married Elvis Presley’s daughter? Now that’s got to be fake,” Valerie said.
Betsy said, “I heard the security over there is impossible.”
“I agree. That marriage is a sham,” Lisa said. “I don’t believe it for a second.”
Annie shook her head. “I think it’s real. Why not? He’s misunderstood, a musical genius. I don’t see how anyone can know him.”
“Just like this place,” Valerie said. “Misunderstood. You’ll see. You’re still new at this. Trust me.”
“I don’t feel new.” Annie tried to smile. She wanted to be pleasant, but her sense of annoyance was growing as she sat in the pseudo American Grille, so she turned to Jane, who she guessed was in her fifties.
“How long have you been here, Jane?”
“Three years, but we’re leaving next month for Turkey.”
“Lucky Jane,” Valerie said.
“I hear Turkey is beautiful,” Betsy said.
Everyone nodded to that.
“Are you looking forward to moving?” Annie asked.
The others howled.
“If it were me, I’d be beside myself,” Valerie said. “You are so lucky, Jane. I cannot wait to get out of this place!”
“Valerie, your day will come,” Betsy said. “We’re leaving at the end of the year and now that I know that, I’m feeling a little sad. No. I am.” Betsy creased her napkin. “Okay. Not that sad. Is everyone ready to order?”
Jane smiled at Annie.
“Welcome to the expat community.”
“Thanks.”
“I haven’t seen you at any of the gatherings.”
“I haven’t attended any until now.”
“Wanting to get the real experience?”
“Yes! Exactly that.” Annie couldn’t believe that Jane understood this. She turned to face her, relieved to be sitting next to her. “How’s it been for you?”
“I’ll get to that. But, first, good for you for trying. What do you think so far?”
“Harder than I expected. Hungarians seem depressed, have you noticed? But you’ve been here three years. That’s a long time. Does it get easier?”
“You adjust,” Jane said. “And you’re right. They are depressed. It’s not an easy place. Then there’s trailing-spouse syndrome, or TSS, as I like to call it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The wife goes along with the husband, trailing his job placements. It makes it hard to grow roots.”
Bothered by this, Annie straightened the fork next to her plate. She guessed Jane suffered from TSS given the tired, resigned expression on her face and the limp way her hair framed her face.
A young waiter dressed in black pants and shirt placed a large mug of beer in front of her. Annie took a long drink while Lisa and Valerie continued debating Michael Jackson’s marital life. She thought about TSS and decided it didn’t apply to her. She and Will had come here together because they chose to. It was a joint decision.
“Who’s your husband working for?” Jane asked.
“Himself,” Annie said.
“Venture funding?”
“That’s right.”
Jane half-smiled in a wistful way and reached for her glass of water. “Good luck.”
“I guess I’ll need it.” Annie took another long drink of beer. It was a soft, sweet beer that she much preferred to German beers. She wondered if Jane saw signs of TSS in herself?
“I think Michael Jackson’s coming here is good for business,” Betsy said. “It puts a spotlight on Budapest. Now everyone will want to come.”
Valerie guffawed again. “They’ll come, tour a few days, think it’s cute, then hightail
it out of here to Vienna.”
“Vienna is the place for shopping,” Lisa said, returning to what was obviously her favorite topic.
“I’d like to go there,” Annie said, wanting to be agreeable—but determined not to become like these women who were tired and jaded, worldly yet parochial, in their opinions. Except for Jane. Jane was different.
“You’ll have to write down your recommendations,” Annie said.
“The museums are wonderful,” Jane said. “Truly spectacular.”
“And the opera,” Betsy said. “You can’t miss that.”
“And what would you like, please?” The waiter stood ready to take orders for food. He spoke English well, his soft, gentle Hungarian inflection reminding Annie of a French accent, though Hungarian bore no relation to romance languages and was, in fact, a linguistic mystery of sorts. There were theories about the origins of Hungarian, but no one knew for sure.
The menu at the Grille included an American grilled cheese sandwich, a Texas burger, and a California Cobb salad. She ordered the grilled cheese. “I’ll have another beer, too.”
“Persze.”
Persze—this favorite Hungarian expression. Every Hungarian used it and it meant “of course,” with all its incantations of attitude: arrogance, intelligence, impatience. Of course, we are a smart people, smarter than you think, smarter than the world understands. Of course—our country is loaded with PhDs, brilliant mathematicians and doctors who are experts in every subject. Persze—of course—we are one notch above everyone else, didn’t you know? And if you didn’t, why should we bother with you, another foolish foreigner with money, passing through?
Jane ordered a Cobb salad and turned to Annie.
“Should be fun to see their interpretation of a California Cobb salad.”
“Might be your last in a while,” Annie said. “You’ll have new foods to explore in Turkey.”
“True.” Jane nodded and smiled that wistful smile again.
“So how do you manage trailing-spouse syndrome?”
Jane sighed. “I’ve never quite settled into it, but giving it a name helps. You know, once you’ve identified something, it makes it less powerful.”
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