Strangers in Budapest

by Jessica Keener

  “You can’t.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She crossed her arms. “You said this man lives near the river. Do you have a picture?”

  “Just a minute.”

  He went into the bedroom and took the ripped photo from the night table drawer. When he returned, she was looking at the framed photo of Deborah.

  “Here.”

  He sat on the couch and watched her. She had the smooth skin of youth—that time in his life, long vanished, as if he’d never lived it. A picture. Yes. He had a torn picture. It serrated his thoughts, but he forced himself to keep it in view, imprint the bastard’s plain face in his mind. Light hair, square forehead, greenish brown eyes. Small chin. He might see him somewhere. A sidewalk. A street.

  “He’s tall. Tall as your husband.”

  She kept staring at the torn picture, shaking her head, disbelieving. “I know him. I’ve met him.” She handed the photo to Edward but didn’t look him in the eye.

  “What is it, Annie?”

  “It can’t be.” She swept her hair back behind her ears and turned toward the kitchen. “Stephen Házy. He’s American. A translator. His hair is short with longish bangs. But his face is the same. The color of his hair. We have his phone number on a business card at home.” She shook her head. “How can this be?”

  “He’s a liar. I told you that.” Edward felt his blood charging into his chest, a rise of anger. “Get that number for me, will you? How old are you, Annie?”

  “Thirty-three. Why?” She took a seat in the chair across from him.

  Always in those running shorts. Americans and their exercise regimes. Where did it get them?

  “He’s about your age.”

  She unclasped her hands. “Yes. That’s what it seemed. Is it possible? You said he was here? You really think it’s the same person with a different name?”

  “I told you. He’s a liar!” he shouted. “You’re no different. You don’t believe me. No one believes the truth when it’s in their goddamn faces.”

  “I’m trying,” she said.

  “Please. Annie. Listen to me. He’s here. I’m telling you. He’s near the river. Near a statue on the river. He’ll show up again. My younger daughter, Nan, got another letter from him.”

  She leaned toward him. “He was very nice to us. Helpful.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  “Polite. You see? Just what you said. You’ve met him. But you’re thinking he couldn’t possibly be . . . Sylvia, my wife, she thought that. Deborah obviously did. Nan, she’s not saying.”

  “He was polite. He seemed genuine. I liked him.”

  “Jesus. You see? Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “I’m trying to understand. What about the letter? What did he say?”

  His blood tide subsided. He gulped another half glass of water. “Said there were more sides to the story than mine.” Edward snorted. Huffed his hot breath. “Liar. Nothing worse than a liar. Listen. You may not think he did anything to my daughter. Drug overdose, my ass. That I know. You may decide that I’m crazy. That’s your prerogative.”

  He looked at her, waiting. He was tiring of this, but he had to keep going—she could help him. He needed that phone number. He would get the number and, from there, the address.

  “I’m confused. It’s confusing.” She put two fingers on her lips, thinking. “I don’t think you would have come this far if you didn’t believe it was true. But . . .”

  She crossed her legs. She had beautifully toned legs. No veins or imperfections scarring her calves or thighs. Youth. Such a waste. The light from the window outlined her body and she seemed for a moment to be floating in front of him, hovering in his gray apartment on a saucer of air.

  “I trust Rose,” she said.

  A feeling of fatigue. Sudden. Like a wind dying down to nothing. Flat. Stillness. He needed that number, but he’d scared her again. The police back home didn’t want to investigate. Case closed. It was black and white. Simple. Why screw up their lives for an old, fart, an old Jewish fart?

  “What about your husband? What’s he say about all this? Your coming here.”

  She squirmed in the chair, uncrossed and crossed her legs.

  “Oh, I get it. He thinks I’m a crazy old bastard, too.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then? Come on. Spit it out.”

  “Nothing. He’ll be fine. He worries, that’s all.”

  “You’re not telling me everything. Come on, Annie. Be straight. Get it out. Say it.”

  She turned her hands over, both palms lifting something invisible toward him, like a plate or gift.

  “It’s mostly that he thinks I sometimes get overly involved in trying to help.”

  “Like my Deborah. We talked about that, and about your sister.”

  “Yes. My sister and my brother.”

  He waited, but he needed to know more. Nan had a sick sister. Nan spent her days helping sick people. What made these helpers tick? What was the attraction? Annie had everything a person needed and yet she was here in this crippled city.

  “You told me your sister’s name.”

  “Tracy. Her brain injury happened when I was four. A long time ago.” She stopped and looked at the floor.

  “Where is she now?”

  “In a group home.”

  “A life wasted,” Edward said.

  “No, no—” She looked up at him, her mouth grim. “Please don’t think of it that way. Please. It’s not fair to her or my brother.”

  “Point taken,” he said. “Tell me about them.”

  “Tracy’s in a wheelchair. She needs round-the-clock care. She was normal before the accident. I don’t talk about this.” She paused to fidget with the bottom edge of her T-shirt. “I told you my brother died five years ago. Took his life. He jumped from the scaffolding of a building. He was thirty-one.”

  He began to see that what she presented was not at all who she was.

  “Was he married?”

  “No. He never married. He was alone,” she said, glaring at him. “Like you, I don’t want pity from people. I don’t talk about these things because it scares people.”

  “So you help others because it’s safer.”

  “Maybe. Something like that. It depends.”

  “Why don’t you help your sister? She’s alive. Your brother is dead. You can’t do anything about that.”

  She flinched, let out a muffled yelp, her head in her hands.

  Goddamn it. She was crying. Jesus.

  “Annie. I told you I’m an old fool.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said into her hands. She lifted her face and wiped her eyes, sucking in an exaggerated breath to calm herself.

  Would he ever learn? He looked at the worn floor, a pattern of wood zigzagging like the mind of this godforsaken place. He looked up. He’d pushed too far. What else was new? He expected she would take off.

  “I’m sorry, Annie.”

  Instead, she pressed her lips together, almost smiling. “It’s okay. It feels good to cry. I thought you hated that word, sorry,” she said, propping her elbows on her knees, placing her chin in her cupped hands.

  He almost smiled back. “I do.”

  “Well, I like it. Sorry is a good word. It travels far.”

  “Tears make you live longer,” he said, remembering his grandmother’s words. She had lived to 102.

  “How old are you?” Annie asked.

  “Seventy-six.”

  She used the back of her hand to dry her cheek. “And you? Do you cry?”

  “Every day.”

  She looked at him, her blue eyes pale and soft, the color reminding him of hydrangeas on Cape Cod when he and Sylvia and the kids used to go for a week every August. Those mild, salty days. Deborah flapping her arms, heading out into the ocean too far, too deep, and Nan, the sensible one, the younger one who kept close to the shoreline.

  Annie’s voice brought him back to the living room.

  “Mr. Weiss? Do yo
u think he could harm me or you?”

  “Or your son?” he said.

  She nodded. “If he’s what you say he is, he probably knows where we live. I ran into him on your street a week or so ago. He was meeting a client.”

  “He’s a liar.”

  He looked down at his watch, the gift from his father that had survived everything. Her beautiful son. No. No. This was wrong of him. It was dangerous. He couldn’t let her help except in some remote way. He wouldn’t put her sweet boy in danger. Out of the question. No. Her husband was right. He had no business asking her for help. No. No. This was wrong of him.

  “That’s it. We need to quit this.”

  He pushed himself up from the couch.

  “What are you doing?” She stood also.

  “Annie, I was wrong.” He moved toward the door to let her out. “I thank you for coming, but I’ve changed my mind about this.” He reached the door, unbolted it, and gestured for her to leave.

  “I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand.” She moved toward the door.

  “It’s not you, Annie. It’s me. You need to understand this. You have to leave right now. Don’t come back here. Don’t come to my street. Your husband is right. You’ve done enough. I thank you for that. You’ve helped me. You’ve helped me see something I should have seen before. I’ll call you or you call me. Give me that number, but don’t come back here. Keep your son away, too. Understand? I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  As soon as Annie left, he went to the living-room window and looked out to watch her walking quickly down the sidewalk. He scanned the shadows of the buildings as she passed them on the way to the boulevard at the far end. His quiet road looked empty right now. He could only hope that Howard wasn’t hiding somewhere, watching her.

  Twenty-four

  Yes, definitely, Stephen Házy resembled the man in the photo, yet she didn’t want to believe it could be him. Maybe Edward was crazy. But pictures don’t lie, do they? Sometimes they did. It was an old, crumpled photo. The man in the photo had shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail—no bangs. Stephen’s hair was short with only those untamed strands that drifted over his eyes. How could these two men be the same? Was she crazy? She felt the tremors of second-guessing herself, the two disparate descriptions of the same person colliding in her head. She hurried home, dripping with sweat and upset with herself. Will would be waiting for her. They had planned a trip to the country to meet that mayor.

  “Where have you been? Have you been to Mr. Weiss’s again? We need to get going or we’ll be late.”

  “Yes. I was there. I’m sorry. I’ll shower and change quickly.”

  IN THE CAR, she and Will started on the drive west to the small town of Inota. Will was silent, angry silent—she knew by the way his face looked frozen in concentration. She wanted to go with him today so she could meet one of these small-town mayors. Bernardo’s job offer was on the table, and though they hadn’t talked about it since the ferry ride, she knew Will was considering it seriously. But accepting the offer would mean staying here for another year or two or more. The reality of that was feeling impossible to her. And, now, there was this issue about Stephen, or Van Howard, or whoever he might be.

  “Will, what do you know about Stephen Házy?”

  “Dave hired him. He’s been useful at meetings. You met him. You liked him. He certainly liked you. Why?”

  “Mr. Weiss says he’s his son-in-law and that his real name is Van Howard.”

  “Come on, Annie. What are you talking about?”

  “This morning. He showed me a photo of his son-in-law. It’s the same man. I’m telling you. I saw the photo. Does he know where we live?”

  “Probably. He has my card.”

  “It’s the same man, Will. He’s using a different name. Why?”

  “I don’t know. And I don’t care. People come here to escape. Maybe he wanted to start a new life. I don’t know. You see what you’re doing? You’re getting wrapped up in it. How is that helping anyone?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked out the window at the huge Russian block apartment buildings. Ugly gray structures with tiny windows. She didn’t have a good answer for Will. “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s just say it is the same guy. Maybe he wanted a clean break. Maybe it’s his business name. He’s a translator. He makes good money doing that. I gave his name to Bernardo.”

  “Okay.”

  She liked this explanation. Mr. Weiss didn’t want her help, anyway. She would give him Stephen’s number and leave it at that. It was true what Will said. People came here to get away from their lives. Hadn’t she come for a fresh start? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Edward was a desperate man. Yet she was unable to dismiss the unpleasant implication of Edward’s haunting words. Keep an eye on your son. Leo was with Klara. He was napping. Safe in their flat. The door to their apartment locked. Maybe she was losing her sense of sanity. What was she doing here? She didn’t want to live here the rest of her life.

  Ahead of them, the sky was gray and dull. Inside the car, the weak wafts of air-conditioning smelled like plastic.

  “I should have stayed with Leo today.”

  “You’re all over the place. Call Klara if you’re worried. She has our number. Calm down.”

  “Right.”

  She shifted her body away from Will and took in the long view of the M7 highway. They passed beat-up Ladas—cars the size of scooters with their stinky diesel smell. She knew that Will was right, but she could feel her faith leaking out of her. She wondered where faith came from. If it leaked, could it be replenished? She dialed their landline.

  “How’s Leo?” she asked Klara when she answered.

  “Everything is fine. Something is wrong?”

  “No. Please don’t let anyone into the house while we’re gone. That’s all. I got worried.”

  “Persze,” Klara said.

  “Annie. You need to calm down,” Will said when she hung up. “You’ve been listening to Edward. Whatever he said to you today, it’s eating you up. I can see it in your demeanor. I know you.”

  “I’m not going there anymore. Okay?”

  “I hope you’re not just saying that.”

  “I’m not.”

  Life here was feeling impossible. Impossible—how un-American of her to think this way. How Hungarian. And another thing: she refused to become a trailing spouse, a woman without purpose. A lost soul. She had to think positively. If she pretended that everything were all right, then it would be. The power of intention. Seize control of her circular thoughts.

  Will glanced at her. “We’ll be fine.”

  How she wanted to believe him.

  “Are you excited about meeting this guy?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t call it excited. Anticipatory.”

  “It must be frustrating, day after day, like a traveling salesman. Knocking on doors. Getting nos all the time.”

  “That’s the nature of the beast. What are you getting at?”

  “I’m just saying it’s hard.”

  “I didn’t say this would be easy.”

  “Of course.” Persze. Not easy was an understatement.

  They settled into their separate, private thoughts, the stretch of highway flat for miles ahead, an occasional tree rising like a shadow in the dried-out landscape. She remembered one pivotal morning in October, before they moved here, when Will had awakened from a bad dream. They lay in bed, in the luxury of their gorgeous redesigned bedroom with trey ceiling, moldings, Palladian windows, French doors leading to a new deck, and a master bath the size of another bedroom. Everything appeared perfect on the outside; but on the inside, something else was deteriorating for Will. Leo’s arrival sealed the deal for them, urging them both to make a bold move. Life was for living, not waiting cautiously for a better future.

  Was this her better future now? It wasn’t looking good. She scanned the dull Hungarian horizon for an answer.

  On that morning, Will woke up
and said, “I don’t want to be an old man looking back, wishing this and that.” He had just turned forty. She was thirty-two. He gave his notice that week.

  She had encouraged him to make a change, to come here. Do it, she had said. She was the one who insisted he have faith. Dare to follow his dreams. Now she herself was confounded with doubts.

  Will slowed as they came up behind a fruit truck—the truck reminding her of Stephen’s cautionary story about this exact highway scenario. So informative and accommodating. She couldn’t believe what Edward was saying about him. Except even Edward admitted that most people thought Stephen was nice, but that he was a liar. Was it possible that Edward was wrong? Was his pain distorting the truth? Did he have actual proof that the man in the picture had killed his daughter?

  She didn’t have answers.

  “This is why I wanted to leave earlier,” Will said. “We’re going to be late because of this truck.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  She stared at the monotonous fields ahead. Again, she tried to keep her mind on the present. If they got stuck behind this fruit truck, it could double their travel time. Inota was twenty minutes outside Székesfehévár, that famous City of Kings. Famous was a word that Hungarians overused when describing themselves—famous goulash, famous paprika, famous Herend porcelain—yet it was a word that was justified in many incidences, as with Bartók, the famous musician. Well, why not. They deserved world recognition for the good things, didn’t they? Most people knew little about this landlocked country called Hungary.

  “What did this mayor say?” she finally said.

  “Not much. But he’s willing to meet. It’s a solid town. You never know what it might lead to.”

  “Right.”

  But it felt wrong. This wasn’t Will. He wasn’t a salesman. He was a researcher, a strategist. Bernardo knew this about Will, too, and would do whatever he could to convince him to accept his offer. It was beginning to feel inevitable.