Strangers in Budapest

by Jessica Keener

  “Louds,” Leo said, pointing at the window.

  “That’s right, my boy. Can’t wait for my little Bernie to meet you. You’re gonna get along great.”

  “I believe you all have met before,” Bernardo said. “Will’s wife, Annie, and their son, Leo.”

  “Good to see you again,” Stephen said, smiling at Annie. He sat in the chair opposite Will, reaching across the table to shake first Will’s hand, then Annie’s. “Feels like we’re old friends already.”

  “Yes. It seems that way.” She felt an initial rush of warmth toward him but checked herself. His face was the same as the one in Edward’s photo. There was no doubt. But what did that mean? So what if he altered his name—did that prove he murdered his wife?

  “Stephen’s got a place here on the river. Cost him nada. Absolutely nada, tell them,” Bernardo said.

  “It’s all relative,” Stephen said.

  “Tell them what you paid for it.”

  Annie felt embarrassed by Bernardo’s crass insistence, but she also felt a chill of recognition—the fact that he lived by the river fit Edward’s story. But, then, what did that really signify? Plenty of people lived by the river. She and Will lived near the river. Across the table, she could smell the cigarette smoke on Stephen’s clothing.

  “I’m sure you paid next to nothing,” Will said.

  “Don’t embarrass him,” she said to Bernardo. She avoided Stephen’s eyes, busying herself with utensils, Leo’s napkin, and her water glass. Wanting to believe he wasn’t what Mr. Weiss insisted he was, wanting to believe what she saw in front of her was a handsome, gentle man who lost his father in a horrendous tragedy, who had come back to reclaim his father’s home.

  “Louds!” Leo said, pointing to Stephen.

  Stephen touched Leo’s nose. “You’re a funny, sweet kid.”

  “Come on. Tell them what you paid,” Bernardo said.

  “Around twenty thousand.”

  “Hear that?” Bernardo said, looking at Annie and Will.

  Annie took her camera out of the jogger’s back pocket and handed it to Leo. He loved gadgets. It would keep him absorbed while the adults talked.

  “Kimrah,” Leo said, walking his fingers over the buttons.

  The maître d’ returned with a pot of coffee and a basket of croissants that he placed in the center of the table. He handed Annie a plate with toast for Leo, then began filling everyone’s cups.

  “Stephen is our man,” Bernardo said, taking a croissant and tearing off a piece. “With his fluency, he can help us roll out this plan. We’re talking millions over the next couple of years. Hear me out, Will. Don’t close the door on me yet.” Bernardo devoured the pastry and gave Annie his best I-know-I need-to-win-you-over smile.

  She tried to be receptive to him, knowing he would see through any attempt she made to be fake. And she knew he wasn’t all hot air. He actually had the money, a lot of money to get Will started. This is what private venture people did. They raised money and wrote checks. Her skin was humming. She cut the toast in half for Leo, who immediately began sucking on the bread.

  Stephen crouched over the table, stirring in heaping spoonfuls of sugar, his head moving slowly over his cup of steaming coffee like someone just waking up or wrestling with a cold. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket and wiped his nose, shaking his head when Bernardo pushed the basket of croissants closer to him.

  “Are you sick?” Annie asked Stephen.

  “No. No. I have allergies.” He fluttered his handkerchief as if to wave away the concern.

  Bernardo started counting on his fingers, mentioning more figures, shifting to his get-down-to-business posture: hunching his shoulders, gesturing with his thick hands, his eyes sucking in everybody’s body language, searching for clues. Annie recognized the behavior from their Fendix days. Bat around some jokes, get everybody feeling loose, practically lying on their backs showing their bellies, then lasso them and take them down.

  “We’re set up to bring in the cash now and that’s what we want,” Bernardo continued. Labor’s cheap here. Hungarians are smart, aren’t they Stephen? Will, I don’t have to tell you the demand for cable and internet is insatiable worldwide. We get set up, save on labor costs—because they’re the killer. Stephen’s got the language—fluent in Hungarian, God bless him—and Will, you’ll keep things flowing with your analytic mind.”

  Annie rubbed her eyes, using the temporary darkness to reimagine Stephen with long hair. No question. He was the man in Mr. Weiss’s picture. She wanted to grab Leo and run. Instead, she took a sip of her coffee and put a croissant on her plate, but she had no appetite.

  “How long do you plan to stay here?” Will said to Stephen.

  “Not sure. I don’t have plans to leave, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Just curious.” Will opened up a small jar of jam that was on the table and spread some on top of his croissant before biting into the pastry.

  “I like it here,” Stephen said.

  “And you still have family here?” Will asked, probing.

  “You’re a man of questions this morning,” Bernardo said to Will, obviously enjoying Will’s interrogations.

  Now she could see it: Stephen’s greenish-gray eyes—even the soft-spoken way in which he laid out the facts—his Hungarian side as he put it. How could he show up like this? She felt that wrinkle of insanity, her mind trying to coordinate two opposing versions of who he was. Here he was in the center of their life. The timing was too perfect. Or was it a bizarre coincidence? Had he been watching them? Had he seen her visit Mr. Weiss? She felt hot despite the restaurant’s air-conditioning, and though she heard Stephen respond to Will’s question, Stephen’s words didn’t register.

  “An uncle in the southern part of the country. I told Annie when I ran into her the other day.”

  Will’s face rippled with surprise and Annie felt guilty for not having mentioned running into Stephen at the Bem József statue.

  “It’s a sad situation there, isn’t it?” Will said. “The refugees are pouring in across the border.”

  “Yes. It’s been a bloody massacre,” Stephen said. “Americans, as usual, don’t have a clue and don’t want to hear about it—or help.”

  “What do you mean by that, bud?” Bernardo asked Stephen.

  “You look at history. The ’56 uprising here. A good example. Where were the Americans?”

  “We should have stepped in,” Will said.

  “What do your parents say about it now?” Bernardo said. He finished his croissant and put another one on his plate.

  “They don’t. It killed my father. My mother suffers from depression. She checked out years ago.”

  That stopped everyone from speaking. Stephen looked down at the table, a terrible sadness passing across his face. He clenched his jaw. “My father killed himself. He couldn’t take it.”

  “Stephen, man. I’m sorry. That’s tragic,” Bernardo said.

  “Forgive me,” Stephen said.

  “It’s terribly sad,” Annie said, her clarity returning. “Terrible.” She wondered if Mr. Weiss understood this about Stephen’s family history. How it obviously informed everything Stephen did and why he had returned to Budapest, to right something that had gone horrifically wrong.

  A waiter stopped in front of the table and carefully refilled their cups with coffee. Stephen spoke to the waiter in Hungarian. His words murmuring, soft as a secret. It’s how the Hungarian language sounded to her: gentle, nonintrusive, quiet. The waiter left.

  “There you go,” Bernardo said, pointing to his new man. “He speaks the language. You’re a rare breed, Stephen.”

  “Sorry. Don’t mean to be a downer.”

  “Not to worry, my friend. We appreciate your honesty,” Bernardo said.

  Typical of Bernardo. He fawned on new people—as he had with Harrison—until he fired them. The favored person became the “it” man until the next anointed one came along. Will had managed to sidestep thi
s pattern by keeping his distance.

  Leo made a shushing sound with his lips, something he did when he was around Hungarian speakers.

  “He speaks, too?” Stephen said, his eyes on her, sluggish in their movement.

  “He’s learned a few words from our babysitter.”

  “Stephen is our ticket to paradise,” Bernardo said, overstating things as usual. “Our personnel manager speaks poor English and she’s been prickly to deal with. I’m telling you the Fates served up Stephen on a silver platter.”

  Annie reached for her glass of water. Her throat felt sticky, her lungs constricted. It was too close and surreal, the reality of Stephen’s sitting here, the possibility that she had fallen for a set of lies—but whose?

  “You exaggerate. I’m not that special,” Stephen said. “But I’m happy to help.”

  “Good,” Bernardo said, looking around the table for everyone’s affirmation.

  Annie didn’t say anything.

  “Annie, you’re looking extra spectacular today,” Bernardo said, noticing how quiet she had become. “Did I tell you Eileen’s flying over tomorrow?”

  “Wonderful. Have her call me.”She pushed the words out, her breath shaken. She understood that this was the reason Bernardo wanted her here for breakfast. He needed her to get his wife and kids on board. He needed Eileen to move here and would do whatever it took to make it happen.

  She forced a polite smile to let Bernardo know that he couldn’t win her over with fluffy compliments, and she forced herself to turn to Leo, happily preoccupied in his high chair, sucking on pieces of toast. She wanted to hide her face, but Bernardo was sharp, the sharpest when it came to reading people. Stephen / Van, whoever he was, was staring at her.

  “She’ll call you,” Bernardo said, keeping his eyes on her.

  “Perfect,” Annie said, angling away from his gaze to cut Leo’s toast into smaller and smaller triangles as if it were the essential task of the day. She had to find out where Stephen lived on the river. The man across from her was Mr. Weiss’s son-in-law. No question. But that didn’t explain all the rest. She felt tremors of panic. She wanted to throw up. She reached for her water glass and drained it, noticing once again, the two unhappy men at the table in the corner. They could be old-time informers, bricks, like their building super, torturers, murderers, spies—people who appeared normal, nondescript, a little rundown. Like Stephen.

  Bernardo turned to Stephen. “What do you like about living here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s easy. You can sort of disappear if you want to.”

  A surge of tension swept through her body. She straightened her back to shake it off.

  “But you’ve lived here before?” Bernardo said.

  “No. I visited my cousin a few times.” Stephen lifted his chin, then winked at Annie, letting her know he knew they had talked about this, too.

  “But you’re from Jersey, that right? Not Boston,” Bernardo said.

  “Originally from Jersey.”

  “Large Hungarian community there,” Will said.

  “That’s right,” Stephen said.

  Bernardo’s cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me, folks. It’s Eileen.” He walked away from the table to answer it.

  “Will has cousins from Jersey,” Annie said, probing.

  “Distant cousins,” Will said. “Where’s your place here?”

  Stephen hesitated. “I live by the river.”

  “On the Pest or Buda side?” she said, finding her voice again. She sensed Stephen’s discomfort. Then, as if he had made up his mind about something, he said, “Pest. I’ll have you all over for drinks. You’ll like the view.”

  Bernardo flipped shut his phone and walked back to their circle. “Shall we go? Women. Can’t live without ’em, right?”

  “Everything okay?” she asked Bernardo.

  “Last-minute jitters.”

  “You want me to drive?” Will asked.

  “I’ll drive. I need to get used to this place,” Bernardo said. “Ready to go?”

  “I’ll get the check. This won’t take a minute,” Will said, lifting his finger to attract the waiter. “I’ll meet you two outside.”

  Stephen stood and reached out his hand to her. “Nice to see you again, Annie.”

  Despite her unease, she took his hand, warm and firm as the first time.

  “Nice seeing you, too.”

  The waiter returned with the bill, took Will’s Visa card, and left. She waited until Bernardo and Stephen had walked outside.

  “Will, it’s him.” She lowered her voice and surveyed the room. The two men in the corner were gone, too. “Stephen is Edward’s son-in-law. You have to hear me on this. I saw his photo in Edward’s apartment. There’s no question. I told you Edward thinks Stephen killed his daughter. I’m freaking out. He could be dangerous. I don’t think you should go.”

  “Calm down. Edward’s an angry, miserable man. He needs someone to blame. He’s not well. I’ll be back in a few hours. I’ll be with Bernardo and the mayor.”

  She flinched. She was beginning to hate the word mayor.

  “But I saw the photo. There’s no question, Will.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything. Slow down, Annie.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Nothing’s going to happen. Not with Bernardo and me. We’ll talk when I get back. It’s a few hours away. You know where it is. Same mayor.”

  “Why is he showing up in our lives? What if he’s been following us?”

  “You’re sounding paranoid. It’s a small world here. You know that. Especially among expats.”

  She understood what he meant, the expat community was tiny and circled back on itself all the time—like those American women she met at the luncheon—but this felt different.

  The waiter returned. Will put his card away and stood. He looked out the window. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Don’t worry. We’ll talk when I get home. Leo, give Daddy a hug.” He bent down to kiss the baby. Annie felt paralyzed. She didn’t want to move.

  “Listen to me, Annie. You need to calm down. Nothing is going to happen. Let’s go. We’ll discuss all this when I get back. They’re waiting.”

  They walked back out to the courtyard, jogger and Leo in tow.

  “Eileen’s on her way. She’s excited about seeing you,” Bernardo called to her. “Be good, Leo!”

  Stephen dropped his cigarette on the cobblestone, mashing it with his sandal. Only a week or so ago, she thought his sandals made him seem European or hip. Now she thought they looked weird, out of sync with the times.

  The three men headed across the courtyard, their backs to her now. Bernardo was in the middle. Short and husky, it was almost comical the way he strutted between them, his body bobbing like a wrestler warming up. Will seemed to glide. It’s what drew people to him, this smoothness he possessed, a secret well of calmness that soothed others in his presence. But this quality also made it hard for people to read him sometimes—including her.

  Struggling against a kind of panic vibrating in her ribs, she shook her arms to quiet her body and pointed her son toward a flock of pigeons in the center of the square. An elderly lady was casting crumbs and it looked as if every pigeon on the hill had come for the meal. Leo responded, screeching delightedly as he headed toward the mass of birds.

  She saw her husband and the two other men turn down a side street. One dash across the square with Leo in her arms, and she could run after him, yelling, Will, wait! Stop! No! She could call him now. Tell him not to go.

  Or she could calm down. But how could she? It was too coincidental, this meeting. All of it. She looked around for the two Hungarians from the restaurant. Maybe they were in on it, too? Maybe Stephen hired them to watch her. They were gone. So were the German tourists.

  She was a mother. She had a child to protect, but if Stephen / Van murdered Mr. Weiss’s daughter, then she had to help the old man. She had to do something. Too many people stood by and watched, and did
nothing. What if she had called to her sister, screamed, Watch out, Tracy! Daddy’s car is backing up! But she had been confused. Greg’s ball sailed past and then Tracy was down.

  Annie placed Leo in the jogger and fastened the safety belt. Running down the hill, Leo screeched with joy; he loved speeding. She felt crazy. Scared. The jogger accelerated, hastened by its own weight and gravity. Down, down, down to the flat side and the river, and Pest. She finally pulled back on the handle to slow it down.

  Maybe there was an in-between—a way of helping Mr. Weiss without putting her family in danger. She had questions, so many things she still didn’t know. Stephen Van Házy Howard. Which was it? Was Mr. Weiss’s daughter’s death an overdose? Too many pills? A mistake? What could Mr. Weiss prove? What did he have other than a gut feeling that may or may not be right? She stuttered her speed to a walk to catch her breath.

  Higher in the sky, the sun inched upward through the haze. Another hot day in Budapest except that she knew now she had met and liked a possible murderer named Stephen Van Házy Howard. Normal, pleasant, agreeable, Mr. Weiss had said. Maybe the old man was right.

  “Leo-lion,” she said, making up her mind, “we’re going to the embassy. Right now.”

  As she ran down the hill, the thought occurred to her that she should go to the American embassy to register her family. Isn’t that what expats did to protect themselves? Leo screeched with joy; he loved speeding. She felt crazy. Scared. Anxious about Will in a car with a possible murderer. But, for once, knowing Bernardo was there gave her comfort.

  After the embassy, she would call Mr. Weiss.

  Twenty-six

  The first week of September broke another heat record across Europe. By one o’clock in the afternoon, radiant heat shimmering off buildings and sidewalks pushed the air conditioner in the kitchen to its capacity. He knew he could go to a hotel for relief. A five-minute cab ride is all it would be. When Nan called, he would tell her that’s what he would do. He didn’t want her to worry.

  Legs splayed, body sluggish, he sat on the couch. He’d overworked the freezer, and now it barely functioned. Beside him on a small table, he sipped on tepid water. He thought about filling the tub with cold water—anything to relieve the discomfort of intractable heat—but he decided he would not have the strength to lift himself out.