Strangers in Budapest

by Jessica Keener

  Instead, he pointed his face toward the two standing fans and the temperate mass of air emanating from them. The constant blowing made him sleepy. Outside, a bike bell rang, the sound taking him back to his childhood. He saw the blue ice cream truck coming down the street lined with triple-decker houses in his old Boston neighborhood. He sat on the front stoop, the whole family and neighborhood waiting for a breeze from the harbor a mile away. His uncle and aunt lived on the second floor. When the truck came, the grown-ups pooled their change and purchased pints of vanilla ice cream for everyone to share. He could feel the wooden spoon splintering on his tongue, a clean scratchy taste after he licked it dry.

  On summer nights, hot as this day, he and his older sister would take turns sleeping on his uncle’s upstairs porch. The sounds of the city faded with each passing hour, and every so often an actual breeze slithered in from Boston Harbor and found its way to his little cot in the corner. Time was slow then. Slow as it was now. The morning after, he’d wake up with tattoos of bug bites, yet he loved sleeping there, exposed to the summer air, to every element. Never had he felt so safe as on that porch. Sweet moments of forgetting who he was, where he was. If that was a peek into eternity or death where time didn’t exist, he was ready.

  Half-asleep, he heard a faint ringing, like something caught in the fan blade. There it was again. The phone. The damn phone.

  “Yes. Yes. All right.”

  He pushed himself up with a violent motion that propelled him toward the door. Staggering, he grabbed at air, lurching to get his hands on something to prevent a fall—but his hip hit the floor, and he ended up on his back looking at a water stain on the ceiling.

  “Christ.”

  The ringing stopped, then started again.

  “Give me a moment,” he yelled, out of breath. That he was lying on the cooler wooden floor surprised but didn’t scare him. He wiggled his hands, his toes, neck. Amazing. God having another laugh. Everything still seemed to work.

  Dumb luck. Like that time in France. Caught in the cross fire in Strasbourg. Trapped in a courtyard. His squad, part of the big drive in 1944; that blond kid from Kansas, sharing smokes, next second flying across mounds of rubble, leg and arms, blood everywhere—not his blood, the kid’s. One more lunge across the yard.

  God!

  Only time he called out for God.

  Only time.

  On the floor, he rolled onto his side and made an effort to lift himself. The skirmish stopped, a lucky moment, one in a billion of lucky moments. Dumb luck. When you’re in a war, every day, hour, second that you’re alive is dumb luck.

  He clicked on his cell phone. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Weiss? Are you all right?”

  He pulled himself along the floor to the wall.

  “Mr. Weiss?”

  He leaned into the wall near the kitchen, heaving.

  “Annie. What can I do for you?” His lungs seized on another breath.

  “What happened? You sound terrible.”

  He brushed his shoulder. “I fell. It’s not the first time.” He didn’t want her pity. “You called. What is it?”

  “We met him again. Are you hurt?”

  “What? No.”

  “Today. Stephen Házy. Van. He’s the same man. I’m sure of it.”

  “I told you his name is Van.”

  “He calls himself Stephen. Stephen Házy. It’s the same person in your photo. It’s him, only his hair is shorter.”

  “A liar is a liar. Where is he?”

  Her voice changed. “He said he grew up in New Jersey. Didn’t you tell me that?”

  His heart turned over. “Yes. I did.” Reflexively, he touched his shoulder. It hurt.

  “Mr. Weiss? Are you there? Will’s with him now. They’re at a business meeting.”

  “Where does he live? Did he tell you?”

  “He bought a place by the river. He owns it. He even invited us over. I don’t know the address. Not yet. I know I can get it. I’ll get it for you.”

  “When was this?”

  “Today. This morning. A few hours ago. We had breakfast. At the Hilton.”

  He listened. Leaning into the wall, he felt the air conditioner vibrating. “How did this come about? Where are you?”

  “Will’s old boss. Will’s associate. Stephen is a translator for American businesses. It’s a small community. I’m worried. What if he’s been following us? I’m walking back from the embassy now. I registered. I’m with Leo.”

  “Tell me the truth. What did you think of him?”

  She answered with her breath.

  “Annie? You liked him. You don’t believe me.”

  “I liked him. Yes. He’s pleasant. Exactly like you said. I can’t put it together. He changed his name. What are we going to do?” she asked.

  “You’re not going to do anything. Understand? Don’t come here. Like I told you. Call me when you get his address. Nothing more. Give me your word.” Sweat dripped down his sides. He listened but he didn’t hear anything. She was breathing hard into the phone.

  “Annie. Your word.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good.” He slumped, the effort tired him. His shoulder ached, his body shuddered.

  “When you get his address, call me. I’m here.”

  This was his second chance. He could prove that his daughter died of an overdose from her own prescription pills. He could smell the truth. He was getting close.

  “Mr. Weiss? Are you there?”

  “Annie. I’m tired. I’m going to hang up now, but I want to thank you. Thank you very much.”

  He ended the phone call. It would come to pass, he knew this even as he listened to his old thoughts winding back. How many times had he second-guessed himself? Exaggerating. Making things up. You never trust anyone, Sylvia had said. Maybe Sylvia was right. No. No more. Van made it seem as if Deborah, his Deborah, had unintentionally killed herself, an accident, an understandable, honest mistake. The insurance company implied the same thing. Both of them— insurance and Van—robbers, killers. Canceled his own insurance after that. He let the phone slide from his hand onto the couch.

  And if Howard wanted to kill him, too?

  He rubbed his shoulder again, raising his arm to check. He fought the insurance company, but in the end, the money went to the bastard. Bastards, all of them. They said he was her husband. Her rightful beneficiary. The coroner’s opinion trumped all. A thick sweat worked like glue on his shirt and shorts as he let himself thump onto the hard sofa cushion.

  He heard his voice speak out loud.

  “Find the truth.”

  Twenty-seven

  Will sprawled next to her on the living-room couch, both of them in their underwear. The large windows opened to occasional wisps of night air. Down the long, connecting hallway, Leo lay asleep in his crib. Annie lowered the sound of the television with the remote control and nestled a bottle of Hungarian beer between her legs.

  “You have to register yourself,” she told Will. “But I wrote your name on my form. I don’t know why we didn’t do this months ago. You’re starting to believe me, aren’t you?”

  “There’s something off about Stephen. No question. But that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer.”

  Maybe not, but she felt relieved that Will was home and safe—safer now that she had registered Leo and herself at the American embassy and at the very least put Will’s name and address next to hers so that he was a known entity. The process was simple. She filled out a single sheet of paper. Afterward, she felt shielded by something larger than herself: the protection of her country. At the embassy, she wrote down her current and previous addresses, cell and fax numbers, primary contacts back in the States. The friendly American woman at the embassy desk took a photo of her and Leo’s passports. She assured Annie it was a smart, good thing to do.

  “You never know,” the embassy woman said. She was a young postgrad from Iowa, in Budapest pursuing international studies.

  “How long have you
been here?” Annie asked her.

  “Three months. Heading for Prague in the fall.”

  “Ah. Everyone wants to go to Prague.”

  “You been?”

  “Not yet,” Annie said.

  Now, as she sat on the couch with Will, Annie sank into the luxury of safety. The apartment was quiet, toys and dishes put away for the night.

  “Bernardo told a few bad jokes.”

  “Such as?”

  “How many Hungarians does it take to screw an American?”

  “How many?” Annie asked.

  “One.”

  Annie smirked. “Not funny.”

  “Stephen thought it was. He loved it. ‘Got any more, Steve?’ Bernardo said. Stephen didn’t like that. He said, ‘That’s Stephen with a p-h.’ ”

  “Where was this?” Annie moved closer to Will on the couch.

  “In the car, on the way to meet the mayor. Bernardo apologized, said, ‘Stephen, I know how you feel, buddy. Can’t stand it when people call me Bernie.’ Then Bernardo asks if Stephen’s involved with anyone.”

  “Why?”

  “His way of kicking the tires. Never underestimate Bernardo. Find out what a man thinks about women and you’ll know how he conducts business.”

  “Maybe there’s truth in that.” She took a long swig of the sweet beer. “That would make Bernardo untrustworthy. What did Stephen say?”

  “He’s seeing one woman, on occasion. Nothing serious. Then Bernardo wants to know what the woman is like.”

  “Brazen of him,” Annie said. “But that’s Bernardo.”

  Will shifted and put his arm around her.

  “Stephen says: ‘Pretty and too young.’ Then Bernardo says: ‘What’s young? Eighteen? Sixteen?’ ”

  Will looked out the window and waited for the sound of a car alarm to stop. Every night they heard these complicated alarms. Budapest had a high rate of car theft. Lucky for them, their car had not been stolen, thanks to the special lock they put on the wheel. They both listened as the car alarm went through a half-dozen shrill ditties.

  “Those things will drive anyone nuts.”

  “What happened next?” Annie said, impatient to hear. She craved the truth about Stephen. Van. No. She couldn’t call him Van.

  “At one point, Bernardo says, ‘Eileen and I married too young. Twenty. Maybe it was a mistake. You’ve never been married, right, Stephen?’ ”

  Will paused to finish his beer.

  “Stephen says: ‘I was married. Briefly.’ ”

  “Briefly. Oh my God, he admits he was married!” Annie said, sitting up.

  “Here’s the clincher, Annie. He said: ‘She died.’ ”

  “Oh my God.”

  “Bernardo changed the subject after that. Back to business. That’s how he does it. He moves into the personal, then pulls back. I’ve seen him dance this way dozens of times. By the end of the day, Stephen and Bernardo were best buddies. That’s how we got invited to his place tomorrow night.”

  “He’d already invited us at breakfast,” Annie said.

  “But Bernardo made it happen. He doesn’t have a lot of time. He did his bonding ritual. He’s anxious to see Stephen’s place.”

  “Bernardo gets what he wants,” she said. “Did he hire Stephen to be more than a translator?”

  “No. He’s kicking Házy’s tires. Trying him out. Bernardo’s smart that way. Wants to get to know him. I think Stephen is an odd duck, a loner, but—a murderer? That’s something else. I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at the television—still on mute—and watched Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz driving a white convertible the size of an airplane down a sunny California highway. America’s fantasy land.

  What would prove Edward right or wrong? She wanted to believe Edward wasn’t crazy, but believing him changed everything. It meant Stephen or Van—the kind man who had offered to help them at the police station, the little boy who tragically lost his dad—was a criminal. A killer. No. She wasn’t ready to believe that either. Maybe there was an alternative explanation. Something less black and white.

  “Did you feel unsafe?” she asked him.

  “Not at all. Maybe he had some problems back home and came here to escape or get away for a while. A lot of expats have stories like that. One could argue we came here to get away.”

  “Mr. Weiss lost a daughter. He’s sick. He’s in pain. Why would he come all this way?” she asked. “Why fabricate a murder story? That’s extreme. What is the point of that?”

  “He may honestly believe Stephen’s a murderer and wants to get his daughter’s money back, but what if he’s wrong?”

  “Oh, I can’t believe it’s about money. I don’t want to believe that.”

  “Do you want to believe that the mayor we met sells sex in exchange for business favors?”

  “What?”

  LATER, IN BED, Will slept peacefully, as if he had come to terms with his perception of the situation with Bernardo, Stephen, and the mayor and was willing to ride it out, keep the door open, and finally seize the opportunity that had eluded him for these past eight, nine months. This was, after all, the primary reason they were here—so Will could have his business adventure. Was it fair to stop him from taking Bernardo’s offer, as much as she disliked how it was adding up?

  She reviewed everything Will told her: how a guest of the mayor’s, a woman named Agnes, joined them for lunch. How the mayor introduced Agnes as his translator, but in fact she was also there to serve as an escort. How, during lunch, the mayor and Stephen had a short conversation in Hungarian that Will couldn’t understand. On the car ride home, Stephen explained to them that Agnes was a gift from the mayor—sex, companionship, whatever they needed. The mayor also told Stephen that Hungarian tax collectors liked to show up unannounced and could shut down a business for weeks. Unless, of course, the Americans were willing to pay extra cash under the table for the tax collectors to leave them alone. The mayor offered Agnes as a way to repay the favor. Stephen and Bernardo laughed over this. They had no issue accepting this practice.

  “They bonded around sex,” Will had told her. “Look, I don’t do business this way. But I can’t control what they do with women. Bernardo’s been having affairs for years. We know that.”

  And Bernardo had also offered Will a quarter-million-dollar salary. Incredible money, especially in Hungary. She looked across the narrow bedroom to the open window and the night. Will had told Bernardo he’d think about it.

  It was such a different world out there. She couldn’t believe these things happened. Yet they did. Here. Right in front of her.

  Will told her that in the car Stephen had said, “Hungarians are traders. Money. Sex. Favors. They have a long history of it. It’s how we’ve survived.”

  Traders or traitors, Annie thought, hearing Edward’s sarcastic voice.

  Apparently, Bernardo was talking a hundred-thousand-dollar salary for Stephen if he passed final muster. She wondered what Stephen got from his dead wife’s insurance. If Will died, she would get a half million. They’d signed up for life insurance because of Leo, but the whole business was distasteful to her, a racket based on fear.

  She shifted again on the hard platform bed, pressing closer to Will’s chest. She could feel the light tapping of his heart. What would he decide? What if Bernardo’s offer proved irresistible?

  She heard the baby cough.

  Leo coughed again, so she went down the long hall. In his crib, he lay on his back, plump and beautiful, his hair damp from the warm night. Sometimes he choked on his saliva. It was nothing more than that so she turned back, her foot kicking something hard under the crib.

  Leo had found her camera and exposed the film, ruining the pictures she had taken that week. Ah, well. Photos, she could replace.

  BACK IN BED, another car alarm started up outside—a high, whooping call and then a series of rapid beeps and short musical phrases, then back to whooping again. Finally it stopped. The only sound rem
aining came from their small fan on the sill blowing night air across her legs.

  How could she stare at something and not see it? That first time that Stephen showed up on Edward’s street. Next, he showed up at a business meeting with Will and Bernardo. Come on. She sat up. Too many coincidences. Was Stephen trying to win them over, win her over? Convince them the old man was wrong? She thought about the Jews who didn’t believe what was happening in Germany in the 1930s, yet in retrospect, the signs had been everywhere. Will said it was like frogs—if you put a frog in water and slowly heat the water, the frog doesn’t react, doesn’t realize it’s getting cooked. The thought distressed her: Was she like a frog slowly sinking into Hungary’s soupy swamp of depression? Wasn’t this the same thing as Jane’s trailing-spouse syndrome, a slow acceptance of unpleasantries with emotional blindness setting in?

  She lay back down. She’d come here to learn about herself, to see what happened when she stripped herself of her American culture. Now she had to ask, what was left? Mr. Weiss was right—you can’t escape yourself. But was he right about Stephen? She looked at the clock. Three in the morning. She turned on her side. Will would tell her to get some sleep. What would Rose advise? What would her neighbor do in this situation? She could call Rose and ask. Rose was the one who insisted they visit Edward in the first place, even though she knew he wouldn’t like it.

  That settled it. Annie needed to know, even if Edward didn’t approve. She would go back, unannounced, look into the old man’s face, and demand the truth. She rolled on her back and listened to the night sounds. Distant cars. Will’s breath. She grew sleepy, her mind swaying in a sea of dreams. Something flickered, a flash of sunlight. She wanted to rip off the darkness.

  She sat up gasping.

  Twenty-eight

  Early the next morning, Annie waited in a long line at the post office to mail the brown envelope addressed to Rose. In it, the letter she and Will had promised to send to the social worker.