Strangers in Budapest

by Jessica Keener

  “Let’s go,” Will said. He pressed his palm into the small of her back, but Annie became inert, as if she had forgotten how to move, and then she remembered and took a step toward the living room.

  “Tell them!” Edward said, shouting.

  “You hear how crazy this man is?” Stephen said. “He’s mad.”

  Where the night air had felt fluid and warm only a few moments ago, humming with gaiety and banter, the living room had turned stale and rigid. Annie’s sense of consciousness teetered and dislodged from her body. The only part of her that she could still feel was Will’s hand on her back. And then she was next to Edward, so close she could smell the burned-toast odor of his sweat.

  “Edward, what’s going on?”

  “I couldn’t wait, Annie.”

  “Wait for what, Annie?” Stephen called to her. “What’s this about?”

  “We should go,” Will said, his fingers slipping from her back and finding her hand.

  She didn’t want to answer Stephen. She felt guilty, a traitor, her heart prickling with remorse. She heard the pleading in Stephen’s voice, the injured spirit wanting something from her that she couldn’t give because she was confused. Scared. What was happening? She couldn’t fathom why Edward was here, now, at this party. He never once mentioned his intention of coming tonight. But here he was. She regretted calling Edward and lying to Stephen.

  “I’m not sure . . .” Her jaw felt pinned together.

  “Explain this to me,” Stephen said, his voice barking at her.

  “She has nothing to explain,” Edward said. “She had no idea I was coming tonight. This was my idea.”

  She and Will joined Bernardo, Eileen, and Agnes at the door.

  “Ready?” Bernardo said, keeping his voice low.

  “I need to stay,” Annie said

  “Egészségünkre!” Stephen said, calling to the group, raising his glass of Unicum and draining it. “Agnes, take the old man with you. Get him out of here. He’s psychotic. Agnes, drive him home, will you? Drive them all home. I’ll pay you double.”

  “With my daughter’s money that you stole?” Edward said. He was on the balcony now, facing Stephen, the white statue lit up on the hill behind them. Marta hovered next to Stephen, her long arms limp at her side.

  “We cannot all fit,” Agnes said. “I can come back. That is no problem.” Agnes sucked hard on her cigarette and blew a harsh stream of smoke at the ceiling, all protocol of polite smoking manners gone.

  “No problem?” Stephen said, guffawing. “I think this old man is a fucking problem.”

  “We’ll grab a cab,” Bernardo said.“Stephen, thank you for having us all here.”

  “No. Go with Agnes,” Will said. “We’ll take a cab.”

  “We can all fit,” Eileen said, insisting.

  Annie felt herself becoming one organism with the others, all of them conjoined by the growing crisis on the balcony.

  “You go,” Annie said. “I can’t.” This was her fault. She had to make sure things would be okay. She couldn’t leave the undertow of tension between Edward and Stephen pulling on her. She needed to hear what they had to say.

  “Not a problem, Agnes? That’s funny,” Stephen said, again waving the bottle of Unicum in the air. Marta ran over to her grandmother, who was still seated in the chair by the table with the crystal glasses.

  “You know this man? Do you want us to wait for you?” Eileen said to Annie.

  “Yes. We know him. It’s okay. Don’t wait,” Annie said, appreciating Eileen’s gesture. She couldn’t begin to explain what she knew or didn’t know, her mind flying back and forth between Edward and Stephen, or Van. It wasn’t good. She knew that. She needed to see what Edward would do now that he was on the balcony looking frail and stooped, his whole body at a slant next to Stephen, who was drunk yet robust and tall. The contrast between the two men was alarming to her.

  “This man killed my daughter with her medication. He murdered her with her own pills.”

  “You’re crazy,” Stephen said. “This isn’t happening.”

  “Stephen, do you want me to come back?” Agnes said, opening the door.

  “His name is Van Howard,” Edward said. “He’s been lying to all of you. You know how he bought this place? My daughter’s life insurance. He killed her and ran off with her money.”

  “It was her gift to me,” Stephen said.

  “You stole it from her.” Edward groaned and clutched his chest.

  “This is nuts,” Bernardo said.

  “Call an ambulance,” Will said to Agnes. “Hurry.”

  “Edward, are you okay?” Annie said. Behind her, she heard Agnes speaking in Hungarian and recognized the word for police. “Edward!” Annie said. She started toward the balcony but stopped midway.

  Something atmospheric was enveloping them all, something heavier than the summer’s dark heat, louder than the noise of traffic rising from below, something more odorous than their sweat-laced bodies, Eileen’s perfume, or the drift of Agnes’s cigarette smoke. Annie’s feet ached as she stood in her high heels, immobilized, watching Edward’s body trembling.

  “Edward, you need to sit down. Stephen, can you help him?” Annie said, taking a tentative step closer. But Stephen ignored her.

  “Don’t fall for it,” Stephen said. “Annie, tell him what I told you tonight.”

  “Tell me yourself,” Edward said, his voice straining. “This is between me and you. Leave her out of this.” Edward leaned back against the railing for support.

  “Your precious daughter wanted to die.”

  “Jesus,” Bernardo said. “This is unbelievable.”

  “The ambulance will be coming,” Agnes said, her words urgent, on the verge of panic.

  “You’re lying,” Edward said to Stephen. “Nothing worse than a liar. Deborah called me the night before she died. Something was wrong.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well,” Stephen said. “Maybe she was calling to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye to what?” Edward coughed abruptly.

  “Annie, this is your fault,” Stephen said, taking a swig of the Unicum straight from the bottle. “Why did you tell him to come here?”

  “She didn’t,” Edward said. “Forgive me, Annie. One day you’ll understand.” Edward turned toward her and she saw the grief in his eyes, and the love.

  “It’s okay, Edward,” she said.

  “It’s not okay,” Stephen said. “He’s insane. He’s been dogging me ever since my wife died. He hated me from the first time we met. Tell Annie that. Go on.”

  “I knew you were trouble. Now tell me the truth, God damn it!” Edward choked on his breath. “Tell me what happened to my daughter.”

  “I will never tell you what happened. You don’t deserve it,” Stephen said.

  “My daughter deserves it.” Edward’s voice was hoarse. He coughed again. “You murdered her with pills,” Edward said. “It wasn’t an accident.”

  The two men’s voices stabbed the night with their accusing words ripping away pent-up emotions, the air enveloping them toxic with anger. Where was the nice Stephen that she thought she knew, and was Edward in his right mind?

  “She wanted to die,” Stephen said. “You can’t face that. It was inevitable. Do you understand?” Stephen lobbed the bottle of Unicum over the side of the railing. “Your daughter wanted to die. She asked me to help her.”

  The bottle smashing below sounded like a truck backfiring.

  “My daughter wasn’t sick enough to die.”

  “What do you want from me?” Stephen barked at Edward.

  “Truth. She didn’t want to die. Deborah loved life.”

  Marta screamed.

  “Jesus. He has a gun! Get out, everyone,” Bernardo said, his words flinging across the room like small stones.

  “What the fuck. Is it loaded? Is it real?” Stephen raised his arms and spread them out like a vulture’s wings. “Deborah was dying a slow death. I spared her years of pain. I let i
t happen sooner than she expected. Okay? Is that enough truth for you, American army man?”

  “You bastard!” Edward said. “Did you hear that, Annie?”

  “Good thing we didn’t get that autopsy,” Stephen said, laughing, taunting Edward.“You and your stupid truth? Where were all the great American heroes when my father needed you? Tell me about that truth!”

  Edward swayed forward, then listed back again, holding on to the railing with one hand.

  “Edward, please put the gun down,” Annie said, but he was beyond her reach and words. He was untouchable. The footsteps of the others, except for Will, who remained at her side, thundered down the common hallway toward the elevator.

  “You murdered my daughter. You stole her life!” Edward said, his voice breaking.

  Marta shrieked.

  “Shut up, Marta, will you? Shut the fuck up.” Stephen shouted something in Hungarian.

  “Annie, come on,” Will gripped her arm.

  “I can’t . . .”

  Outside she heard sirens. She knew the police would be there in a minute or less.

  “Deborah hated her disease,” Stephen said, half-lowering his arms. “I put her out of her misery. You don’t want to hear that. You never will. Now leave me the fuck alone.”

  Annie and Will both moved toward Edward as the old man started to fold forward, but Stephen grabbed the gun from Edward’s limp hand and shot Edward twice, the hideous explosions causing Edward’s body to jerk.

  “Stephen, what are you doing?” Annie shrieked. “Stop! Oh my God! Stop!”

  She started again toward Edward, slumped in a pile on the balcony, but Stephen swirled toward her, waving the gun. “Shut up, Annie. Get back. You saw what he did. He tried to kill me.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Put the gun down, please,” Annie said.

  “Stephen, put the gun down,” Will said.

  “Shut the fuck up. It’s not okay.” He pointed the gun at Will. “He came here to kill me. It was self-defense.”

  “Stephen, please,” Annie said, pleading.

  “You saw it with your own eyes. Look!” Stephen pressed the small gun to his head, shouted something in Hungarian, and shot himself, the loud pop a terrifying and final sound as Stephen lurched backward into the railing and collapsed onto Edward, lying on the balcony floor, the backside of his blazer soaked in dark blood.

  Annie crouched down to hide from what she had seen, her arms helmeting her head inside a bubble of time that felt like the rest of her life, until she was yanked back by a sharp pang in her calves and toes, and the oceanic sound of traffic outside, and the continuous scream that wasn’t Marta, but a siren, and a scattering of Hungarian men in dark uniforms filling the room and the familiar faces of Agnes, Bernardo, and Eileen standing over her and Will. Both Edward and Stephen lay motionless beneath a steady stream of red and white strobe lights crisscrossing the living room and ceiling from the street below, and then the flashing ribbons stopped.

  It was over.

  Thirty-five

  That night—because that was how she would always think of Edward’s death—Annie and Will returned home in the darkest hour before dawn, sleepwalking, in shock. Grieving. In the vestibule, they passed the familiar stink of garbage bins and the super’s apartment door with the number 1 on it, shut and silent. She saw a pale light from a television flickering under the door.

  The elevator on the top floor opened to a view of their bald neighbor’s beer cans lined up on the mat, two grocery bags stuffed with a week’s worth of trash: chicken bones, fruit rinds, old bread, juice bottles—rotting smells rising everywhere.

  “Jesus,” Will said, fitting the key in their door.

  They walked into the quiet, clean oasis of their apartment and Leo’s room. They had Klara to thank for that.

  A gentle nightlight glowed in the hallway. Annie could hear the television down the hall in the living room where Klara and Sandor had fallen asleep on the couch. Will had called them from the police station. Never had Leo’s room felt as safe as in this moment when she stood over his crib and simply stared at his face, the sleeping baby surrounded by his stuffed animals and the sweetness of life, because life held that possibility and it was embodied right here in front of her, in their child.

  It was her favorite room because of the views, especially at night when the castle on the hill, illuminated by spotlights, shone like a full moon. Will took her in his arms. She leaned into him, the feeling of safety flowing through her like water satiating a terrible thirst. Her small family was intact.

  She looked out the window to Castle Hill and wrapped her arms around Will’s waist to combat the sensation of her body losing gravity, the horrible images of death pummeling inside her head. In this tranquil moment with Will, she remembered the sounds of thudding footfalls approaching, loud voices and electronic noises and a handful of policemen bursting into Stephen’s living room. Was it exactly after the last shot fired? During? Just before Annie was shielding her own head with bent wrists and elbows to fend against another horror she did not want to see? She’d witnessed enough already when Stephen fired two shots and Edward fell to the floor.

  At Stephen’s apartment, a policeman directed her next to the table with the crystal glasses. Agnes appeared. And then Bernardo and Eileen, Marta and Olga—everyone huddled together trying to make sense of the insensible. Will was by her side.

  The police would not let her approach Edward, but Annie wanted to touch him, kneel by his side, place his head on her lap, give him back his body’s dignity. “Van killed him,” she said. “We saw him do it.” But the police would not let her approach the crime scene.

  A young officer pointed to the balcony, speaking quickly to Agnes in the soft tones of the Hungarian language.

  Will said, “Van Howard is his name. He also goes by Stephen Házy. We saw him shoot Edward twice.”

  “Igen.” Agnes touched Annie. “The policeman wants to know if you know him.”

  Annie started to move toward Edward again, but a young officer blocked her.

  “Itt!” the policeman said sharply to Agnes in Hungarian.

  “Please obey them,” Agnes said to Annie.

  Two medics carried stretchers to the balcony.

  Annie saw that Edward’s mouth was open in a distorted O, a dark spot around his crotch, a pool of blood oozing from his stomach area, his eyes staring at something only he could see. Stephen was twisted on his side. Thank God she couldn’t see his face.

  But something else happened in those moments of gunshots. As she inhaled the bitter odor of the gun, and in the confusion of lights and police and medics, and Hungarian words she couldn’t understand, she thought she smelled, too, the sunbaked odor of tar on the driveway where her brother, Greg, lifted his knee and aimed the ball at the chalked white circle on the blacktop. She felt her legs remembering the skip-step she took toward the circle. She’d wanted to catch the ball, to be part of the game. So she started for the chalked circle, hearing Greg shout, Annie! Get out of the way! She saw the ball flying toward Tracy on her bike. Annie heard a thump of metal and saw the edge of the white line, and she remembered how she couldn’t move, paralyzed on the blacktop as her brother shook Tracy, lying on the ground, trying to rouse her; she did not hear his frantic words, she did not hear anything.

  She burst into tears in Leo’s room.

  “Annie, Annie,” Will said, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. She shook her head.

  Dear Mr. Weiss.

  She couldn’t erase the image of Stephen’s angry smile provoking Edward. Good thing we didn’t get that autopsy.

  How long would she hear those hideous words and gunshots? How long would she see Stephen pointing the gun at her and at Will?

  Annie felt her body’s fluids pulsing through her legs and arms. Why did Stephen point the gun at them? Edward was right. Stephen was an angry, homicidal man.

  In the car ride to the police station close to midnight, the roads were still crowded, the sid
ewalks busy with couples dressed for late dinners and club hopping. This city didn’t sleep. This was no slouch of a town. It’s what seduced Annie when she and Will first came, and Will decided that yes, he could do it, he could quit his job. Only now she knew: what they had seen on the surface of these streets and hills with their quaint, backward time-warped ways was not at all what breathed beneath. The police car merged onto the fast avenue along the river.

  She hadn’t penetrated the city’s veneer, but she saw that trying to get inside this country had been her attempt to get inside herself.

  The police car drove past an intersection crowded with twenty-somethings, a Budapestian girl in black boots with thick heels stepping off a curb, crossing in front of the car. The car swerved out of the way and kept moving alongside the river, where small and midsize boats inched down the dark waterway, the Duna, the liquid beast that swallowed secrets of time and death.

  Edward and Stephen both dead. There were no winners here.

  AFTER SANDOR WOKE Klara on the couch and took her home, Annie and Will, exhausted but unable to sleep, made love in a way they hadn’t in months, with a sense of gratitude and purpose, and sadness, clinging to each other like flood victims grabbing hold of deep-rooted trees, as if Edward’s death confirmed that life was worth living, more than they ever imagined. She tried to erase the image of Edward’s lifeless body on the balcony, to see him alive once again in Josef’s apartment, vibrant with complaints. Fighting. Difficult and irascible, appalled by love’s injustices. But the lifeless image hung in her mind like a limp flag. She hoped time would bleach it out, make it fade and disappear.

  “It wasn’t in vain, coming here, was it?” she said to Will as they lay in bed, her eyes sore from crying. “He’d still be alive if I hadn’t told him the address. They both would be.”

  “You gave him what he was looking for. He got answers. He would have persisted with or without you, Annie. Have no doubt about that. It’s why he came here. To find out the truth. He told you that.”

  “You think he got his answer?”

  “Absolutely,” Will said. “I do.”

  She pulled Will closer, skin to skin, and shutting her eyes, she saw the blinding spark of sunlight from the car’s metal fender. Tracy didn’t have a choice. She was a victim of fate wedged between their father’s car backing up and Greg’s errant ball, yet Greg blamed himself and carried the burden of her family’s despair.