The Invisible Bridge (2 page)

"The Quartier Latin, of course," she said, and laughed. "In a painter's garret, not in a lovely villa like our Cavaradossi. Though he tells me he has hot water and a view of the Pantheon. Ah, there's the car!" A gray sedan pulled to the curb, and Mrs. Hasz lifted her arm and signaled to the driver. "Come tomorrow before noon. Twenty-six Benczur utca.

I'll have everything ready." She pulled the collar of her coat closer and ran down to the car, not pausing to look back at Andras.

"Well!" Tibor said, coming out to join him on the steps. "Suppose you tell me what that was all about."

"I'm to be an international courier. Madame Hasz wants me to take a box to her son in Paris. We met at the bank the other day when I went to exchange pengo for francs."

"And you agreed?"

"I

did."

Tibor sighed, glancing off toward the yellow streetcars passing along the boulevard. "It's going to be awfully dull around here without you, Andraska."

"Nonsense. I predict you'll have a girlfriend within a week."

"Oh, yes. Every girl goes mad for a penniless shoe clerk."

Andras smiled. "At last, a little self-pity! I was beginning to resent you for being so generous and coolheaded."

"Not at all. I could kill you for leaving. But what good would that do? Then neither of us would get to go abroad." He grinned, but his eyes were grave behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. He linked arms with Andras and pulled him down the steps, humming a few bars from the overture. It was only three blocks to their building on Harsfa utca; when they reached the entry they paused for a last breath of night air before going up to the apartment. The sky above the Operahaz was pale orange with reflected light, and the streetcar bells echoed from the boulevard. In the semidarkness Tibor seemed to Andras as handsome as a movie legend, his hat set at a daring angle, his white silk evening scarf thrown over one shoulder. He looked at that moment like a man ready to take up a thrilling and unconventional life, a man far better suited than Andras to step off a railway car in a foreign land and claim his place there. Then he winked and pulled the key from his pocket, and in another moment they were racing up the stairs like gimnazium boys.

Mrs. Hasz lived near the Varosliget, the city park with its storybook castle and its vast rococo outdoor baths. The house on Benczur utca was an Italianate villa of creamy yellow stucco, surrounded on three sides by hidden gardens; the tops of espaliered trees rose from behind a white stone wall. Andras could make out the faint splash of a fountain, the scratch of a gardener's rake. It struck him as an unlikely place for Jewish people to live, but at the entrance there was a mezuzah nailed to the doorframe--a silver cylinder wrapped in gold ivy. When he pressed the doorbell, a five-note chime sounded from inside. Then came the approaching click of heels on marble, and the throwing back of heavy bolts. A silver-haired housemaid opened the door and ushered him in. He stepped into a domed entrance hall with a floor of pink marble, an inlaid table, a sheaf of calla lilies in a Chinese vase.

"Madame Hasz is in the sitting room," the housemaid said.

He followed her across the entry hall and down a vaulted corridor, and they stopped just outside a doorway through which he could hear the crescendo and decrescendo of women's voices. He couldn't make out the words, but it was clear that there was an argument in progress: One voice climbed and peaked and dropped off; another, quieter than the first, rose and insisted and fell silent.

"Wait here a moment," the housemaid said, and went in to announce Andras's arrival. At the announcement the voices exchanged another brief volley, as if the argument had something to do with Andras himself. Then the housemaid reappeared and ushered Andras into a large bright room that smelled of buttered toast and flowers. On the floor were pink-and-gold Persian rugs; white damask chairs stood in conversation with a pair of salmon-colored sofas, and a low table held a bowl of yellow roses. Mrs. Hasz had risen from her chair in the corner. At a writing desk near the window sat an older woman in widow's black, her hair covered with a lace shawl. She held a wax-sealed letter, which she set atop a pile of books and pinned beneath a glass paperweight. Mrs. Hasz crossed the room to meet Andras and pressed his hand in her large cold one.

"Thank you for coming," she said. "This is my mother-in-law, the elder Mrs.

Hasz." She nodded toward the woman in black. The woman was of delicate build, with a deep-lined face that Andras found lovely despite its aura of grief; her large gray eyes radiated quiet pain. He gave a bow and pronounced the formal greeting:
Kezet csokolom
, I kiss your hand.

The elder Mrs. Hasz nodded in return. "So you've agreed to take a box to Jozsef,"

she said. "That was very kind of you. I'm sure you have a great deal to think about already."

"It's no trouble at all."

"We won't keep you long," said the younger Mrs. Hasz. "Simon is packing the last items now. I'll ring for something to eat in the meantime. You look famished."

"Oh, no, please don't bother," Andras said. In fact, the smell of toast had reminded him that he hadn't eaten all day; but he worried that even the smallest meal in that house would require a lengthy ceremony, one whose rules were foreign to him. And he was in a hurry: His train left in three hours.

"Young men can always eat," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, calling the housemaid to her side. She gave a few instructions and sent the woman on her way.

The elder Mrs. Hasz left her chair at the writing desk and beckoned Andras to sit beside her on one of the salmon-colored sofas. He sat down, worrying that his trousers would leave a mark on the silk; he would have needed a different grade of clothing altogether, it seemed to him, to pass an hour safely in that house. The elder Mrs. Hasz folded her slim hands on her lap and asked Andras what he would study in Paris.

"Architecture," Andras said.

"Indeed. So you'll be a classmate of Jozsef's at the Beaux-Arts, then?"

"I'll be at the Ecole Speciale," Andras said. "Not the Beaux-Arts."

The younger Mrs. Hasz settled herself on the opposite sofa. "The Ecole Speciale?

I haven't heard Jozsef mention it."

"It's rather more of a trade school than the Beaux-Arts," Andras said. "That's what I understand, anyway. I'll be there on a scholarship from the Izraelita Hitkozseg. It was a happy accident, actually."

"An

accident?"

And Andras explained: The editor of
Past and Future
, the magazine where he worked, had submitted some of Andras's cover designs for an exhibition in Paris--a show of work by young Central European artists. His covers had been selected and exhibited; a professor from the Ecole Speciale had seen the show and had made inquiries about Andras. The editor had told him that Andras wanted to become an architect, but that it was difficult for Jewish students to get into architecture school in Hungary: A defunct numerus clausus, which in the twenties had restricted the number of Jewish students to six percent, still haunted the admissions practices of Hungarian universities. The professor from the Ecole Speciale had written letters, had petitioned his admissions board to give Andras a place in the incoming class. The Budapest Jewish community association, the Izraelita Hitkozseg, had put up the money for tuition, room, and board. It had all happened in a matter of weeks, and at every moment it seemed as if it might fall through. But it hadn't; he was going. His classes would begin six days from now.

"Ah," said the younger Mrs. Hasz. "How fortunate! And a scholarship, too!" But at the last words she lowered her eyes, and Andras experienced the return of a feeling from his school days in Debrecen: a sudden shame, as if he'd been stripped to his underclothes. A few times he'd spent weekend afternoons at the homes of boys who lived in town, whose fathers were barristers or bankers, who didn't have to board with poor families--boys who slept alone in their beds at night and wore ironed shirts to school and ate lunch at home every day. Some of these boys' mothers treated him with solicitous pity, others with polite distaste. In their presence he'd felt similarly naked. Now he forced himself to look at Jozsef's mother as he said, "Yes, it's very lucky."

"And where will you live in Paris?"

He rubbed his damp palms against his knees. "The Latin Quarter, I suppose."

"But where will you stay when you arrive?"

"I imagine I'll just ask someone where students take rooms."

"Nonsense," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, covering his hand with her own. "You'll go to Jozsef's, that's what you'll do."

The younger Mrs. Hasz gave a cough and smoothed her hair. "We shouldn't make commitments for Jozsef," she said. "He may not have room for a guest."

"Oh, Elza, you're a terrible snob," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. "Mr. Levi is doing a service for Jozsef. Surely Jozsef can spare a sofa for him, at least for a few days. We'll wire him this afternoon."

"Here are the sandwiches," said the younger, visibly relieved by the distraction.

The housemaid wheeled a tea cart into the room. In addition to the tea service there was a glass cake stand with a stack of sandwiches so pale they looked to be made of snow. A pair of scissorlike silver tongs lay beside the pedestal, as if to suggest that sandwiches like these were not meant to be touched by human hands. The elder Mrs.

Hasz took up the tongs and piled sandwiches onto Andras's plate, more than he would have dared to take for himself. When the younger Mrs. Hasz herself picked up a sandwich without the aid of silverware or tongs, Andras made bold to eat one of his own.

It consisted of dilled cream cheese on soft white bread from which the crusts had been cut. Paper-thin slices of yellow pepper provided the only indication that the sandwich had originated from within the borders of Hungary.

While the younger Mrs. Hasz poured Andras a cup of tea, the elder went to the writing desk and withdrew a white card upon which she asked Andras to write his name and travel information. She would wire Jozsef, who would be waiting at the station in Paris. She offered him a glass pen with a gold nib so fine he was afraid to use it. He leaned over the low table and wrote the information in his blocky print, terrified that he would break the nib or drip ink onto the Persian rug. Instead he inked his fingers, a fact he apprehended only when he looked down at his final sandwich and saw that the bread was stained purple. He wondered how long it would be until Simon, whoever that was, appeared with the box for Jozsef. A sound of hammering came from far off down the hallway; he hoped it was the box being closed.

It seemed to please the elder Mrs. Hasz to see that Andras had finished his sandwiches. She gave him her grief-etched smile. "This will be your first time in Paris, then."

"Yes," Andras said. "My first time out of the country."

"Don't let my grandson offend you," she said. "He's a sweet child once you get to know him."

"Jozsef is a perfect gentleman," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, flushing to the roots of her close-set curls.

"It's kind of you to wire him," Andras said.

"Not at all," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. She wrote Jozsef's address on another card and gave it to Andras. A moment later, a man in butler's livery entered the sitting room with an enormous wooden crate in his arms.

"Thank you, Simon," said the younger Mrs. Hasz. "You may leave it there."

The man set the crate down on the rug and retreated. Andras glanced at the gold clock on the mantel. "Thank you for the sandwiches," he said. "I'd better be off now."

"Stay another moment, if you don't mind," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. "I'd like to ask you to take one more thing." She went to the writing desk and slid the sealed letter from beneath its paperweight.

"Excuse me, Mr. Levi," said the younger. She rose and crossed the room to meet her mother-in-law, and put a hand on her arm. "We've already discussed this."

"I won't repeat myself, then," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, lowering her voice.

"Kindly remove your hand, Elza."

The younger Mrs. Hasz shook her head. "Gyorgy would agree with me. It's unwise."

"My son is a good man, but he doesn't always know what's wise and what is not,"

said the elder. She extricated her arm gently from the younger woman's grasp, returned to the salmon-colored sofa, and handed the envelope to Andras. Written on its face was the name C. MORGENSTERN and an address in Paris.

"It's a message for a family friend," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, her eyes steady on Andras's. "Perhaps you'll think me overcautious, but for certain matters I don't trust the Hungarian post. Things can get lost, you know, or fall into the wrong hands." She kept her gaze fixed upon him as she spoke, seeming to ask him not to question what she meant, nor what matters might be delicate enough to require this degree of caution. "If you please, I'd rather you not mention it to anyone. Particularly not to my grandson. Just buy a stamp and drop this into a mailbox once you get to Paris. You'll be doing me a great favor."

Andras put the letter into his breast pocket. "Easily done," he said.

The younger Mrs. Hasz stood rigid beside the writing desk, her cheeks bright beneath their patina of powder. One hand still rested on the stack of books, as though she might call the letter back across the room and have it there again. But there was nothing to be done, Andras saw; the elder Mrs. Hasz had won, and the younger now had to proceed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She composed her expression and smoothed her gray skirt, returning to the sofa where Andras sat.

"Well," she said, and folded her hands. "It seems we've concluded our business. I hope my son will be a help to you in Paris."

"I'm certain he will," Andras said. "Is that the box you'd like me to take?"

"It is," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, and gestured him toward it.

The wooden crate was large enough to contain a pair of picnic hampers. When Andras lifted it, he felt a deep tug in his intestines. He took a few staggering steps toward the door.

"Dear me," said the younger Mrs. Hasz. "Can you manage?"