“LET THAT BE, PLEASE,” Frau Angyal said, edging Evelyn away when she started to clear the breakfast things from the table. “Off to the hills, everybody! Adam, please, the weather’s supposed to be lovely.”
“We used to make the climb a lot,” Pepi said, “it’s such a beautiful spot.”
No one thought of anything better to say. And even Michael and Katja, who were once again sitting in front of the television, vanished to their rooms like obedient children. Adam took the loafers that he hadn’t worn since early summer out of the trunk and exchanged his sandals for them.
They had to wait for Pepi, who was searching for her rucksack. Frau Angyal had made tea and, despite protests, some sandwiches too.
It was so quiet you could hear every car and every moped for miles around. Only the occasional cries and shouts of children drifted up from the lake. Sometimes there was what sounded like the pop of a gun in the distance.
“Poor starlings,” Evelyn said.
Just as the church bells began chiming, Pepi appeared with her rucksack, which she was unwilling to hand over to either Adam or Michael.
They walked down to the end of the driveway and turned left, along Római út, as if heading for the lake. But at Saint Anne’s Chapel they turned left again.
“I never noticed that before,” Adam said. He had stopped in front of the chapel.
“Noticed what?” Michael asked.
“Why, there—1798!” Adam pointed to the date above the door. “Everybody stand underneath it. Come on, we haven’t taken any pictures. Misha and Evi on the left and right, you two in the middle.”
Nobody objected to Adam’s directions. He took his time and kept changing the stop.
“When I say ‘Go,’ then you start walking, you take one step forward.”
“Why?” Michael asked.
“Believe him, it’s a great effect, really,” Evelyn said.
“Go!” Adam said and pressed the shutter release. And now one more.”
All four resumed their position under “Anno Domini 1798.”
“And—Go!” Adam shouted. “Very good!”
“Now you.” Evelyn took the camera from his hand. “Katja on the outside, you next to her,” she said.
Adam flinched as he touched Michael’s arm, which lay on Pepi’s shoulder. He cautiously put his arm around Pepi’s waist.
“That doesn’t work,” Evelyn said. “Just stand there.”
“And Go!” Adam commanded. They took a step ahead one more time. And then Pepi led the way up the path, which meandered past vineyards and open plots, till it joined the upper road. From there they soon turned off again, following signs for the Róza-Szegedy House. “This is definitely older than two hundred years,” Pepi said as they stood before it.
A dozen people were waiting for the restaurant terrace across the way to open.
“We’ll come here later for lunch,” Michael said. “I have to invite you all at least once.”
Here the woods began. They moved along the stony path Indian file, Pepi and her rucksack in the lead, behind her Evelyn, with Michael bringing up the rear.
After about fifteen minutes the path grew less steep and led across the higher vineyards.
“Are they harvesting yet?” Michael asked. They heard voices and the plop of grapes landing in plastic buckets.
“Those are Zweigelt grapes,” Pepi said.
Once the owner of the vineyard recognized Pepi, he cut off a few clusters and, holding them between thumb and index finger, offered them one by one across the fence, where the Germans accepted them in their cupped hands. As they walked they ate the small sweet grapes.
The day was once again as warm as in August. Before them sailboats crisscrossed the lake and the bay below. Along the edge of the path lay overripe plums, wasps buzzing around them. Coming to a narrow stone stairway, they climbed up and rested on a bench hewn out of the rocks and giving off a damp coolness. From there it wasn’t far to a stone cross from 1857, whose metal Jesus had been painted with an emphasis on dripping blood. Not far from it a waste barrel filled to overflowing formed a little mound of trash.
They sat down on rocks farther down from the cross and five to ten feet back from the precipice. The region on the far southern shore of Lake Balaton was flat except for two hills. The sun was mirrored on the water, where clouds traced more definite shadows than over the land. But they never seemed to move. The vineyards below were textured, hatched surfaces, smoke marked a couple of fires. A lark hung in the air at eye level.
The thermos of tea was passed around, Pepi doled out the wrapped sandwiches. Adam spread his sweat-soaked shirt on the warm rock and took a couple of pictures.
“Down there we’ll have grilled catfish with a garlic-wine sauce,” Michael said.
“Are you leaving tomorrow?” Katja asked.
Michael nodded and pushed a slice of apple into his mouth.
“I thought you were going to wait for us.”
“Would like nothing better, but that’s a no-go.”
“They lied to you, they just wanted to get rid of us.”
“I promise you, it’s no fairy tale.”
“I can’t take this any longer,” Katja said. “Can’t you stow me in your trunk?”
“I don’t have a trunk.”
“Then under some blankets or bags, it’ll work. They’re not checking anymore. And even if they do, they’ll let us through.”
“Believe me, it’s just a matter of a couple more days.”
“You wouldn’t be risking anything,” Katja said.
“And how do you picture it? Should I say I hadn’t noticed you’d crept in back there?”
“For example.”
“Can’t you find another topic for conversation?” Adam said. “Anyhow, you’re not going to find a more beautiful spot anywhere.” He walked with Pepi to the monument.
They heard a sirenlike honking before the train came into view as it pulled into Badacsony. The rhythmic beat of the wheels slowed down. Once the train stopped, they could hear the station’s loudspeaker.
Adam passed his hand over the pedestal of the cross, on which names and dates had been chiseled or scratched. The older the date, the more artistic the workmanship. “Pepi,” Adam said, pointing to a name that stood above a semicircle of two laurel sprigs. “ ‘Kiss Gábor, 1889.’ And here’s another eighty-niner, ‘Bodó József.’ We could ask someone to engrave our names here, that would give people something to wonder about a hundred years from now too.”
“Yes,” Pepi said, nodding. “It’d have to be at night. I know somebody who could do it.”
Adam went “Hm” and nodded. They walked back to the others, he put his shirt on.
Pepi led them on to a viewpoint from where they could see the peaked hill in the hinterland. She told about the Romans, for whom the Római út was named, and explained how lava, igneous soil, was good for cultivating wine. Otherwise they didn’t say much. Michael put his arm around Evelyn’s shoulder a couple of times, but Evelyn had only monosyllabic replies to everything he said, and the path kept forcing them to walk single file. Pepi stayed in Adam’s vicinity. The last part of the way Evelyn walked between Katja and Pepi, while the two men hurried ahead in the hope of still getting a table on the terrace.
Later that afternoon they walked down to the lake, sunbathed, and drank coffee. Only Katja went into the water. She swam out so far that Pepi wanted to notify the rescue service.
That evening, shortly before seven, they were sitting at the table set for supper waiting for the Angyals to join them.
“That was a lovely day,” Evelyn said.
At almost the same moment they heard Frau Angyal call from the house, her arms fumbling at the plastic strips. She was wearing the blouse Adam had made for her.
“Come in, come in.”
Katja, Evelyn, and Michael raced to the television. Adam poured himself another glass. He stood up, glass in hand. But instead of going inside, he lingered at the little pen to watch the turtle, which had climbed into its shallow bowl of water.
“Adam,” Pepi said.
Frau Angyal’s voice could be heard inside, she was translating.
“Looks like it’s happened,” Pepi said.
She flinched too when both Katja and Michael let out a scream.
“Sorry,” Adam said, set his glass down, and wiped his damp hand on his pants.