Yes, definitely, Stephen Házy resembled the man in the photo, yet she didn’t want to believe it could be him. Maybe Edward was crazy. But pictures don’t lie, do they? Sometimes they did. It was an old, crumpled photo. The man in the photo had shoulder-length hair pulled back in a ponytail—no bangs. Stephen’s hair was short with only those untamed strands that drifted over his eyes. How could these two men be the same? Was she crazy? She felt the tremors of second-guessing herself, the two disparate descriptions of the same person colliding in her head. She hurried home, dripping with sweat and upset with herself. Will would be waiting for her. They had planned a trip to the country to meet that mayor.
“Where have you been? Have you been to Mr. Weiss’s again? We need to get going or we’ll be late.”
“Yes. I was there. I’m sorry. I’ll shower and change quickly.”
IN THE CAR, she and Will started on the drive west to the small town of Inota. Will was silent, angry silent—she knew by the way his face looked frozen in concentration. She wanted to go with him today so she could meet one of these small-town mayors. Bernardo’s job offer was on the table, and though they hadn’t talked about it since the ferry ride, she knew Will was considering it seriously. But accepting the offer would mean staying here for another year or two or more. The reality of that was feeling impossible to her. And, now, there was this issue about Stephen, or Van Howard, or whoever he might be.
“Will, what do you know about Stephen Házy?”
“Dave hired him. He’s been useful at meetings. You met him. You liked him. He certainly liked you. Why?”
“Mr. Weiss says he’s his son-in-law and that his real name is Van Howard.”
“Come on, Annie. What are you talking about?”
“This morning. He showed me a photo of his son-in-law. It’s the same man. I’m telling you. I saw the photo. Does he know where we live?”
“Probably. He has my card.”
“It’s the same man, Will. He’s using a different name. Why?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care. People come here to escape. Maybe he wanted to start a new life. I don’t know. You see what you’re doing? You’re getting wrapped up in it. How is that helping anyone?”
“I don’t know.” She looked out the window at the huge Russian block apartment buildings. Ugly gray structures with tiny windows. She didn’t have a good answer for Will. “I don’t know.”
“Let’s just say it is the same guy. Maybe he wanted a clean break. Maybe it’s his business name. He’s a translator. He makes good money doing that. I gave his name to Bernardo.”
“Okay.”
She liked this explanation. Mr. Weiss didn’t want her help, anyway. She would give him Stephen’s number and leave it at that. It was true what Will said. People came here to get away from their lives. Hadn’t she come for a fresh start? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Edward was a desperate man. Yet she was unable to dismiss the unpleasant implication of Edward’s haunting words. Keep an eye on your son. Leo was with Klara. He was napping. Safe in their flat. The door to their apartment locked. Maybe she was losing her sense of sanity. What was she doing here? She didn’t want to live here the rest of her life.
Ahead of them, the sky was gray and dull. Inside the car, the weak wafts of air-conditioning smelled like plastic.
“I should have stayed with Leo today.”
“You’re all over the place. Call Klara if you’re worried. She has our number. Calm down.”
“Right.”
She shifted her body away from Will and took in the long view of the M7 highway. They passed beat-up Ladas—cars the size of scooters with their stinky diesel smell. She knew that Will was right, but she could feel her faith leaking out of her. She wondered where faith came from. If it leaked, could it be replenished? She dialed their landline.
“How’s Leo?” she asked Klara when she answered.
“Everything is fine. Something is wrong?”
“No. Please don’t let anyone into the house while we’re gone. That’s all. I got worried.”
“Persze,” Klara said.
“Annie. You need to calm down,” Will said when she hung up. “You’ve been listening to Edward. Whatever he said to you today, it’s eating you up. I can see it in your demeanor. I know you.”
“I’m not going there anymore. Okay?”
“I hope you’re not just saying that.”
“I’m not.”
Life here was feeling impossible. Impossible—how un-American of her to think this way. How Hungarian. And another thing: she refused to become a trailing spouse, a woman without purpose. A lost soul. She had to think positively. If she pretended that everything were all right, then it would be. The power of intention. Seize control of her circular thoughts.
Will glanced at her. “We’ll be fine.”
How she wanted to believe him.
“Are you excited about meeting this guy?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t call it excited. Anticipatory.”
“It must be frustrating, day after day, like a traveling salesman. Knocking on doors. Getting nos all the time.”
“That’s the nature of the beast. What are you getting at?”
“I’m just saying it’s hard.”
“I didn’t say this would be easy.”
“Of course.” Persze. Not easy was an understatement.
They settled into their separate, private thoughts, the stretch of highway flat for miles ahead, an occasional tree rising like a shadow in the dried-out landscape. She remembered one pivotal morning in October, before they moved here, when Will had awakened from a bad dream. They lay in bed, in the luxury of their gorgeous redesigned bedroom with trey ceiling, moldings, Palladian windows, French doors leading to a new deck, and a master bath the size of another bedroom. Everything appeared perfect on the outside; but on the inside, something else was deteriorating for Will. Leo’s arrival sealed the deal for them, urging them both to make a bold move. Life was for living, not waiting cautiously for a better future.
Was this her better future now? It wasn’t looking good. She scanned the dull Hungarian horizon for an answer.
On that morning, Will woke up and said, “I don’t want to be an old man looking back, wishing this and that.” He had just turned forty. She was thirty-two. He gave his notice that week.
She had encouraged him to make a change, to come here. Do it, she had said. She was the one who insisted he have faith. Dare to follow his dreams. Now she herself was confounded with doubts.
Will slowed as they came up behind a fruit truck—the truck reminding her of Stephen’s cautionary story about this exact highway scenario. So informative and accommodating. She couldn’t believe what Edward was saying about him. Except even Edward admitted that most people thought Stephen was nice, but that he was a liar. Was it possible that Edward was wrong? Was his pain distorting the truth? Did he have actual proof that the man in the picture had killed his daughter?
She didn’t have answers.
“This is why I wanted to leave earlier,” Will said. “We’re going to be late because of this truck.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
She stared at the monotonous fields ahead. Again, she tried to keep her mind on the present. If they got stuck behind this fruit truck, it could double their travel time. Inota was twenty minutes outside Székesfehévár, that famous City of Kings. Famous was a word that Hungarians overused when describing themselves—famous goulash, famous paprika, famous Herend porcelain—yet it was a word that was justified in many incidences, as with Bartók, the famous musician. Well, why not. They deserved world recognition for the good things, didn’t they? Most people knew little about this landlocked country called Hungary.
“What did this mayor say?” she finally said.
“Not much. But he’s willing to meet. It’s a solid town. You never know what it might lead to.”
“Right.”
But it felt wrong. This wasn’t Will. He wasn’t a salesman. He was a researcher, a strategist. Bernardo knew this about Will, too, and would do whatever he could to convince him to accept his offer. It was beginning to feel inevitable.
Finally, the fruit truck exited, and so did they a few miles later, onto a small, country road, more gravel than pavement. Picturesque, serene, no cars in sight—gentle hills appeared, more trees, and then she saw them: a few dozen Gypsies—Roma—walking in single file along the road. Men, women and children, pulling wooden carts, carrying bags.
“What in the world are they doing? Where are they going? Slow down!”
“I’m going slow, Annie. I’m not going to stop. That’s the town dump over there, where they live.”
“Are you serious? How do you know this?”
“I read about it.”
The car scattered dust as they drove past the dark-skinned men, women, and children, all of them looking weather worn, their clothes dull with dirt. Then, quickly, the Roma were behind them, growing smaller again, inching toward the dump.
“That was depressing,” she said.
“You’re making a judgment.”
“They didn’t look happy. Maybe we should turn around, give them some money,” Annie said.
“I’m not going to turn around. I have an appointment. If you’re that concerned, why don’t you look into volunteer opportunities? You want to help the Gypsies? Good. Do it.”
“Roma,” she corrected him. “By the way, Mr. Weiss doesn’t want me—us—to go his apartment anymore. At all,” she said, blurting it out. Angry.
“When did he say that?”
“Today.”
“Good. I guess that finally settles that.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Annie?”
He reached for her hand, but she eased it away.
She needed to calm down. Mr. Weiss had changed his mind. A sudden reversal at the end of her visit. Even an apology. At first she felt relieved, but now she felt hollow, unfinished, unsettled. The issue of Stephen Házy. None of it was adding up. What was the truth? Stephen was nice. She couldn’t shake the fact that he had been kind to her, considerate, helpful. He seemed genuine. But why would Stephen change his name? As for getting involved in volunteer work, it would mean taking another step toward attaching herself here in Hungary when in truth she wanted to get out.
They drove in silence until Will turned onto another road, this one paved. It led to a small town square. They parked in front of a redbrick one-story building, which looked closed. Even the maple tree next to the building looked forlorn, withered with thirst.
“Sure it’s today?” she finally asked.
“This is how they all look.”
Inside the building, she followed him across a clean linoleum floor to the mayor’s office where a middle-age woman with short dark hair sat at a desk, smoking, guarding the entry. Will introduced himself and asked for the mayor.
“Nem itt,” she said. Not here. She turned back to her work.
Will looked across the hall into a large room and an empty chair behind a desk.
“I have an appointment,” he said, then struggled to say it in Hungarian.
The woman took a plain piece of typing paper and began to draw a map with arrows. She handed it to him, glancing at Annie for the first time. Annie made an attempt to smile, but the woman ignored her.
“You find him here. His house,” she said. “You go. It’s okay.”
Will took the paper, but Annie could see that he was annoyed by this.
“Does he have a cell phone?” Will asked the woman, his tone insinuating that he knew owning a cell was the ultimate status symbol.
“Igen. Persze.” The secretary wrote the numbers on another piece of paper and gave it to him.
Back in the car, Annie waited as Will dialed the mayor, speaking into the phone in halting but serviceable Hungarian when the mayor answered.
“Okay. We’re set.” Will turned to her and started up the car again. “He’s a few streets away.”
“Did he forget?”
“No. He’s expecting us.”
They followed a curved dirt street a few blocks up a hill without trees to a square stucco building at the top of another small hill. She guessed it was a half mile from the town center. Easy walk. Will parked on the road. Together they climbed a dirt driveway. At the top, a backhoe was stationed behind a huge mound of dirt at the side of the house.
“Someone’s putting in a new driveway,” Will said. A path had been carved out, but more work needed to be done.
A stone walkway led to the front door. Will knocked. They waited. He knocked again. She felt irritated. The mayor knew they were coming. Finally, they heard the lock turning inside. An overweight short man opened the door.
“Hello. Come in. Please. I am sorry. I was on phone.”
The familiar Hungarian accent.
Will shook the man’s hand and introduced Annie. The mayor nodded and led them down a dark hallway across herringbone-patterned wood floors. He wore an eggplant-colored polyester suit.
“Sit, please,” the mayor said, directing them to a brown vinyl couch. The mayor pulled up a chair. An Oriental rug hung on one wall in typical Hungarian fashion. In their own flat, two small Oriental rugs also hung on the living-room walls, like tapestries.
Will took out his pocket dictionary and began to speak in both English and Hungarian. He explained that he wanted to bring cable to the small town.
“Good, but this is impossible,” the mayor said. “Who will do this?”
Impossible. The classic Hungarian response. So predictable, Annie thought. The room was dark. Drapes covered the windows.
“I will need permission from official. You understand?” the mayor said.
“I have it right here.” Will said, opening a leather folder. He pulled out several papers with embossed seals the size of silver dollars and several signatures in blue fountain ink at the bottom of the pages.
To Annie, they looked like award certificates. Will had explained to her that these seals took weeks to get.
The mayor bent over the papers, picking them up, one by one, and held each to the low light, looking for the watermark. Slowly, he ran his finger over the signatures, back and forth. Clearly, it was a method, a ritual the mayor had learned years ago, like rolling a cigarette. She expected him to spit on the paper to see if it would stand up to the test, but he didn’t. She guessed the mayor was in his fifties because of a balding spot in the back of his head.
Then, as if something in him clicked, the mayor accepted the official seals as authentic. He smiled and took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, offering one to Will and Annie in confirmation.
“Kérem,” the mayor said. “Please.”
“Nem köszönöm. But please help yourself,” Will said, opening his palms like a book. My wife and I don’t smoke.”
“Persze. Americans.”
The mayor lit up and exhaled a messy stream of smoke, then pushed the papers back to Will again. “I think about this.”
“Good,” Will said. “It’s a good opportunity for your town. A good source of money.”
“Igen,” the mayor said, nodding. “Pálinka before you go? I’m sorry my English.”
“Your English is very good,” Annie said, smiling.
“We’d love some pálinka,” Will said.
The mayor left the room and returned with three small glasses and a bottle of pear liqueur. They clinked glasses. Annie did her best to sip the liquid that was sweet and warm in her throat, thinking what an odd moment this was in the mayor’s dim, sparely furnished house. She wondered if the mayor had children or a wife.
“Very good,” Will said.
“How do you like our country?” the mayor asked.
“Jól, good. A good time to be here. Good opportunities.”
The mayor nodded. “Igen. Many, many changes. Some good. Some not so good. Not good for old people.”
“So I understand.”
“Why?” Annie asked.
“No work, no money.” The mayor made that universal gesture for cash, his thumb rubbing circles against two fingers. “Prices up. Pension down.” He turned his thumb up, then down. “You understand?”
Annie nodded. “And the Roma?”
The mayor made a spitting gesture.
“Gypsies? Nem good. A big probléma for Hungary.”
Annie regretted asking the question. Will finished his drink, stood up and gave the mayor his card. The two men shook hands.
“Thank you very much. I look forward to doing business with you,” Will said.
When they settled back in the car, Will said, “Now you see what I deal with.”
She wanted to reach over to him and tell him that he should keep at it, but her heart held her back. She kept her hands in her lap. She couldn’t lie to herself. Edward had helped her in that way. This trip to nowhere. It felt like a dead end. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said.
They rode in silence, the tires thrumming the road until Will fed a cassette into the tape player, his favorite compilation of classic rock songs: Allman Brothers live in concert; the Beatles; Led Zeppelin. She told herself to be patient. Success didn’t happen overnight—whatever success meant. Edward was right: Success is a phony word. She sighed.
“What is it?” Will asked.
“Nothing.”
She had run out of things to say. That was her problem. Their problem. This inability to find words to make things better. It was so much easier to say nothing. She felt the seductive pull of it. Stop speaking. Sink into quicksand. Become silent. Pretend things will be okay. Sink into silence as if it could protect her from the noise of life above and all around her. It was an old family habit, this silence. She leaned back in the seat, the music and the wheezing rush of the air conditioner meshing together. Silence was the phantom body in her family. Her sister’s injury and, later, Greg’s death in Florida. All those years drinking himself into silence, then falling to his end, a purposeful slip from a scaffold. He had waited until everyone had gone home. It was dark. They found him the following morning, his crumpled body. A stain of blood near his head. She disliked the word suicide. Sometimes she thought of it as liberation, his heart’s release. But all of it was death in the end.
She sighed again.
“Maybe it will finally rain,” she said, an effort to get out of the flooding in her mind as they approached the city. It was late afternoon and the beginning of rush hour. Clouds torn and heavy with rain amassed overhead.
“We’ll be okay,” Will said, squeezing her leg, but she didn’t feel reassured. “We have to stay positive.”
“It’s getting harder. I’m having trouble breathing.” She huffed in the car’s weak, recycled air.
“Open your window. We’re almost home. You’ll feel better.”
Will pumped the brakes and slowed to a near stop, inching along as feeder roads merged and became one avenue jammed with odorous Ladas. A bus cut in front of them. A Mercedes bullied its way between two lanes to reach the head of the line, where cars had stopped for a red light. A policeman standing on the side of the road walked out into the middle of traffic, stopped in front of their car, and pointed at Will, directing him to move off the road to a space in the breakdown lane behind a parked police car.
“Why’s he pointing at us?”
“I have no idea,” Will said. He eased out of the line and parked behind the police car as instructed.
“We weren’t speeding,” she said. “What’s the problem?”
“I don’t know.” He rolled down his window.
The policeman walked over to Will’s side.
“Do you speak English? We’re American,” Will said.
The officer shook his head. He walked to the front of the car and pointed.
“Nem.” The officer had a medium build, thin lips. He said something else, which Annie didn’t understand but apparently Will did.
“We need those papers,” Will said to her. “They’re in the compartment.”
Quickly and nervously, she handed Will the paper he had filled out at the police station. Will gave them to the officer, who signaled to a second officer sitting in the parked police car.
“What’s the problem?” she asked again. “We haven’t done anything.”
“Hold on.”
The second officer came up to the window.
“You are American?” he said.
“Yes.”
The officer strolled to the back, compared the numbers on the plate with the papers in his hand, then resumed his position at the open window again.
What did he want?
The officer leaned into the car to look at Annie.
“My wife,” Will said. He said it again in Hungarian.
“Hello,” Annie said, unable to force a smile. She felt scared, not knowing the rules, not knowing how she should behave in this context.
The officer nodded. She thought he appeared satisfied, yet he surveyed their car once more, up and down, in and out, front and back. Annie felt half-undressed, as if he were trying to strip them of something. Finally, the man leaned in and returned the papers to Will. Without looking at them again, the policeman stood back and waved them on.
Oh, yes. They needed those papers. Once again, Stephen was right.