New York
Autumn 1956
ALEANDRO HAD TOSSED AND TURNED last night in his bed, unable to get a wink of sleep. Having to wear a tux alone caused anguish enough, and he couldn’t even bring himself to think about how he’d handle the press without breaking out in a cold sweat. It was the first time Aleandro would have to attend an event on his own, to answer questions usually relegated to Rudolf. Questions about his painting technique (apparently, he’d started a trend using pastels in the same way that the Impressionists used small, visible brushstrokes to render shape and light), questions about Dachau, questions about his upcoming work, which, above all, left him tongue-tied and blathering like an idiot. Only Rudolf was able to rescue him from some insistent benefactor with expert timeliness just before his unease bubbled into a full anxiety bout. But tonight, Aleandro would have to muddle through the whole dreadful thing without his indispensable manager. Tonight, he was on his own.
Two days prior, Marlena had departed for New Jersey to attend to her mother’s health, and Rudolf was immersed in caring for their young son. Not that Rudolf loved anything more than doting on that child—constantly singing and cooing in his ear as he fed or dressed him—whether Marlena was at home or not. Aleandro himself had to admit that Hans, as they named him, was the most beautiful baby boy that he’d ever seen. The shock of red hair that he’d inherited from his mother and the eyes, which were a replica of Rudolf’s, left Aleandro choked with a nameless emotion. It wasn’t exactly love, not like what he’d felt for his brothers, but each time Aleandro touched Hans’s soft curls, each time Marlena and Rudolf left him in his arms to prepare a bottle or speak alone in the kitchen for a few minutes, Aleandro found himself tearing up.
“It is not too late for you, Aleandro. Despite what you say, it is not too late,” said Rudolf at the door the last time, pulling Aleandro into a bear hug and not letting go. “Remember? I told you that once. It’s been more than ten years, Aleandro. Maybe it’s time. Because life won’t stop and life requires one to be present. You can’t keep living in the past, Aleandro, not when you have so much to live for.”
Aleandro had laughed, patting his back in an offhanded way: “Tough teaching an old dog new tricks, my friend. Well, enjoy your little cocoon of bliss. I’ll be back Wednesday.”
But for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to go over on Wednesday, and the week went by in a flash, and now it was Saturday and the uptown gallery was teeming with people even prior to his arrival, a half hour before the show.
There was the usual handshaking, the autographing of glossy reproductions, the photographs taken with eager patrons, followed by the three-line opening speech, during which his hand quivered holding the scrap of paper. No more than twenty minutes into the reception, he found himself scanning the mass of suits and evening gowns for an escape route, dying to free himself from his constricting bow tie. A clear path to the restrooms finally opened up, and he was making his way there, when he was intercepted by an amply bosomed, silver-haired woman wearing a black sequin dress.
“Ah, Mr. Szabó. I’ve been dying to meet you, but I couldn’t get anyone around here to introduce us properly. I’m a big fan of your work. Marta Adami.”
She had a distantly familiar accent, and she shook his hand so forcefully that it jolted him out of his anxious haze.
“Ms. Adami. Thank you so much. But I was just stepping out. Could we talk a bit later?”
“Not leaving already, surely?”
“No, just taking a break.”
“Well, I’ll just walk with you for a moment. I assure you I make a good escort, and I’m dying for a word with you.”
Aleandro eyed her suspiciously. Was she flirting with him? Dear God, he was used to getting quite a bit of it, but he’d never had a woman of this age approach him this brazenly. She had to be at least seventy, even though the pixie cut and twinkling, lively eyes suggested a spirit that defied the years.
“My dear Mr. Szabó,” she resumed in her husky voice, as if reading his thoughts, switching to his utter surprise to Hungarian. “Charming as you may be, I assure you that I’m too old to have anything but honest intentions.”
He laughed delightedly, intrigued. “Well, in that case, please, right this way. I could never refuse a fellow countryman… uh, I mean, woman.”
They sat in the entry hall on a banquette near the window, where traffic lights passed in an endless stream, sipping champagne that had come around on a serving tray. Marta explained she was not just an admirer of his paintings but also the wife of the Hungarian ambassador to the United States.
“Truly?” Aleandro was astounded. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, Madam Adami, I had no idea. I hope you didn’t find me rude just now. Sometimes I find all this overwhelming.”
“I’m sure it is overwhelming. A success like yours—a rapid success, as it was—must not be easy to handle. When was it that you first exhibited at that gallery on Fifty-Seventh? Two, three years ago?”
“Four,” Aleandro said. “But you know it? You’ve seen it?”
She gave him a complicit sort of smile, which again seemed to belong to a younger woman, signaling for two more flutes and handing one to Aleandro. “My husband and I have seen your work several times. In fact, he regrets a great deal that he couldn’t be here tonight, but I suppose you could say that he sent me as his emissary.”
“Emissary? Emissary to what?”
“Mr. Szabó, when was the last time you saw Budapest?”
At the mention of Budapest, his fingers tightened around the glass. “I actually never have. I’m from Sopron. I never got the chance to visit the capital, to my greatest regret. As much as I would have wanted to… once. But, impossible now, right? The Soviet Bloc countries are inaccessible to Americans, to everyone in the West. They have been, am I right, since the end of the war?”
He didn’t want to tell her that he knew better than anyone the impossibility of returning there. For years he’d looked for a loophole, an opening of any kind that would allow him passage through the Iron Curtain, to no avail. At some point he’d relegated himself to the idea that Eva as much as Hungary were no more within his reach than they’d been during the days of the war.
“Well, there are exceptions,” Madam Adami said.
“I don’t understand. What kind of exceptions?”
Marta drained her champagne slowly, seeming to relish the suspense. Then she gingerly patted the corner of her mouth with a napkin, careful not to disturb the bright peach lipstick. “Have you heard, Mr. Szabó, of the Hungarian National Gallery?”
Aleandro shook his head, still not grasping where she was going with this.
“Well, it’s not actually scheduled to open until late this year, but the timing might just be perfect. Its purpose, Aleandro—if I may call you Aleandro—is to showcase exclusively the works of Hungarian artists, including ones living in the West, and I think your works of Dachau would be ideal for the opening.”
“Well, thank you, really, thank you very much. I’m truly flattered. But even if I wanted to take part in it, it would be impossible for me to get into Hungary.” He cleared his throat. “Not just because of obvious restraints, but because in Hungary, I’m afraid I’m considered a deserter. Because I came here to New York, instead of returning after the war.”
Marta shrugged, undeterred, smiling widely at some passing patrons. “All infractions can be forgiven for the right reasons, Aleandro. The Soviets, I’m sure, would be quite pleased to display the brutal atrocities of their infamous former foe. And, if you are truly interested, Aleandro, I think you’ll find that my husband and I can facilitate greatly in that regard. Here.” She snapped open her clutch and took from it a pearly white card. “Take my number. Think about it. Come visit us sometime. Even if it is just to take in the view of the big park.” She leaned in, giving his arm a squeeze with her bejeweled hand. “It’s worth it, I promise.”
Then she set her glass down and departed graciously like a black swan over the marble terrain, leaving Aleandro there in a cloud of bewildered agitation, pondering her offer.
It seemed a dream, another fantasy he’d concocted for himself, and he rubbed his moist palms on his trousers as if to awaken himself from it. But this was no fantasy. This was real. He could go to Budapest! Budapest, where Eva watched the sun rise every day, where she lived and breathed—Eva, whom he hadn’t thought he’d ever see again in this divided world. An exhibition of this prestige would surely be announced in the papers; it would draw an audience, and maybe it would reach her ears. And maybe, just maybe, she would come.
It was perhaps just a foolish notion, but already he was caught in a frisson of euphoria, his heart galloping ahead of any reason. Rudolf was wrong, he thought then. You see, Rudolf, you can re-create the past if you hold on to it dearly enough. You can, because the universe is timeless; it always pulls you back where you belong.
With a broad smile on his face, he waltzed back into the exhibit a changed man, no longer anxious but glowing with the renewal of a long-dormant dream. In short, a man on the cusp of something he’d long forgotten how to feel. A happy man.