HE SAT. SKETCHBOOK IN HANDS, he sat on Hans’s white leather sofa as the shadows deepened behind him, turning from gold to azure to darkness. Lights from the towers across from Hans’s penthouse softly illuminated the contours of the room. It was late. Hans had gone to bed long ago; Aleandro could hear him snoring softly in the depth of the apartment. His tea mug was empty when he brought it to his parched lips, and only a bitter drop lingered on his tongue. He dared not turn on the light. He feared that it would wake him, that he would find himself wrenched from a dream.
He realized, in the course of this lingering, that he’d forgotten her face. That time had erased the minute details of her lips and her eyes, that he’d forgotten the honesty of her gaze, the shape of her fingernails, the way her smile curled just slightly to the left, or that she never reclined in a chair, but rather always perched herself on the edge of her seat.
His fingers passed over the sketches, and in his fingers he could see the passage of time. His hands as they once were, when they painted and moved, when they painted her in the square. Time. Time had been his enemy, but also his friend. For had he not wanted to forget all these things?
Another page, the last one. On this one, he pulled another recollection from the dusty corridors. She, in a red dress, her honey hair mussed by the wind, her feet bare, sliding into the sand, into the golden light of a bonfire. The night they thought they were parting. The night that had been their beginning—and end. He didn’t realize he was crying until a wet drop landed on the page, right at her feet.
He drew himself back and placed the sketchbook down on the sofa, still open beside him.
There were no more pages. Their story was over again.
The letter was on the coffee table. A simple envelope of regular stock, his name written in a careless handwriting, which he knew couldn’t have been Eva’s. He picked it up, knowing that he was on the edge of another precipice. And took comfort, strange as it was, that he’d almost not lived long enough to know this moment. It seemed a gift now.
Whatever the letter said, he was ready.
Dear Mr. Szabó,
My name is Bianca Kovaks. I’d elaborate further, out of sheer politeness, but I believe you know who I am. My mother is Eva Kovaks. Formerly Eva César. And I believe that you, sir, were once in love with her.
I hope you’ll forgive my brazenness. But I believe what I’m saying is true.
How to begin. You see, I knew virtually nothing of your role in our lives, until five years ago, when my beloved father, Eduard, passed away. It wasn’t until then that my mother, Eva, confided in me that it was your donation to the Hungarian National Gallery that secured our visas to join him in Vienna after we were separated in the days of the revolution. To say that I was shocked would be putting it mildly, but, as she so reasonably explained, we all have our angels. And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that if it weren’t for your kindness, I might not have fulfilled my dream of becoming a violin virtuoso. As grandiose as that sounds, your gesture gave me the chance to see that dream through, as much as returning my father, Eduard, to me.
Which brings me to the reason for my sending you this sketchbook, along with this letter. When my mother decided to return to Sopron last year, she left it in my possession. There weren’t many explanations offered, only that it was the sole thing of value she could bequeath to me, and she hoped that someday, if needed, it would provide a safety net. What my mother never understood is that I never feared poverty nor placed much value in money, and so I thought of it as nothing more than a memento to keep on a bookshelf and share with friends over dinner or wine. (Yes, it does indeed make for a great conversation piece.)
Yet, as I studied the portraits, I became aware that they connected my mother to a past I knew nothing about. You will pardon my directness, but even a child could discern in these portraits that there was more between you than friendship. I suppose we all harbor our secrets, do we not? Well, whatever it was that you and my mother shared before her marriage, it is not for me to judge. As I’ve made clear, my allegiances belong, and always will, to my father, Eduard.
Regardless, as this sketchbook surely means much more to you than it does to me, I hope in all earnestness that it will reach you. Yet, should it not, then I am comforted that your ward and close friend, Hans Luben, will cherish it every bit as much as you would. Either way, I believe I’ve done the right thing by releasing it into his hands.
Incidentally, since the Eastern European borders opened again the winter before last, I’ve had the chance to return to my native Budapest and view for myself the pieces that secured our freedom. And I have to confess that I was deeply stirred. It was surely not easy to part with something so close to your heart, and for that I owe you my gratitude. In conclusion, think of the sketchbook as a returned favor, and a thank-you gift.
Yours,
Bianca Kovaks