When the Cooker couple, saddled with their guide, met up with Claude and Consuela in the salon of the Hotel Astoria, Benjamin realized that his friend’s mistress had gotten her way yet again. Better to wander and “capture the soul of a city,” she had said, than to waste the day in poorly ventilated museums. Benjamin couldn’t help noticing that she had several shopping bags.
Indeed, Consuela had spent much of her time in high-end boutiques and had picked up some Herend porcelain—charged on Claude’s credit card, most certainly.
“You know boutique-hopping isn’t my thing,” Claude told Benjamin. “So I went off by myself to experience some of Budapest’s quaint cafés.”
“What did you find?”
“I went to the Gerbeaud first.”
“How was it?”
“Too much like the Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots in Paris—spoiled by writers and intellectuals who used to gather there to brag and promote their latest pack of lies. They’re tourist haunts now. I managed to stay half an hour. Then enough was enough.”
A Hungarian friend who worked in film had told him to check out the café Spinoza and the Eckermann, but he had only walked by them, not bothering to stop and taste the mousse or the famous coffee. These meccas of the Budapest intelligentsia had modernized, which bothered Claude enormously. The Internet had woven its web everywhere. Computer screens had replaced the chessboards and decks of cards. Claude missed the days when cafés smelled of absinthe and patrons pondered their moves in a cloud of smoke.
“I finally found salvation at the New York Café, a space so ornate, it almost seems magical. I wish you had been with me, Benjamin. You would have loved it—the crystal chandeliers and the ceiling adorned with Gustav Mannheimer and Franz Eisenhut paintings. The brass banisters are covered with red velvet that match the upholstery on the chairs. I’ve never seen a café as elegant.”
While Claude was detailing his explorations, Consuela was busy showing off her purchases. Benjamin glanced at Elisabeth and could see boredom written all over her face. His wife enjoyed shopping as much as anyone else, but it didn’t consume her.
Zoltán was taking it all in with an almost silly smile. Elisabeth, realizing that she hadn’t introduced their tour guide, interrupted the separate narratives.
Claude had an amused expression on his face as he appraised the man, whose jogging suit clashed with the posh ambiance of the Astoria. Consuela, meanwhile, was sizing him up the way a woman of experience might scrutinize her prey. Then, turning to Claude, she said in her native tongue, “¡Cuerpo de los dioses con ojos asesinos!”
Benjamin’s rudimentary Spanish allowed him to sense the brute sexuality that Consuela saw in this boy. He was sensual and dangerous at the same time. Benjamin was a bit wary, and he noticed that Claude was giving their guide a suspicious look.
Yet Zoltán had impressed Benjamin with historical and architectural information that an ordinary person wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t studied somewhere. He had a rustic simplicity that appealed to the winemaker and even more so to his wife. His smile was warm, and his teeth were straight, and although Benjamin was no style expert, he was aware that Zoltán’s goatee was on trend.
Benjamin was becoming convinced that Zoltán was not a city boy. His mannerisms betrayed him. He was almost certainly one of those kids from the countryside who came to Budapest—or Prague, Bucharest, or Warsaw—to seek a better life. Ironically, it was hardly an admirable life. They were ready to deal drugs, fleece tourists, and beg and prostitute themselves.
The day had been exhausting. The Cookers wanted to dine alone in a restaurant in town. Claude and Consuela planned to do the same. That left Zoltán, and it was time to say good-bye.
“I’ll come back tomorrow. Take you to Gellért baths.”
Benjamin hesitated but finally agreed to the guide’s proposition. They would meet at ten the next morning. He was about to send Zoltán off, but Consuela didn’t seem ready to see him go. In fact, she hadn’t taken her eyes off him.
“Claude, why don’t we have a glass of Champagne with the tour guide? He might tell us something we don’t know about Budapest.”
Claude exchanged a glance with Benjamin, and the winemaker read the resignation in his eyes. Faced with this fait accompli, Claude acquiesced.
“Benjamin, before you head up to your room, could you spare me a cigar?” Claude asked. “I’m running out of fuel.”
“Romeo y Julieta, Exhibición No. 4. Willthat do?”
Claude looked from his mistress to the young man, who was staring back at her.
“How could any cigar be more fitting?” he answered, taking it.
At eight o’clock, when the elegantly dressed Cookers came down to the hotel lobby to catch a cab to the Múzeum, the restaurant they had their hearts set on, Consuela, Zoltán, and Claude were still at the bar. All three were laughing. The Champagne was apparently breaking down the language barriers and sweeping away Claude’s misgivings, if only temporarily. Benjamin recognized the golden neck of a vintage Dom Pérignon in the ice bucket. At least Consuela was faithful to something.
Dinner at the Múzeum was sumptuous and lavish. Benjamin ordered duck breast with green peppercorns and walnut-bread soufflé. Elisabeth had a delicious meal of veal paprikasch that she praised so highly, the chef told her his secret.
“You need lard and to add the sweet paprika before anything else.”
“Yes,” Elisabeth said. “That will bring out its flavor.”
“I see you’re an accomplished cook, Madam.”
When she told him they were from Bordeaux, the chef’s face lit up.
“Yes, Bordeaux! Château Margaux!”
That was just about all he knew about Michel de Montaigne’s birthplace. Still, the chef, his oiled mustache, and his Magyar accent, had added charm to this dinner copiously washed down with wine from the Matra Mountains.
After dessert, Benjamin took several minutes to admire the Károly Lotz frescos on the high ceilings of the nineteenth-century restaurant. The trip was beginning to feel like the proverbial Hungarian Rhapsody. Elisabeth was enjoying herself, and Benjamin was finally relaxing. Leaving the restaurant he put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and kissed her neck. The night air was sweet.
The hotel lobby at that hour was practically deserted. Alone at the bar, Consuela and Zoltán were clearly drunk. They were laughing noisily and exchanging lustful looks. Benjamin figured Claude was back in his room, too inebriated to fret about his girlfriend’s antics.