Benjamin stared at his wife and let go. Zoltán saw his opportunity. He freed himself from Claude’s hold and sprang into the vines. He was out of sight in a matter of seconds.
Below them a flock of partridges rose into the air, most likely disturbed from their plunder of the grapes by Zoltán’s headlong dash toward town. It was useless to pursue him.
“At least I have the car keys,” Benjamin muttered.
“Let’s just hope the car has enough steam to get us back to town,” Elisabeth said.
“If it’s steam we need, I think you can supply it, sweetheart. Even considering what you let off when you slapped our tour guide, I’m sure you have more where that came from.”
“You know me, Benjamin. I can only be pushed so far. And I can’t believe I let myself be deceived by that boy.”
“It happens to the best of us,” Claude said, his face still red with anger. “Look at me.”
And with that he kicked the door of the lime-green Trabant, adding one more dent to the jalopy.
Behind the steering wheel, the usually in-control Benjamin Cooker felt like he had no control whatsoever. Even when he pushed the brake to the floor, the car kept going, although in no particular direction. The engine was rattling, and he heard another alarming noise each time he shifted gears. The speedometer looked ready to fall off the dashboard. The gas gauge, meanwhile, was quivering so much, Benjamin feared they would run out of fuel at the next bend in the road. The winemaker grumbled. If only he had his Mercedes 280 SL convertible.
“So, Benjamin, we’re having quite the adventure, aren’t we?” said Claude, who was sitting next to him.
“If you’re trying to humor me, it’s not working,” Benjamin answered, his eyes on the lookout for potholes. “Let’s just hope we make it back to town. I’m counting on your navigational skills, my friend.”
Elisabeth was brooding in the backseat. Benjamin didn’t blame her. She had allowed herself to be taken in by Zoltán and his band of petty thieves. A young man with an angelic face had managed to charm her in a church, and she had even championed him. Benjamin knew she’d have a hard time forgiving herself.
Claude took out his phone, but he was unable to pull up a map.
“If only we had been smart enough to bring one,” he said.
Like a magician, Benjamin reached into his jacket and pulled out a tourist brochure listing the best Tokaji wineries.
“Hurray!” Claude yelled. A second later he grabbed the seat. Benjamin was trying to negotiate a final turn into the village of Tarcal.
It took them fifteen minutes to get back to their inn. When they arrived, a black-and-white police car and an ambulance, its lights flashing, were parked in front. Two paramedics were coming out the door with an unmoving form on a gurney. Benjamin and Claude rushed out of the car. It was Consuela. Her eyes were closed, and drool was trickling from the corner of her mouth. One of the paramedics was holding an IV bag above her head. Claude tried to intervene, but the police officers held him back.
“She’s with me!” he yelled desperately.
Benjamin looked for Elisabeth. She was standing by the Trabant, pale and clearly fatigued.
“This is all too much,” she said.
“You need to lie down.”
Benjamin put his arm around her and led her to the inn, passing the officers and the paramedics. By now the innkeeper had emerged, and she was suspiciously eyeing Claude.
As soon as they were in the lobby, Elisabeth turned to Benjamin and told him she’d be okay. “I can get myself to our room. Don’t worry. Go out and help Claude. He needs you.”
Benjamin kissed his wife’s cheek and went outside. The innkeeper was waving her arms and talking to the officers. Benjamin didn’t understand what she was saying, but then one of the officers demanded Claude’s papers. He produced the emergency passport issued by the French embassy.
“This looks like a forged document to me,” the officer said, handing it to his colleague.
“What are you talking about?” Claude was nearly hysterical. “My papers were stolen in Budapest. This has the seal of the French embassy.”
“Sir, you’re going to have to come with us.”
Claude now looked bewildered. “Where have you taken Consuela?”
“The woman has been taken to the hospital. Now come with us.”
Benjamin knew it wasn’t the right time to mention how their tour guide, a native of this very area, had fleeced them. And for sure he wasn’t going to mention the fact that they were driving the boy’s car, which was most likely stolen. The situation was too thorny, and the officers were too obtuse to care about the truth. One thing at a time, the winemaker told himself. But what needed to be done first? Elisabeth was ill, Claude was on his way to the police station, and Consuela was being taken to the hospital.
The officers settled the matter. As they loaded Claude into the back of their car, which was only slightly newer than the clunker Benjamin had appropriated, the two lawmen ordered the winemaker to stay at the inn until they returned.
Benjamin nodded and said nothing. Arguing would serve no purpose.
“Hungary boils down to one nuisance after another,” he muttered as he went inside to join Elisabeth.