Cafe Europa (9 page)

A tiny woman, though broad like her son, the countess wore a preposterous hat of streaming ribbons and festoons and cockamamie feathers and doohickeys galore, a menagerie of sensation atop a head of spit curls the color of rust. She sat in a velvet chair—almost painfully, it seemed, an iron-stiff posture, hands dropped into her lap, head staring across the table at the crusty old gentleman who was doing all the talking, though he did manage to light a pipe. The smell wafted across the room.

Never one to be interested in the trappings of aristocracy—I always saw myself as a small-town working-class girl who wrote about working-class folks in the American heartland, the children of the American Republic—I was intrigued by this ritual of the old regime, flabbergasted, in fact, that a body of people would rise for a second-rate countess simply because she was a countess. And one whose husband embezzled funds that necessitated he kill himself. A scandal, so I'd heard. Even Bertalan Pór and Lajos Tihanyi, revolutionary artists whose mission it was to crack that nineteenth-century veneer of stale respectability—their paintings fresh assaults on representational art and life—stood out of respect.

But what followed immediately was disturbing. Within minutes, Cecelia and Marcus Blaine entered the room, followed at a distance by Cassandra and her chaperone, Mrs. Pelham. Obviously, protocol demanded that the countess not be seen entering with the American riffraff, moneyed though they were—and salvation for the impoverished household of that very countess and her retinue. Mr. and Mrs. Blaine were bedecked in formal toggery, she with diamonds and emeralds, in a crimson gown that matched the carpet on which the countess had just walked, and an ermine cape despite the day's heat. Her husband checked his gold watch fob self-consciously and fiddled with a top hat similar to one Woodrow Wilson sported at a convention. They tried to walk with a debonair air, as though to the manor born. It didn't work, quite. Instead, the two Americans looked like overfed burghers going to a potluck dinner at the grange hall—admittedly the pretentious, wealthy shopkeepers of the village, but drab folks, nonetheless.

Cassandra trailed after like the family pet, her guardian close by, her head leaning into the girl's neck. Surveying the room, Cassandra spotted our table. Surprised, she paused, ready to say something to us as she walked by.

But Mrs. Pelham, pressing forward, bumped into the girl's back, and uttered a distasteful grunt. “Move, child,” she ordered.

Everyone looked unhappy. The countess, the old anonymous man, the mother and father, Cassandra, Mrs. Pelham, all performing for someone not there. An obligatory afternoon at Gerbeaud's, lolling on the red plush seats, the old gentleman and Marcus smoking cigars, an afternoon perhaps calculated by the countess to show the power her title still held among the peons assembled for whipped cream and coffee ice cream. Let the rich Americans know what
they
were gaining in this dreadful marriage.

Harold spoke too loudly. “A marriage made in hell.”

“Harold, manners, please,” I said.

He grinned. “Imagine Christmas Day at the palace. The countess on a throne and the Americans bringing frankincense and myrrh.”

Winifred added, “Cassandra hiding in the water closet, weeping.”

“Dreaming of Endre and those eyes of his,” I added.

Harold grumbled, “Count Frederic has two eyes, too.”

“Yes,” I said, “but some men have…
eyes
.”

Winifred nodded.

Bertalan Pór cleared his throat and invited all of us—his glance even took in Harold, who he assumed was the obligatory American at any occasion—to his studio at our convenience. Tihanyi tapped his friend on the arm, and Pór added that Tihanyi would also like us to visit his studio.

“He lives nearby, at 12 Drava Street. A stone's throw.”

Then, to my discomfort, Tihanyi pointed a bony finger that had some dried green paint at the knuckle, a scamp's smile on his face, and indicated with an elaborate movement of his arm that he wanted to paint me. He mimed a canvas and easel and…me, sitting still.

“In red,” Bertalan Pór added, smiling. “He sees you in red.”

A stir in the room as the countess, seated for a matter of minutes, perhaps changing her mind as royalty is wont to do, suddenly rose and headed out of the restaurant with the old gentleman. With scarcely any notice, the packed crowd stumbled to its feet, spoons dropped, napkins slipping to the floor, elbows banged, chairs dragged, so precipitous the woman's departure. Doubtless it surprised the Blaines because they also struggled to stand, perplexed looks on their faces, the husband whispering something to his wife, and, waiting until the countess was out of sight, began the march to the exit. It all seemed too awkward and unnecessary, capricious, especially the pandemonium it created in the café.

Cecelia Blaine looked back over her shoulder. “Cassandra, let's go.”

But the young girl shook her head back and forth, her mouth set in a grim, petulant line. “I'll finish my coffee. After all, isn't that why we came here—to perform?”

Her mother stepped back but looked toward the front entrance. Of course, the countess was nowhere in sight. She seethed. “Right now. Do you hear me?”

“No.”

“Now.”

“I'll be back home in a bit.”

“Don't talk to anyone, please.”

Suddenly conscious of the customers gaping at her, Mrs. Blaine shuddered, appalled that the world would treat her so, and stormed out the front door, tugging at the sleeve of her befuddled husband. Triumphant, Cassandra sat back, though Mrs. Pelham was making a cacophony of short, jerky animal noises. An unhappy soul, that hired pasha.

Cassandra obviously had other plans. She took a sip of coffee, then slid the cup away and stood up. Mrs. Pelham smiled, as though her pesky pleas had brought about a change of heart in the young girl. Cassandra pushed back her chair, deliberated, and then turned to Mrs. Pelham. “Sit down. I have something I have to do.”

Confused, the old woman sat back down, reaching for an enormous lace handkerchief to dab at the sweat on her brow. She stared, helpless and furious, at the back wall.

The young girl moved quickly toward our table and stood too close to me, watching. Her face was trembling, and her cheeks were moist with perspiration. With the back of her hand she dragged sweat from her face and then wiped the hand on her lovely tea gown. I was reminded of the rough-and-tumble lumberjacks in the back woods of northern Minnesota, where I'd once visited as a reporter. I'd watched one grizzled old axe man perform that very gesture, though his hand rubbed his denim overalls and not an expensive frock. I loved it, truly. But Cassandra, trying to smile but grimacing, leaned into me. “We meet again.”

“Miss Blaine,” I said quietly.

Cassandra eyed the others at my table, Winifred, Harold, and the Hungarian artists. No one said a word, focused on the hapless girl. “A moment of your time.” The young girl waited a second, breathing hard. “Please.”

“Please sit, my dear.”

She slid into a chair, but turned it so that she faced me, her back to the others. Her head was a foot from my face, her dull eyes blinking madly. She whispered, though I'm certain everyone at the table could clearly hear her, especially Harold, giddy with the moment, who had leaned so far forward I feared he'd rest his bony head on her trembling shoulders. Winifred, cross, narrowed her eyes but sat back, arms folded over her chest. The two artists were baffled at the bizarre moment, and Lajos Tihanyi made a gasping noise. His face crimson, he looked angry, as though an interloper had disturbed his precious moment. Bertalan Pór put a restraining hand on Tihanyi's forearm. A crooked smile on his face. Its message was apparent: calm, calm.

I suspected Lajos Tihanyi was a man with violent spurts of fury, perhaps irrational and sudden. Flash floods of panic, always that lively and creative eleven-year-old boy, suddenly ailing. Bedridden, fed nostrums that did nothing, finally waking up deaf and dumb, a lad ready to strike out at a world he didn't understand. Probably a life in which chronic pain leveled him. Such juvenile bluster warred with his artistic temperament and innate intelligence—or maybe it fed into that creative juice.

“What?” I whispered to Cassandra.

“When you looked at me earlier, well, your eyes told me you understood…I don't know what but…Everyone else pities me or laughs at me and manipulates me or uses me or…You know…”

I began, “Cassandra, I
don't
know.”

“Wait,” she broke in. “I gotta talk to someone and there is no one else. The servants run from me.” She looked back at Mrs. Pelham. “
She
tells my mother everything. She's a horrid woman who hates me more each day. She
pinches
me when no one is looking, and no one believes me. A tattletale, that woman. The British don't believe in secrets, I've been told.”

From behind her Winifred raised her eyebrows, a slight smile appearing.

“But we can't talk here. I need…I'm lost, Miss Ferber. I read one of your stories in a magazine…like
Everybody's
, I think, about a lonely girl, a homely heroine you called her. You
liked
that girl. That girl, I felt, was me. And so…I'm lost. Help me.”

I didn't know what to say. “But how can I help?”

Suddenly her voice became small, tinny. “I heard something. A secret. But maybe I didn't hear it. Maybe I was wrong. Shall I tell someone? You hear things in the hallways even if you don't want to listen. What to do? I speak such bad German. Or Hungarian. I don't know. Words and words and words…a mishmash. Help me. “

Fear gripped me. “Are you in danger?”

She didn't answer for a heartbeat. “Someone is always watching me.”

From behind her Harold interrupted. “Tell us.”

I fumed and shot him a nasty look.

Perplexed by Harold's interruption, Cassandra blurted out, “That man.”

“What man?” I reached over and rested my palm on her hand. Her flesh was hot to the touch.

“He's always in my hallway, then disappears. That Jonathan. I asked about his name. I pointed him out.”

“Jonathan Wolf,” Harold said.

“What does he want from me?”

“Well, I've noticed him slinking about. True, but…”

Mrs. Pelham had stood, plodded over, and placed a hand on Cassandra's shoulder. “We must leave.” She breathed in. “Now.”

Bertalan Pór's eyes got wide, alarmed.

Cassandra stood up. She smiled thinly at Bertalan Pór and Lajos Tihanyi. A slight wave of the hand to them, and they mimicked her gesture. Both men instinctively stood up, ready to bow. I hoped they wouldn't reach for her hand, but she backed away.

“I'm afraid of everyone,” Cassandra said. She looked at the two artists. “I don't know who to trust.” Her voice rose, broke. “I'm afraid of people. The Hungarians.”

She looked at Winifred, as though seeing her for the first time. “I don't know you.”

“Cassandra, this is…”

Impatient, she interrupted, her voice hollow yet wistful. “I used to talk to Endre. You know, he listened with those eyes staring at me.” Her own eyes got misty, cloudy. “He has those eyes that…invite you to
talk
to him. He talked to me in that quiet thick English he always uses. He understood things. He
listened
. Men don't listen to girls, but he did. Who'll take me seriously now? Everybody runs from me. You, Miss Ferber. Should I trust you?” Her thoughts tangled as she stared around the room. “Endre did…but I betrayed him. And he got angry with me. You could see it in his eyes. Dark, pessimistic, a voice that scared me. The Hungarians are sad…they cry…Even the men cry. He wanted to…to hate me. That scared me. So handsome, my Endre, but his look was…barbaric. American boys blush, stammer.” Then she laughed. “Hungarian men are so beautiful, but they all believe you have to fall in love with them. They're foolish that way. When you do, they're like little happy boys. When you leave them, they become cold and dark. I don't know…” She breathed in, stopped. “I'm talking too much.”

Shrugging her shoulders, she turned away and allowed Mrs. Pelham to push her out the door.

I called after her. “Cassandra, talk to me later.”

She stopped moving and threw back her head, letting out that laughter I heard her use in the Café Europa yesterday. “Oh, Miss Ferber, Maybe it's too late. I'm always a day late with my wisdom.”

Chapter Seven

“I'm worried.” I looked into Winifred's face.

“Edna, you look ready to cry.”

I closed my eyes.

We were walking back through the lobby to our rooms. I needed to dress for the evening: a concert of Béla Bartok's new composition, recommended by Bertalan Pór who knew the revolutionary composer, at the Royal Opera House, followed by dinner at Gundel's in City Park. A late-night stroll across the Chain Bridge to watch a fireworks display upriver, and then a good night's sleep. I'd laid out my pale blue silk embroidered jacket, the lovely black onyx shawl I'd appropriated from my mother, and a gray silk dress of lacy bodice and wraparound gauze. Very Parisian, I thought, very high fashion.

But Winifred's comments stopped me cold. Cry? Why would I? But of course I knew the reason.

“I'm bothered by Cassandra.”

“It's got nothing to do with you, Edna.” Winifred looked straight into my face.

“Of course it has. Think, Winifred. I…well…that scene at Gerbeaud's…the way she approached me…her reaching out to me. Something is wrong.” I stressed my words. “She
told
me.”

“She's a melodramatic young girl, used to attention.”

“No, Winifred, I'm sorry—when she looked into my eyes earlier, she
told
me something.”

Winifred smiled. “Don't become a patsy, dear Edna. Isn't it bad enough women are dismissed by a cold world? Would you have one of our own gender manipulate you?”

That rankled. “People don't use me, Winifred.”

“Everyone uses everyone. That's the awful grease that propels civilization.”

I hesitated. “This is different.”

She had no interest in continuing the conversation. Purposely she strode ahead of me, stopping at the reception desk to ask for her mail. I headed toward the stairs. The elevator was an untrustworthy contraption like most inconveniences in this hotel, and I chose not to risk my life in that noisy, jerky box. Like the dumbwaiter, it would sail past your floor, stop at some midpoint, and the frightened occupant would pound on the door like a delirious patient in Bedlam.

Winifred, the intrepid explorer, trusted that she would have a smooth, uneventful ride. I liked to think of myself as one who enjoyed exploring possibility, the adventurer looking for stories. Winifred, the brave suffragette, simply liked to tempt fate, stepping into quicksand. I had covered the nasty, mud-slinging Republican Presidential Convention in Chicago in 1912 while she was being dragged by smarmy London bobbies into a cold jail cell. Both activities, I insisted, were fraught with danger and horror.

Harold was leaning across the reception desk interrogating the desk clerk, a string bean of a man who wore a monocle that slipped periodically from the bridge of his nose. Harold fired questions in Hungarian, but the man answered in monosyllables, his voice low and wary. “
Igen nem nem igen
.” Yes no no yes. I smiled. Harold Gibbon, never away from his job.

Back in my rooms on the second floor, I thought of Cassandra on the floor above me, guarded by the dreadful Mrs. Pelham, rooming one floor beneath the master suite of her parents.

I sat down to write her a note. Simple and declarative, if a little presumptive. “Cassandra, please see me as soon as possible. Tell me a time. Please answer me. Edna Ferber.” I wrote down my room number. Then I added, “Knock on my door even if it is late. I don't care how late it is. Please.” I underlined the last lines. Leaving the hotel, I asked the desk clerk to make certain Cassandra received it immediately. The look he gave me did not look promising. He squinted at me.

“You do speak English?” I asked. He nodded. Of course. “Can you get the note to her?” He nodded again.

I found it impossible to enjoy the evening. Winifred and I rode in an electric car, some weird high-wheeled box, vaguely like a hansom cab but with tufted plush seats and, to my wonder, a small glass vase with a single rose. Yes, the concert entertained me—how could it not? Novel, modern strains of Bartok filling the hall, even a vagrant piece of Endre Edy's celebrated verse put to music. All of it tantalized, though I didn't understand the Magyar tongue. A magnificent building with elevators of polished oak and a red velvet carpeted hallway. Dull gold stencils on the walls, a Renaissance building with frescoed ceiling, with monstrous chandeliers. A glass of cognac beforehand. Afterwards, a stroll outside, under a fittingly deep indigo cloudy sky.

As anticipated, the dinner at Gundel's in City Park was wonderful. I dined on cold Richelieu turkey with truffles, while Winifred ate Russian caviar on a silver plate with little strips of cured bacon rolled in paprika. We shared—and gushed unabashedly. Steaming black coffee with buffalo milk, a curious but potent combination. We slathered butter on the chewy rye bread with caraway seeds. Gypsy violinists strummed while a toothless old woman begged us to buy bunches of purple violets and cherries she'd picked on the banks of the Danube. “Blackbirds sing on the cherry boughs,” the woman sang to us in German. Nearby a group of fussy men in Prince Albert coats frowned at us—two unchaperoned women sitting happily in a tavern. We ignored them.

We rode back to our hotel on the newfangled electric underground train with its varnished yellow cabs. A perfect evening—even the leisurely stroll across the bridge, tucked into a crowd of folks oohing and aahing at the fireworks that ended the day—but I found myself distracted much of the time. Cassandra, the vain young girl, a type I tended to avoid, was
hurting
. Her pain got to me.

Walking back to the Hotel Árpád, Winifred turned to me. “Edna, you didn't enjoy any part of this evening.”

“Of course, I did.”

“I could see you were distracted the whole time.”

I got pettish. “Well, shouldn't I be?”

“I guess so.” Sighing, she smiled thinly. “I suppose it's one of your attractive qualities, this empathy.”

“It should be everyone's character, Winifred.”

Again, that weary expression. “The world isn't built that way.”

“Well, my world is.” An edge to my voice.

Now she laughed. “I suppose you're going to have to be her savior.”

At the reception desk I asked for my mail, hoping there would be a note from Cassandra. But—nothing. That bothered me. I asked the night clerk, who smelled like lilac water and looked freshly groomed, “Did someone deliver my note to Cassandra Blaine?”

He narrowed his eyes and checked the cubbyholes behind him. “Of course. Among the others that were exchanged this evening.”

“What does that mean?”

He turned away from me.

Late now, darkness shrouding the patch of the Danube I could see from my bedroom window, I was restless, pacing the floor. The clock on the wall struck ten. Of course, it was actually closer to midnight. Sleep was impossible. I dialed the kitchen, was surprised someone answered, and requested a cup of tea with steamed milk be sent up. But the woman who answered kept repeating the word:
tea tea tea
. Then
milk milk milk
. I translated into German, and I could hear the tinkle of her laughter.
Ja ja ja
. All right then. In short order the bell rang and I clumsily slid open the panel door, unfortunately dislodging the garish oil painting of Franz Josef nailed onto it. It tilted to the right. A cup of tea with a small pitcher of steaming milk was, indeed, there, accompanied by a tray with two glazed sugar cookies. Nice touch, I thought. From the open shaft wafted the faraway sounds of a girl's singing voice—light, airy, a tad melancholy. A Hungarian melody, perhaps, haunting and mournful. Was this the hotel's bonus? A lullaby before bedtime?

When I reached for the tea, the shelf moved, splashing steamed milk onto Franz Josef's craggy face. Wiping it off proved troublesome because the hot milk stained the emperor's bushy white whiskers. Now he looked as though his royal barber had executed a slipshod shave.

I drank the remaining tea and nibbled absently on a cookie.

Why hadn't Cassandra written back? Perhaps, it hit me, she'd come to my room when I was out on the town. She might have knocked when I was watching the fireworks. Maybe. Maybe not.

Uncertain, I dressed and hurried downstairs. Almost midnight now, stillness in the lobby. A different desk clerk was sitting on a chair at the corner of the reception desk, bent over, nodding off. He sprang to his feet as I neared, but I waved at him. “Please, no. Don't bother.” But the look on his face suggested that a single woman strolling about the hotel at this late hour was unseemly, the stuff of scandal.

I had no idea what I was doing, save a desire to…move. To get some air. To trust my instincts.

Outside I stepped onto the quay, glanced down into the churning waters of the Danube. I watched nighttime revelers nearby, singing, tipsy, and happy. Lights up and down the Corso, cafés open, people spilling out. A city that never sleeps. Supper at eleven and socializing till dawn in the Gypsy cafés. The air harsh, vinegary, as wind rustled the river. A surprising number of folks walked about, though I spotted no single woman strolling by her lonesome. As I walked along the quay, two older couples, huddled into each other, paused to frown at me. A gaggle of rousing peasant workers headed home, dressed in scarlet and green embroidered jackets, bags slung over their shoulders. They eyed me curiously.

I lingered by a wrought-iron railing, staring up toward Castle Hill as nighttime lights flickered on and off. Below me a silent scow lumbered up the Danube, passing by, a solitary boater, a lantern making him appear shadowy. I watched him until he disappeared.

Exhausted now, still rattled, I walked back to the hotel, though I decided to enter through the garden by the terrace. Arc lights lined the pathway, misty haloes dotting the quay, but the garden was dark and shadowy. I stopped when I heard something. I glanced back toward the quay and for a moment I thought I saw Cassandra pausing under a light. A girl ran quickly, disappearing into the shadows. But was it Cassandra? Yes, I had that young girl on my mind, but there was something about the light striking those golden tresses…the way her head was thrown back, and a hint of laughter, forbidden, echoing in the dark night. Cassandra? Out there? Alone?

I hurried back to the quay, paused by that light, but no one was there. Then I heard the bubbly laugh again. Immediately I recognized it as Cassandra's soprano. Yet no one was around.

Foolishly, I yelled into the darkness. “Cassandra.”

Silence.

The laughter was back toward the garden now.

“Cassandra.” Nothing.

I walked on the pathway, slowly, hoping to spot Cassandra. From the garden I stared back toward the quay, lingering by a copse of trimmed hedges. Quiet now, the ghostlike streetlights eerie.

Nothing.

To my surprise Endre Molnár strolled by, paused under the light. He walked away, disappearing into the shadows, then immediately he was back, then gone again. He was pacing back and forth, I realized, waiting for Cassandra. Or was he? But now I heard her laughter behind me, near the French doors of the café, off the terrace. So brief a high-pitched laugh—or was it a cry? Rowdy roars from a coffee house yards away. I didn't know what to think. Perhaps Endre heard that sound because he started, twisted around, but then walked away, headed toward the steps down to the Danube. I waited. He reappeared. Foolishly I called out. “Endre Molnár.”

At the sound of my strident voice—and not Cassandra's—he let out a grunt, and disappeared again. I waited, but he never returned to the light. Darkness in the garden—I felt chilled.

Around me all was silence. No laughter and no silhouette of a troubled Endre Molnár under an arc light, expecting an assignation. If, indeed, that were the case…

Whispering behind bushes. A man's throaty voice, hurried. A whiff of cigar smoke.

From faraway the garbled scream of drunken partiers.

Walking across the terrace, I opened the unlocked French doors and stepped into the café, dimly illuminated now by shadowy light from the lobby hallway and a wall lamp by the kitchen. Eerie, the café after hours, chairs up on tables, draperies drawn, a galvanized wash bucket with a mop by the music stand.

I moved toward the lobby, but someone was standing inside the entrance, backed against a wall as if not wanting to be seen. I screamed, not the most gracious move on my part, embarrassing. I had nearly collided with Mrs. Pelham who was hugging the wall, out of breath. She'd been gazing back into the lobby so she'd not expected me to collide with her. In the dim light I searched her face—stony, bitter, furious.

“Mrs. Pelham,” I sputtered. “I'm sorry. I…”

She peered over my shoulder.

I began walking past her, but quickly she stretched out an arm and gripped my shoulder.

“What?” I felt afraid now.

She was trembling. She muttered in German.

I answered her in German. “Is there anything wrong?”

She didn't answer at first, and then squeaked out a choked phrase. “
Zuviel ist zuviel.
”
Too much is too much.

“What is?”

I didn't believe she was speaking to me, but to herself, as if I were not there. Trancelike, she stared, unblinking. Her hand still clutched my shoulder as she slowly became aware of my being there. She gasped and dropped her hand, shoving by me, tottering through the lobby to the stairwell. Trailing after her, I saw her move up one stair at a time, keeping one hand on her hip, until out of sight. At that moment I realized she wore a shapeless white nightgown, though she'd thrown a jacket over her shoulders. On her head a white bonnet with ruffles. She was barefoot.

The desk clerk, startled by the activity, was ogling me as though I'd done something untoward to the old woman. Trying to think of something to say, I blathered nonsense in German, then segued into bits and pieces of English—I don't know why. I'm ready for bed. I'm tired. I'm being foolish. Enough nonsense. In the morning I would find Cassandra. Or Endre. Or—someone.