Extraordinary Renditions (2 page)

The second message was from his niece, Magda, who will accompany him to the concert. He hadn’t seen her in nearly two years, since she finished her graduate studies at Yale and accepted a position as an interpreter with a consulting firm based in Washington, DC. Presently working at a military base in southern Hungary, among other places, much of what she did was classified even from him. He will meet her in the hotel’s famous pastry shop at eleven in the morning. As his only remaining blood relative, Magda was the sole heir to the inexplicably enormous fortune his recordings had earned him, though a number of charitable institutions also stood to benefit from what he imagined to be a pending and not entirely unwelcome demise. It will be lovely to see her, a warm relief from the strain and headache of travel and public appearance, the weight of long-deferred nostalgia. He replaced the phone on its cradle and the red light died out at once.

He remained seated on the bed, holding back the memories he resisted all of these years and had some reason to fear. He surrendered and accepted the standing invitation of the Hungarian government. It was time to address the dybbuks he had avoided for so long; so he returned to the Hungarian soil to seek forgiveness, as he had once sought Kodály’s. He came seeking silence. The wrinkled, spotty hands covering his face became damp.

Despite his exhaustion, he knew that he would not sleep; usually, he would be fortunate to gain three hours of rest. It was at night that he saw the emaciated faces reflected back at him as if from the hundreds of
thousands of compact discs he had set loose upon the world. What took you so long to return? That would be the first question they asked. They will speak to him in Czech and Polish and Hebrew and Romany and Hungarian, languages he understood fluently in the twilight of semiconsciousness, but in which he could never answer. His first language was that of notation, of music, but none of his compositions to date appeased the faces as they did the many satisfied customers and concertgoers worldwide.

He stood with an inaudible groan and wandered through the suite turning down all of the heaters. The sitting room offered a view of the monolithic building opposite the hotel and of the traffic below on the Szent István körút. It was only midafternoon, yet it already grew dark. There was much to do. A yellow tram glided past, down the center of the road, toward the river. Overall-clad workmen on ladders struggled to hang flags from the lampposts in anticipation of the holiday. They were difficult to attach in the harsh wind, which Harkályi could not feel from the comfort of his room. The men argued and laughed. They passed around a plastic cola bottle half-full of pale wine. A knock came at the door and he took the forints from the table, folded the bill in his palm. A young porter stood next to an elaborate, brass handcart. “Harkályi Lajos?”

“Igen.” Yes.

“Beszél magyarul?”

“Well, no. I am afraid that I do not.”

He stepped aside and the porter wheeled the squeaking trolley into the room. It contained just one suitcase and one hanging suit bag. The porter looked at him. He was twenty or twenty-five years old and attired in the formal finery of the hotel trade, the tailed coat smelling of car exhaust and cigarette smoke. The porter stared for a moment. “You are the composer,” he said.

“Yes.”

“My girlfriend, she has your CD.”

“Oh. Well, please give her my regards.” He considered withholding the money.

“She doesn’t listen to it very much because it makes her cry.”

How was he to respond? The hotel clothes didn’t fit the boy especially well, and he had neglected to shave for several days; his teeth were not very well cared for. “Thank you,” Harkályi said, and handed him the forints, which the porter, without acknowledgment, slipped into a pocket of his untailored red pants. He then deposited the suitcase onto the room’s luggage rack and hung the suit bag inside the armoire. Harkályi remained standing at the door, holding it open. The hallway was empty, free of people and hideously carpeted. He opened the door wider, but the porter did not retreat right away.

“I am Miklós,” the boy said. “Press the concierge button on your telephone if you need anything. Ask for Miklós.” He lifted his round hat a centimeter above his head for an instant and pulled the cart behind himself, back into the hallway.

“I will do just that very thing, Miklós—thank you.”

“Anything at all,” he said. “I—” But Harkályi closed the door.

He started to unpack. It would be a short stay, less than forty-eight hours, so he had not brought much. In his suitcase, on top, he found a foreign, white document from the United States authorities alerting him to the fact that they had randomly searched his bag for purposes of national security. His clothes and belongings appeared unmolested, however, and he placed them in neat piles into drawers. He had carried with him a second, nicer pair of shoes and, for Magda, some chocolates and an advance copy of his newest recording, his Concerto for Violin as performed by a technically flawless and altogether unmusical young star and the Cleveland Orchestra.

He had left his briefcase in the bedroom. From it he drew his leather shaving kit and a small, mostly round stone. It was the size of a baby’s fist
and tears and years of wear had buffed it smooth; it had traveled with him for longer than he wanted to remember. He planned to leave it in Hungary, where it was given to him. He put it on the bedside table, taking care that it did not scratch the glass surface.

He needed a nap, but sleep would not take him. Too weary to yet venture outside, he stared for hours, utterly motionless, at the carnage transmitted to the suite’s television set. It was like an open sewer line spilling onto the carpet. He had seen it all already, yet the circularity of history did not bring him comfort. When he felt the grumbling of his stomach, Harkályi slipped back into his more comfortable shoes, his overcoat, and his hat and gloves. He carried the stone in an outer pocket of his jacket. Opening his billfold, he confirmed the presence of his key card and stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door tight behind him.

There were others waiting for the elevator, a woman and two children. They spoke low German, a familiar dialect of his first language. They were going downstairs, to the pastry shop, for cakes. “Cukrászda”—that was one of those words, one of the few he remembered from childhood, for which there was no exact or effective English equivalent. “Ideges” was another. When the elevator arrived, the older of the girls demanded the privilege of pressing the L button while the other got to press CLOSE. They squealed and wiggled like two already-overfed Teutonic hogs. In the metallic reflection of the doors, the four of them looked like a family, a grandfather taking the children out for pizza and ice cream, but the elevator stopped and the image was split in half, down the middle, as a suited businessman entered. He inspected the lighted buttons and, satisfied, hummed a melody that Harkályi to his horror recognized as his own, the main theme of his Symphony No. 4. The piece that made him famous, and wealthy. He made a mental note to take the stairs in the future.

The temperature and fetid air—diesel exhaust, grease, burned meat—attacked him, an all-powerful and immovable force that he knew would shadow him for the next two days. It was already late, and even colder than he had anticipated, colder than his memory allowed, and he worried that his overcoat alone would not keep him warm. A heavier sweater hung in the closet upstairs, but he did not dare risk returning to the room and becoming further waylaid by the same indecision that had kept him away for so many years. He had been cold before; it would not kill him.

Harkályi enjoyed walking, exploring by foot every city he visited, though doing so had become more difficult of late. In the previous decade he visited every medium and large city in Europe, Asia, and North America, forsaking only Budapest, the city from which he had disappeared as a child. Tonight, however, he must first find a restaurant. He had purchased an expensive guidebook, but knew better than to trust the culinary advice contained therein. He had in his travels learned that the book’s audience was considerably younger than himself, and he preferred not to subject his ears to the auditory torture of what passed for music in those establishments. As in every city, the trick to finding a suitable place for a meal would involve a willingness to traverse the side streets, to ignore the glossy maps.

The workmen were long gone, presumably to a warm pub. Hungarian flags now flew from all of the lampposts along the ring road, though the wind threatened to shred them into swatches of red, white, and green. People rushed beneath them unaware of all that they possessed by virtue of their belonging here; they pushed past him, smoking cigarettes and speaking over each other, quite noisily, in a language he did not know to his satisfaction. The traffic was marvelous in its density, consistent with that of Berlin or London or Rome, yet seemingly even more aggressive than in those places, competitive. He passed a hair salon that was affixed
to the hotel, a bookshop, a butcher with ugly brown sausages hanging in long rows, a steamy pizzeria, a shoe store, another shoe store, a few places the purposes of which he could not determine, closed and darkened. The window of a music shop contained a small display of operatic compact discs. Recordings of Kodály and Erkel and Verdi and Puccini were arranged in a small ziggurat of plastic. Some of his own releases were interspersed throughout. Then it caught his attention: a glossy publicity photograph of himself hung in the window attached to two clear strings that resembled fishing line. It was an advertisement for the concert tomorrow, which, he had been led to believe, had sold out months earlier. They had pasted his photo, crookedly, onto a large sheet of cardboard. In it he was dressed almost exactly as he was now: black overcoat, charcoal-gray turtleneck. His hair in the photo was longer, however, Einsteinian. The image embarrassed him, and he moved along before he could be seen gazing upon his own reflection.

At the end of the block, a wide ramp steered him beneath the körút to an underpass, a colorful expanse with escalators leading down to the subway and steps up to the same trams he had seen from his hotel room. Folk musicians competed with bums for attention and spare change. Men sold telephone cards in front of a bank of blue, unused payphones. Burger King, TourInform, a flower shop, the locked entrance to a massive supermarket. A hallway beyond the escalators led, he remembered, to the rear of the train station. He found it difficult to differentiate the words being spoken around him, the signage. Viràg. An old woman, even older than himself, held a baking dish full of tiny, white, bulbous flowers in little leafy bundles, each maybe three inches tall. An elaborate, decorative scarf covered her head. Hóvirág—snow flowers. That was the name. Their appearance heralded the onset of spring, the end of another long winter. Harkályi approached her. “Csókolom,” he said. He had at his command the vocabulary of a child.

Her eyes brightened angelically. She appeared genuinely cheerful and merry, despite her degraded condition. Her cheeks revealed the frigidity of the atmosphere, only slightly warmer down here. “Jó estét kivánok.”

As a boy, he would with some anxiety await the first hóvirág of the spring, which, in a private ritual, he would wrap in similar bundles and present to his mother. They stayed on the windowsill of the kitchen, in cups of chipped and brightly glazed ceramic, some until the August heat descended from the Mátras, from Slovakia and farther.

“Menny?”

“Tessék?”

He spoke slower, “Menny?”

“Mennyi?”

“Yes—igen. Mennyi?”

“Száz forint.”

He didn’t have any coins, or even a hundred-forint bill. The automated teller machine at the airport dispensed only five- and ten-thousand forint notes. He offered her five thousand and she shook her head, dismayed. She pointed to the Tour Inform office, where he could get change, were they open. “No,” he said. “All of them. Minden.” He waved his gloved hand over the flowers like a benediction and she finally understood. From the bag at her feet she took out a sheet of newspaper from yesterday’s
Magyar Hírlap,
and laid it on the filthy concrete floor of the underpass. Harkályi expected to see his own picture looking up at himself again, but it did not appear. The old woman spread out the bundles of flowers on the paper, which soaked up water from the bottom of her baking pan. Lifting it from the corners, she placed the entire bundle in a flimsy plastic bag with vertical yellow stripes, loosely tied the handles together, and held it out for him. “Tessék,” she said, and quickly, with a furtive look around, slipped the five thousand forints into a pocket of her peasant skirt. “Nagyon szépen köszönöm,” she told him, collected her
belongings, and walked quickly to the metro. He was left standing there with a bagful of soggy newspaper—yesterday’s news no less—and a garden’s worth of quickly dehydrating flowers. He could not help but laugh, and as he did a man of dark complexion, Gypsy maybe, or Turkish, slouched past and whispered, “Change money?” without looking at him.

His glove gripped the conveyor belt, a dirty loop of black rubber leading endlessly into the abyss of the metro station below, circling beneath the iron teeth of the escalator at a greater rate of speed than that of the steps themselves. It moved too rapidly for his comfort, pulling his arm gently down ahead of him. But he did not want to let go; it was an extremely long descent, deep into the core of the city. Of the four long escalators only the outer two were in operation, one moving quickly upward and one downward. Vinyl siding the color of dark wood covered the walls and ceiling of the rounded tunnel and was plastered with stickers and crude illustrations upon which he refused to allow his gaze to linger. A series of plastic-framed advertisements whirred past him faster than he could discern them; a colorful fast-food cup slid down the metal barrier between his and the next escalator over. He watched it descend ahead of him and crash to the station floor. There was laughter at his back.

At the bottom, thrown from the machine, Harkályi was forced to step over the pile of ice cubes and in the process very nearly stumbled, regaining his balance only at the last instant. The bag of flowers fell from his hands and spilled to the ground, mixing with the ice cubes and cola. Four teenagers exited the escalator behind him and stepped on the hóvirág as they passed, smashing them with their boots. They continued past into the darkened corners of the station. Harkályi tried to collect the flowers again but nearly all were crushed. No one stopped to help him gather them from the ground. The old néni who had sold them to him was still
waiting for her subway; she turned quickly away out of what appeared to be either embarrassment or disgust. He had no idea what to do with them now. To throw them away would be unthinkable. He left the most flattened of the bunch but returned the remainder to their newspaper-lined bag. They were a delightful burden. Magda would appreciate them.