Lace (27 page)

Tante Simone’s sitting room smelled of biscuit crumbs, mothballs, eau de cologne and old ladies. Dark brocade wallpaper was punctuated by the monochromatic serious stares of previous
pupils. Below these photographs stood an old upright black piano, while the centre of the room was dominated by a round table covered with an ink-stained Indian shawl and surrounded by faded blue
velvet chairs, a white lace antimacassar draped over each high back. On one of these chairs sat Elizabeth’s favourite person.

Mademoiselle Sherwood-Smith taught Elizabeth to chant traditional nursery rhymes and brought her books about a rabbit called Peter, a bear called Rupert, and the battle-scarred bloody history of
the English kings and queens. She helped Elizabeth to assemble the big jigsaw puzzle that was a map of England and played a fierce game of racing demon, which was how Elizabeth learned to count in
English.

Elizabeth wasn’t nearly so keen on her special French lesson. She had learned to talk in the lilting French Vaudois accent of the canton, which sounded a bit like cows in a barn, as the
voice was always lowered in the middle of a sentence, then lifted upward at the end of it in a gentle, musical moo. Mademoiselle Pachoud was much older than Mademoiselle Sherwood-Smith and she
walked with a stick because of her bad leg. She was French from France, and she gave Elizabeth elocution lessons so that she should speak classic French, not a Swiss dialect. But after Elizabeth
started to do this, the other children teased her.

They pounced on her again at midday as Elizabeth wound herself into her outdoor clothes before going home for the midday meal; one of the big girls snatched her balaclava helmet and
tantalizingly dangled it just beyond her reach. Elizabeth, small for her age, jumped and jumped for it, until she was out of breath and scarlet-faced with exertion and suppressed tears.

“See, you’re not so smart, skinny, in spite of your special lessons; no wonder nobody wants to be your special friend, you stuck-up show-off.”

Elizabeth jumped and grabbed again but the scarlet wool was jerked away. “Think you’re better than us but you’re not. I heard my maman say that you’re a
bastard.
Skin
ny
lit
tle
bas
tard,
stuck-
up
skinny little bastard.”

Two other girls took up the taunting cry and danced around Elizabeth, tweaking her long dark plaits, until suddenly the exasperated small child put her head down and butted one of her tormentors
in the stomach. Caught off guard, the girl fell to the ground, shrieking, just as Mademoiselle Gina entered the cloakroom.

“She pushed me over, Elizabeth
pushed
me, Mam’selle.”

Mademoiselle Gina looked at Elizabeth, scarlet-faced, teeth bared, leg drawn back, ready to kick. “Shame on you, Elizabeth, go home immediately.”

Later, over their midday soup, Mademoiselle Gina spoke to her sister. “More trouble with Elizabeth fighting again.”

“Oh, dear, you don’t think they tease her?”

“Even if they do, there’s no need for violence. There’s plenty of teasing in the playground, but Elizabeth is the only child who uses her fists. She fights like a
boy.”

“Well, her foster brother Roger is more of her friend than any of the girls; I expect he’s taught her some rough tricks. It’s a pity she seems so different from the other
girls, somehow an outsider. They feel suspicious and ill at ease with her, that’s why she’s so difficult and that’s why she has no close girlfriends.”

“No excuses, Simone, the child is very touchy, always ready to suspect an insult and overhasty to avenge it. She shouldn’t react so violently.”

“It’s only when she thinks she’s being unfairly treated that she loses control of herself; then she needs the action to get rid of her resentment. Five minutes later
she’s always calm again and, apart from that, she’s a quiet pupil, very conscientious.”

“Yes, well, she can’t afford to have such a hasty temper, no matter what the reason. Life is not going to be easy for that child. . . .”

As Elizabeth ran home through the hushed snow, the cold calmed her turbulent feelings. Holding tight to the iron railing, she clambered, one foot at a time, up the high stone
steps to the front door, which was above the winter snowline. She stood on tiptoe to bang the iron door knocker, then bent down to push open the letter box and sniff; diced potatoes with bacon and
onion chopped into it. She always felt safe as soon as she was home.

Careful not to let the snow in, Angelina opened the door a crack. As usual, she was wearing a blue denim dress, blue apron, long shapeless black cardigan and black boots; she never wore makeup
or jewelry apart from her wedding ring.

“Maman, what’s a bastard? That’s what they called me at school.”

Angelina looked harassed as Elizabeth stamped the snow off her boots. “It’s a silly name for people who haven’t got a father.”

“But Roger hasn’t got a father, is he a bastard as well?”

“You can both have a father if you want one.” Elizabeth glanced up, perplexed, as Angelina pulled her gently into the sewing room and shut the door.

“Shhh. It’s still a big, big secret. But who would you
choose
for a father?”

“A fairy prince.”

“No, someone you know.”

“Not Roger, he’s not old enough. . . . I know—
Felix!
”

“Right!”

Long dark hair and fingertips touching the cobbles, Elizabeth hung upside down in a yellow, striped bathing suit, her skinny legs wound around the ropes of the trapeze.
“Now swing around and up to sit on the bar,” Felix said. “Now, over again, Lili, as high up the ropes as you can get . . . Good.”

Since he had married Angelina, eighteen months ago, Felix had taught the two children some of the tricks that he had practiced with his brother long ago in Hungary.

“Now a little trampoline work, Lili,” he ordered, pulling the little green trampoline onto the grass. As he put Elizabeth through her paces, the setting sun slowly touched the peaks
of the far mountains with a flushed red glow. Angelina leaned over the balcony to call them to supper. In front of her, a cloud of cream butterflies fluttered around the mirabelle tree and a light
sweet scent rose from the pink-and-blue sweet peas that grew against the wooden lattice under the balcony. She watched Elizabeth grasp the man’s hands; her thin legs swiftly ran up his thigh,
then his hip, then sprang onto his strong shoulders. There she wobbled until she gained her balance, let go of his hands and slowly stood upright with knees slightly bent and arms outstretched.

“Can I walk?” called Felix.

“Not yet, I’m not ready. . . . Ow, Felix, you brute.”

“Stop talking and concentrate, Lili. I want to see a beautiful leap off my shoulders and onto the trampoline with feet together and no sloppy finish.”

Obediently, the small girl flew through the air, bounced on the green canvas twice and then bounced off onto the grass. She landed with her feet slightly apart. Drat! She saw Angelina above her
and waved, then the child wandered off to the wooden swing under the balcony where she lazily pushed herself backward and forward as she sniffed the summer. The warm odour of earth, garden roses
and pine trees in the forest rose to meet the pungent richness of the hay and liquid manure. Summer was a honey-warm smell, autumn smells were sharper and smokier; autumn was the sour smell of
fallen apples stored in the cellar to make pink jelly and applesauce, hazelnuts collected from the forest, and piles of rotting pungent leaves at the bottom of the garden begging to be stomped on,
kicked and scattered.

Felix carried the trampoline into the cellar. Then he and Elizabeth clattered up the flight of open wooden steps that led up to the kitchen and supper. Roger was already sitting at the table. He
had been swimming in a forest stream and on his way home he had filled his cap with small, wild strawberries.

“Almost as good as in Hungary,” Felix said approvingly, after a delicious meal of river trout. This remark was always greeted with jeers, but tonight he added, “Before the 1939
war,
every
Hungarian restaurant—no matter how grand—had to feature on its menu a meal for one pengö; that’s one Swiss franc. So long as he had
one
pengö,
theoretically any old tramp could go in and eat, no matter how dirty he was; by law the restaurateur was supposed to serve him.”

Elizabeth climbed onto his lap, as she always did after supper, curling up like a kitten.

“Tell us about Gundels,” begged Elizabeth, who loved hearing his stories about the gaiety and romance of prewar Hungary.

“Well, Lili, I was just a young waiter, but oh, we saw such food. Pressed boar’s head in aspic, cold pike with beetroot sauce and cucumber salad, shredded marrow in dill sauce,
thimble egg dumplings, smoked sausage, rich red goulash, Transylvanian goose and pancakes stuffed to bursting with fluffy orange curd, sultanas and chocolate sauce. . . .”

“Don’t tell us about the food, tell us about the children and the parties in the park,” demanded Elizabeth, banging an imperious little fist on his chest.

“Well, Lili, you know that the Gundel family with their ten naughty children lived over the restaurant, and the restaurant was surrounded by trees, with two huge black iron gates at the
front.”

“Get on to the party in the park,” Elizabeth shrieked with excitement.

“Well, the first fifty tables formed the outdoor beer garden—although we mostly drank white wine—and then the next fifty tables were for more expensive meals, and then, at the
back, you walked up eight shallow stone steps onto the terrace where vines trailed down from the roof, and
that
was where the aristocracy ate. The whole of Hungary ate together in that
garden to the music of the brass band in the beer garden and a romantic gypsy band near the terrace.”

“Show us how the gypsies played, Felix,” she called excitedly.

“They wore wonderful, bright Hungarian costumes.” The big man stood up, carefully put Elizabeth on his chair, draped his scarlet napkin around his neck, picked two twin-sprigged
cherries from the bowl on the table and hung one over each of his ears; then he tied his red spotted handkerchief around his head and started to hop slowly around the kitchen table, like a great
black bear playing an imaginary fiddle.

Elizabeth shrieked again with delight.

“Can we play the best night ever, Felix, oh, please?”

Felix looked at Angelina and asked permission with raised eyebrows. She laughed and nodded, whereupon the little girl tore out of the kitchen and dashed back in her petticoat, carrying two
strips of white sheet and a traditional wide, red laceup belt. “Start, Felix, start,” she cried with excitement, as Angelina indulgently knotted the two lengths of cotton over her
skinny shoulders.

“The best night ever,” Felix said, stroking his long, dark mustache, “was one velvet evening in 1938 when King Zog of Albania became engaged to be married to a Hungarian
aristocrat. Geraldine Apponyi was her name.” Angelina untied the little girl’s plaits and softly fluffed up the long, dark hair. “She was dark and beautiful,” Felix sang,
“and she was going to become Queen of Albania. They had a huge dinner party on the terrace and I served there from seven at night until seven in the morning.” Taking white roses from
the bowl in the centre of the table, Angelina started to pin them in the child’s hair, like a coronet, as Felix continued. “There was music but no dancing, and there were gay, happy
speeches all night.” As Angelina laced the belt around the child’s slight middle, Elizabeth stood up, straight and grave, awed, and aware of all those eyes upon her.

“Was the little queen a bit frightened, Felix?”

“A bit bewildered, perhaps. But she looked stunning in a white dress with lace and diamonds sparkling in that thick, dark hair.”

Beneath her wreath of white roses the child’s big, dark eyes dreamed in a sun-golden face. Serene, confident and very lovely, she raised her little forehead, then gave a regal nod.

“What did I eat, Felix?”

“I served you with a dish of creamed eggs, calf’s brains and mushrooms, just an ordinary in-between-courses dish,” said Felix, suddenly an obsequious waiter, bending to offer
an imaginary platter. “I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t take my eyes off that beautiful woman. She only helped herself to a teaspoonful of the food, by the way, not like the
Archduchess Augusta—that was the Emperor Franz Joseph’s daughter—she had a face like a bear and an appetite like a bear, and a laugh like a bear. And she smoked huge cigars, puff,
puff, puff.”

Suddenly the little girl tugged the roses out of her hair, draped her scarlet napkin around her shoulders, twisted her hair up into a bun with her left hand, slumped back into her chair, grinned
with her lips pulled over her teeth, nodded in a knowing fashion and with her right hand puffed an imaginary cigar. “Puff, puff, puff like this, Felix?”

“To the life, Your Highness.”

“You spoil her,” Angelina laughed, but then he spoiled all of them. They had led such a quiet, sedate and orderly life until Felix crashed into it with this masculine strength,
exuberance and noise.

“Bedtime,” Angelina said, reaching forward to unknot Elizabeth’s robe.

“Maman, can I have a proper white dress, not an old sheet?”

“No, you’d only get it dirty, my little acrobat. When you’re older you shall have a white dress, if you’re good.”

“Am I as good as you were when you were a little boy, Felix?”

“On the trapeze, Lili, yes, but not quite so good on the trampoline. But when you go to Hungary in September you can practice with Uncle Sandor on the trampoline we used together as
children, and by then I expect you to do a double somersault and land
with both feet together.
”

E
LIZABETH HUNG OUT
of the window and waved to the people she passed. Farmworkers in blue dungarees waved back from fields
of high Indian corn, luxuriant tobacco leaves or nodding yellow sunflowers. Herdsmen on horseback flourished their whips above flocks of great white oxen, lazily chewing. Like a time machine, the
olive train ran through a Hungarian countryside that had changed very little over the past two hundred years.