Csardas (51 page)

Felix’s soft voice murmured on, saying how wonderful she was, how dreary Kati was. They had several more drinks, and in the warm intimacy of the cocktail bar they felt close to one another, full of peaceful understanding. It was not until the waiter was bringing more drinks that she suddenly caught sight of the clock over the bar.

“My God, Felix! We’ve been here over three hours. It’s nine o’clock! Adam will be back at the apartment wondering where we are. Come on, quickly!”

While Felix was paying the bill she wondered if they ought to phone the apartment and tell him they were coming back at once. But she was too nervous to work out what to say. They hadn’t done anything wrong—she suddenly felt relieved that she needn’t face Adam with the knowledge of guilt—but she still didn’t relish the idea of walking in late with Felix when they were both a little drunk.

They were quiet in the cab. She was nervous. Affable, easygoing Adam was sometimes unpredictable. Supposing he was angry. Supposing he suddenly saw that his wife and his brother were in love. What chance would they have then to be together?

They hurried through the stone arch and entered the apartment. It was empty.

“He’s gone out looking for us,” she said foolishly, and then the girl came out from the kitchen with a telegram in her hand.

“It came at seven, Madame Kaldy,” she said. “Cook and I didn’t know what to do. We weren’t sure where you and Mr. Felix had gone.” She paused, her face avid with curiosity. “That’s all right. You can go now.”

She read it in silence, although she knew even before opening what it would say.

“He’s not coming back this evening. He’ll return in the morning.”

“Would you like me to move out to a hotel? It would be the proper thing to do.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go and have dinner then.”

She dressed with the care of a bride. She had packed the silver gauze dress, not knowing if she would have an opportunity to wear it, and now she was able to drop the few shimmering fronds about her body, knowing that she looked as desirable as any woman could look. They crossed the river and went to a restaurant in Buda; there were too many of David and Malie’s friends in the Pest cafés. Felix ordered champagne—just like a wedding—and the sad confidences of the cocktail hour vanished and were replaced by laughter and risqué jokes. They were the way they always were together, gay and happy people.

They ate little, but had more champagne and then a light Alsace wine that suited their mood. At midnight they left the restaurant and walked, hand in hand, across Margaret Bridge. The lights from the Buda and Gellert hills shone down onto the Danube, and the faintly tangy smell of the river made them feel fresh and incredibly young. On their left Margaret Island stretched, a dark mysterious mass of trees with lights flickering from the far end. A waterfowl croaked; the river splashed gently against the embankments.

“I think this is the happiest evening of my life,” said Felix wistfully, and the great swelling ache in her breast threatened to engulf her completely.

They let themselves quietly into the apartment, knowing that the servants were already in bed. She went straight to her room. Felix called after her but she turned and hushed him, pointing towards the servants’ quarters. Then she slid out of her dress, combed her hair with a passing regret that it was no longer sweeping over her shoulders, and wrapped a silk kimono over her naked body. She was excited, but there was no dilemma in her mind about whether she should or should not go to bed with Felix. At some point during this last insane summer, the decision had been made for her. Even if the rest of her life was a torment, she knew she had no alternative on this particular night. And she wasn’t going to think about what came after. She was beautiful and loved. Her body was perfect and she had wanted Felix for eleven years. Nothing was going to spoil this night.

She slipped quietly out of her room, crossed the hall and dining-room, and opened Felix’s door.

“Eva—”

“Ssh.”

His light was out but the moon was bright through the unshuttered windows. Sounds of the Budapest night flowed in: cars, horses, a distant train. Felix was still dressed. He was sitting on his bed gazing out of the window.

“Your room is farther from the servants, Felix. It will be better here than in mine.”

In the moonlight she could see him staring at her. The silk of her wrapper was so fine it was transparent. He was staring at her body, unbelieving, rapt. A tremor ran through him.

“Felix!” She could think of nothing else but lying with him, feeling that smooth strong body pressed up and into hers, his chest against hers, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. A small moan escaped her and she tore the sash of her wrapper loose. It was a pain, a tight constricting pain that now at last she didn’t have to control any more.

“Oh, Felix, please!” She threw the wrapper away and moved towards him, waiting for his hands, his mouth, his body. “I know you have never slept with Kati. I know why. That’s the reason I’m here.”

The tremor ran through him again. He moved and she waited for his touch. But it didn’t come. He moved again, but it was to the foot of the bed, away from her.

“Go away.”

“Felix, what’s the matter?”

“Please go away.” He trembled again and suddenly she was frightened. She remembered him shaking once before, kneeling at her feet holding onto her skirts, telling her of the things he had done to Serbian women.

“Is something wrong, Felix?”

“Just go away!” His voice was shrill.

“Please don’t make a noise. You’ll wake the servants.”

“If you go away it won’t matter if they wake! For God’s sake go away and leave me alone. You’re like all the rest, rapacious and greedy, horrible....”

He covered his face with his hands and shudder after shudder racked his body. Stunned, she could only watch. What had gone wrong? What had she said to destroy their love?

“You don’t understand. I thought you were my friend, my dearest and most beloved friend, more to me than my mother, or my brother, or anyone in the world. I trusted you, believed you. You weren’t like the others. And now you’ve done this... this horrible thing. Cover yourself! At least cover yourself!”

Shocked she stooped and fumbled for the kimono. Her hands were cold and clumsy and one sleeve was inside out. She thrust her arm into it any way she could and wrapped it awkwardly round her.

His face was still bowed into his hands and he was half crying, half shouting. “Even Kati never did this to me. She was modest and quiet and kept to her room. She never coarsened herself, made things disgusting and vile.... I thought you were beautiful, my dearest, dearest friend whom I loved, and you’re just like the others.”

“But Felix.” She wasn’t crying, but tears ran down her face.She only half understood, even now, that the shudders were not the movements of desire but of revulsion. “You said you loved me! In the bar you told me how wonderful I was, you danced with me, you held my hand, you loved me!”

He jerked his head up and looked at her, spite and loathing in his face. “Yes,” he spat out. “I loved you then, because I thought you were my friend and understood me. But I don’t love you now! You disgust me! Horrible great heavy body... like a cow!”

“Felix!” She screamed and fell sobbing against the bed. “Felix! I don’t understand. I thought you loved me! I’ve wanted you for so long. Even as a girl I wanted you, and you married Kati and I was unhappy. Oh, Felix, you don’t know how unhappy I was!” She wiped her sleeve across her face. Her eyes and cheeks were wet; her nose was running and she didn’t have a handkerchief. She tried to grasp his hand but he snatched it away. “I wanted you. I just wanted you!”

“Well, I don’t want you,” he shouted. “I shan’t ever be able to look at you again without feeling sick. You think I’m like all the others! Panting and sweating, always thinking about women and their bodies. I never thought about you as one of those hot dirty creatures. You were just my friend. But now you’re like all the rest... and you don’t have the decency to keep it to yourself.”

“Felix,” she moaned. “Don’t, please, don’t.”

“Then go away! Go away!”

She tried to stand but fell against the bed. With one hand against the wall she stumbled round the room, crying, clutching the wrap tightly over her body. The terrible humiliation of being naked before him was almost worse than her grief. She paused at the door, leaning against it, sobbing, thinking even now that he would give her just one word of kindness, one gentle phrase to cling to in the welter of misery and shame. But all she could hear was a curious low keening, a sound like a sick animal or a... a madman. And all her other emotions were replaced by fear. She twisted the handle and ran from the room, not even stopping to shut the door after her. In her room the light was still on and she saw herself in the mirror. Her face was a swollen mess and her body was slumped and sagging. She looked like a revolting middle-aged woman, ugly, coarse, like a... cow.

She was gone in the morning, her clothes packed and vanished and no trace of her at all. There was just a note for Adam that Felix dared not read because it was placed on the breakfast table and the servants had seen it. They stared at him curiously when they brought breakfast in, and he hated her even more. But he was afraid, too, because of what she might have written in the note.

Amalia never confessed it to her husband or her family, but she had always preferred Vienna to her own capital city of Budapest. Even post-war Vienna, which was unsettled, slightly dangerous, and filled with sick-looking people, still had a charm that the Hungarian capital lacked. Perhaps it was because of her girlhood—the year at school before the war had been a happy one—or perhaps it was the cosmopolitan atmosphere of the city. Vienna was never quite as provincial as Budapest. And there was the Opera House and the Volksoper, feast upon feast of music; every night she’ and David indulged themselves, gorged themselves on music and then clopped home in a fiacre humming fragments all the way. They had rented an apartment complete with staff and took only the nursemaid for the little boys with them. During the day David was working and she and the nurse would push the boys through the Stadtpark or into the Volksgarten. She was entirely happy. Vienna always had made her happy, and not even the presence of Stefan Tilsky could mar her pleasure.

He seemed to be indulging in a banking transaction with her husband. During the summer months David had arranged to meet him in Vienna and assist him with business matters. Seeing him in Vienna, engaged with lawyers and bankers and financiers, put Stefan Tilsky (who had referred a trifle patronizingly to “Jewish” bankers) in a nice, settled, and non-disturbing niche. He was gradually becoming less of a remembrance of the past and more of a business colleague of her husband’s. Once or twice she found she was still defensive with him, such as the day he bumped into her on a golden afternoon in the Volksgarten. She was feeding the sparrows and the little boys were delighted because she had discovered how to sit very still until the birds came down and pecked the food from her hands. Stefan had strolled along, looking handsome and tall, had smiled and said, “How very charming—a sweet little family scene,” and for some reason his tone had annoyed her.

Another time he came home to dinner, invited by her husband. David, not waiting until he was alone with her, had handed her a small package.

“Something you wanted, I believe, Amalia,” he had said casually, and when she opened it she found a long, long string of old Bohemian garnets, held together on gold silk.

“Do you like it?” She had learned in three years that her husband’s coolness, his suavity, concealed a boyish delight in giving pleasure. He loved to find out special gifts that she wanted, perfume she had admired on someone else, a length of silk that was unique, a book on some subject she was especially interested in. The gifts were tossed nonchalantly at her, but then he would watch and, as she once teased him, sometimes forget to look dispassionate when he saw her pleasure.

“Oh, David! It’s the necklace I admired in the little shop behind the Cathedral. It is so beautiful!”

“I thought it would look very handsome when you wore your cream silk dress... perhaps to the opera tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? No, I must wear it now.” It was so easy to be genuinely thrilled with David’s gifts. Always they were different, special, and in superb taste. She turned, flushed, gratified, towards their guest. “Stefan, have you ever seen such beautiful old garnets?”

“Delightful,” he murmured. “A most expensive gift—especially for a wife!” His eyebrow raised, he laughed, and they laughed with him. But again it grated because it was not said entirely in fun. Stefan obviously considered wives, like Jewish bankers, slightly inferior persons.

She was most relieved he wasn’t there on the morning when her sister arrived, unannounced and unexpected at the apartment. She had answered the door herself (David didn’t like her doing that but it seemed foolish when she was passing the door just to let it ring) and for a fleeting second of time she didn’t recognize the woman standing there.

“Eva!”

“Can I stay with you for a while, Malie? I won’t be any bother, I promise you.”

Eva had sagged. That was the word that came immediately to mind. Her neat little figure, her face, her hair, even her clothes all seemed to sag. The pert, pretty features had degenerated into a series of perpendicular lines. Her hair had lost its curl, her shoulders slumped, and she appeared to have thickened round the waist.

“What’s the matter, darling? You look so... unlike yourself. And where is Adam? I thought he was taking you to Budapest for the fair.”

“I’ve left him.” Eva crumpled and began to cry.

“Come in, quickly, dear!” Even while she soothed Eva, took her hat and coat and made her coffee, she was aware of a slight depression. Eva was such a restless person to live with. During the summer she was just bearable because they had different establishments and were not cooped up together. But Eva staying in her Budapest or Viennese apartment was altogether a different thing. Feverish excitements, dismal glooms, spitefulness, abject apologies and tears, overwhelming affection, critical dislike, all could happen within the range of a day. She and David were so happy in Vienna—She stopped, suddenly astonished because she realized she was happy: happy with her home, her children, her interesting friends, the luxury and the trips abroad, and above all with her husband. Guilt overwhelmed her because she, who had not expected happiness, had been given it, while it was obvious that Eva had not.