to pull away; there was little I could have valued more at that moment than the brush of her black jacket against my elbow. ‘Anyway, it was worth it. I did it only to make Geza gnash his teeth. His fangs, that is.’
“‘Well, thank you,’ I muttered, but I didn’t trust myself to say anything more. If she had intended to make anyone jealous, it had certainly worked with me. I suddenly saw her in Geza’s strong arms. Had they been involved before Helen had left Budapest? They would have been a striking match, I thought-both were so handsomely confident, so tall and graceful, so dark haired and broad shouldered. I felt, suddenly, puny and Anglo, no match for the horsemen of the steppe. Helen’s face prohibited further questions, however, and I had to content myself with the silent weight of her arm.
“All too soon, we turned in at the gilded doors of the hotel and were in the hushed lobby. As soon as we entered, a lone figure stood up among the black upholstered chairs and potted palms, waiting quietly for us to approach. Helen gave a little cry and ran forward, her hands outstretched. ‘Eva!’”
Chapter 39
“Since my meeting with her-I saw her only three times-I have often thought of Helen’s aunt Eva. There are people who stick in one’s memory much more clearly after a brief acquaintance than others whom one sees day after day over a long period. Aunt Eva was certainly one of those vivid people, someone my memory and imagination have conspired to preserve in living color for twenty years. I have sometimes used Aunt Eva to fill the shoes of characters in books, or figures in history; for example, she stepped in automatically when I encountered Madame Merle, the personable schemer in Henry James’sPortrait of a Lady.
“In fact, Aunt Eva has stood in for such a number of formidable, fine, subtle women, in my musings, that it is a little difficult for me to reach back now to her real self as I encountered her on an early summer evening in Budapest in 1954. I do remember that Helen flew into her arms with uncharacteristic affection, and that Aunt Eva herself did not fly, but stood calm and dignified, embracing her niece and kissing her soundly on each cheek. When Helen turned, flushed, to introduce us, I saw tears shining in the eyes of both women. ‘Eva, this is my American colleague, whom I told you about. Paul, this is my aunt, Eva Orban.’
“I shook hands, trying not to stare. Mrs. Orban was a tall, handsome woman of perhaps fifty-five. What hypnotized me about her was her stunning resemblance to Helen. They might have been an older and much younger sister, or twins, one of whom had aged through hard experience while the other had stayed magically young and fresh. In fact, Aunt Eva was only a shade shorter than Helen and had Helen’s strong, graceful posture. Her face might once have been even lovelier than Helen’s, and it was still very beautiful, with the same straight, rather long nose, pronounced cheekbones, and brooding dark eyes. Her hair color puzzled me until I realized that it could never have had its origins in nature; it was a weird purplish red, with some white growing out at the roots. During our subsequent days in Budapest, I saw this dyed hair on many women, but that first glimpse of it startled me. She wore small gold earrings and a dark suit that was the sister of Helen’s, with a red blouse underneath.
“As we shook hands, Aunt Eva looked into my face very seriously, almost earnestly. Maybe she was scanning me for any weakness of character to warn her niece about, I thought, and then chided myself; why should she even consider me a potential suitor? I could see a web of fine lines around her eyes and at the corners of her lips, the record of a transcendent smile. That smile appeared after a moment, as if she could not suppress it for long. No wonder this woman could arrange additions to conferences and stamps in visas at the drop of a hat, I thought; the intelligence she radiated was matched only by her smile. Like Helen’s, too, her teeth were beautifully white and straight, something I was beginning to realize was not a given among Hungarians.
“‘I am very glad to meet you,’ I said to her. ‘Thank you for arranging the honor of my attending the conference.’
“Aunt Eva laughed and pressed my hand. If I had thought her calm and reserved the moment before, I had been fooled; she broke out now in a voluble stream of Hungarian, and I wondered if I was supposed to understand any of it. Helen came to my rescue at once. ‘My aunt does not speak English,’ she explained, ‘although she understands more than she likes to admit. The older people here studied German and Russian and sometimes French, but English was much rarer. I will translate for you. Shh -’ She put a fond hand on her aunt’s arm, adding some injunction in Hungarian. ‘She says you are very welcome here and hopes you won’t get into any trouble, as she put the whole office of the undersecretary of visa affairs into an uproar to get you in. She expects an invitation from you to your lecture-which she will not understand that well, but it is the principle of the thing-and you must also satisfy her curiosity about your university at home, how you met me, whether I behave properly in America, and what kind of food your mother cooks. She will have other questions later.’
“I looked at the pair of them in astonishment. They were both smiling at me, these two magnificent women, and I saw a remarkable likeness of Helen’s irony in her aunt’s face, although Helen could have benefited from a study of her aunt Eva’s frequent smile. There was certainly no fooling someone as clever as Eva Orban; after all, I reminded myself, she had risen from a village in Romania to a position of power in the Hungarian government. ‘I will certainly try to satisfy your aunt’s interest,’ I told Helen. ‘Please explain to her that my mother’s specialties are meat loaf and macaroni-and-cheese.’
“‘Ah, meat loaf,’ Helen said. Her explanation to her aunt brought an approving smile. ‘She asks you to convey her greetings and congratulations to your mother in America on her fine son.’ I felt myself turning red, to my annoyance, but promised to deliver the message. ‘Now she would like to take us to a restaurant you will enjoy very much, a taste of old Budapest.’
“Minutes later, the three of us were seated in the back of what I took to be Aunt Eva’s private car-not a very proletarian vehicle, by the way-and Helen was pointing out the sights, prompted by her aunt. I should say that Aunt Eva never uttered a word of English to me throughout our two meetings, but I had the impression this was as much a matter of principle-an anti-Western protocol, perhaps?-as anything else; when Helen and I had any exchange, Aunt Eva often seemed to understand it at least partially even before Helen translated. It was as if Aunt Eva was making a linguistic declaration that things Western were to be treated with some distance, even a little revulsion, but an individual Westerner was quite possibly a nice person and should be shown full Hungarian hospitality. Eventually I got used to speaking with her through Helen, so much so that I sometimes had the impression of being on the brink of understanding those waves of dactyls.
“Some communications between us needed no interpreter, anyway. After another glorious ride along the river, we crossed what I later learned was Szechenyi Lanchid, the Szechenyi Chain Bridge, a miracle of nineteenth-century engineering named for one of Budapest ’s great beautifiers, Count Istvan Szechenyi. As we turned onto the bridge, the full evening light, reflected off the Danube, flooded the whole scene, so that the exquisite mass of the castle and churches in Buda, where we were headed, was thrown into gold-and-brown relief. The bridge itself was an elegant monolith, guarded at each end by lions couchants and supporting two huge triumphant arches. My spontaneous gasp of admiration prompted Aunt Eva’s smile, and Helen, sitting between us, smiled proudly, too. ‘It is a wonderful city,’ I said, and Aunt Eva squeezed my arm as if I had been one of her own grown children.
“Helen explained to me that her aunt wanted me to know about the reconstruction of the bridge. ‘ Budapest was very badly damaged in the war,’ she said. ‘One of our bridges has not even yet been fully repaired, and many buildings suffered. You can see that we are still rebuilding in every part of the city. But this bridge was repaired for its-how do you say it?-the centennial of its construction, in 1949, and we are very proud of that. And I am particularly proud because my aunt helped to organize the reconstruction.’ Aunt Eva smiled and nodded, then seemed to remember that she wasn’t supposed to understand any of this.
“A moment later we plunged into a tunnel that appeared to run almost under the castle itself, and Aunt Eva told us she had selected one of her favorite restaurants, a ‘truly Hungarian’ place on Jozsef Attila Street. I was still amazed by the names of Budapest ’s streets, some of them simply strange
