Trouble in Transylvania (21 page)

“Cassandra is an internationalist,” Eva answered for me. “She doesn’t believe in patriotism.”

“You have brought up a complicated subject, Mr. Snapp!” said Dr. Gabor. “Let us ask ourselves, What is nationalism? Is it the same as ethnic identity? Here in Transylvania we Magyars still have few rights. We ask for cultural rights—to have Hungarian on public signs in streets, to have classes taught in Hungarian at all levels, to have Hungarian radio and television. Not just to
speak
our language, but to have our Magyar identity respected.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Archie said. “I
support
Hungarian cultural rights. Minority rights must always be respected. What I think you all have to be worried about, over here in this neck of the woods, is anything that smacks of ethnic cleansing.”

“The Serbs are beasts,” Eva said. “And the Croats are not much better. It’s the truth to say that, not nationalism. It’s the truth to say that Romanians are corrupt and that Magyar culture is superior.”

“Come now, Eva,” Archie remonstrated. “Isn’t that the kind of ethnic stereotyping that starts wars in the first place?”

“I believe that some cultures are morally diseased, and that they must be uprooted and destroyed if they’re not to infect the rest of us,” she said. “You Americans are far too naive with your talk of tolerance. It’s not just that some societies are better than others, or some groups of people contribute more to the world, it’s that some cultures actually are so horrible that they can damage the rest of us. If you had lived through Hitler or Stalin or Ceauşescu you would know this. You would not be so optimistic and sure that everyone is equal.”

“I agree,” I said, surprising Eva with my enthusiasm. “I personally have been horribly damaged by Catholicism. And just by male culture in general. So when do we start uprooting?”

Dr. Gabor looked puzzled, and Archie laughed nervously. “Cassandra’s such a joker,” he said.

There was a knock at the door and Jack came in.

“I was wondering where all of you hang out. If I didn’t have my own ways of restoring youth I might be tempted to have some treatments myself. Cassandra’s looking younger every day… But I didn’t come to tell you that, only,” she turned to Archie, “I thought you might like to know, Cathy and Emma seem to have gone off.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean, gone off?”

“I saw them getting into Zsoska’s car; Cathy said they were going to Zsoska’s house. At first I didn’t think anything of it. But then I remembered the story and…”

Archie was already out the door, and I followed him.

S
INCE THE POLSKI
Fiat was still in pieces in front of the tourist office, that left only Nadia’s vehicle to take us to Lupea, unless we wanted to wait for the bus. But Nadia was at first not to be found. The tourist office was closed, with a padlock and chain on the door, and we had no idea where she lived. Archie and I searched the hotel lobby and half the town before we ran into her coming out of the police station in the lower quarter.

“What were you doing there?” I demanded.

“Autopsy finished. Heart of Dr. Pustulescu stopped.”

“But that’s good news,” I said. “Now they’ll believe he had a heart attack and stop bothering Gladys.”

“Heart can stop by too much electricity,” she said. “Gladys still in trouble. That is why I talk to police,” she said, averting her eyes. “Explain they must be careful with American citizen or big trouble with foreign aid. I say we call American Embassy now. Gladys must go to Bucharest before police arrest her. I must take her, but where is she? Always with those dirty dogs, I can
not
understand. People starving in Romania, she feeds dogs.”

“But Nadia, you know that Gladys didn’t do it.”

“Yes, yes,” she said. “Tell that to judge, as you say.”

I had wanted to talk to her about Margit, and about the possibility that the doctor’s Ionvital shot had contained something to shorten life, not prolong it. But if the autopsy had proved it was the heart, who was I to suspect anything else? There was also something about the way Nadia had seemed to sneak out of the police station that made me hesitate. Instead I said, “What about the wife, the wife of Dr. Pustulescu?”

“What
about
wife?”

“I know that Pustulescu must have been a wealthy man from all his drugs, and that he had a young wife who would inherit.”

“Not true! Pustulescu too smart for that. He divorced and married three times. Wives no power.”

Archie broke in, “I know Gladys is in a tough situation, but Nadia, you’ve got to help us, you’ve got to drive us to Lupea.”

“Lupea? What Lupea?”

“Zsoska has kidnapped my children, Cathy and Emma.”

No averted eyes now. Nadia was all indignation. “No! I do not believe! We go, we go right now!”

“I never like that Zsoska anyway,” said Nadia in the car.

“Why not?”

“Always bad mood,” Nadia said. “Why she worry? She is
beautiful.
”

“Even beautiful women have their problems,” I said. “I know I do.”

Nadia stared at me for a minute, then gave a delighted laugh. “You are joking, yes?”

“What I want to know is, why would Cathy let her take Emma,” Archie was worrying. “Why would Cathy go herself?”

I privately wondered if Cathy saw Zsoska as an answer to her prayers. Maybe she was thinking that they could just leave Emma in Romania, where they’d found her.

“I don’t know what Lynn is going to say,” said Archie. “I told her that everything would be just fine. I hate to worry her about this; she’s in the middle of a big project.”

“What kind of physics does she do?”

“Quantum mechanics,” said Archie humbly. “I don’t understand much about it. We met in English 101.”

The idea of having a physicist for a mother was practically beyond the realm of imagination for me. When I think of Rosemary Reilly, I see an Irish Kali: one hand stirring a pot of chicken stew on the stove, another arm holding a baby for bottle-feeding, while a third long arm snakes out to catch me a smack as I run by. She has seen me out the kitchen window, hanging by my knees from a tree limb, with my none-too-clean underpants showing.

“Catherine Frances, I’ll thank you not to set an example of degradation to your younger sisters and the neighborhood. And you twelve years old.”

My mother had a lovely rolling vocabulary; she never used a simple word when a more inventive one would do. Sometimes I think it was she who taught me how to be a translator, how to assess the precise meaning of a word, never with a definition, but with a synonym.

“What’s degradation?”

“Filth and perversity, young lady.”

“Don’t you mean perversion?”

“You shouldn’t even know a word like that. The idea!” She gives me another smack, as with a miraculous fourth arm she reaches out to catch a softball one of my brothers has lobbed through the open window.

In Lupea I wasn’t able to remember the way to Zsoska’s, and we spent ten minutes driving up and down dirt streets, looking for the robin’s-egg-blue house.

“This is it, I think,” I finally said. But it was more sound than sight that made me sure. For from inside the little house came the sound of the violin. It wasn’t Mozart, but a folk dance tune, measured and merry. And if I weren’t mistaken, there were two violins playing it.

“Cathy,” called Archie, jumping out of the front seat. “Emma, Emma!”

The music ceased abruptly and Zsoska came to the door. “Hello, Snapp,” she said coolly.

“Zsoska!” said Archie, not bothering with his Hungarian phrase book. “What’s the damn idea? You can’t just take my daughters off like that.”

“Emoke,
my
daughter,” said Zsoska. “You sitting table every day. You no telling me, Snapp.”

“Well, we were planning to tell you,” said Archie. “That was the plan.”

“Hi, Dad,” said Cathy, popping out from behind Zsoska.

“Kit-Kat! How could you let this happen?”

“You didn’t tell Zsoska that it was okay? She said you did.”

“Well, I mean,” Archie stumbled, “Of course I’ve wanted us all to get to know each other better… Is Emma all right? That’s the important thing.”

“Emma,” said Cathy, “is in seventh heaven. At least now we know where she gets her musical talent from.”

“Zsoska?” whispered Archie, staring in awe at her striped black and yellow mane and fiery eyes.

“Grandpa!” said Cathy.

A ruby flush of alcohol smoothed out his weather-beaten face and gave him a congenial warmth that I suspected didn’t always survive into the morning. He had Zsoska’s black eyes, hooked nose and high cheekbones, though his mouth sank into a well of toothlessness. Like Zsoska he also had a full, sweeping head of hair, dramatically white. But his imposing head sat on a withered body; one of his legs dangled uselessly.

He was wearing a faded white shirt and an embroidered vest, and in his lap was a beautiful old fiddle. Next to him, clutching her own small violin, was Emma, no longer blank-faced, but smiling, though she was still silent and her eyes gave away nothing.

Grandpa greeted us in Hungarian and offered us a round of
ţuicǎ
from the bottle next to him on the table. Zsoska produced glasses. Archie took a sip and choked, while Nadia belted hers down. I cautiously touched my lips to the glass and put it down again.

“The old guy was totally excited when he saw us come in with Emma and her violin case,” Cathy told us. “Zsoska talked a bunch to him and he cried and hugged Zsoska and Emma and even me. Then he went into the other room and got out his violin and they’ve been playing ever since. It’s kind of amazing. I mean, I’ve heard Emma play a lot, but just classical stuff, over and over. But this is different. Gramps plays part of a tune and Emma plays it after him. Then he plays the whole thing, Emma plays the whole thing, and then they play it together. I can’t imagine how Emma holds it in her head like that.”

“My father happy,” said Zsoska, trying to pour us more brandy. “Emoke stays here.”

“No!” said Archie. “Well, just a little. You see, Zsoska, I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. I mean, we were just planning to stay here in Arcata a few days, not more than a week. We have to get back to Munich to the children’s mother, to Lynn that is, Cathy’s mother and Emma’s adopted mother. We’re very happy to meet your father, in fact, that was one of the things we’d been hoping to do on this trip, and that was to, you know, make contact with Emma’s family. There are a few questions we have regarding, you know, family background, things like that, but once we get a fuller picture, we don’t really have any reason to trouble you further or take up any more of your time.”

Zsoska said something to her father and he shook his white head. He took up his violin again and began a new tune, a loud and lively
csárdás.
After a few seconds, Emma picked up her violin and followed him. It was as if she knew the direction the notes were taking without needing to think about it.

“Emma,” cajoled Archie. “Come on, sweetie. Time to go. We’ll say thank you to the nice man with the violin, but it’s time to get back to our hotel for a nap.”

“Emoke staying here, Snapp!” said Zsoska. “My mother coming from work. My mother seeing her.”

“Nadia,” said Archie. “Can’t you help?”

Nadia addressed Zsoska in Romanian, but I knew immediately, when I heard the word “police,” that she was taking the wrong tack. In a few moments the two of them were screaming at each other.

Archie, meanwhile, was inching over to Emma’s side, while Cathy looked on as if she were watching a scene from Dostoyevsky come to life.

“Can’t we compromise?” I finally yelled. The music and the shouting stopped. I continued, “Obviously Zsoska would like her mother to see Emma. What if Emma were to stay here tonight? Would that be so terrible? In the morning, Zsoska can bring her back to the hotel.”

“She won’t bring her back,” said Archie. “You can be sure of that.”

I addressed Zsoska: “You know you can’t keep Emma here. You gave her up and you have no legal claim anymore. If Archie does let Emma stay here tonight, would you bring Emma back to the hotel tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Zsoska said sullenly. “I not lying.”

“But Emma will be scared here with these people, without us,” said Archie. “Lynn would never forgive me if something happened.”

“What can happen, Archie? Have you ever seen Emma so engaged? What could possibly happen?”

“Maybe she won’t
want
to come back.”

I looked at Emma’s shining dark eyes. They were the equivalent of classical music, wordless and full of feeling.

“Snapp,” said Zsoska. “I need knowing my daughter.”

On the way back to Arcata I sat in the back seat with Cathy, while up in front Archie pulled out his steno pad. I thought he might want to discuss the situation with Zsoska, but he must have judged it safer emotionally to take refuge in journalism.

“I see I’ve interviewed almost everyone except you, Nadia,” he said. “Maybe I could ask you some questions about Romanian history. There are some things I still don’t understand…”

“I tell you,” said Nadia eagerly. “First, here is story: In beginning God give to all countries many things. To Romania he give everything—forest, river, mountains, minerals, good farmland, even oil. Then God say, This country got too much good, I think I give it something bad. So he put Romanian people here. Hah!”

“That’s a hard story to tell about your country,” said Archie, nonplussed. “The Romanian people I’ve met have been absolutely wonderful, absolutely…”

“Hard, yes!” interrupted Nadia. “Romania very hard, very tragic history. First one thing, then another. All problems start with Turkeys, Turkeys come in middle age, many hundred years we under Turkeys.” Nadia made some wave-like movements with the hand not on the wheel. “Up and down, that is us. We revolt, then we are squished—squashed? We are poor, very poor and ignorant. Work in fields, give all to some lord. Lord gives to Turkeys. So. Finally we got some kings. First king from Germany, pretty good. Queen Marie very good, but King Carol very bad, crazy. There are wars. First World War. Second World War. Between wars Iron Guard fascists. After wars, Stalin takeover. What a mess.