Douglas Kennedy - Woman in the Fifth

The second stairwell was further along the courtyard. There were no plaques here, just a listing of apartments. I checked for Kadar, Margit, but didn’t see it. This worried me. Had I missed the second stairwell? The address was right, as the code had worked. But why no name?

I walked up the three flights of stairs, noting that, unlike my own state-of-collapse building, the walls here were well painted, the stairs were made of polished wood and had a carpet running up the middle of them. When I reached the third floor, there were only two doors. The one to the left had a small nameplate by its bell: Lieser. The door to the right had nothing. I rang the bell, my hands now clammy, telling myself if some irate old lady answered, I’d do my dumb American act and apologize profusely and hightail it down the stairs.

But when the door opened, Margit was standing in its frame.

She was dressed in a simple black turtleneck that hugged her frame tightly and accented the fullness of her breasts. She also wore a loose peasant-style skirt made out of a muslin-like material: very feminine, very chic. Even in the harsh glow of the stairwell lights, her face seemed radiant … though the eyes expressed a sadness that would never leave her be. She favored me with a small smile.

‘I meant to tell you that my name isn’t listed on the chart downstairs.’

‘Yeah, I did have a moment when I thought …’

She leaned forward and touched my lips with hers.

‘You thought wrong.’

My hand went around her back, but she gently disengaged herself, saying, ‘All in good time, monsieur . And only after we rid you of your nervousness.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘ Manifestement. ’

I followed her inside. The door closed behind me. The apartment was made up of two reasonable-sized rooms. The first was the bedroom — with a simple queen-sized bed. In a corner nook there was a bathtub (with a shower hose) and a sink. We didn’t stop here, but continued down past a small door (the toilet, I surmised) and into a large living area. A kitchen had been fitted along the near wall of this room — the appliances and cabinets all dating from the midseventies. There was a large sofa covered in deep red velour fabric, a divan in a maroon paisley velour, and a venerable chocolate leather armchair. There were two large floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end. They overlooked the courtyard and seemed to benefit from afternoon light. To the right of the windows was a beautiful old roll-top desk, on top of which sat one of those bright red Olivetti typewriters which were so popular thirty years ago. There were bookshelves lining all the walls, crammed largely with old volumes in Hungarian and French, though I did spot a few novels in English by Hemingway and Greene and Dos Passos. On three of the shelves stood a massive collection of records — classical mainly, and quite comprehensive in their historical and stylistic range. Her taste was very catholic: everything from Tallis to Scarlatti to Schubert to Bruckner to Berg. There were no compact discs … only a turntable and an amplifier. There was no television, just a large, old Telefunken short-wave radio. And there were framed yellowing photographs of Budapest in the shadows and of (I presumed) assorted family members clustered neatly on all free wall space. But what struck me most about the place was its immaculateness and its sober good taste. Though she hadn’t updated it for several decades, its subdued, mitteleurop style still lent it a certain consulting-room warmth. Freud would have been happy working out of such an apartment, I sensed. So too would an immigre writer … or an immigre translator.

‘This is a lovely place,’ I said.

‘If you don’t mind things being a little on the old-fashioned side. There are times when I think I should update it, move into the modern world. But that’s impossible for me.’

‘Because of your Luddite tendencies?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘You actually work on an old manual typewriter?’

‘I cannot deal with computers.’

‘Or with CDs?’

‘My father had a fantastic collection of records, which was sent on after my mother and I left for Paris.’

‘Your dad didn’t come with you?’

‘He died before we left Hungary.’

‘A sudden death?’

‘That is correct,’ she said in a voice that hinted I shouldn’t press further. ‘Anyway, he was a music fanatic, so he had this huge collection. When we left Budapest, we traveled with just a small suitcase each. Later on, when we had immigre status here, we had to apply to the Hungarian government to get certain personal effects shipped here. Among the things that arrived from our old apartment was Papa’s record collection. Over the years, I added to it myself — but then, when the compact disc arrived, I thought, I have all the music I will ever need, so why switch over? ‘

‘You mean, you don’t like that consumerist frisson called shopping?’

‘Shopping is an act of despair.’

‘That’s extreme.’

She lit up a cigarette.

‘But true. It’s what people do with their time now. It’s the great cultural activity of this epoch — and it speaks volumes about the complete emptiness of modern life.’

I laughed … a little nervously.

‘Well, I certainly need a drink after that homily,’ I said. ‘And in “an act of total despair”, I bought you this.’

I handed her the brown paper bag. She pulled the bottle out of the bag.

‘I don’t know if it’s a good champagne …’ I said.

‘It will do just fine. Did you get it at the shop three doors up from here?’

‘How did you know … ?’

‘Because it’s my local place. I even remember when Mustapha, the owner, opened it in the early seventies. He’d just arrived from Bone in Algeria …’

‘Camus’ birthplace.’

‘ Chapeau ,’ she said. ‘Anyway, when he was new in Paris and had just opened the shop, he was timid and eager to please, and was also subjected to a lot of brusqueness, as the idea of a commercant from the Maghreb in this corner of Paris offended many of the long-term residents of the quartier . Now, three decades later, he’s fully assimilated — and subjects everyone who comes into his shop to the same sort of brusqueness he once received.’

She found two glasses in the kitchen, then placed the bottle down on a countertop and undid the foil and gently levered the cork out of the bottle. There was the decisive pop and she filled the two glasses.

‘That was very professional.’

‘I could say something very banal like …’

‘”… if there’s one thing you learn after three decades in Paris, it’s how to open a bottle of champagne”?’

She smiled and handed me a glass. I downed it quickly.

‘Precisely.’

‘But you would never indulge in banalities like that,’ I said.

‘It would offend my Hungarian sense of the sardonic.’

‘Whereas Americans like me …’

‘You toss back half a glass of champagne in one go.’

‘Are you saying I’m uncouth?’

‘My, my, you’re a mind reader.’

She had her face up against mine. I kissed her.

‘Flattery,’ I said, ‘will get you …’

‘Everywhere.’

Now she returned the kiss, then removed the champagne glass from my hand and set it down alongside her own on the kitchen counter. Then turning back to me, she pulled me toward her. I didn’t resist and we were instantly all over each other. Within moments, we had collapsed on the sofa, and she was pulling down my jeans. My hands were everywhere. So were hers. Her mouth didn’t leave mine, and it felt as if we were both trying to devour each other. The idea of using a condom went south. I was suddenly inside her, and responding to her ferocious ardor. Her nails dug into the back of my skull, but I didn’t care. This was pure abandon — and we were both lost within it.