Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“Do you think he can make her happy?”

Andras looked into the fire, at the heat swimming up through the coals. “He’ll do his best. He’s a good man.”

“I hope he does,” she said. “I hope he is.”

On the night of Tibor and Ilana’s arrival they all went to the station to meet the train. They stood in a group on the platform, Andras and Klara and Polaner, Rosen and Shalhevet, while Ben Yakov paced the platform a little distance away; in one clenched hand he held a nosegay of pansies for Signorina di Sabato. Pansies were a terrible extravagance in winter, but he’d insisted upon buying them. They were the flowers he’d given her when they first met.

It was Shalhevet who spotted the train, the speck of light far off down the line. They heard the throaty alto notes of the whistle; their group pressed forward with the rest of the Parisians who’d come to meet their holiday visitors. The train pulled in, letting off a skirt of steam, and the waiting crowd surged closer still as it came to a stop. After a maddeningly long time, the doors opened with their metallic clack and the gold-epauletted conductors jumped down onto the platform. Everyone took half a step back and waited.

Tibor was among the first to appear. Andras saw him at the door of one of the third-class cars, his expression anxious and weary; he held a pale green bandbox and a lady’s fancy umbrella. He moved aside to make way for a young girl with a long dark braid, who paused on the top step to cast a searching look over the crowd.

“It’s her,” Ben Yakov shouted over his shoulder to them. “It’s Ilana!” He called her name and waved the pansies. And the girl broke into an anxious smile so beautiful that Andras nearly fell in love with her himself. She came down the steps and crossed the platform to meet Ben Yakov, stopping just short of running into his arms, and let forth a stream of quick and insistent Italian as she gestured toward the train. Andras wondered how Ben Yakov could keep from embracing her; it gave him a moment’s worry before he remembered it was forbidden by her observance. Ben Yakov would not touch her until he placed the ring on her finger at the wedding. But she raised her eyes to him with a look more intimate than an embrace, and he offered her the pansies, and she gave him that smile again.

Tibor had crossed the platform behind Signorina di Sabato; he set the bandbox at her feet and propped the umbrella against it. She spoke a few words in a tone of gratitude and he made a quiet reply, not meeting her gaze. Then he put an arm around Andras, bent to his ear, and said, “Congratulations, little brother.”

“Congratulate Ben Yakov!” Andras said. “He’s the groom.”

“He is now,” Tibor said. “But you’ll be next. Where’s your bride?” He went to Klara, kissed her on both cheeks and embraced her. “I’ve never had a sister,” he told her. “You’ll have to teach me how to be a proper brother to you.”

“You’ve got a fine start,” Klara said. “Here you are, all the way from Modena.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be very good company tonight,” Tibor said. He put a hand on Andras’s sleeve. “I’ve got a rather bad headache. I don’t think I’m fit for a celebration at the moment.” In fact he seemed overcome with exhaustion; he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with two fingers before he greeted the others. He shook Ben Yakov’s hand, gave Polaner an appreciative clap on the shoulder, told Rosen what a pleasure it was to see him with such a lovely companion. And then he drew Andras aside.

“Get me to bed,” he said. “I’m whipped. I think I may be ill.”

“Of course,” Andras said. “We’ll get your bags and go.” He had planned to accompany Signorina di Sabato to Klara’s house, to see her comfortably settled there, but Klara insisted she could manage on her own. There wasn’t much to transport: Signorina di Sabato had a small trunk and a wooden crate in addition to the bandbox, and those pieces, along with the fancy umbrella, made up the sum of her possessions. They got everything to the curb and Ben Yakov hailed a cab. He held the door for Signorina di Sabato and ushered her inside; to preserve her modesty he allowed Klara to slide in next. Finally, with a salute to the rest of them, he ducked into the cab and pulled the door closed.

Rosen and Shalhevet remained on the sidewalk with Andras and his brother. “Won’t you come have a drink?” Rosen asked.

Tibor made his apologies in his confident but skeletal French, and Shalhevet and Rosen assured him that they understood. Andras called another cab. He had thought they might walk home, but Tibor looked as if he might fall to his knees at any moment. He was quiet on the way to the rue des Écoles; all he would say about the journey was that it had been long and that he was relieved it was over.

They climbed out of the cab and took Tibor’s things inside. By the time they got to the top, Tibor was taking rapid shallow breaths and bracing himself against the wall. Andras hastily unlocked the door. Tibor went in and lay down on the bed, not bothering to remove his shoes or overcoat, and put an arm over his eyes.

“Tibi,” Andras said. “What can I do? Shall I go to the pharmacist’s? Do you want something to drink?”

Tibor kicked his shoes loose and let them drop to the floor. He rolled onto his side and curled his knees to his chest. Andras went to the bed and leaned over him. He touched Tibor’s forehead: dry and hot. Tibor pulled the quilt over himself and began to shiver.

“You’re sick,” Andras said, one hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Common virus. I felt it coming on all week. I just need to sleep.”

In another instant Tibor had drifted off. He slept as Andras took his coat off, as Andras undressed him and laid a cool cloth over his forehead. Around midnight the fever broke and Tibor threw the covers off, but it wasn’t long before he was shivering again. He woke and told Andras to get a box of aspirin from his suitcase. Andras gave him the medicine and covered Tibor with every blanket and coat he had. Finally Tibor turned over onto his side and slept. Andras unrolled the mattress he’d borrowed from the concierge and lay down on the floor beside the fire, but found himself unable to sleep. He paced the room, checking on Tibor every half hour until his forehead grew cooler and his breathing deepened. Andras lay down in his clothes on the borrowed mattress; he didn’t want to take the covers from his brother.

In the morning it was Tibor who woke first. By the time Andras opened his eyes his brother had made tea and toasted a few pieces of bread. Sometime in the night he must have spread a blanket over Andras. Now he sat in the orange velvet chair, clean and close-shaven, wearing Andras’s robe and eating toast with jam. At intervals he blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief.

“Well,” Andras said, from his mattress on the floor. “You’re alive.”

“You’d better not get near me, though. I’ve still got a fever.”

“Too late. I took care of you all night.” He sat up and ran his hands through his hair to stand it on end.

Tibor smiled. “That style suits you, brother.”

“Thank you, brother. And how are you feeling this morning? Any better?”

“Better than I felt on the train.” He looked down into his teacup. “I’m sure Signorina di Sabato must have thought me a fine companion.”

“She seemed in good enough spirits when you arrived.”

“She had a few bad moments when we left Florence, but on the whole she was rather brave.”

“Made bold by love,” Andras said.

Tibor gave a nod and turned the cup in its saucer. “Tell me,” he said. “What kind of person is this Ben Yakov?”

“You’ve met him,” Andras said, and shrugged. “He’s a good enough man.”