Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

At the hotel after dinner, he and Klara parted ways for the night. She would sleep in Elisabet’s suite while Paul and Andras shared a simple room under the eaves. As Klara said bonne nuit she pressed a hand to his cheek like a promise; that night he fell asleep with the hope that the life they made together might be a balm for her grief. But when he went downstairs at dawn he found her standing alone on the veranda, her driving coat draped around her shoulders, watching as the pink light climbed the smokestacks of the Île de France. He stood at the French doors for a long moment without approaching her. A tide was turning. Her daughter was leaving. There was nothing he could ever do to replace what would be taken away.

At eight o’clock they went to the docks to say goodbye to Paul and Elisabet. The ship would sail at noon; the passengers were to board by nine. They had bought Elisabet a bouquet of violets to take on board with her, and a dozen fancy pastries, and a cylinder of yellow streamers for her to set free when the ship pulled away. She wore a straw hat with a red ribbon, and her blue eyes were feverish with the prospect of the voyage.

Paul was anxious to get on board, anxious to show Elisabet what he’d planned for her. But he insisted on having the ship’s photographer take a picture of the four of them together on the dock, the Île de France looming in the background. Then there was a flurry about the trunks, some article of clothing that had to be removed at the last moment. Finally, at the appointed hour, a volcanic horn-blast sounded from somewhere near the summit of the ship, and the passengers who had not yet embarked began to crowd toward the gangway.

The moment had come. Klara drew Paul aside to speak a few final words to him, and Andras and Elisabet were left looking at each other on the dock. He hadn’t considered what he might say to her at this moment. He was surprised to feel as sorry as he did that she was leaving; at dinner the night before, he’d begun to see what she might be like as an adult, and he’d found her to have more of her mother in her than he had imagined.

“I don’t suppose you’re sad to see me go,” she said. But she was looking at him with a hint of humor at the corners of her eyes, and she’d spoken in Hungarian.

“Yes,” Andras said, and took her hand. “Get lost already, will you?”

She smiled. “Make my mother visit us, all right?”

“I will,” Andras said. “I want to see New York.”

“I’ll send you a postcard.”

“Good.”

“I haven’t gotten used to the idea that you’re marrying her,” Elisabet said. “That’ll make you my-”

“Please don’t say it.”

“All right. But listen: If I ever hear you’ve hurt her, I’ll come kill you myself.”

“And if I hear that you’ve hurt that strapping husband of yours,” Andras began, but Elisabet cuffed him on the shoulder, and then it was time for her to say goodbye to Klara. They stood close together, Elisabet bending her head to touch her mother’s. Andras turned away and shook Paul’s hand.

“See you in the funny papers,” Paul said in English. “That’s what they say in the States.” He translated for Andras: “Je te verrai dans les bandes dessinées.”

“Sounds better in French,” Andras said, and Paul had to agree.

The ship’s horn blasted again. Klara kissed Elisabet one last time, and Paul and Elisabet climbed the gangway and disappeared into the crowd of passengers. Klara held Andras’s arm, silent and dry-eyed, until Elisabet appeared at the rail of the ship. Already, hours before the ship would leave the dock, Elisabet was so far away that she was recognizable only by the red ribbon fluttering from the brim of her hat, and by the pinprick of deep purple that was the cone of violets in her hand. The navy blur beside her was Paul in his nautical-looking jacket. Klara took Andras’s hand and gripped it. Her slender face was pale beneath the dark sweep of her hair; in her haste to get to Le Havre she’d neglected to bring a hat. She waved her handkerchief at Elisabet, who waved hers in return.

Three hours later they watched the Île de France slip out toward the flat blue distance of the open sea and sky. How astounding, Andras thought, that a ship that size could shrink to the size of a house, and then to the size of a car; the size of a desk, a book, a shoe, a walnut, a grain of rice, a grain of sand. How astounding that the largest thing he’d ever seen was still no match for the diminishing effect of distance. It made him aware of his own smallness in the world, his insignificance in the face of what might come, and for a moment his chest felt light with panic.

“Are you ill?” Klara said, putting a hand to his cheek. “What’s wrong?”

But he found it impossible to put the feeling into words. In a moment it had passed, and then it was time for them to go to the car and start for home.

ALL THE TIME Andras and Klara had been at Le Havre, Tibor and Ilana had been together at the apartment on the rue de Sévigné. Tibor related the story the following day as he and Andras walked along the bank of the Seine, watching the long flat barges pass beneath the bridges. Now and then they would catch a strain of Gypsy music that made Andras feel as if they were back in Budapest, as if he might look up and see the gold-traced dome of the Parliament on the right bank, Castle Hill on the left. The afternoon was humid and smelled of damp pavement and river water; in the oblique light Tibor looked haggard with joy. He told Andras that Ilana had known on the train that she was making a mistake, but had felt powerless to stop what had already been set in motion. There was guilt all around, an endless carousel of guilt: her own, Ben Yakov’s, Tibor’s. Each had wronged the others, each had been wronged by the others. It was a miracle that any of them had emerged from the harrowing whirl of it with faculties intact. But Tibor had been protected by his physical distance from Paris, and Ilana had been tended by Klara as if she were her own daughter, and Ben Yakov had talked to Andras in his room at night.

“She’ll come back to Italy with me,” Tibor said. “I’ll take her home to Florence and spend the rest of the summer there. I’d ask her to marry me today if I could, but I’d rather not have her parents consider me the enemy. I’d like to have their permission.”

“That’s brave of you. And what if they refuse?”

“I’ll take my chances. You never know, after all. Maybe they’ll like me.”

They’d crossed the Île de la Cité and the Petit Pont into the Quartier Latin, where they found themselves walking down the rue Saint-Jacques. József’s building lay just ahead; the last time Andras had been there was the night after the Yom Kippur fast. He had seen József a few times since then in passing, but hadn’t crossed the threshhold of his building for months. The time was fast approaching when he and Klara would have to revisit the idea of taking him into their confidence. Now, as he reached the building, he saw that the street door had been propped open with two polished and bestickered leather traveling cases, József’s name and address clearly marked on their sides. A moment later József himself appeared in a summer traveling suit.

“Lévi!” he said. He let his gaze rove over Andras, who felt himself appraised in a bemused, brotherly fashion. “I must say, old boy, you’re looking well. And here’s the other Lévi, the future doctor, if I’m not mistaken. What a shame you’ve caught me just as I’m rushing off. We could have all had a drink. On the other hand, how convenient for me. You can help me get a cab.”

“Off on holiday?” Tibor asked.