Julie Orringer - The InvisibleBridge

“I was supposed to be,” József said, and an unaccustomed expression passed across his features-a look Andras could only have described as chagrin. “I was supposed to meet some friends at Saint-Tropez. Instead I’m off to lovely Budapest.”

“Why?” Andras said. “What’s happened?”

József raised an arm at a passing taxi. It pulled to the curb and the driver climbed out to get József’s bags. “Listen,” József said. “Why don’t the two of you ride to the station with me? I’m going all the way to the Gare du Nord, and it’ll take half an hour in this traffic. Unless you’ve got something better to do.”

“Better than a long hot ride in traffic?” Andras said. “I can’t imagine.”

They climbed into the cab and set off down the rue Saint-Jacques in the direction from which they’d come. József settled a long arm across the back of the seat and turned toward Andras.

“Well, Lévi,” he said. “It’s the damnedest thing, but I think I ought to tell you.”

“What is it?” Andras asked.

“Have you gotten your student visa renewed?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“Don’t be surprised if you run into trouble at the Hungarian Consulate.”

Andras squinted at József; the slanting five o’clock light poured through the windows of the cab and illuminated what he hadn’t seen before: the shadow of worry beneath József’s eyes, the aftertraces of lost sleep. “What kind of trouble?” he said.

“I went to get my visa renewed. I thought I still had a few weeks left. I didn’t think there’d be any difficulty. But then they said they couldn’t do it, not here in France.”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Tibor said. “That’s what the consulate does.”

“Not anymore, apparently.”

“If they won’t renew your visa in France, where are they supposed to do it?”

“Back home,” József said. “That’s why I’m going.”

“Couldn’t you get your father to work it out for you?” Andras said. “Couldn’t he use his influence to make someone do something? Or else, if you’ll excuse the vulgarity, couldn’t he just bribe someone?”

“One would think,” József said. “But apparently not. My father’s influence isn’t what it once was. He’s not the president of the bank anymore. He goes to the same office, but he’s got a different title now. Advisory secretary, or some such nonsense.”

“Is it to do with his being Jewish?”

“Of course. What else would it be?”

“And I suppose it’s only Jews who have to go back to Hungary to renew their visas.”

“Does that surprise you, old man?”

Andras pulled his papers from his jacket pocket. “My visa’s still good for another three weeks.”

“That’s what I thought, too. But it’s no good unless you’re taking summer classes. Next term doesn’t count anymore, apparently. You’d better go to the consulate before someone asks for your papers. As far as the authorities are concerned, you’re here illegally now.”

“But that’s impossible. It doesn’t make sense.”

József shrugged. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

“I can’t go to Budapest now,” Andras said.

“Truth to tell, I’m almost looking forward to it,” József said. “I’ll have a soak at the Szécsenyi baths, take a coffee at the Gerbeaud, see a few of the boys from gimnázium. Maybe go to the house at Lake Balaton for a while. Then I’ll do what I have to do at the passport office, and I’ll be back by the start of fall term-if there is a fall term, of course, which depends in part on the whims of Herr Hitler.”

Andras collapsed against the cab seat, trying to take in what he’d just heard. Ordinarily he might have welcomed the excuse to go home for a few weeks; after all, he hadn’t seen his parents or Mátyás in two years. But he was supposed to get married; it was supposed to happen while Tibor was still in Paris. He was supposed to move his things to the rue de Sévigné. And then there was the problem of Hitler and Danzig. This was no time to get on a train to Budapest, no time to cross the continent, no time for his visa to be in question. In any case, how could he afford to travel? The cost of a two-way ticket would consume what he’d managed to set aside for Klara’s ring and for tuition in the fall. He didn’t have the savings Tibor had; he hadn’t worked for six years before going to school. He felt suddenly ill, and had to roll down the cab window and turn his face toward the breeze.

“I should have spoken to you sooner,” József said. “We might have traveled together.”

“It’s my fault,” Andras said. “I haven’t been eager to see you since I got blind drunk in your bedroom.”

“Never feel ashamed,” József said. “Not with me. Not for that reason.” And then he turned to Tibor. “What about you?” he said. “How’s medical school? Was it Switzerland?”

“Italy.”

“Of course. So you’re nearly a doctor now.”

“Not quite nearly.”

“And what brings you to town?”

“That’s a long story,” Tibor said. “The short version is something like this: I’m courting someone who was recently married to a friend of Andras’s. I’m glad you’re leaving town before you can make me say more about it.”

József laughed. “That’s grand,” he said. “I wish I had time for the long version.”

They had reached the station, and the driver got out to untie the bags from the roof. József opened his wallet and counted out money. Andras and Tibor slid out after him and helped him carry the bags inside.

“I suppose you’d better go,” Andras said, once they’d consigned the luggage to a porter. “You’ll miss your train.”

“Listen,” József said. “If you do make it to Budapest, look me up. We’ll have a drink. I’ll introduce you to some girls I know.”

“Monsieur Hász, the playboy,” Tibor said.

“Don’t forget it,” József said, and winked. Then he slung his chestnut-colored satchel over his shoulder and loped off into the crowded station.

Before a week had passed, Andras would be obliged to return to the Gare du Nord with his own suitcases, his own satchel. But all he knew, as he and Tibor began the long walk to the rue de Sévigné that evening, was that he had to go to the consulate and explain that he must be granted legal visitor status. Only until the end of the month-only as long as it would take to get a marriage license and wed his bride. Once they were married, wouldn’t he have a claim to French citizenship? Couldn’t he come and go, then, as he wished?

At Klara’s, all the lights were burning and the women were cloistered in the bedroom. Ilana came out to tell Andras he was not to go in; the dressmaker was there, and behind Klara’s door there were secret preparations regarding her wedding gown.

Andras made a noise of dismay. He and Tibor went to the front room and sat down on either side of the sofa, where Tibor pulled his own papers from his trouser pocket and scrutinized the visa.

“Mine’s good until next January,” he said. “And I’ve been enrolled in summer study, though I’m afraid I won’t pass the course I’ve just abandoned.”

“But you’re enrolled. You ought to be all right.”

“But what about you? What will you do?”

“I’ll go to the consulate,” Andras said. “Then I’ll go to the Mairie. I’ll do whatever I have to do. I’ve got to have valid papers before we can get a marriage license.”

From the bedroom came a trio of exclamations, a crescendo of laughter. Tibor folded his papers again and set them on the table. “What’ll you tell her?”

“Nothing yet,” he said. “I don’t want her to worry.”

“We’ll go to the consulate tomorrow,” Tibor said. “If you explain the problem, maybe they’ll grant you an extension. And if they give you trouble, watch out.” He held up his fists in a threatening manner. But his hands were as elegant as a pianist’s, long and lean; his knuckles had the polished look of river stones, and his tendons fanned like the delicate bones of a bird’s wing.