Andrew Ervin - Extraordinary Renditions

There existed any number of mythologies concerning the Danube, many of which had floated downstream from Vienna — which, since the death of Webern, she felt safe to regard as the least musical of all the so-called “musical cities”—and were evidenced in such novelty hits as “Geschichten aus dem Wienerwald” and “An der schönen blauen Donau.” One legend had it that the Danube only appeared blue to those who were in love. The river, called the Duna in Hungarian, defined and redefined Budapest every day, making it two distinct yet parallel cities divided by a shared mythos. Buda, on the right bank, was a land of large hills, grassy valleys, and vast stretches of dense forest. She and Nanette lived at the inner edge of Pest, the city’s — the entire nation’s — congested, urban core.

“Baby,” Nanette said through chattering teeth, “I’m afraid that one of these nights the Creature from the Blue Danube is going to climb up here and drag you away.”

“I hope it’s tonight,” Melanie said.

“Rrraawwrrr,” Nanette growled, and broke free of Melanie’s grip in order to swat at her with large amphibian hands. Melanie ran, hollering for dear life, chased in monster-like slow motion by Nan’s extended arms and curling claws. She arrived panting at their building, but Nanette had the keys so she cowered at the doorway, waiting. When the creature finally approached, its mouth opening and closing like a fish’s, Melanie put her hands to her frozen cheeks and let out a wide-eyed Hollywood-starlet scream. The sound reverberated down the street and bounced between the tall buildings. They cried with laughter as Nan fumbled with the lock. Melanie felt giddy and nauseous.

Their fin de siècle tenement filled the city block opposite Eve and Adam’s. The proximity and height of the building across the street ensured their flat was in total and perpetual darkness even during the sunniest days of summer. A huge Coca-Cola advertisement perched atop their roof like a crown, visible all the way from the top of the hills. They could see the runoff light reflected in the other building’s windows. When they threw parties, they simply told people to go to the Coke Building and look for their buzzer. Holes like the craters of Mars still pockmarked the façade where, in February 1945, it absorbed a significant quantity of German and Russian bullets while those two armies fought for control of the city. Nan finally unlocked the huge metal door and filled the entranceway with the same red light.

The elevator was broken again, or was still broken, so they hiked up the stairs to the third floor, which would have been the sixth floor in any other nation in the world, considering they needed to climb up six flights of stairs to get there. Their laughter and footsteps resounded through the inner courtyard, which was surrounded on all sides by landings that led to the apartments. Climbing the stairs never proved any easier drunk. Nanette had grown accustomed to dragging her camera bag to the top of everything from cathedral steeples to the rooftops of the prefab commie-condo high-rises of Békásmegyer, but each step required more and more effort of Melanie. She envied Nanette’s athletic frame, but not enough to accompany her to the gym every night or for the occasional run around the island. Practicing her violin sometimes six hours a day, plus full rehearsals with the opera orchestra a few afternoons each week, took up way too much of her time for that. Every spring she swore to lose fifteen pounds, but obsession with her artistic growth, or her perceived lack of artistic growth, had so far prevented her from flattening her stomach. She felt distinctly fat all the time, especially in comparison to her sexy roommate.

Nanette possessed a rare, elemental beauty, the kind that made both men and women do surprisingly stupid things for her attention. Consciously or not, she flirted with almost everyone she met. Melanie saw it happen dozens and dozens of times at Eve and Adam’s and all over the city. But Nanette was also violently possessive of Melanie. She had made threats in the past about hurting herself if Mel were to move out.

The scent of stale smoke greeted them in the kitchen, where dishes and glassware, empty wine bottles, and countless photographs covered every flat surface. Melanie’s faces looked up at her in disappointment from the clutter. A doorway led to a short hallway and their bedroom, guest room, a spacious living room, bathroom, and water closet. Sometimes Melanie felt uneasy about being sandwiched in the middle of a monolithic apartment building, surrounded on all sides by a thousand people and their pets, but at least their building had the advantage of offering many other targets to any would-be burglar. All the same, they had added an extra bar-lock to the door to protect her violin, jewelry, and her massive CD collection.

Constant exposure to classical music constituted a big part of Melanie’s job, of her art, and the fact that Nanette didn’t fully appreciate that was a big reason why they had been fighting so much lately. The current, unsteady truce stipulated that Nan only listened to hip-hop when Melanie wasn’t home. Nanette lacked the sophistication to appreciate the European art music — née “classical”—tradition, though she knew better than to complain about the extraordinary renditions of Bach recorded by the likes of Gertler and Heifetz and Serly. Melanie had long since given up trying to get Nan to appreciate serious music.

Something about the polluted fishbowl of expatriate life helped Melanie form lifelong friendships with people like Nanette, whom she very likely would never have associated with back in Boston. She still loved Nanette in a way, sure, but she also understood that her love was a matter of attraction among opposites. It was a love based on dissonance rather than harmony, with little more than passing, polite interest in each others’ artistic careers. Melanie hadn’t even bothered to invite her to the big Independence Day concert. No point, really.

In just a matter of hours, she would perform in the world premiere of an opera titled The Golden Lotus, by the world-renowned but way-overrated composer Lajos Harkályi. It would be broadcast live on national television and recorded for commercial distribution. If it turned out anything like Harkályi’s other albums, it was guaranteed to sell millions. Not that she would see any of that money.

Nanette rinsed out two korsós, stolen from one bar or another, and poured both of them glasses of flat mineral water and totally unnecessary Unicum nightcaps from the freezer. They ate stale pogácsas; in the morning it would be Melanie’s turn to run out for fresh bread.

There was nothing on TV at that time of night except soft-core porn, so she put on a Bartók album instead and forwarded it to the burlesque Kicsit ázottan. It was a private joke.

Nanette came in and promptly fell asleep on the couch without brushing her teeth. Her cellphone rang from the bedroom; at this hour it was either a jilted former lover or an editor asking her to go shoot a crime scene. Melanie didn’t wake her. Instead, she finished her Unicum and then drank Nanette’s too. When the Bartók ended she listened to Kodály’s Székely fonó until she started to pass out as well. Rather than rousing Nan and dragging her to bed, Melanie let her stay where she was. She neglected to kiss her good-night.

Tomorrow was a big day. It was already tomorrow.

2.

Melanie lingered over a slice of thickly buttered toast and too-weak Meinl coffee until Nanette finally emerged, fully formed for the day, from the bathroom. Her third cigarette of the morning hung from the corner of her pouty lips. Hartmann’s Concerto funèbre trickled from the living room stereo, barely audible in deference to Melanie’s headache. “I’m getting my hair cut,” she announced, fully aware that Nanette wouldn’t believe her.