She would wire Jozsef, who would be waiting at the station in Paris. She offered him a glass pen with a gold nib so fine he was afraid to use it. He leaned over the low table and wrote the information in his blocky print, terrified that he would break the nib or drip ink onto the Persian rug. Instead he inked his fingers, a fact he apprehended only when he looked down at his final sandwich and saw that the bread was stained purple. He wondered how long it would be until Simon, whoever that was, appeared with the box for Jozsef. A sound of hammering came from far off down the hallway; he hoped it was the box being closed.
It seemed to please the elder Mrs. Hasz to see that Andras had finished his sandwiches. She gave him her grief-etched smile. "This will be your first time in Paris, then."
"Yes," Andras said. "My first time out of the country."
"Don't let my grandson offend you," she said. "He's a sweet child once you get to know him."
"Jozsef is a perfect gentleman," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, flushing to the roots of her close-set curls.
"It's kind of you to wire him," Andras said.
"Not at all," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. She wrote Jozsef's address on another card and gave it to Andras. A moment later, a man in butler's livery entered the sitting room with an enormous wooden crate in his arms.
"Thank you, Simon," said the younger Mrs. Hasz. "You may leave it there."
The man set the crate down on the rug and retreated. Andras glanced at the gold clock on the mantel. "Thank you for the sandwiches," he said. "I'd better be off now."
"Stay another moment, if you don't mind," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. "I'd like to ask you to take one more thing." She went to the writing desk and slid the sealed letter from beneath its paperweight.
"Excuse me, Mr. Levi," said the younger. She rose and crossed the room to meet her mother-in-law, and put a hand on her arm. "We've already discussed this."
"I won't repeat myself, then," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, lowering her voice.
"Kindly remove your hand, Elza."
The younger Mrs. Hasz shook her head. "Gyorgy would agree with me. It's unwise."
"My son is a good man, but he doesn't always know what's wise and what is not,"
said the elder. She extricated her arm gently from the younger woman's grasp, returned to the salmon-colored sofa, and handed the envelope to Andras. Written on its face was the name C. MORGENSTERN and an address in Paris.
"It's a message for a family friend," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, her eyes steady on Andras's. "Perhaps you'll think me overcautious, but for certain matters I don't trust the Hungarian post. Things can get lost, you know, or fall into the wrong hands." She kept her gaze fixed upon him as she spoke, seeming to ask him not to question what she meant, nor what matters might be delicate enough to require this degree of caution. "If you please, I'd rather you not mention it to anyone. Particularly not to my grandson. Just buy a stamp and drop this into a mailbox once you get to Paris. You'll be doing me a great favor."
Andras put the letter into his breast pocket. "Easily done," he said.
The younger Mrs. Hasz stood rigid beside the writing desk, her cheeks bright beneath their patina of powder. One hand still rested on the stack of books, as though she might call the letter back across the room and have it there again. But there was nothing to be done, Andras saw; the elder Mrs. Hasz had won, and the younger now had to proceed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She composed her expression and smoothed her gray skirt, returning to the sofa where Andras sat.
"Well," she said, and folded her hands. "It seems we've concluded our business. I hope my son will be a help to you in Paris."
"I'm certain he will," Andras said. "Is that the box you'd like me to take?"
"It is," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, and gestured him toward it.
The wooden crate was large enough to contain a pair of picnic hampers. When Andras lifted it,
It seemed to please the elder Mrs. Hasz to see that Andras had finished his sandwiches. She gave him her grief-etched smile. "This will be your first time in Paris, then."
"Yes," Andras said. "My first time out of the country."
"Don't let my grandson offend you," she said. "He's a sweet child once you get to know him."
"Jozsef is a perfect gentleman," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, flushing to the roots of her close-set curls.
"It's kind of you to wire him," Andras said.
"Not at all," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. She wrote Jozsef's address on another card and gave it to Andras. A moment later, a man in butler's livery entered the sitting room with an enormous wooden crate in his arms.
"Thank you, Simon," said the younger Mrs. Hasz. "You may leave it there."
The man set the crate down on the rug and retreated. Andras glanced at the gold clock on the mantel. "Thank you for the sandwiches," he said. "I'd better be off now."
"Stay another moment, if you don't mind," said the elder Mrs. Hasz. "I'd like to ask you to take one more thing." She went to the writing desk and slid the sealed letter from beneath its paperweight.
"Excuse me, Mr. Levi," said the younger. She rose and crossed the room to meet her mother-in-law, and put a hand on her arm. "We've already discussed this."
"I won't repeat myself, then," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, lowering her voice.
"Kindly remove your hand, Elza."
The younger Mrs. Hasz shook her head. "Gyorgy would agree with me. It's unwise."
"My son is a good man, but he doesn't always know what's wise and what is not,"
said the elder. She extricated her arm gently from the younger woman's grasp, returned to the salmon-colored sofa, and handed the envelope to Andras. Written on its face was the name C. MORGENSTERN and an address in Paris.
"It's a message for a family friend," said the elder Mrs. Hasz, her eyes steady on Andras's. "Perhaps you'll think me overcautious, but for certain matters I don't trust the Hungarian post. Things can get lost, you know, or fall into the wrong hands." She kept her gaze fixed upon him as she spoke, seeming to ask him not to question what she meant, nor what matters might be delicate enough to require this degree of caution. "If you please, I'd rather you not mention it to anyone. Particularly not to my grandson. Just buy a stamp and drop this into a mailbox once you get to Paris. You'll be doing me a great favor."
Andras put the letter into his breast pocket. "Easily done," he said.
The younger Mrs. Hasz stood rigid beside the writing desk, her cheeks bright beneath their patina of powder. One hand still rested on the stack of books, as though she might call the letter back across the room and have it there again. But there was nothing to be done, Andras saw; the elder Mrs. Hasz had won, and the younger now had to proceed as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She composed her expression and smoothed her gray skirt, returning to the sofa where Andras sat.
"Well," she said, and folded her hands. "It seems we've concluded our business. I hope my son will be a help to you in Paris."
"I'm certain he will," Andras said. "Is that the box you'd like me to take?"
"It is," said the younger Mrs. Hasz, and gestured him toward it.
The wooden crate was large enough to contain a pair of picnic hampers. When Andras lifted it,
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