Exiles in the Garden (16 page)

Lucia smiled but did not reply.

Alec was surprised at her lack of enthusiasm. Fear was in her voice. He said, Would you mind leaving Washington?

But our house—

We'd sell it. The way prices are now, we'd make a fortune. He began an explanation of the Washington housing market, unprecedented inflation, but Lucia shook her head.

I hadn't thought about it, she said. I don't know. Lucia turned from him, a bothered expression on her face. They were sitting in their garden after dinner. A warm night, and from the open window next door they heard faint laughter and applause, a television program. She smiled, remembering a remark she'd heard that afternoon. Television is to America what the drum is to Africa, a sacred instrument.

I think you have more of a life here than I do, Alec said. And I grew up in Washington. Either it changed or I did.

Perhaps if you made more of an effort...

That's what I used to say to you.

Yes, you did.

And look what happened.

And your mother, Lucia said hurriedly. I think she couldn't stand it, being separated from Mathilde. She comes over here all the time. She loves being with her granddaughter. And Mathilde loves her gran.

True enough, Alec said. But is that a reason to stay? Then a fresh thought came to him, an entirely unexpected idea. He said, Maybe we should go to Europe.

Oh, Alec. She started to laugh.

What's so funny?

Europe's not your place. That's silly.

How do you know Europe's not my place?

Don't be crazy, she said. I can't see you there, is all.

I can fit in anywhere, he said. And we're not getting any younger.

Europe, she said, and forced another laugh. Is not the fountain of youth it's cracked up to be.

Lucia picked up phrases of American slang all the time but this one was new to him, at least from her. He wondered where she heard it. Probably at Mathilde's school, or from the bear girl, the friend she visited so often at the zoo. At the moment Lucia spoke, Alec began to smile, attracted by the idea of Europe, a change of venue, something novel, a voyage of discovery. Who knew what Europe was cracked up to be? Alec wondered if he could find a fresh subject abroad, something remote from the news, from deadlines and thoughts about civic duty. The image before him was Ed Weekes, itching to return to the war zone in Vietnam, Ed as worn out as Washington itself, settled now into a long twilit afternoon, the Nixon gang in charge. No matter who was in charge he felt himself a stranger in the city, almost a stranger to himself. There were days when he believed he was sleepwalking. Last week, riding home on the bus, he looked up to find himself at Massachusetts Avenue Heights, eight blocks past his stop. Alec had commenced a reverie about sailing on the Chesapeake Bay, the weather warm, dead calm. His was the only vessel in sight, and his thoughts turned to Europe. He longed for something unfamiliar and wondered if Europe was his subject. Of course he was surprised at Lucia's lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps she was becoming a good American after all, suspicious of foreign entanglements. She had ceased to slip away as he feared she was when in the company of the exiles, awash in resentment and nostalgia. Switzerland would be good for her, and when she returned they could think about a place to live. And meanwhile he could think about job prospects, something exciting.

Maybe it's not a good time, Lucia said. My trip home.

You'll be fine, Alec said. He had no idea how to begin prospecting for a job in Europe. He had no European contacts. The only Europeans he knew lived in Washington.

It's been so long, she said.

That's a good reason to go now, Alec said. He had one friend who worked for Agence France-Presse, an older man, Henri somebody. He could take Henri for lunch, pick his brains. It would be wonderful not working for a newspaper or agency, just setting up as a freelance, picking and choosing. Somehow you had to establish yourself. You needed to do more than show up at Orly with a Leica and a bag full of film.

Not always, Alec, Lucia said.

What? Alec said, lost in his reverie.

On a Wednesday afternoon two weeks later they were waiting at the gate for the short flight from National to JFK, where Lucia would board the Swissair overnight to Zurich. Alec and Mathilde were inspecting the bears at the gift shop, Alec waiting patiently for his daughter to make up her mind. Lucia watched them, Mathilde inspecting each bear before putting it back in its place, Alec standing, his hands clasped behind his back, watching as if the decision would decide the fate of the world. His face was unreadable. She thought of it as his Chinese mask, nothing given, nothing accepted; and yet he was instantly recognizable as an American, loose-limbed in his khaki trousers and polo shirt. Nothing could be further from a Chinese than Alec Malone and still she thought of his look as Chinese. Lucia wondered if he unnerved his subjects, his face as blank as a camera's lens. Now Mathilde turned toward him with a brown bear in her hand and he nodded as he handed her a banknote. The cashier was watching this pantomime with an amused expression. When Mathilde handed up the money the cashier took it and carefully counted out the change, placing each coin in the little girl's hand. Alec said something and Mathilde smiled and put the coins in her child's purse.

Lucia heard Mathilde say,
Danke, Papa.

Alec said, You're welcome, sweetheart.

They stood a moment more looking at the goods on offer.

The flight was announced. Lucia called to them but her words stuck in her throat. She had an instant of irresolution as she watched them turn and come toward her hand in hand, Mathilde clutching her bear, Alec so tall. At that moment she wondered how she could love anyone but him, them. But it seemed she had reinvented herself in America as everyone was supposed to do, and some of these reinventions came without notice or forethought. Sometimes you made the choice, sometimes it was made for you. A land of opportunity certainly, pushed along by happenstance—take one turn and not another, open this door and not that, remain at the party longer than you intended, and your life changes utterly. You find you are in harm's way and the harm comes willy-nilly, out of left field as her husband liked to say. Perhaps "harm" was not the correct word because you were borne aloft, weightless; harm was the last thing in your mind. Still, when she thought about it—connecting the dots, as it were—the events of that evening could be traced to a ski slope in the Engadine, a beautiful run on virgin powder and her downhill ski suddenly out of control. She heard her bones snap when she fell. The shock was so great she felt no pain, at least not right away. Pain came later, and later still the souvenir, a limp that became more pronounced in night air. Had she not broken her leg she would never have gone to America as an au pair. Au pair work was not her interest. Her interest was competing in Europe, the downhill, the giant slalom. The downhill was her specialty. Also, she loved the company of skiers, their physicalness, their daring, their love of the cold. And if she had stayed healthy and continued to improve her technique, surely she would have been a candidate for the Winter Olympics. She believed something precious had been taken from her in the Engadine. She was diminished, her life's dream forfeit.

Call me when you get in, Alec said.

If the pension has a phone, Lucia said.

Safe trip, Alec said. He kissed her deeply.

Probably there won't be a phone, Lucia said. I'll cable.

Mathilde began to sniffle but stopped when Alec swept her into the air and held her suspended like an acrobat. Alec let her down slowly into her mother's arms.

Lucia said, See you very soon, darling. Be a good girl.

Mathilde clung to Lucia, her arms tight around her mother's neck. For a long moment they did not move. Mathilde was sniffling again.

I'll be back before you know it, Lucia said.

Tell mama what you call your bear, Alec said.

The little girl was breathless. Swissbear, she said. I'm calling her Swissbear.

Then Lucia was in the cabin searching for her seat. The aircraft was not crowded. She fastened her seat belt as the plane eased away from the gate and began its slow progress to the far end of the field. All Lucia's irresolution returned as she stared out the window. She saw the lights of the Capitol dome but did not pay attention. She sat motionless as the plane took off to the west, banking sharply over Georgetown University. She searched for her house but could not locate it. She saw the spires of the National Cathedral and then they were in cloud and as suddenly above it, into the blue; dusk was coming on. Lucia opened the newspaper and read it listlessly. Toward the back of the front section she saw a photograph of a demonstration on the sidewalk in front of the White House, an antiwar affair, beards for the men, sandals for the women. It seemed that every day or so protesters showed up on the White House sidewalk. Her own thoughts were far away, memory snowflakes that seemed to dissolve upon arrival. Lucia put the newspaper away, then picked it up again to look at the credit line. Photo by Alec Malone. She dropped the paper on the seat next to hers. Lucia closed her eyes.

She was back in the Engadine, the brilliant blue sky and the snow as clean and soft as down. She was alone, the time late afternoon. She was meeting friends for drinks,
gluhwein
and fondue at the second station. A boy she was interested in had joined the crowd. Oh, she was flying, skiing as fast as she had ever skied, and then she was turning cartwheels, the sky and the snow and the snow and the sky turning above her, out of control absolutely. Her goggles were filled with snow. She had lost her gloves and a fingernail. Her leg was under her at an unnatural angle. Lucia wept not from pain but from grief. Her grief was of the sort reserved for the death of a loved one or the end of a precious dream, a dream she had held her entire life. When she heard her bones snap she lost consciousness, but grief stayed with her. She remained in the hospital one month, eating little, speaking not at all. She tried to adapt herself to her new circumstances as everyone said she must do. But she was not good at adapting. She was determined to find again what she had lost. But soon enough she understood that nothing could be done, not with money, not with love, not with friendship or God. She was kaput. When the stewardess touched her arm and said they would be landing shortly at JFK, Lucia gave a start and cried out.

She was over the Atlantic now. She ordered a split of champagne, thinking of the Count and Countess d'An and the night she was leaving the party at their house and stumbled on the loose flagstone, her leg buckling, and she felt a strong hand on her elbow and another around her waist. Nikolas had come to her rescue and so she stayed on for another glass of champagne. She did not know him well, in fact they had only been introduced earlier that evening. She had forgotten his name and had to ask. Nikolas was one of the second-tier intellectuals who naturally was not second-tier in his own country but a prodigy, a full professor of literature, a fixture in the lecture halls and at the many discreet protest meetings in Prague and Budapest and beyond. His aim was to sweep away the arthritic hand of the Soviet occupation and install true socialism, socialism with a human face, practical socialism whose salient feature would be freedom of speech. Lucia did not truly understand his politics, though many of his phrases were reminiscent of her mother's salon. She was drawn to his conviction, his voice and manner, his wit. Nikolas was very clever. He had long, wavy brown hair and wore a six-foot white scarf whatever the season. The scarf was his signature. He had the rough looks of a mountain peasant, a heavy jaw and a bulbous nose and permanent stubble; no one would call him handsome. Instead, Nikolas had vitality and a beautiful smile. Lucia looked into his black eyes and saw a thousand years of dissent from authority—any authority, parental, the state, the church, the sciences. There was nothing the least dutiful about him. She remembered thinking that he would be a handful for anyone who came to love him. His voice was gruff but his eyes sparkled. When he spoke, she smiled without quite knowing why, except the experience was like tapping your foot to an infectious rhythm. Nikolas had written one successful book, an allegorical novel whose subversive meaning had somehow eluded the authorities, who readily granted him permission to visit America. They thought he might be useful. Keep your eyes open. Tell us what you hear and see. Report back.

Nikolas said, They thought I would make a fine advertisement for the Hungarian way of life. Because I was so reliable.

He had a year's appointment as a visiting professor at one of the Washington universities, and when the year was up he arranged to stay on. He was extremely popular with his students, his classes always oversubscribed. His female students called him Professor Nik. He disappeared for a time, and when next seen had been granted political asylum. Professor Nik was now an official émigré, much in demand at conferences and symposia.

Nikolas was too young to be unconditionally accepted by the older émigrés—and perhaps his novel was a bit facile, a bit too quick with its ironies, and quite a bit too caustic in its treatment of the aging European diaspora. Nostalgia was the enemy of progress. Madame Brun believed he was not serious. He was charming in his own way, a sensuous boy, but he wrote with a curled lip. Yet he was popular among the Americans he had come to know, fellow academics and State Department analysts and those few journalists who covered foreign affairs. Nikolas was always good for a droll quote. He did have a biting wit—the drum analogy was his—and if he had read half the books he claimed to have read, he was a very well educated man indeed. Nikolas confessed to Lucia that he had a photographic memory and a talent for speed-reading and mimicry—gifts, he said disarmingly, like wavy brown hair and a big nose. He and Lucia were drawn to each other over the glass of champagne. It turned out that Nikolas was a distant cousin of a friend of the Countess d'An, so they were certain to meet again.

The next week they had coffee at one of the Georgetown cafés, then graduated to afternoon movies in out-of-the-way locations. One afternoon they drove to Baltimore to see
Catch-22,
a work of genius according to Nikolas, though Lucia thought it violent. They conversed in German. Lucia told him of her mother's salon in Zurich, making it sound
gemütlich
and clandestine at the same time. In his company she found that she remembered the smallest details, the brand of tea her mother served and the name of the shop the little cakes came from. Now that she was speaking German again she recalled whole conversations in her mother's salon. Nikolas seemed to unlock her memory.