The Magyar Venus

EPILOGUE

IF YOU LOOK CLOSELY AT THE SIDE WALL OF THE MUSTARD yellow apartment building at Thokoly lit 61 in Budapest, you will see a statue of a woman. The sculpture, rather unsettling it must be said, is thought to have been put there by a man as a memorial to his wife who stood on that balcony every day waiting for him to come home from the Great War. If the story is true, she died in the terrible influenza epidemic that swept through Europe at the end of the war—one day before his return.

For me, that statue represents Selena Morison waiting for her T, whoever he was, while the work she had done was appropriated by others, who not only robbed her of the credit her work was due, but of her good character. Most especially it reminds me of Anna, a prisoner of her phobia and unhappy life, waiting to hear from a man she thought she knew and probably loved, like the rest of us, only to learn hours before her death, just how untrustworthy a man he was.

There is another image of Budapest I carry with me. It is a simple marker on a grave in Varosliget, the city park, put there many years ago to honor a city benefactor. At the benefactor's request, there is no name nor dates on it, only one word carved into the stone. That word is Fuit, Latin for he was. Karoly Molnar was. He was a comet streaking across the sky shedding a light so dazzling it was almost painful to look at before it burned itself out. He was a proud, indeed arrogant man, whose drive to succeed blinded him to facts that did not support his unshakable faith in his own destiny.

He was a man I once loved. I have no idea whether he stepped in front of that bullet to save me or, perhaps more likely, because he'd rather be dead than publicly humiliated and possibly charged with fraud. I do not wish to delude myself on that score. There were more than enough illusions deserving to be shattered in those few days I spent in Hungary.

I doubt very much that the police will ever be able to do anything about Anna's death, nor that of Mihaly Kovacs. They have, however, had no difficulty charging Frank in the shooting death of Karoly. He is claiming it was an accident, which I suppose it was, given I, and not Karoly, was probably the target. It may be that he was as surprised as the rest of us that there was one bullet left in that gun, and that, old as it was, it would work at all. But there was, and it did. Heaven knows, there were enough witnesses.

I haven't seen much of the Divas since, although no doubt we'll all be together in court in Budapest in due course. Morgan, whom I have stayed in touch with, has left Woodward. She got enough money from the divorce settlement to open a very posh fitness club. She gave Cybil a year's membership absolutely free. She also offered one to Courtney Cottingham. Woodward, you see, doesn't give two hoots about how much money he had to pay Morgan, because about six months after the events in Hungary, Major Cottingham succumbed to Alzheimer's disease. Woodward and Courtney will marry as soon as his divorce becomes final. Morgan knows Courtney can afford the membership in her club. I expect she's trying to tell Courtney that if she gains a few pounds, her new beau Woodward won't be pleased.

The Cottingham has found a new publisher for the revised version of their catalog. They've told me that they're inviting Selena Mary Morison to the book launch in a month or two, and they're even paying her way. The new book credits both Selena B. and Anna Belmont. The museum has joined a number of other institutions and experts in arguing over Stalin, whose skull has still not been found. The Cottingham is also discussing restitution with Agnes Vargas two sons. She may not be able to benefit much from it, at this stage of her life, but Janos is going to be able to take advantage of the "opportunity" to buy back the family home.

As for the remaining Divas, the Cottingham has declined to charge Diana with embezzlement, as long as she continues to make payments on her debt to them. I have no idea what Grace is doing. Furthermore, I couldn't care less. To her credit, it must be said, she did the best she could to save Karoly, but even with all her medical training and experience, there was nothing that could be done.

Clive has gone back to being his usual unsympathetic self around me, after a week or two of rather tiresome concern, as has Diesel, the shop cat, who treats me with the disdain I clearly deserve.

***

A FEW DAYS after I got home from Budapest, I decided there was something I needed to do. I waited until after midnight, turned off the motion detector, and then I carried a stepladder to the back of my yard, propping it up against the back wall. The neighbors on one side were away, I knew, and I just hoped the others were sound sleepers. I knew I was going to look like an idiot at best, up to no good more likely, but I just didn't care.

I climbed up the ladder and peered cautiously over the cemetery wall. The moon, almost full once again—had it been that long since I'd been there?—cast shadows across the gravestones. It was very, very quiet, just the occasional creak of the branches of the old trees, and the low hum of the city nearby.

"Hello, Anna," I said quietly, although the words seemed to reverberate in the dark. "I've come to say goodbye. I've been thinking a lot about what I want to tell you. A few days ago, our friend Cybil asked what had happened to us all. The answer from Morgan was that life happened. I suppose that sums it up, but the truth is, as you and I both know, awful things happen in life. Relationships sour, people's careers are thwarted through no fault of their own, people steal from you, your friends kill themselves or die a violent death, and worst of all, children die. So what do you do? You keep going, Anna. That's what. You lost a child, your beautiful little boy. That is a terrible, terrible thing to happen to anyone. But you had two other children. Your daughters are two of the sweetest little things I've ever seen. They needed you. Shutting yourself up in a tiny apartment with your poor old mother was not the answer." I knew my voice was getting progressively louder and louder, and I didn't seem to be able to stop myself. The Dea Muta was silent no more.

"Yes, you were betrayed by people you trusted," I said. It is possible I was shouting. "There were ways of dealing with that, too. I'll see to it, believe me, that you are given credit for the work you did. You could have done that yourself. You can't do it when you're dead. I do not understand why you did it, Anna. I don't believe I ever will. That's all I have to say."

I climbed down the ladder, watched as my neighbor's lights came on—one can only imagine what they thought was going on—went back into the house, called Rob, or at least his voice mail, and left a long, long message. That horrible digital voice cut me off several times. I told him everything, all the things I had done I thought he wouldn't approve of, the moral and ethical decisions I had made, how I felt about him, our relationship, and his daughter. I told him I thought that what had been wrong in our relationship was that we had never really talked about the things that mattered, that maybe I hadn't trusted him to trust in me. I told him about Anna, the Divas, and Frank. Finally, I told him about Karoly. Not everything, maybe, but enough. Then, I put on my most comfortable, if ugliest, nightie, climbed into bed, and slept twelve hours straight.

It was afternoon when I came to. I peered at myself in the bathroom mirror. It was a terrible sight. My hair stood straight up, my face looked squished, and the ugly nightie hadn't improved any, overnight. I was starving. I went into the kitchen, and sitting there at the counter was Rob.

"You look nice," he said.

"I know," I said.

"No, really, you do, in some indefinable way. You got some sleep," he said. "Maybe that's it. Shall I fix you some eggs?"

"How did you get in here?" I said. "You gave me back my key."

"I made a hugely dubious ethical decision, perhaps even illegal, and used some tools we law enforcement officers have to let myself in. People do that, you know, from time to time. Make dubious ethical decisions, I mean. I always think you have to look at the intentions behind them before you get too judgmental."

"And you had good intentions?"

"I didn't come to steal your toothpaste, if that's what you mean. I was worried about you. That was some message, or rather those were some messages, you left."

"Perhaps rather too much information, I'm thinking, in the cold light of dawn. Or is it the bright light of mid-afternoon?"

"Maybe a little bit more than I wanted to know, but on balance, better that than nothing at all. You were right. We didn't talk about what really mattered. Neither of us did."

"I know," I said.

"So do you want to get married?" he asked.

"No. I've done that already."

"Okay. Do you want to get a place together? I mean you sell your place, I sell mine, and we buy a place that's ours?"

"I'm not sure," I said.

"Okay. Do you want to get back together again?"

"I think maybe I do. Do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Even after all that stuff I told you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, then."

"Good," he said. "As the song goes, one out of three ain't bad."

"Two," I said.

"Two? Okay, I'll call the real estate people."

"The song," I said. "The song says two out of three ain't bad."

He grinned at me. "I believe that's a gotcha," he said. "How do you want your eggs?