The Book of Fathers (50 page)

Vilmos Csillag was ashamed of himself for how little patience he had with his mother, and he promised himself countless times that he would hear her out patiently, lovingly even, because you can’t hope ever to educate your mother. But when that next time came, he could not swallow the lump of anger that formed in his throat after sixty seconds of his mother’s rant. They had monumental rows with Mama slamming the door and running off, even when they were in her flat. Shall I go after her? Shall I wait till she comes back? She’ll come back anyway … Won’t she? Don’t you think? He bit his lip. Come, come, not you as well.

He was twenty-two when he moved out to Zugló on the Pest outskirts, into a flat vacated by a musician friend, where the landlady was as deaf as a post, so that her restrictions—no women, no late nights, no ear-splitting yeah, yeah, yeahs—did not have to be taken seriously.

His mother took great offense when he announced the move, but tried to put a good face on the matter. “Why should I object? This is the way of the world: the children grow up, fly out of the nest, and build their own.”

Vilmos Csillag enjoyed thinking about how he would furnish his new residence, a room with its own front door and including a toilet, which he found unfurnished. He took it out on a long lease, as he saw no chance of ever buying a flat of his own. Perhaps when his mother … no … may God preserve her for many a year. He felt a pang of religion at such times, though this did not happen often. He was incapable of believing that there was someone in charge of his fate, or who even took a close interest in it. If he had had a guardian angel, she would doubtless have ensured that he did not end up as a crazy rock musician, in a risky, dead-end career.

Not for a long time had he been excited by anything as much as by the move. At first Mama was glad to help. But the cloven hoof soon showed through: not for a moment did she imagine that her son would take all his stuff and leave her alone in the seventy-six square meters that would all be hers. “In fact … it would be more sensible if I took your flat. I don’t need more space than that, then you could stay here … and sometimes you wouldn’t mind if I stayed in the maid’s room … don’t you think?”

“Aha! Right! I move out so that we can still live under the same roof?”

“Spare me your sarcasm, my dear Willie, pretend I didn’t say a word. Your will be done.”

Vilmos Csillag gave a roar of pain: “On earth as it is in heaven, don’t you think?”

His mother’s eyes were like glass marbles: “How come you know that, Willie dear?”

“Come, come … you made me go to RE in ’56 … or have you forgotten?”

“Oh, that was so long ago, I thought you’d forgotten it all. I wanted to fulfill your dear grandmother’s wish, may she rest in peace.”

Again and again she offered reasons why it was unnecessary for her son to move out. We’ve got a flat, she would gladly let him have the two big rooms, the maid’s room off the kitchen was enough for her, she wouldn’t use the bathroom as there was a washbasin in the smaller loo. Vilmos Csillag then asked why she had said before that she had no objections to him moving out. His mother at once beat a retreat: “Fine, fine, let everything be as you wish, I shan’t interfere.”

Don’t you think?—added Vilmos Csillag to himself. Or do you think? When his bed, desk, and bookshelf were being loaded into the band’s minibus with the help of one of the roadies, she was dancing attendance around them, holding doors, suggesting how the furniture should be lined up, altogether as if the person moving was herself. But as soon as Vilmos Csillag took his seat by the roadie, she burst into tears and waved him off as if he were setting out for the Eastern Front. Vilmos Csillag felt awkward when he saw the passersby. But there was no need: who cares what complete strangers think?

Shortly after this a three-man outfit invited Vilmos Csillag to join them as their fourth for a six-month trip to Scandinavia. Stockholm, Oslo, Bergen, playing on cruise ships. He hung fire. “I … er … get seasick.”

“Seasick? You are brainsick, if you pass this up!” said the front man, who had worked out that they could each make enough for a second-hand car. “A two-year-old VW, no sweat.”

Father
,

I’m going away now and I don’t know if I’ll come back
.

I’ve written this
for you
to you during in the course of
over
the years
.

If you get it, perhaps you will understand,

This will make it clear at least

That
I think of you
. More than you might imagine.

Ciao.

Ever,

Your son

Willie

Vilmos

He put the sheets into a thick envelope that he sealed. The day before his departure he took it out to the cemetery. He had to wait a while until there was no one around the block of columbariums. He put the letter on top.

He told his mother over the phone that he would not be coming back. She had difficulty catching his drift. “What do you mean, my dear Willie, that you’re staying out?”

“Oh mother … I’m sure you’re the only person on earth who needs a commentary.”

“All right, don’t shout, but what happens when your exit visa runs out?”

“Sod the bloody exit visa, I shall apply for asylum. I’ll get a Nansen pass.”

“Nan-sen?” She said it as though it were a swear word.

“That’s what they call it, don’t you think?”

“I see … but why won’t you just come back?”

“Because it’ll be better for me here. I’ll earn loads, I’ll send you money, I don’t know how you do it yet, but I’ll
find out … Don’t worry, everything will be fine … I’ve more or less settled in here, I’ll soon have my own flat … half the band is staying, that’s to say me and another guy …”

“Oh, my God! What are you going to do there?”

“What we’ve been doing so far, playing music to drunken Norwegians.”

“But does that mean … I’m not going to see you again? Is that it?”

“Come, come. You’ll visit here first thing, I’ll organize everything.”

“Oh my dear Willie, how lucky your dear father is no longer alive! This would be his death!”

“Of course it wouldn’t, he would be delighted at his son’s good fortune, that he’s free and doing well … believe me, Mama, everything will be just fine!”

“So … you really … really aren’t coming back?”

They were both silent for a long time. At length the mother uttered the dark, sad sentence: “So I shan’t have a son … or a grandson …”

“Why shouldn’t you have a grandson?”

This languid interpolation went unheard by his mother: “You know you are the last of the Csillags?”

“All right, Mother! Don’t cry. We’ll speak again. Take care!”

When he put down the receiver, Vilmos Csillag felt that every part of his body was bathed in sweat. I have defected … there are no more Csillags on Hungary. This ungrammatical phrase signaled the beginning of the decline of his knowledge of his mother tongue.

Eight years were to pass before his application for a visa to return to Hungary was granted. While he was still in Europe it never crossed his mind to apply. Anyone who left the Hungarian People’s Republic was automatically treated as a traitor and villain.

Vilmos Csillag was unconcerned: for a long time he didn’t even want to hear the word
Hungary
, never mind return.

From Scandinavia he went to Paris, then over the seas. In America he could not find work as a musician, with a repertoire of Anglo-Saxon classics that no one was interested in hearing with his accent. He worked as a waiter, then found a job with UPS, driving the cream-brown vans, delivering everything from the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
to Mayflower dishwashers.

He met his wife on his flight to the New World. Shea was half American-Hungarian and half American-Indian, born in Delhi, where her father had just set up a taxi company. The firm foundered as rapidly as the marriage, and Shea was taken back to the States by her mother, to the poorer part of Brooklyn where the grandparents, who had emigrated in ’33, still lived. Shea was small, delicate, and loud, and what Vilmos Csillag most liked about her was that loud mouth of hers, as she picked her way with balletic ease through the five languages that she spoke fluently, or the sixth, seventh, or eighth, of which she knew only a few words. If they were in an Italian restaurant, she would converse with the waiter exchanging Verdi operas, in an inimitable Neapolitan accent. Even in the Chinese restaurant she could come out with a flawless sentence or two, bringing a happy grin to the face of the bowing staff. She could deploy a dozen words the way a resourceful housewife can in moments rustle up a tasty soup from leftovers in the larder when unexpected guests arrive.

Intellectually, Vilmos Csillag felt like a dwarf by Shea’s side, unable to master even the English language sufficiently to prevent the appearance, upon his very first words, in the corner of the Americans’ mouths of that impersonal, tight smile they reserved for foreigners. Life with Shea was as frivolous as a stylish outing; it mattered little what the following day would bring. If ever they got hold of a bit of
money, Shea at once found a way of spending it. She did not care for Vilmos Csillag’s anxieties: “We only live once. Don’t you think?”

The musicality of her voice was an erotic stimulant for Vilmos Csillag, so for a long time he failed to realize that the girl was mocking his English pronunciation.

Their son was born so soon that perhaps Shea had fallen pregnant on the first flight they shared. In fact, then it was only their fingertips that did any wandering, under the light fake fur blanket of Pan Am. Vilmos Csillag was in despair when she announced: “I’ve got news for you. You can jump a generation.”

The penny took some time to drop. “You mean … You’re …?”

“Oh yeah! Aren’t you glad?”

“Oh dear … I haven’t even got my green card quite sorted out.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ll see to it. I’ll see to everything. If I see to it, you’ll be happy?”

Shea did in fact manage to see to everything, the only thing she couldn’t see to was Vilmos Csillag himself. For him the United States remained enemy territory, where he dared move only with extreme care, lest he step on the little landmines of everyday life, such as any official document or printed matter, or telephone conversations with strangers. He never got as far as to listen without worry if someone turned to him unexpectedly in the street or a public place.

What was natural for Shea always remained burdensome for him. In vain did Shea urge him to pay always by credit card; he preferred cash, because every time he handed his credit card to the assistant, waiter, or checkout girl, his stomach would automatically contract, worried that perhaps they would take it and not bring it back.

They had endless discussions about the child’s name. Ultrasound revealed that it would be a boy, of average weight.
Shea longed for some exotic name, in tribute to her Indian side, but Vilmos Csillag had trouble imagining a son who might be called Raj after the famous actor, or Rabindranath, after the famous poet, or Ravi, after the famous sitar-player.

“Every male name in the U.S. begins with
Ra
?” asked Vilmos Csillag.

“Don’t be so sarcasatic! In Hungarian there’s lots of
e’
s, so what?”

“Yes, but you have an American name.”

“Unfortunately. You should be proud of your origins.”

“And you don’t think Rabindranath Csillag sounds idiotic?”

“I do. Because of the Csillag part. You should adopt a more sensible name …” though as she saw his eyebrows rise, she corrected herself: “I mean, one that comes well, goes well here … Csillag is quite a tongue-twister for them, they say Chilleg or Kersilleg; do you want that? Why can’t you be Vilmosh Star! William Star! That’s fantastic, don’t you think?”

The “don’t you think” still reminded him of Mama, still whimpering in 4 Márvány Street. With the exhibition of photographs on the chest of drawers. The wedding photo. Papa in uniform. Vilmos Csillag in the regulation photo of the Hungarian Album of Baby Smiles, tummy down on an obscured table, legs swimming in the air. Then the graduation photo. The promotional shot, stamp-size, of the Sputniks cut out of the
Radio and TV Times
, with the caption: “Fresh talent in the semifinals!”