GOULASH
by Anna Balint
A spicy stew, seasoned with paprika pepper
Dad’s old green Morris is rocking and bumping because we are driving
a dirt road, bouncing over stones. How does this car hold so many?
Mum and Dad, my four brothers, and me—as well as Uncle Zoltan,
Auntie Eszter, and my fat cousin Gizi. Uncle Zoltan has taken over the
front passenger seat, Mum’s spot, where, on a day’s outing or holiday
at home in England, she usually sits with my little brother Stevie perched
on her knee. On such occasions her face is eager, angled slightly toward
the window—always cracked open an inch or two to make a
breeze—but constantly turning back to Dad. The two of them always
in some kind of conversation, exclaiming about this or that—cathedral
towers, breeds of cows, the smell of manure. Mum sometimes turning
to include the four of us in the back seat in her observations, or in a
scathing voice, to scold whoever she deems necessary, to keep their bloody
hands to themselves, they’ll get their turn by the window soon enough,
just wait.
Uncle Zoltan sits in her spot now, to accommodate his long legs and
give directions to my father. “Vun more kilometer, Colin, vun more,
only vun, zen turn to right.” His head nearly touches the ceiling, a smooth
brown dome on top of an impossibly long neck, his ears sticking out
like jug handles on either side. I know he’s up front with Dad because
he’s a man. The rest of us, woman and children, are squished into the
back to make room for him. At age fourteen I have figured out these
things. Today I am lucky. I have managed to claim a window and hang
out of it, gulping warm dusty air as if it were the last air on earth. Inside
the car is impossibly hot, even with all the windows rolled down.
There is hardly any traffic on the roads except for us and an occasional
oxcart when we pass through a village. We haven’t seen more than four
or five cars all day. It is only us that churns the dust, a yellow funnel of
it behind us, lifting into the air to sift back down over the fields of sunflowers
after we’ve passed.
Beside me sits Mum, with my youngest and next youngest brothers
asleep on her lap, their hair plastered to their heads with sweat, their
cheeks flushed. Every so often I turn to look at Mum, to see if her expression
has changed yet. It hasn’t. The brown oval of her face is still
smooth and closed up. If she truly wants to go wherever we’re going
now, her face doesn’t let on. Ever since we arrived in this country, the
country of her birth, it’s been the same—walking the cobbled streets
of Budapest, listening to an outdoor concert under a canopy of trees,
sitting on the balcony of Uncle Zoltan’s flat with its view of the Danube,
watching Gypsy dancers in a restaurant. It’s as if she wants to see nothing,
as if she’s afraid of what she might see. And so she does not look. She
seemed almost grateful to leave the restaurant that time, hurrying out
ahead of everyone, but saying nothing. Even when Uncle Zoltan apologized
for the entertainment, his huge hands fluttering clumsily like two
giant moths as he made one, then another, derogatory remark about
Gypsies. I have never known my mother so quiet.
Until last night. There had been the usual big meal, stuffed peppers,
wine, bread. Uncle Zoltan periodically urged Mum to “ ’Ave some more,
Zsuzsa, ’ave some more,” refilling my father’s glass, brandishing the wine
bottle in front of us kids. “You vant to vet your vistles?” Repeatedly winking
at us—“Ven in Hungary, drink like Hungarians”—and chuckling,
although he knew perfectly well Mum doesn’t allow my little brothers
to drink so much as a drop. The rest of us kids are permitted only a
taste, diluted with bottled mineral water. That makes Cousin Gizi get
a very smug expression on her face when her dad fills her glass to the
brim.
So last night when Mum got angry, at first I thought it had to do
with the wine. Nothing much was said at the meal table. Just a few exasperated
noises from Mum and a cheerful “Hold on, Zoltan, old boy,
take it easy” from Dad. But later, sitting out on the balcony with a bowl
of apricots, watching the lights come on along the bridges that link Buda
to Pest, Mum suddenly exploded. There had been some kind of low-key
conversation going on between her and Uncle Zoltan and my father.
By then Auntie Eszter was inside with Gizi doing the washing up—
something Mum was forbidden to do because she was “guest of honor,”
and I refused to do unless my brothers helped as well. My turn to looksmugly at Gizi as she carried dirty dishes into the kitchen while I stepped
outside to do whatever I chose. Last night this just amounted to hanging
over the balcony railing, munching on an apricot. Then Mum’s voice
rose to a familiar crescendo, one I hadn’t heard at all since we’d been
away. And now it was in a different language.
I’d never heard my mother speak anything except English. I used
to ask her could she still speak Hungarian, and she’d shrug and say not
really, it was so long ago she’d forgotten it. And she hadn’t spoken but
a word or two since we arrived four weeks ago. Refusing to speak it seemed
to be part of her overall reluctance at being here—whose idea had it
been to come, I wondered? And whenever Uncle Zoltan spoke Hungarian
to her, she’d shrug, just like she did with me. “I don’t understand
you, Zoltan. Sorry.”
Suddenly here she was, on her feet, on the balcony, hurling a torrent
of words in Uncle Zoltan’s bewildered direction, tears streaming
down her face, while Dad tugged on her arm. “Come on now, Susie.
Come on.” Dad always called Mum by her English name, Susie, and
never Zsuzsa, and was always embarrassed by any great displays of emotion.
But Mum wouldn’t “come on,” and Uncle Zoltan was by this time shouting
back at her, one big hand held over his heart, the other gesturing
to the heavens.
It was then that I realized the language they were flinging at one
another wasn’t Hungarian. I knew this because after a month my ears
have adjusted to the sound of Hungarian, and these words, tossed angrily
over the edge of the balcony to hiss in the darkness like sparks,
were something quite different.
Then, as quickly as the whole argument flared up, it was over. “Vatever
you vant, Zsuzsa, vatever you vant. Tomorrow ve go zere. I promise.”
English became the official language again, Auntie Eszter appeared looking
pink and flustered, with a tray of teacups and tea, and civility was
restored. Mum became quiet, and the men began discussing taxation
in their respective countries.
“That was Gypsy, wasn’t it?” I whispered to Mum before going to
bed. With so many of us sharing a single bathroom, we were in there
together cleaning our teeth, using the toilet. “You were talking Gypsy
to Uncle Zoltan, weren’t you.”
She spat toothpaste. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”
she said, and rinsed her mouth. “There’s no such language as Gypsy.
Only Romanes.” And she left the room.
Uncle Zoltan isn’t really our uncle. He’s Mum’s cousin, once-removed,
which makes him our cousin twice-removed. Mum explained it before
we left England and told us he was special because he’s the only family
she has left. Everyone else died in the war. In concentration camps is
what she meant. Except for Grandpa, who was already in London and
went crazy with grief and died in a nursing home. Mum never liked to
talk about any of it much. Though one time she told me that when
she was a little girl, Grandpa played violin in a Gypsy orchestra in
Budapest. And she went on about how beautiful the music was, and
how Grandpa didn’t just play the violin—he made it speak. But another
time when I asked her about being a Gypsy, she asked me whatever gave
me that ridiculous idea. She’d been born in Hungary, but now she was
English. English, English, English.
“There’s Gypsies in England,” I persisted, thinking of the women
who came to the door sometimes, selling bundles of lavender.
“Tinkers!” she snorted. “From Ireland.”
I used to be on the lookout for Gypsies, any kind of Gypsies. One
time we drove past an encampment on the side of the road. “Tinkers!” I said.
“Roma more likely,” muttered Mum. When I asked her what did that
mean, she acted like she hadn’t heard. It was confusing. And now that
we’re here, she seems to have changed her mind about Uncle Zoltan
being special, and I’m not sure she even likes him. Dad seems to be having
a much better time than Mum, even if he can’t get used to kisses instead
of handshakes.
-
It was early afternoon when we set out from Budapest for wherever we’re
going. Somewhere that clearly doesn’t please Auntie Eszter. She usually
smiles and nods at Mum every chance she gets, even if she can’t
speak any English and Mum refuses to speak Hungarian. But today her
face is almost as closed up as Mum’s. Maybe she’s just fed up about being
squished between Mum and my other brothers, with Gizi, who is...
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