The Unforgiving Minute (21 page)

party connections, he was able to live the life of a king. His

problem was that he was lonely and had very few friends. I had

the feeling he genuinely liked me and needed the small amount of

friendship we gave each other.

There was a small shower in the steam room with a pull

chain which spewed ice water. We would periodically run the cold

water over us to cool off our bodies before moving up to the next

higher row of seats.

After he finished with his life story, I started to tell

him mine. After a point, I suddenly realized that I had spent

too much time in the steam room and virtually ran back into the

shower room to cool off. When I emerged from the shower, I was

so dizzy I couldn’t stand and my heart was pounding at a fast

rate. I sat down on a stool to wait for Semyon and felt myself

losing consciousness.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself lying on a cot in

what looked like a dispensary or first-aid room. I was covered

by a towel and a young man, obviously a physician with a

stethoscope around his neck, was talking to Semyon in Hungarian.

They turned toward me as I awakened.

Semyon grinned and took my hand. “No problems, my friend.

Too much steam, too much alcohol, not enough sex.” With that he

burst into his usual laughter.

I hurriedly dressed and with a great deal of embarrassment

left with Semyon and sat shakily in the passenger seat of his

Lada.

Semyon looked genuinely concerned for me as he

periodically glanced over from the driver’s seat. He was

apologetic that he had so foolishly let me stay so long in the

steam room when I wasn’t used to it.

I closed my eyes, feeling more relaxed than anything else

and pondered the whole idea of the cold war. I thought of all

the blood spilled for so many years in the ongoing war between

communism and capitalism. Here were two men from opposite ends

of the spectrum. He, a devoted Communist and member of the

dreaded Soviet establishment. Me, a dedicated American

conservative, anti-Communist and patriotic all the way. At that

moment, I felt we had both been had. Had by establishments who

had pitted us against each other for years. Semyon was right.

It was all political. It had nothing to do with hating each

other for the sake of our idealogies. Years later, when the cold

war ended altogether, his words still rang in my ears.

“Is all political.”

He dropped me off at the Hilton and I thanked him for the

exciting and boisterous time. He got out of the car and gave me

one of his Russian bear hugs. He promised to get in touch with

me before I left Budapest but I never saw him again. I’ve often

wondered about him since, but I’ve no idea about how to track him

down.

I returned to my room and ordered a continental breakfast

from room service.

I hungrily wolfed down the rolls and marmalade and drank

an entire pot of what turned out to be passable coffee. I

realized at that time that I had eaten neither dinner nor

breakfast. I had, however, neither the strength nor inclination

to seek more food. Instead, I placed the “Do not Disturb” sign

on the door and crawled into bed. I slept most of the day,

awakened in time to order a room-service dinner, and immediately

got back into bed. By the time morning had arrived, I had

regained my strength entirely and felt raring to go.

Just up the street from the Budapest Hilton is one of the

premier pastry shops in the world. It is called Ruszwurm. Its

pastries are called the best in Europe and its decor so beautiful

that it has been designated a national historic monument. I sat

down on one of its cherrywood benches upholstered in striped silk

and ordered a double order of strudel and coffee. It made a

memorable and marvelous breakfast.

After three days in Budapest I hadn’t seen anything of the

city yet and I knew it was time to get moving. I really had no

idea where to go so I decided to sign up for something I never

did before. I would take a sightseeing bus trip. I really hate

those trips, complete with wisecracking tour guides in several

languages and stops at shops where the guide gets a piece of the

action. In a country like this, however, with an unintelligible

language and tourist sites that were virtually unknown to the

rest of the world, I decided that it was sensible to take such a

trip.

I leisurely finished my breakfast and walked slowly past

the Matthias Church to the hotel, breathing in the brisk December

air. For once the sun was shining. There was nary a breeze and

I felt alive and vibrant. The interlude with Semyon had really

shaken me out of my doldrums.

I arranged with the concierge to board a tour bus in front

of the hotel at ten o’clock. When I boarded, I noted that the

bus was about a third full, mostly with American and German

tourists. My bus mates-were all quite elderly and some of the

Americans, from their accents, were either tracing their roots or

visiting the old country. The tour guide was a sallow young man

with a bad complexion, dressed in a dark green uniform and

speaking through an ancient-looking microphone that resembled the

old radio mikes.

He explained that during our travels we would cross back

and forth between Buda and Pest over each of the four major

bridges over the Danube: the Chain Bridge, the Margaret Bridge,

the Arpad Bridge, and the Elizabeth Bridge.

As we drove through Buda to the Margaret Bridge, he told

the mandatory quips that these guides are famous for. The

passengers, as usual, thought he was hilarious and encouraged

him. I, of course, didn’t crack a smile. We drove through Buda

and over the Margaret Bridge and from a ramp descended down on to

Margaret Island, which is an enormous park and resort area. It

was winter, of course, but I could readily imagine its beauty and

tranquility in the summertime.

The bus weaved through roads in this small paradise

nestled in Danube. As we rolled quietly through the trees,

stripped by winter, I felt as if I were gliding through a dream.

I sat in the nearly empty bus with no seat-mate, feeling that all

of this sightseeing was no good unless you shared it with

someone. I thought that possibly all of my adventures were

serving to teach me something. Taking off into the world alone

was no fun unless you found someone to share it with; whether it

was a woman or a male like Semyon didn’t make any difference.

The fact was that being alone was only good when you had someone

to fall back on. My depression of a few days before was quickly

returning. A new emotion was governing me. I really wanted to

go home but I was afraid to do it. I knew at this moment that it

was only a matter of time. I missed my children terribly and I

was starting to forget the bad parts of my relationship with

Julie and remember only the good parts.

The bus left Margaret Island and stopped at all of the

sights in Pest across the river. We saw the Parliament Building,

the magnificent Byzantine St. Stephen’s Basilica with its

incredible interior and works of art, the Royal Palace, and the

National Gallery. We stopped for lunch at a large restaurant

which obviously catered to tour buses and had a meal of Hungarian

Gulyas, washed down with a cheap Hungarian wine that really

wasn’t bad. Most of the tourists knew each other and travelled

in small packs, so there was really no one to talk to. I

couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel. I had to get out of

Budapest. I had no idea where to go next but I desperately

needed someplace new, and fast.

When the bus dropped me off back at the hotel, I felt

mentally and physically exhausted. I stopped at the concierge

desk and discussed travel plans with her. It seemed there was

kind of a minor-league version of the Orient Express that went

from Budapest to Paris via Vienna. It wasn’t the ornate, old—

style Orient Express but, nevertheless, was called the Orient

Express. I arranged passage on that train, booking a private

compartment for the following morning. It would be a trip of one

night’s stay on the train and would arrive in Paris in about

eighteen hours. I would spend one more night in Paris and then

go on to Florence and then to Rome.

I ate what turned out to be a fine meal in the hotel

dining room. It was the best food I had tasted in Budapest. I

ordered a bottle of the surprisingly good Hungarian red wine and

felt relaxed for the first time in a long time. It was a cold,

clear night and there was a lovely view of the Danube through the

restaurant window.

If there were someone to share it with, I could see

spending more time in this country. I would have liked to rent a

car and drive through rural Hungary. Here I was running from one

lonely place to get to another. I had been lucky for some time

and latched onto companionship, not noticing that I was really,

for all practical purposes, alone. I knew not what would await

me in my further travels but I was hurtling headlong into a new

adventure.

When the bus returned to the hotel that afternoon, I

decided to invite Semyon to dinner. I tried to reach him by

phone at the Russian embassy. I had great trouble finding anyone

who spoke English but when I finally found someone he never heard

of anyone by that name. I was assured that he was in no way a

member of the embassy staff. I then called the United States

embassy and explained that I was trying to reach a Soviet citizen

who was a friend of mine and would they check for me. The woman

I spoke to was incredibly polite and helpful but she too came up

empty searching for Semyon. Like the women I had met and briefly

loved on this odyssey, he too was gone. These temporary

companions were like a great meal: something you ate and enjoyed

and remembered fondly for a while and then disappeared into your

memory, ever fading away.

I retired to my room early, too tired to read, and fell

into a deep sleep. I arose early, showered and dressed in my

best clothes.

When the cab pulled away from the hotel, I felt strangely

sad, as if I had missed something very special.

Chapter 8

I sat in the ample train compartment surrounded by junk

food. The law in Hungary stated that no Hungarian money was to

be taken out of the country. I felt that there would be enough

shops in the railroad station to spend the forty dollars’ worth

of Hungarian money in my pocket. There was no limit to what

forty dollars would buy in Hungary in 1985. To compound that

felony, there were nothing but food and cheap souvenir stands in

the railway station.

I ended up giving the bulk of my money to the porter as an

enormous tip but nevertheless stocked myself with many bottles of

orange soda and countless chocolate cakes. I looked like a

confectionery salesman on a business trip. The station had

resembled most railroad stations in large European cities, except

for the preponderance of Russian soldiers in their service caps

of unusually large diameter.

This version of the Orient Express was not at all what I

expected. It seems there are many different versions of the

Orient Express. This one was very much like an ordinary train

except that it was old enough to have wood panelling and the

seats seemed to be at least a replica of the old plush seats of

years gone by.

I was really looking forward to the overnight trip in a

sleeping car. I travelled several times on the old pullman

trains as a boy and had pleasant memories of sleeping on the

train to the hypnotic clicking of the wheels and slight rolling

of the train.

In no time at all, we approached the Austrian border and

the train came to a full stop. The view from the window was

frightening. The border was fenced with barbed wire, obviously

electrified. I saw soldiers or police with mirrors on long poles

looking thoroughly underneath each car. They climbed on top of

the train and walked its length. The same police that had so

cordially welcomed me made a thorough search of the train and

asked many questions, including those about the possession of

Hungarian money. Although they did not physically search me, I

was glad I had disposed of mine. There were no pleasant smiling

faces now. They were seriously looking for anyone trying to

leave Hungary illegally. As the police were carefully searching

my compartment and luggage, I saw a young man with a backpack and

a Canadian flag on his sleeve, snapping pictures out of the

window of the corridor. One of the policemen glanced up and

swiftly entered the corridor from my compartment. He grabbed the

young man roughly by the shoulder and grabbed the camera, opening

it and roughly extracting the film. He glared at the Canadian

and sent him scurrying back to his own compartment with the now—

empty camera.

The police left my compartment after scrutinizing my

papers with great care and I breathed a sigh of relief. Forty

minutes passed while they were obviously going through this

ritual throughout the train. Finally, the train moved forward

and we crossed the Austrian border. The Austrian customs agents

delayed us another forty minutes and, finally, we were truly on

our way.

An Austrian crew came aboard and the porter for my

compartment introduced himself. He explained that he would be

our porter until we reached the French border. In France, a

French crew would come aboard to take us the rest of the way

until Paris.

I took one of the large bottles of orange soda and a

chocolate cake out of the cache of junk food. I had no bottle

opener and no napkin, so I entered the small toilet provided with

the compartment and, after using a protruding door lock to open

the soda bottle, took a drinking glass and towel from the

lavatory and spread out my feast. One gulp of the alleged soda

almost gagged me. The only thing orange about this soda was its

color. I realized that I had six giant-size bottles of this

swill to dispose of. I took a bite of my chocolate pastry and

almost gagged. It tasted like chocolate-flavored sawdust. I

only had twenty-four of these to dispose of.

After brushing my teeth, I carefully packed my goodies

into the carton I brought them aboard in and furtively carried

them through the train. I placed the carton in between cars and

felt like a criminal as I hurried back to my compartment. When I

went back to check on the carton about an hour later, it was

gone. I’ve often wondered who took it and what happened to it.

What really piqued my curiosity was, did someone actually ingest

that stuff?

Soon the train was speeding through the Austrian

countryside. The picture-book towns got prettier after Vienna.

As the Austrian Alps loomed outside my window, I had the feeling

that I was watching a National Geographic special. There was an

aura of cleanliness and fresh air even though I couldn’t smell a

thing through the train window.

I had the feeling of coziness I always have in train

compartments. I appreciated the fact that I had the compartment

to myself. At this particular time I really enjoyed my solitude.

Loneliness is a strange thing. There are times when you

desperately want someone to share your time with. Usually, at

those times, there is no one around. At other times, you feel

like being alone and someone usually annoys you. This was a rare

time. I was alone and actually wanted it that way.

I reached into my collection of great books and realized

that in three-and-one-half months I had only finished two of

them, Madame Bovary and The Heart of Darkness. I rummaged

through the books and selected Crime and Punishment. I figured

that since I wasn’t feeling depressed a Russian novel wouldn’t

plunge me into the doldrums. I read for an hour and dozed off,

dreaming of home and Julie for the first time in months. I woke

up feeling sad and lonely and decided to lay down Crime and

Punishment for another day. I wasn’t hungry at lunchtime and

dozed and read most of the day.

As I awakened for the umpteenth time, I heard a knock on

the glass panel. It was the conductor telling me that dinner was

being served in the dining car. I thanked him gratefully and

departed for the diner.

It was a charming-looking railroad car. The tables were

covered with white linen and each had a bud vase with flowers.

The walls were oak panelled and held a small lamp resembling a

gas light over each table. The floor was carpeted with flowered,

albeit well-worn, green carpeting. Each table seated four on

dark oak armchairs with green plush cushions. The dining car

steward seated me alone. There were about eight people in the

car eating dinner quite decorously and only the light clinking of

silverware could be heard.

I ordered a beer and a fine Czech pilsner was served to

me, ice cold. As I sat pondering the menu, the steward seated a

couple at my table. They nodded to me and conversed with each

other in German, ignoring me during their animated conversation.

The waiter took their drink orders. She ordered a cold white

wine and he the same beer as I.

The waiter took my dinner order, which was a fine

schnitzel with red cabbage. The couple ordered in German.

As soon as the waiter left, they turned to me and the man

offered his hand and said, “Don Wetzel, and this is my wife,

Marie. Sorry, we didn’t realize you were an American until we

heard you speak.”

I laughed. “And I can’t believe you’re Americans; you

could have fooled me.”

She spoke in lightly accented English. “We both came to

America when we were very young … right before the war.”

He was slight of build and very dignified. His hair was

white even though his face was very youthful. She was extremely

attractive, although you certainly wouldn’t call her beautiful.

She was small and gamin-like and exquisitely dressed.

It seemed they had boarded in Vienna, where they were

visiting friends and relatives and were stopping off in Paris for

a brief time before going home.

We made small talk as we ate and I came up with a cover

story that I was travelling on business.

I found them attentive toward each other but without any

outward signs of affection. I wondered what the story was behind

their marriage. I thought that it would be an exciting thing to

get into any marriage with a kind of x-ray vision and find out

what it was really like. Was its public image the same as its

private image? I wondered also whether my own marriage was

typical of marriages of long duration or if it was out of the

ordinary. Were there really people out there who were as

enthralled with each other after thirty years of marriage as they

were the day they met?

The waiter brought the check and I asked if I might buy my

new-found friends a drink in the club car.

Don smiled affably. “I’m very tired and feel like

relaxing in my compartment but if Marie would like to join you

that would be fine.”

I was pleasantly surprised when she said, “Yes, I’d like

that very much.”

“Good then,” said Don as he got up to leave. “I’ll see

you later then.”

He shook my hand warmly and disappeared through the cars.

We walked through the diner to the bar car and found a

love seat with a small cocktail table bolted to the floor in

front of it.

She ordered a Pernod and water and I took the same.

While we waited for our drinks, I decided to ask a very

personal question.

“I thought it was kind of strange, your husband letting

you have a drink with a complete stranger of the opposite sex?

Is he always like that?”

She smiled and for the first time I noticed her face. She

had jet-black hair over a face that appeared reasonably young,

maybe late forties. Her skin was as tan as if she’d been to a

tropic island. Her eyes were silver-blue and beamed right

through you like a laser beam. Her teeth were snow white and she

had high, tight cheekbones. Her skin was so tight, I suspected a

facelift. There was no doubt about it. She was exquisitely

beautiful in a regal way.

“Of course, he is. He doesn’t own me; he’s married to me.

On the other hand, I don’t own him either. We are very

comfortable with each other.”

The drinks came and we touched glasses in a toast.

We chatted for several hours, drinking all the while.

The Wetzels had a large apartment on the west side of

Central Park and had no children. He was a stockbroker and she

was a vice president of a theatrical agency. They were obviously

quite well off. As I was sipping my third Pernod, I found myself

becoming enamored with Marie Wetzel and found myself plotting to

get her to my compartment and my bed. The thought of this

exquisite little lady naked was titillating to my mind and body.

The waiter brought the check and we walked out of the bar

car. Her compartment was about five cars down and we walked

leisurely, kind of tipsy from all of the drinks, and chatted

while walking. When we reached the second car, two other people

were walking toward us. The corridor between the compartments

and the other side of the train was not quite wide enough for two

people, no less four. Marie scrunched against the opposite wall

to let the people by and I leaned in the same direction,

inadvertently pinning her to the window on my right. When the

people passed by, I didn’t move. We looked into each other’s

eyes. I was intoxicated in more ways than one. I could smell

her perfume and feel her hard, perfectly muscled body against

mine. She stared at me with those cold blue eyes. Her look was

neither passion nor anger but rather a look of ethereal

detachment. I bent and kissed her full on the lips. She neither

pushed me away nor responded. Her lips were as cold as her eyes.

I stayed with my lips pressed to her for what seemed like a very

long time, waiting for some sort of response, positive or

negative. Finally, I stood and looked at her, questioning her

with my eyes.

She looked at me, almost apologetically. “I’m so sorry,

but I can’t. I only wish I could; I really do.”

I didn’t understand. “Of course you can; why not? What’s

wrong with a little fling when two people are attracted to each

other?”

“That’s the point,” she said. “I’m not attracted to you.

You’re attracted to me.”

I hardly thought that every woman in the world was

enamored with me. I realized that everyone sees everyone else

differently, but I had enough experience to read the face and

body language of a woman when she was interested. I was more

surprised than insulted, although I must admit that my ego was at

least slightly bruised. I couldn’t believe I had read the whole

situation incorrectly.

“I apologize,” I said. “I thought I was getting signals

from you that I obviously wasn’t. I’m embarrassed.”

She took my hand and held it gently. “You really don’t

understand. I think you are very attractive. It isn’t you per