Elzas kitchen, p.16
Elza's Kitchen, page 16
“Not very friendly,” one diner barked after her.
“Not friendly at all,” said another.
The Motorcycle Officer looked sternly at the disgruntled customers until they quieted and abashedly stared into the day’s soup.
Elza stayed late again washing her own dishes. The men hadn’t returned. She walked slowly home, always looking behind her.
They didn’t come the next day either, or the day afterward, or the day after that. Eventually, she stopped expecting them, and then one morning when she was headed in early to start the prep work, she turned the corner and there they stood.
This time, there were fewer pedestrians on the street and the men were closer—too far away for a conversation, but well within shouting distance. They just stood and watched her. This time the Maypole was holding the boy’s hand more tightly.
They’re trying to intimidate me, she thought. They’re trying to scare me. I’ll show them that I’m not a pushover.
“What do you want?” she called out. “How is Pisti?”
She stood up straight and tall and marched in their direction.
“What is it? What do you want?”
As she got closer, the men suddenly broke eye contact, turned, and hurried off. The boy kept looking back at her. He looked like he was warning her not to follow.
Elza fumed all day after that. She crashed pots and pans and cleaved meat in two with heavy-handed swipes. She still felt bad about the incident, but to threaten her! To threaten her after she had spent so much time worrying and looking for them, after she had even been assaulted. It was too much. She wouldn’t stand for it.
At lunch time she went into the dining room and looked out the picture window again. No sign of them. The Motorcycle Officer was eating a cold sour-cherry soup. She sat down at his table.
“I never thanked you for that night with the boys,” she said.
The officer put his spoon down and looked quizzically at her. “What? You mean with those Gypsies?” he said. “It was nothing. An accident.”
“I’ve felt horrible about it ever since,” she said. “I went to their quarter looking for them.”
The Motorcycle Officer was incredulous. “Why did you go there?”
“Because it was wrong. I wanted to apologize.”
“It was an accident! No need to make any more out of it.”
“But I hit him,” Elza insisted, “and he’s not my child.”
The officer huffed and shook his head. “They deserved it.”
“I’d really hate to harm anybody,” Elza said. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you for looking out for me, all the same.”
“No worries,” he said. “Consider it my pleasure.” He spooned some sour-cherry soup into his mouth and wiped away a drop from his chin. “I like these lunches you’re serving!” he began again. “It reminds me of when I was in training. There was an officer’s club right across from the academy. It feels like food from those times.”
Elza knew what he was talking about, and she smiled at him. In the old days there had been home-style restaurants all around the city, places where decent-sized meals could feed workers with subsidized food. One didn’t see them anymore.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m just hoping to stay in business.”
It was dark out again before she left the restaurant. She checked outside the big picture window to see if anyone was there. When she was sure the coast was clear, she walked out. She turned back to lock the door and suddenly, the men were standing beside her. She tried to stay calm. She just wanted to get this over with.
“Where is Pisti?” she asked impatiently. “Is he well?”
The Maypole said nothing. Up close, she noticed he had droopy eyelids. He looked at her without expression. The rounder one reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of photographs.
“Ah,” he said. His voice was hot and sugary. She felt it sticking to her. “Lookit, we’re not trying to frighten you. We hope we didn’t. We’ve been unsure of how to approach you. And then we heard you were looking for us! Thank you so much. We have been in Budapest. Little Pisti was hurt very badly in the fall, you see. Very badly. We took them all to our village the night of the accident, but then he had a seizure and so we had to get him to hospital. Look.”
Elza winced as they handed her the photographs. On top of the stack was Pisti, looking asleep or unconscious. His forehead had an ugly gash and he looked green. Elza almost cried at the sight of him. She flipped to the second picture with shaky hands. It was of a woman spooning Pisti food. She went through all of them—all photographs of Pisti with his family around him.
“He has been very sick because of this,” his uncle said.
Elza felt a tear and wiped it away. She handed the pictures back.
“It was an accident,” she said. “You must believe me that I wouldn’t hurt a child this way.”
The rounder uncle nodded. The Maypole sneered.
“Lookit, we know it was an accident,” the uncle said. “His cousin told us everything. They were spanked for causing this mess.”
She suddenly felt bad for the other two boys, as well.
“Is there anything I can do for him? Do you need any help?”
The uncle gave a start as if he were going to say something, but silenced himself. He looked at the Maypole.
“What is it?” Elza said. “Is it money? Do you need money?”
Both uncles raised their eyebrows.
“Well, lookit, I’m ashamed to ask,” the rotund one said. “You already gave the Shopkeeper some, and we heard he belted you. My brother had a talk with him about that. I’d be ashamed to ask for more. But the truth is with all the traveling between the hospital in Budapest and my village, with all the provisions we have to take, and the pay we have to slip the doctors, we can’t afford it. You know, we’re Gypsies. They’re not going to give our Pisti anything extra at the hospital unless we slip them some forints. So, you know, three thousand for the train tickets for each aunt. Three thousand for food for the week. Ten thousand for the doctor whenever we see him. It adds up, miss.”
Elza had nothing on her to give them just then, but she had an idea and she unlocked the door.
“Come inside,” she said.
The two men followed her in. She walked to the wall where the silver concave mirrors were hanging—had been hanging for years. There were six of them. She remembered they were expensive when she had bought them. She took two of them down with the Maypole’s help.
“I’m sorry, but this is all I have right now. Why don’t you see how much you can get for them. If you can use the rest, meet me tomorrow before I open and you can take them. See if this helps.”
The short, fat uncle was beside himself with gratitude. He looked at Elza appreciatively.
“Are you sure about this, miss?” he asked. “They look expensive.”
“Take them,” she said. “May I come visit Pisti?”
The short one looked at the Maypole, who sighed heavily and shook his head.
“The women might not appreciate it. They’ve been after us to call the police on you. However, as you might imagine, we’re not fond of police.”
Elza opened her purse and found she had a two-thousand-forint note, after all.
“I understand,” she said as she handed them the money. “Why don’t you take this as well! The mirrors are easily eight thousand apiece. Maybe more.”
The round uncle was effusive with appreciation. The tall one didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. Elza shook hands with both of them and told them to come by in the morning if they thought they could use the others.
“I’m sure we can. I’m sure we can use them. Thank you so much!”
“Please tell Pisti I’m very sorry,” Elza said. “Please tell him I want him to get better and that I hope to hear from him soon.”
The round uncle nodded at her.
“Just as soon as he’s better,” he said.
Fifteen
Elza took the remaining mirrors from her wall the next morning. She figured she could clean them and have them ready for the men if they were needed. Though she was relieved to finally have an explanation for the family’s disappearance, and to be able to help them in some way, she did not want to have to spend any more time with them than was necessary. In fact, when she was finished cleaning the mirrors, she placed them just beside the entrance in anticipation of their arrival. Should the men knock or peek in, should they visit her and ask for them, she could hand them over straightaway without having to invite them in.
She noticed that her wall seemed smaller and barren now without the mirrors; the discolored oval outlines made the restaurant appear drab and even a little dingy. Everything seemed older somehow. She looked at the dining room and thought about Dora’s and the Sous-Chef’s restaurant going up. She would have to repaint, she thought. She would have to redecorate completely.
For a moment she let her mind drift to colors and accents. Then came a sudden knock on the glass of the picture window. The uncles had returned. They were smoking cigarettes and looking in. The Round Man was waving at her, beckoning her to the door. His meaty little fingers were clasped around his cane. Elza walked in his direction and unlocked it. She stuck her head out.
“Good morning,” he said loudly and just as sweetly as he had the evening before, as though he were an old friend. “Lookit, I think we can use those mirrors you promised. We were able to sell the ones you gave us to a friend. He liked them very much. We didn’t get as much as you said, but we think if we sell him the rest, then that should definitely cover things for Pisti, for a while, we think. Can we still have them? Would you mind?”
He smiled. Elza didn’t return it. She felt clearly now that she was being taken in, but her sense of guilt still nagged at her.
“Just a moment,” she said.
She bent down and picked up the mirrors, handing them out the door to the Maypole one by one until he held a stack in his arms. When she had finished, she moved to close the door on them again, but the Round Man was able to jam his cane in its hinges. The door bounced back open.
“I’m ashamed to ask,” he said confidently, stepping fully into her restaurant. “But would you happen to have one more? Just to be sure? I’m afraid of heading all the way to Budapest only to discover once we’ve reached the hospital that we’re still short a few forints. They’d send us away right when we needed to be there most, right when being there might make all the difference. I know a few forints isn’t much, miss, but we’re not able to work these days. We had the job at the zoo, but they let us go when we missed too many hours because of all the hospital visits. Anything else you might have would be helpful. Any trifle. I’m sure there’s something here you wouldn’t miss.”
Elza stifled a scoff. She was growing angry. His sugary voice couldn’t veil the fact that his eyes roved hungrily over every inch of her and over every corner of her dining room. She could see the adding machine in his brain tallying up the contents of the restaurant. She watched as his eyes lingered over her chairs, as his lips became wet when he counted them silently. He could not conceal his avarice. Not one bit. It was crass. Repugnant. But she was too emotionally drained to fight it. She just wanted them to leave.
She looked around the dining room and took it all in herself. Surely there was something she could give them that would satisfy them.
“Do you think you can use candles?” she asked. “What about the candlestick holders?”
A broad smile cracked open like a fault line along the Round Man’s face. He licked his lips hungrily and stroked the stubble on his chin.
“Why, just last week at the hospital, a visiting friend said he needed a few for his daughter’s wedding. I think we can sell them to him.”
Elza sighed and stepped aside to allow them to walk in farther. Yes, they were repugnant, but they were Pisti’s guardians, and she was the one who had put him in a hospital bed.
“Take them,” she said. “They’re yours.”
The men spilled into the dining room as messily as a tipped-over wineglass. They enthusiastically ransacked the place, scurrying around her tables and grabbing up the candles and their brass holders. The Maypole was carrying the mirrors, and the Round Man was stuffing both his own and his brother’s pockets with the rest of the loot. When not all of the candlesticks would fit, he turned back to Elza.
“Would you have a bag or box that I can carry these in? I’m ashamed to ask.”
And now I’m even helping them rob me! Elza thought to herself. I guess we all deserve one another.
Elza went into the kitchen anyway and came out with a box the onions had come in. She handed it to the Round Man and he filled it in a matter of seconds. They examined their booty as they made their way to the door. Elza held it open for them. The Round Man took one last look back.
“I like the cuckoo clock,” he said hopefully. “Do you need it?”
Elza shook her head.
“I do, in fact,” she said coolly.
He smiled sheepishly.
“Yes, well. This should certainly cover everything,” he said. “I can’t imagine how it couldn’t. You never know with these doctors, though. They come up with all sorts of things. Always something new. Something more expensive.”
Elza didn’t respond. She shut the door behind them and watched them walk away. They passed the Postal Inspector on the street, who eyed them suspiciously. He knocked at the restaurant door.
“Everything all right here?” he asked. “Are you open?” He reached for her mail and presented it to her.
Elza invited him in. She took the postcard he handed.
“Redecorating,” she explained as he looked around the ransacked room in stunned silence.
“Looks different in the morning,” he remarked. “I thought maybe you were open for breakfast. I was going to order something. Do you even make breakfast?”
Elza nodded absently. She was examining the front of the postcard. It was from the lake country, a picture of Lake Balaton. The professors had sent it. She looked at the Postal Inspector and shook her head.
“What did you say? Breakfast?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m so hungry. I hurried out and left without a bite to eat this morning. I have a few minutes to myself. Are you open?”
Elza thought about what she had in the larder. Cooking anything might actually make her feel better just now.
“I can make you eggs.” she offered. “Something simple along with a cup of coffee and a salted roll. Would you like that?”
“Sounds good,” said the Postal Inspector. “You don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” she said. “Sit. It’ll be a moment. I only have to brew some coffee and get the ingredients together.”
In the empty kitchen, Elza was able to read the postcard more closely. The Critic was having a good time, the professors wrote. They had all visited the culinary institute together and were now spending their days lakeside. His visit had lasted nearly a month already, and it turned out that he was an excellent badminton player and had even won a tournament. He was pleased with his stay and in much better spirits. And then this: They were coming back to Delibab. They would return in time for the flower carnival.
Elza’s mind buzzed as she prepared the coffee and grabbed three eggs. She was distracted when she cut several fatty slices of bacon into a frying pan and they began to melt and sizzle. She threw in fresh onions rings and a handful of diced sausage on top. She cracked open the eggs and gently whisked them in a bowl along with a pinch of salt, pepper, and paprika. And when the meat in the pan looked crisp enough, she carefully poured the egg mixture over it and lowered the flame underneath. The entire time she was thinking about the Critic, about whether or not she would make another attempt to cook for him, and if she did, what she might make and how she would execute it. When the eggs thickened and were nearly cooked through, she sprinkled some freshly cut parsley and a diced hot green pepper over the top. They sank a little on the pool of egg and made it more colorful, but Elza was barely conscious of this. She had not realized what she had created, not even while she was sliding it onto a plate along with the salted roll. She carried it to the dining room with a steaming cup of coffee.
“What are you two doing here?”
Her friend Eva and the Motorcycle Officer were now sitting at their own tables. She placed the plate of food down in front of the Postal Inspector. She saw that she had left the door to the restaurant propped open.
“That smells delicious,” the Postal Inspector said.
The Motorcycle Officer peeked over at his food. He moved over to the Postal Inspector’s table.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll have one of those as well,” he said. “Could you hold the hot peppers? I have an ulcer.”
“I’ll just have some buttered toast and coffee, dear,” her friend Eva said. “Or a braided raisin bread, if you have it. Why are you waiting tables, by the way? Where are your waiters?”
Elza tried to protest. She explained that it was all a misunderstanding, that she wasn’t really serving breakfast, when a young man, a foreigner carrying a backpack, stuck his head in the door.
“Food?” he asked Elza haltingly.
They were all staring at her now. For the first time Elza looked at the plate she had prepared, and she watched as the Postal Inspector dug in. She knew exactly how many eggs she had left. She remembered a couple of loaves of day-old bread.
The young man was still waiting in the doorway.
“It seems I am making breakfast,” she said. She beckoned him in. “Only a couple of things on the menu, though.”
The student turned, stepped out of the restaurant, and called out. A group of straggly-looking foreigners paraded up the sidewalk. Elza held the door open for them as they piled in. They chattered in a Scandinavian language and pointed at the Postal Inspector’s plate.
