The two dates were obscured by the small vase, the size of a man's fist, which Mama had paid for a year after the interment, though it took the unreliable monument mason three months to attach it to the stone. Mama had fumed continually: "Why in the name of the Virgin Mary does he keep promising if he's not going to do it! Why in the name of the Virgin Mary does he take my money if he can't manage to spit out when it will be ready? Does he think I can give him money in advance until doomsday? What does he think I am, the State Bank? What in the name of the Virgin Mary does he think he's doing!"

"Mother, can we leave the poor Virgin Mary out of this!"

"You have no say in the matter!" His mother was in one of her aggressive moods.

At such times, Vilmos Csillag kept well clear of his mother, like a frightened dog of a bullying one. My mother is a dog that bites as well as barks, he thought. And how! When Mama was in a fighting mood, her mouth would not stop. Most often she spoke only to herself, but quite loud, her eyes half-closed and gesticulating wildly. "If you think you can get the better of me, you have another thing coming! You can't get the better of me, everyone who knows me knows that, no? I couldn't care less how long he has been manager in the Benczur Street supermarket, I have been a customer there just as long, and that's what really matters. Don't you think?"

To those "don't you think"s only those who did not know Mama would have the temerity to reply. The pause for breath was too brief for a response and the torrent of words would resume without flagging, with a "Do you think so?" inserted all too rarely. Vilmos Csillag, when a callow youth, was infuriated by these monologues of his mother's. He asked her once: "Is this a conversation, or are you doing a solo?"

"I'll give you what for, young man! As if I didn't have enough problems, all I need is that my son should sharpen his tongue on me! What do you mean you've run out of milk? You should order as much as is needed! Milk and bread are basics that it is your duty to guarantee to every citizen! Don't you think? Even if you're left with some over, that curdles or rots! Of course I have put it in writing in the complaints book-you shan't be sticking that that in your shop window! I filled the page and more! It's an outrage! The customer has rights! Don't you think?" in your shop window! I filled the page and more! It's an outrage! The customer has rights! Don't you think?"

Even at Papa's grave Mama began one of her rants when she noticed that someone-probably relatives of the man who rested below Papa-had stuck their three stems of roses onto our vase onto our vase, the petals hung over Geyza Banyavari, born 1917, died 1966, mourned by his wife, son, daughter, and the others. This was fat in the fire for Mama, her eyes rotated in their sockets and with fingers splayed she stabbed the air: "And the others! Incredible! I'm surprised it doesn't say Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all! But why don't the others the others buy themselves a vase, or his daughter, or son, or his wife? Why do they have to violate ours? Don't you think? What right have they? What grounds have they?" The wilting rose of Geyza Banyavari flew off, together with its wire clip, far away onto other slabs. buy themselves a vase, or his daughter, or son, or his wife? Why do they have to violate ours? Don't you think? What right have they? What grounds have they?" The wilting rose of Geyza Banyavari flew off, together with its wire clip, far away onto other slabs.

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 Zuglo 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."

[image]

Father, I'm going away now and I don't know if I'll come back.

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

If you get it, perhaps you will understand, This will make it clear at least That I think of you I think of you. More than you might imagine.

Ciao.

Ever, Your son Willie Vilmos [image]

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 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 Encyclopaedia Britannica to Mayflower dishwashers. 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 Ra?" asked Vilmos Csillag.

"Don't be so sarcasatic! In Hungarian there's lots of e' 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 Marvany 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 Radio and TV Times, with the caption: "Fresh talent in the semifinals!"

If there is fresh talent, then there must be stagnant, dried-out, and even rotted talent, he thought; that's me now.

As for his son's first name, he immediately rejected "Star" and, in line with his wife's principle that you should be proud of your ancestry, he also rejected the Indian forenames, after the briefest of considerations. "And anyway, the child's three-quarters Hungarian and only a quarter Indian."

Shea admitted this. They agreed that out of practical considerations they would choose a name that existed both in English and in Hungarian and furthermore was not too much of a tongue-twister for an Indian. "What was your father called?" "Balazs Csillag."

"That's out, with that zh zh noise at the end. Grandfather?" "Well ... one I don't know, the other was I think ... Mishka. Or Miksha!" noise at the end. Grandfather?" "Well ... one I don't know, the other was I think ... Mishka. Or Miksha!"

"You're crazy. You don't know the name of your grandfather?" "That's the least of it. I know nothing about my clan." The word sounded old-fashioned.

Shea laughed. "Your clan clan? You mean your ancestors!" "Nor them."

"You're crazy! You're not even curious?" "I'm not crazy. But there's no one to ask." He began to explain that only his mother was alive, and it was difficult to talk about such things with her; she would generally change the subject, saying: "Come, come, my dear Willie, why rake over these ancient things!" "But then maybe there's a skeleton in the cupboard!" "You've been watching too many cop shows on TV." "How do you know? You may be war criminals!" "You're crazy!" He quivered as he said: "Us being Jews." "So?" Shea knew precious little of recent European history. Shea continued to bring up the topic from time to time. She simply could not believe that Vilmos Csillag knew so little of his past.

"If you'd known my father you'd understand." Though even in adulthood he could not understand. How can you bring up a boy in such a cocoon of complete silence? "I know nothing at all. I tried to work things out from the odd remark here and there; the results are meager and confusing. I barely know the names of my father's parents, let alone those of his parents' parents. He never spoke of either. He was a broken man after labor service, I know, and then there was the Rajk show trial, and the chronic, ever-worsening heart condition: these are reasons, but no excuse. This is not something he should have neglected. Perhaps if he had not died so soon ... I was still wet behind the ears, didn't ask often enough, didn't suspect there was so little time left. Or rather, I did suspect, yet this was never on the agenda. As for Mama, well, she is much too scatter-brained to be a credible source."

The more he went on, the less he understood it himself.

Henry Csillag came into the world at the Flatbush Medical Center in Brooklyn. His life hung in the balance as the umbilical cord twisted around his neck and almost strangled him; his skin turned blue, panicking the medical team.

For a long time Shea would not let her husband near her, claiming that the gynecologist had said it would take time. In the end, she admitted she had lost her sexual desire for him. Vilmos Csillag was thunderstruck: "What do you mean you've lost it? Where has it gone?"

"If only I knew! Believe you me, I don't understand it myself."

"But then ... what's going to become of us?"

She did not reply. Vilmos Csillag recalled a line from the desperate housing ads in the Budapest papers: "Desperate: any and all solutions considered!"

But his wife did not read Budapest dailies. "What do you want to consider? I move out? You move out?"

Vilmos Csillag realized that things were serious. Shea had stopped caring for the child. From time to time she exhibited the classic symptoms of a heart attack: sudden sweats, her right arm went numb, for several moments she would lose consciousness. They went the rounds of the men in white coats, from gynecologist to psychiatrist: a lot of technical terms were tossed around, like vegetative neurosis, panic attacks, postnatal depression; she received any amount of medication and counseling; she was recommended sleeping cures, group therapy, and courses in yoga. All in vain. Henry-his father insisted on calling him Henrik, the Hungarian form, often adding "the Eighth"-was cared for by his father.

He was sacked from UPS for his notorious tardiness. About this time Shea landed in a New Hampshire sanatorium, only partly paid for by Social Security. Shea's mother offered to let her son-in-law and grandson live with her, though she was herself on welfare. Her tiny home was near La Guardia Airport, on the BrooklynQueens expressway, and the windows rattled day and night as the traffic rumbled by on the eight-lane highway.

For a long time Vilmos Csillag looked for, but failed to find, any work. He ended up at the airport, though not at La Guardia but at Newark, which it took him two hours to reach. His job was to stuff luggage into the bellies of the airplanes and to remove luggage from them. This was a sphere of activity that seemed particularly to attract exiles from Eastern Europe: there were two Poles, a Bulgarian, three Romanians, five Russians, a couple from East Germany, and even an Albanian. No wonder I never learn English properly, thought Vilmos Csillag.

"Hungary!" the word popped into his head once after a particularly tough shift. Even Hungary has to be better than this.

He called the Embassy, only to be told that he had to apply in person. But Washington, D.C., is a four-hour trip from Brooklyn by car, though not in his twelve-year-old Impala, which two-thirds of the way there began to sound as if armed terrorists were firing from the radiator, and then gave up the ghost. The yellow AAA truck soon rolled up behind him, but after one look under the hood, the AAA man slammed it down again. "You can kiss this rust bucket goodbye."

After several hours of trying to thumb a lift, he was picked up by a truck carrying horses, but it took him no further than Delaware; here he exercised his arm in vain, until night fell. He walked on to the nearest rest area and spent the night on a bench. The next day he managed to reach the Hungarian Embassy, in a state that did little to inspire confidence. But that was not the only reason they treated him like a leper. The face of the lady clerk reminded him of burned toast. A sourcunt, he decided, the long-dormant word bouncing around his head with a pleasant little buzz.

It turned out that his situation was not hopeless, because after his illegal departure from the Hungarian People's Republic the criminal proceedings normally pursued in such cases had not been issued and so-as the woman in the blue suit put it-he had "no judgment" on his record. Even if there were, it would be theirs, not mine, he thought.

"But don't imagine, Comr ... Mr. Csillag, that you will be met by vestal virgins garlanded with flowers!" she said. "And don't forget to obtain an American passport for Henry Csillag from the U.S. authorities, as he is a U.S. citizen."

He was informed that the application for the child's passport had to be accompanied by the written consent of the mother, since Henry was a minor. Vilmos Csillag did not imagine this would be a problem, but Shea was adamant: "You are not taking my child anywhere! You get me? I'd be insane to entrust him to a halfwit like you!"

"Insane pots and kettles!" he burst out, regretting it immediately. Shea began to rant and rave and, like the genuinely insane, her mouth filled with yellow froth, and brought two nurses running and a white-coat who held her down while she was given an injection in the arm. Shea changed to English and began to prattle at such a speed that Vilmos Csillag could not make out a word. She always does this when she wants to get the better of me.

Every attempt to bring up this subject with his wife resulted in the same fit of rage. He had no choice but to admit defeat: U.S. citizen Henry Csillag-who by then had learned the capital letters not just of English, but also of Hungarian-could not be taken with him to the old country. This made him feel insecure and uncertain again. Will they ever let me back into the U.S.? If not, will I ever see my son again?

To these questions the answers of the lady clerk with the burned-toast face were reassuring. "Why shouldn't we let you go back to him? You're hardly a national treasure."

Vilmos Csillag agreed.

"And anyway, those days are gone. The Hungarian People's Republic is no prison but quite a decent little socialist state, with human rights and everything!"