Hungarians staged a revolution which was quickly quashed by Soviet tanks. In those few short, chaotic weeks during which the borders were open, over a quarter of a million Hungarians fled the country, among them Eva, Anyu and my father. Those who got out quickly were the lucky ones. The West, deep in anti-Communist sentiment, opened its borders, its hearts and its wallets, and these refugees could literally go wherever they wished. But for those left behind, there was no more chance to escape. The Iron Curtain fell again, heavier than ever before, and it would be another forty years before Hungarians were allowed to leave. But it didn’t stop the population from dreaming.
“They dreamed of America, they did. So when Nixon was born, they gave him a name that would help him in the big, wide world. But imagine, I’ll let him tell you one day what it was like to grow up in state-run socialist youth groups with a name like Nixon.” She stops momentarily for another coughing fit. “Between you and me, daahrlink, his parents were peasants. I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Why not call him Pierre or something more intelligent if they wanted him to leave Hungary one day?”
I laugh. Anyu and her friends are the same. For their generation of women, no one is more sophisticated or refined than the French. No one more complicated or elegant. And as for Americans, no one is more crass.
“And they didn’t even realise, you see, that Nixon is a family name.”
I know this about Hungarians. They always say the last name first. It’s Horvath Georgie, Freedman Eva, Nixon Richard. “So it’s Nixon with a bloody ‘X’. Come daahrlink, let me show you the Hungarian letters.” She snatches the exercise book from my hands and takes over. She writes down the alphabet. “They are a little bit different to what you are used to, you know. But you’ll be happy in the end. Once you know how they are pronounced, they’ll never change on you. Ever.”
I listen to her deep, scratchy voice go through the sounds, and watch her long, red claws point one by one to the elegantly scrawled letters on the page. I diligently repeat after her: ahh, beh, tzeh … I catch a glimpse of Nixon at the bar. He really is cute. He is excited and animated, arms all over the place, talking to a big man in a bloodstained white apron who, if not for his jovial cheeks and lively eyes, looks more like an axe murderer than anyone I’d imagine seeing in a Double Bay café. I wonder if they’re talking about me.
“Concentrate, Lily!” Eva snaps. “Come, repeat after me.”
I don’t know what I am expecting from my first Hungarian lesson, but sitting here repeating isolated, meaningless sounds one after the other isn’t part of it. I know I won’t leave the café this afternoon able to speak Hungarian, equipped with a new understanding of my personal history and cultural identity. But there is something surreal about my quest. I am, after all, learning the unlearnable. And Eva’s not helping.
She senses my frustration. “Lily, come on! You are the one who wants to learn Hungarian. I know this already!”
But I can’t help myself. “I want to learn sentences. This is boring!” I’m a little shocked that I actually said it, but it’s the truth.
Eva isn’t shocked at all. “Now come on, daahrlink, you’re just being like your grandmother now. Don’t be ridiculous. Hungarian is, after all, impossible to learn!” She coughs and reaches for her unlit cigarette. “Think you know best? You have to trust me, Lily. We can do this, but you have to let me do things my way. Okay?”
I nod. My vay.
“Jesus,” she says. “What on earth has she done to you, you poor thing? I didn’t really imagine she would fuck you up so badly.”
Three tables arrive at the same time for lunch and Eva gets up to seat them. I pack my stuff and leave the café hungry and exhausted. I sit in my car and stare at the crisp exercise book. Hungarian Lessons, November 2009. I think about my outburst and the cute Hungarian waiter called Nixon. Eva gave me some homework and we arranged to meet again next Saturday morning, although, to be honest, I’m not so sure I’ll be there.
But then there is Nixon. Maybe this whole thing isn’t such a bad idea after all.
I open the first page and practise the alphabet. Ahh, beh, tzeh … I go through the entire alphabet, and then again. I shake my head.
Typical.
There is no X.
Chapter Six
The phone wakes me at midday.
“Lily, it’s me. Where on earth are you? I’ve been calling for over an hour.”
Me who? I sit up to look out the window. It’s raining again.
“Lily? Honey? It’s Camilla! Are you all right?”
“I … I’m … I’ve just been …”
“Never mind. I need you. Jacqueline called in sick and I need someone here to help set up for this afternoon. The Big A is coming! Can you get in here?”
I waver. It’s my day off. I want to spend the day on Anyu’s portrait. I’m grumpy. It’s raining.
“Umm, let’s see. Hold on a minute.” I press the mute button and throw the phone down on the bed. I already know I’ll help her out. I’m too curious to meet the Big A. But it’s good for her to sweat. I go to the toilet, brush my teeth, and turn on the coffee machine. I can hear Camilla’s muffled pleas from within the bedspread. I choose an outfit she’ll probably hate and finally pick up the phone.
“Okay, I’ll be there,” I say, putting the phone down before she has time to hang up without saying thank you.
The bus is almost empty when I get on at Bondi Junction. An elderly woman with empty shopping bags on her lap grapples with her mobile phone and a teenage boy with industrial-sized earphones nods emphatically to the beat.
“Vun ticket to Crown Street,” I say, almost in a whisper, as if that’s the way I always talk, and find a seat by the window. The traffic is stop-go-stop-go all the way down Oxford Street and I watch people in their cars talk to themselves and pick their noses like they are all alone in their bathrooms.
Vot idiots, I think to myself.
It’s been almost a week since my first Hungarian lesson and I’ve been reluctantly working on the homework Eva gave me.
“For one week, speak only with a Hungarian accent,” she said to me.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I said.
Why wouldn’t anyone take me seriously?
She laughed. “Isn’t that vonderful, daahrlink … I’ll teach you how to speak English with a Hungarian accent.” But she wasn’t joking. “Vell,” she continued, looking straight at me with big eyes. “Do you want to learn Hungarian or not? Do you trust me or not?”
I don’t trust her. But she’s all I’ve got.
“You think it is easy talking like this?” Eva, like Anyu, sounds like she just stepped off the boat. And it’s only been fifty-two years! But apart from the occasional mistake that I’d classify more as charming than grammatical, her English,
