of perfume and cigarette smoke. Saved by the bell: rummy night.
“Ah, so they haven’t forgotten me, the kurvák!” Anyu mutters, scrambling to undo the last of her hair rollers.
Dotsi, Zsuzsi and Punci are my grandmother’s best friends and worst enemies. They come over faithfully every Thursday night at eight-fifteen on the dot for cards, whisky, chit-chat and the occasional scandal or two. Anyu calls them kurvák, or whores, but that’s just her way of being affectionate. I call them néni, or auntie, even though we are not related at all. In Hungary, children always call older people in their lives uncle or auntie as a sign of respect, but they may as well be my real aunties. Apart from Mama and Anyu, I have no other family in Sydney. Both my mother and father were only children and Mama’s parents passed away before I was born. There’s a second cousin of Anyu’s in America and Mama’s great-uncle who never made it out of Hungary. I think Mama has a reasonably close relative who married a Russian soldier and moved to rural Poland, but no one talks about her anymore. The rest of my grandparents’ family members never made it back from the war.
Anyu and the aunties are like real family. They are always arguing, but I can never entirely figure out what they are fighting about since they all talk at the same time. Regardless of the topic, they never agree. From the trivial, like money and men, to the more important, like money and men, I don’t think they have ever suffered a harmonious conversation. They are so quick to disagree with each other that they’d rather contradict themselves than accidentally be caught with the same opinion.
But when it comes to an outsider, any outsider, they stick together like glue.
They are colourful creatures, with big hair, big diamonds and big boobs. Dotsi, the naïve and gullible one, has tattooed eyebrows and lives with the constant embarrassment of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. It can come at any time, but when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. She has a beautiful penthouse apartment with harbour views, but is, I’m told, too stupid to appreciate it. Zsuzsi, my favourite of the three, has flaming red hair and a temper to match. She always wears oversized sunglasses, day or night, and lives with the nuisance of an over-educated, over-liberal, WASP-y daughter-in-law and the shame of a homosexual grandson, although at least he is a doctor and has a good-looking boyfriend, which is more than Anyu can say about me. Punci, the envy of her generation, is the only one to live with a man. Always referred to by Punci and the gang as The Special Friend, he has managed to make it to the fabulous age of ninety-four with all his own teeth. He still plays tennis every Wednesday morning at the club and walks the two and a half kilometres down to the beach and back every morning come rain, hail or shine. He speaks seven languages fluently and still drives himself to the opera.
I turn to see them jostling and elbowing their way through the front door with arms flailing and air kisses all over the place. Dotsi’s necklace gets caught on the balustrade. Punci drops her purse, knocking heads with Zsuzsi as they lose their footing on their way to the floor. It’s like The Three Stooges in sequins.
I don’t have time to laugh. Instead, the dance of disentanglement that follows has me and Anyu retreating to the sanctuary of her kitchen doorway.
“Idiot,” says Zsuzsi. “A simple staircase she can’t even climb without breaking all of our necks!”
“Come on Zsuzsi now, move that big arse of yours before you really hurt someone. And get rid of those glasses, would you? Really, I can’t imagine how you made it up these bloody stairs …” It isn’t always Punci’s fancy to protect Dotsi, but she often takes advantage of Zsuzsi’s outbursts to slip into the role of defender, whoever the victim may happen to be.
“Well quite frankly, Punci daahrlink, thanks to our baby buffoon over there, I almost didn’t …”
“Baby buffoon? My dear, will you look in the mirror for just a minute? Dotsi, daahrlink, here, let me see, let me help … what in God’s name have you done to yourself?”
“Never mind what she’s done to us …”
“It wasn’t my fault. My beads …”
“My beads, you mean, which by now are probably tangled to oblivion. Let me remind you, Dotsi daahrlink, who gave you those beads in the first place …”
“Jaj! You’re pulling my hair!” Dotsi is now on all fours, and Anyu can’t bear it any longer. She struts out of the kitchen and I fantasise for a moment that she’s going to shut the front door and leave us in peace, but instead she grabs a pair of scissors from the counter top, mumbling to herself something about peasants, and I brace myself for the carnage.
“Precisely what I’m saying,” Punci says, snatching the scissors from my grandmother. “If you weren’t so smart about lending her, out of all people, your favourite beads, or should I say ex-beads, then we wouldn’t be in this mess …” Snip.
Everyone is safely inside the apartment, and I start to help Anyu clear away my plates and fit the green felt cloth over the table. My idea is to discreetly slink out the door without being noticed, but I know deep down that there is no getting out of here alive. I can see the wheels turning behind those hideous hairdos.
“You look too skinny, Lily daahrlink.”
Too late. Punci starts the onslaught. “Doesn’t she look too skinny, Zsuzsi? Agi, why aren’t you feeding her?”
“What on earth do you mean?” Zsuzsi says. “Don’t you know there’s no such thing as too rich or too skinny? Or is it too pretty? Never mind … You’re okay, aren’t you, Lily? Come on, leave her alone, girls.” But the relief is only momentary. She suddenly turns my way, licking her lips, her eyes inflamed. “So tell me, come on, how did it go with the Muchovsky boy?” She sings Much-ov-sky, rocking her shoulders to the beat of each syllable.
“Muchovsky? You promised you’d tell her about Daniel Leventhal. You know, Helen’s grandson.” Punci always has better ideas.
“Leventhal? Don’t you worry about him, Punci daahrlink, he found someone last week.” Zsuzsi turns my way. “So tell me, was he nice? I told you he was nice!” She emphasises the last word with an affectionate tap on my shoulder, almost knocking me to the ground.
“Daniel Leventhal found someone? What a shame …” Punci mumbles.
“I didn’t call him,” I say, without looking up. Of course he found someone. They always find someone sooner or later.
“I wonder who?” Punci scratches her head.
“You see, Lily, that’s why you’re in this situation. I can’t do everything!” Followed by something in Hungarian.
“Who what?” Dotsi joins in. She’s confused.
“Who did he find?”
“How should I know!” Zsuzsi now turns to Anyu. “She bloody asks me who. What am I, God? Can’t you do something, Agi? Tell her to call the Muchovsky kid.”
Anyu looks at me with longing eyes. She knows there is no way I will call him. I have never met him, but I already know the type: a good, solid job, maybe even a Master’s degree. Plays some instrument like a dream and lost quite a lot of weight recently, or was it hair? Just out of a long relationship and bitter break-up with a non-Jewish girl from the office who was pretty but, as predicted, simple. And of course, we have so much in common because we are both
