The InvisibleBridge

“If that’s all,” he said, “I’ll bring Klara a drink.”

“You’d better,” Madame Gérard said. “In another moment he’ll be obliged to get one for her.” She turned her gaze again to the low black sofa, where Novak was explaining something to Klara in urgent tones. Klara shook her head, smiling sadly; Novak seemed to press his point, and Klara lowered her eyes.

Andras got her a glass of wine and made his way through a cluster of di

“I understand you’re going home to Budapest,” Andras said.

Novak smiled with obvious effort. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “And what will I do this time for a lunchtime companion? Madame Novak prefers the dining car.”

“You’ll probably cheer up some young fool on his way from Paris to Budapest.”

“Fool indeed, if he’s young and heading back to Budapest.”

“ Budapest is a fine place for a young man,” Andras said.

“Perhaps you ought to have stayed there, then,” Novak said, leaning a shade too close to Andras; in an instant Andras knew he was drunk. By now Klara knew, too, of course; she stood and placed a hand on Novak’s sleeve. A flash of resentment kindled in Andras’s chest. If Novak was going to undo himself, Klara shouldn’t feel under an obligation to protect him. But she gave Andras a look that begged forbearance, and he had to relent. He couldn’t fault Novak. It had been only three months, after all, since his own bout of drunken howling at József Hász’s flat.

“Monsieur Novak was telling me about his new position with the Royal Hungarian Opera,” Klara said.

“Ah, yes. They’re lucky to have you,” Andras said.

“Well, Paris won’t miss me,” Novak said, looking pointedly at Klara. “That much is evident.”

Madame Gérard had crossed the room to join their group, and she took Novak’s hands in her own. “We shall all miss you terribly,” she said. “It’s a great loss to us. A great loss to me. What will I do without you? Who will preside at my di

“You will preside, as always,” Novak said.

“Not ‘as always,’” she said. “I used to be morbidly shy. You used to do all the talking for me. But perhaps you don’t remember that. Perhaps you don’t remember how you were forced to ply me with wine in your office, just to convince me to take Madame Villareal-Bloch’s role.”

“Ah, yes, poor Claudine,” Novak said, his voice rising in volume as he spoke. “She was brilliant, and she threw it all away for that boy. That press attaché from Brazil. She followed him to São Paolo, and then he dropped her for a young tart.” He turned a glare upon Andras. “And she was so certain he loved her. But he made a fool of her.” He drained his glass, then went toward the window and stared down into the street.

A wave of silence spread from Novak to the rest of the guests; conversation faltered in one small group after another. It seemed they’d all been watching the exchange between Andras and Klara and Novak; it was almost as though they’d been notified of the situation in advance, and advised to pay particular attention. At last an elderly woman in a black Mainbocher gown cleared her throat delicately, fortified herself with a sip of gin, and declared that she had just heard that the forty thousand railroad workers fired by Monsieur Reynaud would stage a protest, and that the only good that might come of it would be that Monsieur and Madame Novak’s departure might be delayed.

“Oh, but that would be terrible,” said Madame Novak. “Mother is giving a party to welcome us, and the invitations have already been sent.”

Madame Gérard laughed. “No one could ever accuse you of being a populist, Edith,” she said, and the conversation soon resumed its former pace.

At di

“Isn’t that right?” she asked her husband across the table. “I’ll have János’s nurse take him there as soon as we get to town.”

“Where, my dear?”

“The park on Pozsonyi út, at the river’s edge.”

“Of course,” said Novak absently, turning again to Klara.

The di

“It’s about lost love!” she said, when he protested that his English was terrible. She seemed to think she had to shout into his ear in order to be heard above the music and conversation. “The man is parted from the woman, but he’ll never forget her! She haunts his dreams! She’s changed his life!”

No one could get enough of the song. Madame Gérard declared it her new favorite. They played it four times before they tired of it. Andras danced with Madame Gérard, and with Edith Novak, and with the elderly woman again; but Zoltán Novak would not release Klara. In a short time he would leave Paris forever; nothing could prevent that-not a rail strike, nor the threat of war, nor the force of his own love. Klara tried to extricate herself from his arms, but each time she pulled away he protested so loudly she had to stay with him to avoid a scene. Finally, too drunk to stand, he stumbled back onto a settee and wiped his forehead with a large white handkerchief. Madame Gérard took the record from the turntable and a