Last Impressions by Joseph Kertes

Author:Joseph Kertes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Canada
Published: 2020-03-02T16:00:00+00:00

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The evening of his parents’ fiftieth anniversary party, the Gypsy band—or Romany band, as they were more rightly called—played all of Hannah and Zoltan’s favorites, mostly Hungarian music with a Romany flair—crying violins, honeyed sadness, songs that seemed to come from a dark time no one would ever want to revisit. But actually, the tunes often felt like songs about what could have been rather than what was. Hannah and Zoltan both sang along loudly to “Jaj, cica eszem azt a csöpp kis szád” and “Jóska, Jóska, veled mennyi baj van,” as did others in the room. The band threw in “Hava nagila” to indicate that they got it and had business cards available on top of the keyboard.

But when the violinist opened Zigeunerweisen, by Sarasate, Ben’s father stood up and put his hand on his heart as if for an anthem or a hymn. How could he not be stirred? How could they not be stirred? But by what? By country? By Canada? By Hungary? By marriage? By survival? By the home that was lost and the home that was found? The lives that were lost and the lives found? Or was it the sound of anticipation? It was not their sound, yet it was. It was a Romany sound that they had adopted on account of its beauty? Beauty above all. Beauty as truth. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know.

Hannah was glowing. She was pleased at how pleased her husband was, as if she herself had put him in this state, which she spent her whole life trying to do, or at least fifty years of it.

But others were glowing too. Lucy was, as were Anna and Leah. Iris Danzinger was. She looked regal and radiant as ever, and she had showed up with Reuben after all, because Albert had been called away. Iris, the queen, sat with her nephew, the prince, who spread his long arms over the backs of the two chairs on either side of him, one of them Queen Iris’s. Ben overheard Erzsebet tell people about her two happy feet, both of which she was taking to the grave. Magda, her unhappy hips. The Balabans, their famous menorah.

And they feasted on—what else?—Transylvanian wooden platters piled high with schnitzels, Debrecen sausages, cabbage rolls, grilled lamb chops (or “lamp chops,” as they were described in the menu), breaded mushrooms, breaded liver, dumplings, slaws, cucumber salad and beets. All of this was followed by plum dumplings blizzarded with ground walnuts and icing sugar, with espresso coffee and pear and plum palinka.

There was much cause to rejoice for one another, not just the happy couple. Their photographer got them all in a group shot, the old gang and the new. Everyone in the room said they wanted a copy sent to them.

And then Zoltan rose to make a speech. He said he was very happy to be there. He reached to take his wife’s hand. He said he’d had a good life.

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