All of that would have to wait, though, because I was not about to let some romantic attachments get in the way of the main reason I had wanted to come to Hungary in the first place. I pushed back the covers and slid out of bed quickly, pulling on my clothes in the quiet dim room. The other girls slept on. The first day of sleeping in came at the end of a long week, and everyone except for me was taking advantage of it. Some beds emitted the faint sounds of snores and sleepy murmurs, and others were silent as tombs.
An emotional pang shot through me as I walked out to the stairway where I had first found Lucky. I hoped that Eliot would be taking good care of him. Of course he would. Still, I missed the small, boisterous kitten.
Not wanting to be caught by Mark, I eased the doors open and then closed them behind me, tiptoeing down the steps and then walking briskly down the sidewalk. By the time I turned the corner, my thoughts had already turned away from Eliot and Mark and towards my family. My mother. In my pocket my fingers slipped over the scrap of paper where I had written directions to the cemetery where she was buried. I only hoped that I could find her when I got there.
The sky seemed bright as I walked quickly on, and I whistled the notes of the Satie that had been playing in my head all morning.
I’m on my way, mom, I thought, and smiled.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
As I walked to the cemetery snow began to fall softly around me. Arriving, I couldn’t believe my eyes—the place was huge, three long city blocks at least at the front of it, surrounded by iron fences taller than me. My Nagy had told me that my mom was buried in the back of the cemetery, to the right. I had imagined a small plot of graves, but now that I looked across the street at the cemetery, I thought I might be there for hours searching for the right grave. Maybe there would be a caretaker I could ask.
A street vendor outside of the cemetery waved me over, and I stopped to look at her flowers. Not a single other person was on the sidewalk, and the old woman was eager to see me. She spoke in Hungarian first before realizing that I was American.
“For the one you visit,” she said. “The one you love.” She held out bouquets for me to choose from.
The flowers had been wrapped in brown paper to shield them from the cold, and I picked out a small bunch of white roses. The woman accepted my money gratefully and smiled, showing a crooked grin.
“Bless you, child,” she said, and turned away, humming. I inhaled the delicate scent of the roses and walked on toward the entrance to the cemetery. Cypress trees lined the edges of the graveyard behind wrought iron fence that kept souls inside and vandals out. The metal bracing of the entryway arched over my head as I entered.
Passing through the gates, I heard nothing but the soft whistling of the wind through the cypress trees. I walked forward quietly, and snowflakes fell all around but never seemed to land on me. Rows of stone slabs marked the buried. Carved angels and wreaths stood eroded at their edges, proving true the saying that nothing lives forever, despite the hopes of those who commissioned the monuments that stood above their tombs. Many of the gravestones had lost their lettering already to time and weather, some slabs cracked from being frozen and thawed over however many number of years they had been there.
Ahead of the entrance, a number of private family plots clustered together, the tombs topped with huge statues. Famous people, I thought, or rich. I skirted the edge of the plots but as I walked by, my coat snagged on a low iron gate into one of the plots. I stooped down to free the fabric, and the name on the grave made my breath stop for just an instant.
Herceg.
Was this where Eliot’s wife was buried? I looked up at the plot, my coat now freed from its snag. Several graves organized themselves into rows, the stones above them carved ornately with scrollwork. The iron gate creaked at my knees as I pushed it open and walked in. I looked around guiltily, as though I was an invader.
I didn’t belong here. It felt wrong to be here without Eliot, to stand in this sacred spot. I stepped away but my eye caught on a small statue of an angel, its arms thrown up in the air as though dancing. I paused to look and saw the name carved into the top of the stone. Clare Herceg. I brushed the snow off of the rest of the stone. A few lines of Hungarian were written underneath, a prayer or a poem. The date of death was ten years ago.
It must be her. I looked around again, feeling like somebody was watching me from afar, but there was nobody else in the cemetery that I could see. I turned to leave, but then turned back. My fingers trembled as I pulled at the ribbon on the bouquet of white roses. I tugged the bouquet in half and laid the flowers down at the front of the grave. Whoever Clare was, Eliot had loved her and she had loved him. I felt a connection with her, standing there in the drifting snowflakes and looking down on her grave.