FRESH YARN presents: Place With You and Places Without You... by Ingrid Maltrud

FRESH YARN presents:

Places With You and Places Without You
By Ingrid Maltrud

In this hemisphere the winter nights crowd the day and by mid-afternoon the yellow haze of lamps lights the streets of Budapest. I cross the square and the click, click, click of my heels echoes off the towering stone soldiers on horseback. Communist cars sputter and impatient busses squawk at me. My Walkman accompanies me on my journey, as does Sade's song of love that won't leave, the song that conjures my longing for you. In my haste I pass the caramelizing pastry from Gerbaud, the bronzed gaze of Imre Nagy, and finally the imposing spires of Parliament. So familiar are these sights that they no longer engage my thought or wonder, but rather they mark my walk home. What was once foreign is now home for me. After the slam of the phone last night, I wonder if you are now foreign and no longer home for me?

I am to see my first real castle today. I crowd off the bus with a dozen of youthful 20-year-olds and our anthropology teacher. My extra ten years of what they jokingly call "wisdom" only contrasts their eagerness against my melancholy. We trek up the hill and they shout and laugh while I nurse my vodka hangover and a tinge of shame over an elevator-to-bedroom incident with one of my fellow students. I try to distract myself with romantic Hollywood images of windswept hills, crumbling bastions and dark men. Rocks grate under my feet and the afternoon sun clears my fog as we come upon the assertive fortress -- the gaping arch of the entrance, the worn reddish color of the bricks covered by the dusty damp smell of old places. We enter into the compound and a stone path leads me to the small chapel. Cracked panes of stained glass filter a kaleidoscope of light onto Christ's body, protector of the altar. Dusty particles dance in the air as I count the small wooden pews and statues of saints that line the walls.

I spot her, instantly drawn to the strain on her face. Mary hides in a room warmed by the waxy scent of candles, an evil serpent lodged under her left foot. I turn to explain to you that this life-sized plaster of Mary wears a red cape around her shoulders (not the usual blue), which is a symbol of her sacrifice for Christ. My words fall empty into the silence behind me, and I abruptly leave, the echo of my steps left for the ears of saints.

When we first arrived in Budapest for our academic year, one of the young girls asked me if the man who wished me farewell at the San Francisco airport was my husband. Surprised by her question, I retorted with an abrupt no. Then with a light laugh I told her you were my ex-lover. I could have told her you were the only man I ever loved so passionately, but that you had wedged a stake of lies into our center. I wanted to call you and ask you what you would have said, but I wasn't ready to hear your answer.

I make light steps down the worn stairs into a dusty room where a large round wooden wheel rests against the back wall. I pause. Hairs dance on the back of my neck and my stomach collapses. My breath hides in my chest and then slowly escapes. Mounds of dirt and piles of bricks are scattered around the room. The ceiling is low and it smells of iron down here. Some of the other students begin to tauntingly scream "torture chamber." Panic races up my legs and into my eyes as I look for a way out, my sense of direction distorted. My mouth turns to bitter dust and my wrists feel pinched by metal. I can't place where I am. Madness reverberates off the walls. I can see them now, dirty men and haggard women, slouched in corners, scratching at the ground and hanging from the walls. I push their cries of pain into the empty corner and turn to you for reassurance. My parched mouth whispers, "did you feel that too?" If you had been there you would have led me out of the torture chamber.

Last night you pretended I was just another friend calling to lament about all the turkey I ate. But I am in Budapest and Thanksgiving was celebrated with a weak plate of salty mashed potatoes and cheap red wine. Do you remember that rainy Wednesday before Thanksgiving when we hopped on your old Norton and buzzed up and down the hills of San Francisco, stopping in at our favorite pubs? We drank sweet dark beer, smoked European cigarettes and talked about cranberry sauce, the beauty of our shiny city, and my plans to return to school. As we stumbled toward the Lucky Thirteen pub, a black man stepped into our path. Robed in torn red velvet and crowned with a Burger King hat, he cleared his throat and then offered a sonnet for a buck or a beer. I requested a sonnet of love. You gave him a five and he began, his voice shrill with madness.

"Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. You should not have believed me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not."

The black king then swiftly removed his crown and in a smooth and feminine voice murmured, "I was the more deceived."

In that brief murmur of Ophelia's deceitful anguish I felt as if I were standing stark naked in a fog-chilled forest. You reached for my hand, but I pulled away and broke the silence with applause. With a bow he wrapped the torn fabric around his body and pushed his cart up Market Street. You apprehensively touched my cheek, laughed nervously and put your arm around me as we continued on to the Lucky Thirteen, joking about love and madness. We kissed for hours in the corner of the bar and later fell into your bed intoxicated with the nectar of hops and barley. You told me you loved me that night.

Another bus trip with our teacher, this time to the edges of Romania where the Hungarians still clutch to their traditions, including the making of Palinka, a homemade plum liquor. The worn farmers traditionally enjoy a breakfast of sharp cheese, dark bread and shots of Palinka. We join our generous hosts with extra shots and cheers of "opah!" My body warms and we load onto the bus, off to another village. I turn on the Walkman and listen to another song of lies and kisses late in the night. The heat of the moonshine appeases my rising anger as I watch old women pull up roots from the side of the road.

We arrive in a village where we will spend the evening celebrating a young Transylvanian couple's nuptials. After we are introduced to our host families, three of us decide to walk off the morning drink before the bottles get passed again. We head towards the hill that protects the small enclave of houses. A mucky combination of mud, straw and horseshit paves the streets, sticking to our boots. Strings of red paprika dangle from the roofs. Soon the smell of manure gives way to thinning trees and fields of dusty grasses. My legs work hard to warm me against the rising chill of the setting sun. A drying field of forgotten corn reveals a small knoll that promises a panorama of the valley and surrounding hills. The stalks of corn whisper as we pass through. Stepping out onto the knoll, I feel, for the first time since leaving California, less dislocated, less disconnected. The beauty of the valley and hills calms me while the chatter of goats and chickens fills the valley and the strum of wedding songs drifts up to our ears. A star pierces through the sky and a crescent moon glows orange. We sit quietly while the darkness seeps into the sky. I long for your arm around my shoulder. I want to point to the moon, tell you it holds my love for you.

I was surprised you were home when I called. It was 4:00 am in Budapest and I assumed you to be out zooming up and down the streets of San Francisco, but I had just finished reading your letter from last week and I longed for your voice, not your lies. I thought you would welcome a tipsy phone call from me. Your voice revealed otherwise. I could tell she was there and I slurred into the phone, "You can't talk can you?" You answered with a flat no. "I'm having a small dinner party," you explained, and quickly asked with great insincerity, "How was your Thanksgiving?" Your chilly voice sobered me and I slammed the receiver back in its place. The cobwebs hanging from my ceiling begged to be cleaned, but I lit another cigarette and wondered out loud to the cold walls what could have possibly happened to your desire to kiss the soft of my belly as you so vividly described in your letter? I knew the answer, but I didn't want to hear it so I threw the phone across the room.

Heavy raindrops came with the rising sun and I watched the cobwebs and I drank cup after cup of peppermint tea to keep myself from calling you back. I wanted to reminisce about that time we dodged a deluge under the dripping cypress trees all the way to the top of Mount Wittenburg to catch a glimpse of the Pacific. I would have asked, do you remember how magical that was? You would have agreed. The clouds had cleared by the time we arrived at the summit and we stood panting under the refreshing blue sky. I bent over to touch a wild iris and you pushed me onto the ground and kissed me with your sweaty lips. You declared that my beauty was as perfect as the dancing sparkle of the ocean. We lay there for some time watching hawks circle and screech, your head resting on my chest. Clouds moved into the blue spot of sky and you yelled, "Last one to the bottom pays for burgers and beers." As you lifted me from the ground I leaned into you, my lips brushing your ear as I whispered, "I love you."

It wasn't the fact that she was there when I called. It was the fact that you denied my existence. But then again, facts were never your strong point. Remember that night on the beach in Santa Cruz before I left for Budapest? We stretched out a blanket with bread, cheese, hearty red wine and the salt of the sea. We talked about our complicated history and our resolution to remain friends. You told me about your new relationship, the sound of the waves crashing on my jealousy. I asked if we could do this, be friends, sometimes lovers. You assured me we could. Like I said, it wasn't the fact that she was there when I called, it was the fact that your assurance was a lie. I am a hidden part of your life, another lie wedged between me and you, not to mention her. That night we kissed between bites and sips of wine, between our promises to remain friends as the clouds soaked up the fiery colors of the setting sun. Our bodies were hungry that night, touching, sucking and piercing our secret connection. I fell asleep wondering how I would feel living in a new country without you near me. I dreamed of long, sad goodbyes.

I thought this was the end of the story, but once again I am some place you are not -- the crash of the cymbal, the cry of the violins; my knee cold without your warm hand. I sit in San Francisco's symphony hall, Budapest now a fading memory. This familiar city, without you, is now a foreign land. There was a slip of fate. We both know it is for the best, for all of us. My heart and head battle as I sit in the balcony, watching the arias shatter upon the floor. Desire swells and I can no longer resist. I imagine your hand caressing my knee as the music rises, and for a brief moment I am someplace with you, not without you.