CHAPTER 9
The next morning, Janos is gone and so is every trace of him. I’m tempted to think the last couple of weeks have been a bad dream as I pad through the apartment and find everything in its usual order. The only proof that something happened is the white gauze around my hand, which has curled slightly along the edges, no longer perfectly white.
Anger boils inside me as I watch the competent handiwork. I want to rip it off and destroy it just to spite Janos. Or even better, feel the shard of glass I used to cut myself as a teenager in my hands again. The edge was so sharp it would slide right into my skin. I barely had to press, and every pent-up emotion and feeling of powerlessness would dissipate. But then I found the BDSM clubs and let random men beat the hurt out of me instead.
I felt free when they tied me up and whipped me until I screamed. But I never allowed it to go further than loose, impersonal connections confined to the clubs. I simply couldn’t risk my family finding out the nature of such a relationship if I were to bring such a man home. Hell would break loose.
It did anyway when my mother decided to snoop around on my laptop and found an open tab with a porn video of a staged rape. Two days later, the entire town knew how sick I was. First, my mom told my dad, who dragged me—a twenty-eight-year-old woman—to the local priest. Then she told her bible study group—an act she justified by saying she needed their support in such a difficult time.
Thus, my life became swamped in ridicule, disgust, and pitying looks.
I thought those last few weeks before I left would be the most humiliating time of my life.
How wrong was I?
Now, I dearly regret leaving, and I hate myself for that.
I want to reach my hand into the back of my childhood closet and take out my music box—feel the soft, purple velvet as I unwrap the glittering piece of glass that used to be a mirror in the lid. I would slide my finger from the smooth center to the unforgiving edge. I pull in a sharp breath as I remember the searing burn as I pressed it to my arm. Deep red blood would trickle forth around the glass and slide down my milky skin. It was beautiful, really—freeing.
But no matter how much I miss the feeling, I can’t make myself bang my hand on the counter or take out a knife. The recklessness, or maybe the courage, has faded over time. All I can do is return to bed and pull the comforter over my head, hoping everything will fade away.
***
Nothing fades away as I lie there, curled up under the silky soft covers.
Images and sensations come rushing in a frontal assault of deafening sounds and blinding neon colors. I can’t escape it. I cover my ears, squeeze my eyes shut, open my eyes, and scream into the pillow. Nothing helps.
The echo of my wails rings through my head, and the vision of Gabor forcing himself upon me is as vivid as if he was here. Shame burns in my chest when I remember my body betraying me, and I scream again, trying to expel the horrid memory.
Then I pace back and forth. Take a cold bath. A warm bath. Still no change. I feel like I’m about to lose my mind in this small place that keeps throwing horrible memories at me. So I slip into some clothes and hurry out the door, headed for the river.
Budapest has never failed to live up to the romantic dream of the postcard. At least not when I walk along the river. The people here can be cold and indifferent, the inner city dirty and hostile, but here by the water, I have always found the same sort of peace I felt when staring at the postcard picture after one of my mother’s cruel verbal castigations.
I stop a few hundred feet from the Chain Bridge to admire the construction. Long, sloping lines of iron chains connect the stone gates that rise tall and proud above the water.
A rush of excitement fills me as I step past the stone lions guarding the bridge and sense the blue depth beneath me. My breaths come a little faster and my hands quiver with anticipation as I stop in the middle of the bridge and lean over the rail to get a better look. The water is dark. It could easily swallow me up—drag me into its emptiness and let me flow around, calm and weightless.
I need to get closer, so I step onto the rail and lean out. My lips tip up in a hint of a smile for the first time in days as I stare into the enticing darkness. I’m so close. Just a little farther and I’ll trip and merge with the water.
A hand grabs my arm, pulling me onto solid concrete, and I realize I was leaning half my weight over the rail. I turn my head to stare into the outraged face of a middle-aged man.
“Do you have a death wish?” he says with an angry shake of his head.
I yank my arm free even though I should probably thank him, then continue down the bridge and back again.
I spend an hour trotting back and forth between Buda and Pest—the new and the old part of the capital, which combined give name to the city—until I have to go home and get ready for work. Though I’m not sure I still have a job. My absence yesterday might be reason enough for Izsák to fire me. He’d love to give me the boot. But then again, he’d hate to lose the opportunity of ridiculing me every day.
I’m at the restaurant fifteen minutes early, hoping showing up before time might do a bit of damage control, but Izsák’s angry scowl tells me nothing can make up for my absence. He’s at the bar, his dingy cap backward, crooking an angry finger at me.
“Where the hell were you last night?” he snarls as he backs me into a secluded corner.
“I’m sorry. I was sick.” I try to keep my voice even, but I can’t hide the slight tremor.
“So sick you couldn’t pick up your phone and fucking call?”
“I lost my phone.” It’s not even a lie. My phone was in the plastic tray with my laptop, passport, and money, and I’m sure I’ll never see any of it again.
“You Westerners have so many goddamn excuses.” He looks me up and down with scornful eyes. “You better be on your absolute best, or you’re done here.” He practically spits the words into my face as he points at the exit.
I’m far from at my best during the day. My limbs are weak, my mind the same, and when my stomach starts growling, I realize I haven’t eaten all day. It takes everything to hold myself up until my break five hours later. Whenever I walk past a mirror, I shudder at my reflection. I look as hollow as I feel—pale and tired, lifeless eyes and slumped shoulders.
As if my weary state isn’t bad enough, my injured hand gives me trouble. I try to do the dishes with one hand, but it takes twice as long, and Elek steps in, asking me to stir the food while he washes the pans. I give him a grateful yet discouraged smile.
“What’s going on with you, Rebecca?” he asks. “You’ve been looking tired for days. And what’s about that pepper spray?”
The guy who helped me find a pepper spray must have blabbered. “It’s just… anxiety. It has flared lately.”
“And your hand? Is that anxiety too?” he asks in a skeptical tone.
Tightening my jaw, I stare at the food I’m stirring. “Broken mug,” I say. At least that’s not a lie—and I guess the part about my anxiety isn’t really either.
Elek comes to my side and takes the spoon. “If you won’t talk to me, at least let me help you with that.” He nods at my bandaged hand, and I look down to find that the gauze is turning red again.
“Goddamnmit,” I say under my breath. It’s the third time during my shift the wound has broken open. I consider accepting his help. God knows I could use it—it’s a hassle changing the bandage myself—and I could use the comfort I’m sure he’d provide. But I end up shaking my head and hurrying toward the restroom to do it myself. Because it’s not his comfort I want.
I try to suppress the thought of whose comfort I’m truly craving, but as the gauze pads keep slipping and I can’t get the bandage tight enough, I can’t help going there in my mind.
I wish Janos were here.
I want to hit myself over the head for even thinking it. I shouldn’t want that man anywhere near me, and I’m truly relieved the customer with the suit and sunglasses has stopped coming. There’s no guessing why he came in the first place. Maybe to keep an eye on me. That would have become unnecessary now that we’ve established I can’t flee the country or find an authority who’s on my side.
No matter the reason, I’m happy he isn’t here to ruin the one place where my mind isn’t constantly flooded by images of the assault my body has endured.
Despite not being at my best—far from it—Izsák doesn’t mention my appearance again. He doesn’t even complain about my useless hand, and I realize that “best behavior” doesn’t have anything to do with my work performance. Rather, it’s a matter of being tolerant. Or silent. Because Izsák keeps sending sleazy remarks my way all night, and they’re not just the usual ignorable comments. He gets downright personal.
“Maybe you should take more shifts, so you could pay for some real boobs,” he says, staring openly at my small bosom. “You can’t even stick a dick between them; that’s how small they are.”
Later in the evening, when I take a short break in the back of the kitchen, he continues. “Who the fuck would want to shove his dick in a dead fish. Get your lazy ass back to work.”
When I come in the next day, it gets worse. He starts creeping up on me, touching me inappropriately. At first, he has the decency to pretend it’s accidental, like when I pass him and his hand grazes my ass. But during the night, he gets bolder, squeezing my ass behind the bar where no one can see.
I’m not the type of person who’d usually accept this. His ridiculous comments I can take, but the physical harassment is much more than I’m willing to overlook. But I’m not in the lucky position that I can afford to lose my job. All the useless security measures and the plane ticket have depleted my savings, and I surely won’t find a new job in my current state. The employer would take one look at me and decide I’m good for nothing. I’m too worn out.
If I lose this job, I’m on the street next month. Iszák knows that too. So he keeps taking advantage and harassing me, knowing I can”t do shit about it.