Cafe Europa by Ed Ifkovic Page A

impudent American?”
    His eyes widened as he broke into a hearty laugh. “Are all Americans like my friend Harold?”
    â€œLord, no,” said Winifred.
    â€œMr. Gibbon is a special breed,” I noted, nodding my head at Harold, who was beaming. “Everyone’s business is his own.”
    Endre smiled affectionately at Harold, shaking his head slowly. “But Americans—do they ask such…such personal questions?”
    â€œLike what?” I asked.
    Endre’s deep-red color suggested he regretted what he’d just asked.
    Harold blustered, “I was asking him about last night at the café—when he walked in and saw Cassandra Blaine sitting there.”
    Endre sucked in his cheeks, unhappy.
    â€œMr. Gibbon, please…” I said.
    A waiter approached the table but Endre waved him away.
    â€œHey, just curious, no? I mean, Cassandra’s behavior…” Harold shrugged his shoulders.
    â€œShe is a confused girl,” Endre whispered. “I don’t think…”
    â€œShe laughs too much, she cries a lot. She makes scenes in public. She teases you still, Endre. Last week, crossing paths with her and that…that hideous Mrs. Pelham, when you and I were having dinner in City Park, well, she…It’s clear that she’s thinking of you.”
    Endre looked serious, his voice dropping. “Dear Cassandra must marry Count Frederic.”
    Harold sat back. “Oh, I wonder about that. I see how she looks at you. Even last night.”
    Endre impatiently tapped an index finger on the table. “A woman must listen to her mother.”
    I interrupted. “Well, not always.”
    â€œReally, Edna,” said Winifred, frowning.
    â€œMy mother is determined to keep me…unmarried.”
    Endre looked puzzled. “But why?”
    â€œYou haven’t met my mother.”
    Immediately I regretted my remarks. An image of my long-suffering mother assailed me—probably at that moment discussing her errant daughter with the cousins in Berlin. I squirmed, uncomfortable.
    Harold continued, “Hey, you forget that I watched the whole drama unfold. Cecelia Blaine frowned on you even before she decided she wanted her daughter to be a countess. Don’t you remember how she shunned you last fall?”
    Endre stood up, towering over us and said with an edge to his voice and a thin, forced smile, “We were talking about the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.”
    Harold wouldn’t stop. “Hey, Count Frederic von Erhlich is a part of this sick empire. He’s just as much a prig as his stiff cousin Franz Ferdinand, heir apparent to a corpse. A collector of instruments of torture, a man who seeks out palm readers for advice, a man who hates books.”
    Endre sighed and looked toward passersby on the quay. “It is not wise to talk ill of Franz Ferdinand.”
    Harold looked around him. “But all the Hungarians do—in whispers. Dual Monarchy, my foot. Slavery.”
    Endre took a step away from the table, his voice ragged. “Cassandra will marry Count Frederic and her mother will dance at court balls.”
    â€œFat chance. Even Franz Ferdinand’s wife Sophie ain’t royal enough to be received before Franz Josef. Franz Ferdinand has to enter a room alone . The countess’ll be at a ball but not in the palace—not with Cassandra, the American princess.”
    â€œThat is because she is not…” He paused, a finger touching his moustache. “Never mind.” He stepped away. “My friend Harold, again you invite me for coffee and I end up running away from you.”
    Winifred smirked, “Not an uncommon reaction to the man.”
    Endre Molnár bowed to the waist, formally, nodded at Winifred and me, winked mischievously at Harold, and left.
    â€œHarold,” I said, “must you alienate the people in whose country you’re a guest?”
    Harold grinned.