Vago. This man who had been translating for Andras--this rumpled-looking young man in an inkstained work shirt--was the P. VAGO of Andras's class schedule. His studio leader. His professor. A Hungarian. Andras felt suddenly faint. For the first time it seemed to him he might have a chance of surviving at the Ecole Speciale. He could hardly concentrate on what Pierre Vago was saying now, in his elegant, slightly accented French. Pierre Vago had indeed been the one who'd written the Hungarian note in Andras's manila envelope. Pierre Vago, it occurred to Andras, was probably the one man responsible for his being there at all.
"Hey," Rosen said, pulling Andras's sleeve. "Regardes-toi."
In the excitement, Andras's nose had begun to bleed. Red spots glistened on his white shirt. Polaner looked at him with concern and offered a handkerchief; Ben Yakov went pale and turned away. Andras took the handkerchief and pressed it against his nose.
Rosen made him tip his head back. A few people turned to see what was going on.
Andras sat bleeding into the handkerchief, not caring who was looking, happier than he'd ever been in his life.
Later that day, after the assembly, after Andras's nosebleed had stopped and he'd traded his own clean handkerchief for the one he'd bled upon, after the first meeting of the studio groups, and after he'd exchanged addresses with Rosen, Polaner, and Ben Yakov, Andras found himself in Vago's cluttered office, sitting on a wooden stool beside the drafting table. On the walls were sketched and printed plans, black-and-white watercolors of beautiful and impossible buildings, a scale drawing of a city from high above. In one corner was a heap of paint-stained clothes; a rusted, twisted bicycle frame leaned against the wall. Vago's bookshelves held ancient books and glossy magazines and a teakettle and a small wooden airplane and a skinny-legged junk sculpture of a girl.
Vago himself leaned back in his swivel chair, his fingers laced behind his head.
"So," he said to Andras. "Here you are, fresh from Budapest. I'm glad you came. I didn't know if you'd be able to make it on such short notice. But I had to try. It's barbarous, those prejudices about who can study what, and when, and how. It's not a country for men like us."
"But--forgive me--are you Jewish, Professor?"
"No. I'm a Catholic. Educated in Rome." He gave his R a deep Italianate roll.
"Then why do you care, sir?"
"Shouldn't I care?"
"Many
don't."
Vago shrugged. "Some do." He opened a folder on his desk. There, in full color, were reproductions of Andras's covers for Past and Future: linoleum prints of a scribe inking a scroll, a father and his boys at synagogue, a woman lighting two slender candles.
Andras saw the work now as if for the first time. The subjects seemed sentimental, the compositions obvious and childish. He couldn't believe this was what had earned his admission to the school. He hadn't had a chance to submit the portfolio he'd used for his applications to Hungarian architectural colleges--detailed drawings of the Parliament and the Palace, measured renderings of the interiors of churches and libraries, work he'd slaved over for hours at his desk at Past and Future . But he suspected that even those pieces would have seemed clumsy and amateurish in comparison to Vago's work, the crisp plans and gorgeous elevations pinned to the walls.
"I'm here to learn, sir," Andras said. "I made those prints a long time ago."
"This is excellent work," Vago said. "There's a precision, an accuracy of perspective, rare in an untrained artist. You've got great natural skill, that's apparent. The compositions are asymmetrical but well balanced. The themes are ancient but the lines are modern. Good qualities to bring to your work in architecture."
Andras reached for one of the covers, the one that showed a man and boys at prayer. He'd carved the linoleum original by candlelight in the apartment on Harsfa utca.
Though he hadn't
"Hey," Rosen said, pulling Andras's sleeve. "Regardes-toi."
In the excitement, Andras's nose had begun to bleed. Red spots glistened on his white shirt. Polaner looked at him with concern and offered a handkerchief; Ben Yakov went pale and turned away. Andras took the handkerchief and pressed it against his nose.
Rosen made him tip his head back. A few people turned to see what was going on.
Andras sat bleeding into the handkerchief, not caring who was looking, happier than he'd ever been in his life.
Later that day, after the assembly, after Andras's nosebleed had stopped and he'd traded his own clean handkerchief for the one he'd bled upon, after the first meeting of the studio groups, and after he'd exchanged addresses with Rosen, Polaner, and Ben Yakov, Andras found himself in Vago's cluttered office, sitting on a wooden stool beside the drafting table. On the walls were sketched and printed plans, black-and-white watercolors of beautiful and impossible buildings, a scale drawing of a city from high above. In one corner was a heap of paint-stained clothes; a rusted, twisted bicycle frame leaned against the wall. Vago's bookshelves held ancient books and glossy magazines and a teakettle and a small wooden airplane and a skinny-legged junk sculpture of a girl.
Vago himself leaned back in his swivel chair, his fingers laced behind his head.
"So," he said to Andras. "Here you are, fresh from Budapest. I'm glad you came. I didn't know if you'd be able to make it on such short notice. But I had to try. It's barbarous, those prejudices about who can study what, and when, and how. It's not a country for men like us."
"But--forgive me--are you Jewish, Professor?"
"No. I'm a Catholic. Educated in Rome." He gave his R a deep Italianate roll.
"Then why do you care, sir?"
"Shouldn't I care?"
"Many
don't."
Vago shrugged. "Some do." He opened a folder on his desk. There, in full color, were reproductions of Andras's covers for Past and Future: linoleum prints of a scribe inking a scroll, a father and his boys at synagogue, a woman lighting two slender candles.
Andras saw the work now as if for the first time. The subjects seemed sentimental, the compositions obvious and childish. He couldn't believe this was what had earned his admission to the school. He hadn't had a chance to submit the portfolio he'd used for his applications to Hungarian architectural colleges--detailed drawings of the Parliament and the Palace, measured renderings of the interiors of churches and libraries, work he'd slaved over for hours at his desk at Past and Future . But he suspected that even those pieces would have seemed clumsy and amateurish in comparison to Vago's work, the crisp plans and gorgeous elevations pinned to the walls.
"I'm here to learn, sir," Andras said. "I made those prints a long time ago."
"This is excellent work," Vago said. "There's a precision, an accuracy of perspective, rare in an untrained artist. You've got great natural skill, that's apparent. The compositions are asymmetrical but well balanced. The themes are ancient but the lines are modern. Good qualities to bring to your work in architecture."
Andras reached for one of the covers, the one that showed a man and boys at prayer. He'd carved the linoleum original by candlelight in the apartment on Harsfa utca.
Though he hadn't
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