Siege 13. Tamas Dobozy

then?”

      She waited. “Your wife,” she said. “The way you described her that night on the bridge. She sounds . . .” Judit smiled her widest smile. “She sounds like the one.”

      There was a sailor who built a sea of paper. That’s how I think of Judit now, and how she was in those weeks when we were dealing with consulates, agencies, doctors, even civic politicians, all of them scratching their heads, reaching for paperwork, telling us we were going too fast, that we couldn’t get it done, that it would take up to a year, even longer, for the adoption process—that we’d need more money, there were fees and medical tests and records to be ordered and processed, even a number of “gifts and donations” to be made. And when we weren’t doing that, trying to batter a hole through that bureaucracy, then I was in some park, mainly the Városliget, playing with Janka, trying to get the girl used to me, though I think now it was just the attention she loved, attention from anybody, her mother’s blessing floating along with us wherever we went—the circus, the Vidám Park, the Szécsényi Fürdő, the Gerbeaud—almost like a kind of anticipation, a perfume, some hint of a perfect future. Janka would slip her hand into mine, and smile, and ask question after question about Canada, about lakes, about rivers, about birds, about the Arctic, that would echo in me a long time afterwards. “Yes, your mother will come visit.”

      “What if you were to just take her?” Judit said to me one day. She was drinking even more heavily then, our hours together more and more quiet as if her interest in me was steadily draining away, the two of us leaning into the pillows, uncorking another bottle. Even her stories of sailors grew shorter and shorter, reduced to single sentences spoken at the very end of the night, when I was almost asleep, not sure if she was speaking or it was a dream. “You could take her, and I could write a letter that would let the two of you travel, and then I could work out the legal things afterwards.” Judit tilted her head to one side. “But I would need the money.”

      “How much?” I asked. She shrugged as if she didn’t know. “Twenty-five thousand dollars? That would be enough, wouldn’t it?” I waited. “Thirty thousand?” Judit nodded, and I wrote her a cheque right there, the paper curling on itself like a wave. She cashed it the next morning while I went back to my hotel and, after sitting in front of the phone for what seemed hours, left a message for Anna and Míklós, telling them I was coming home, that Janka was her name.

      But that’s not how it worked out. Janka was standing beside her mother at the airport, crying, holding Judit’s hand, the tiny flower-printed suitcase I’d bought for her sitting on the ground beside them. We were ten or fifteen minutes from boarding, and I nodded at Judit over Janka’s head, saying I’d leave them alone for a moment to say goodbye. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, leaning down to stroke Janka’s hair, pointing at the sign for the men’s room, and then, once I was out of sight, I stood there, back against the tiled wall trying to regulate my breathing, glancing out into the crowd to see if they’d followed. Then I was gone, keeping the passengers between me and Judit, moving fast through security, down along ramps and onto the plane, looking over my shoulder every few steps to make sure Janka wasn’t there, still crying, the little suitcase banging against her legs as she tried to catch up to me. Looking out the airplane window I thought I could see Janka in the terminal, back at the boarding gate, pressed against the glass wondering where I was, what happened to our plane, how long it would take before I came back, or whether her mother was still there on the other side of security or gone home, goodbye forever, the airport suddenly large and exitless and all around her.

      I watched and watched for that little girl standing by the window, craning my neck as the plane reversed, moved onto the runway, took off. I sat there wishing I could go back until we were well over the Arctic, halfway to Canada, and I opened the letter Judit had written—permitting me to take Janka—and turned it this way and that. It was completely blank.

      She’d known I would never take her. She’d known I’d waffle in the last minute, known it from that first night standing over the Danube, stringing me along until she got every last cent. She knew, too, that what I was really paying for was not Janka but my freedom, not just from her and Janka, but from everything that had brought me there, to Budapest, in the first place. That blank letter, which would have stopped me dead at the border, which would have gotten me arrested if I’d tried to take Janka with me, was what I’d really been after all along.

      It turns out there is a Museum of Failed Escapes, and that it is, as Judit said, in the ninth district. I went there once, many years after that day on the plane with the blank letter. It had been a private collection during the eighties, nineties, and early oughts, opening to the public in 2007, after its owner, András Fabiani, died and bequeathed the property to the city. During the time it was private, entry had been limited to a tiny circle of collectors, politicians, VIPs (and, I supposed, certain exotic dancers) favoured by Fabiani, who was one of those very well connected members of the communist elite who’d profited beyond imagining when the iron curtain came down and left him and his comrades well positioned to sell state property, hand out foreign contracts, and pocket most of the money. The museum was an obsession.

      Despite being public, you still needed an appointment to get in. An older man met me and the other visitors at the door. His name was Mihály, forty-five or so, incredibly well dressed, and led us from room to room in the converted apartment that was a disquieting mix of vernacular architecture and supermodern minimalism. There were three floors to the museum, each one devoted to a different medium of escape, “land,” “water,” and “air.” After the tour, when the other visitors left, I asked Mihály if it would be okay for me to go back to level two, where I marvelled at how accurate Judit had been, because it was exactly as she’d said—all the different ways her sailors had tried to escape. Mihály accompanied me as I looked at the plastic boat, the hand-drawn map of the “seas of Hungary” (code for the lakes and rivers that crossed various borders to the west), a vial filled with the tears of the sailor who tried to cry himself to sea (the inscription said they were gathered from a failed escapee who’d been sentenced to ten years in the notorious Csillag Prison), the car outfitted with the ridiculous wheels meant to paddle along the Tisza, and a hundred other things.

      There was a video on the wall showing an old guy in a sailor’s suit, his toothless mouth moving endlessly, underneath it a speaker quietly playing back his words—about constellations, trade winds, shifting tides. “There was a sailor who tried to . . ?” I looked at Mihály for help.

      “To talk himself to sea. To make his mouth a sail. As if his words were so much wind.” The attendant looked serious for a minute, then smiled, and broke into a small laugh.

      “Did you by any chance ever know a woman by the name of Judit?”

      Mihály looked at me strangely. His face coloured. He shook his head. Then he changed the subject. “I worked for Fabiani a long time. He entrusted this place to me. He had nothing to do with exotic dancers . . .” Mihály paused, started over. “This is what I call ‘a poetic museum,’ as I said when we were upstairs.” He gave me a look that said I should have been listening more carefully during the tour. “Technically, not everything in here, not every piece, was part of an actual escape,” he continued. “Some were.” He nodded at the plastic sailboat. “But others were escapes of a different kind . . . It was Fabiani who found all these, and who believed they belonged together. These are escapes as he defined them.” Mihály paused again, waiting for me to say something. “The collection,” he finished, “says more about his notion of escape than anything else.”

      I looked at the video screen, listening to the old sailor’s quiet disquisition on longitude and latitude and how the Soviet agents, if they followed you far enough, would become lost at sea, because Marx only ever wrote about people on land.

      “A woman,” I finally said, “once told me about this place. Stories about these things . . .” I laughed. “Part of me thought I might find something of her here.” I waited. “This was a long time ago. When this place was still closed to the general public.”

      “I’m sorry about that,” he said, sensing my disappointment. “Was she, were you . . ?”