Twenty-three-year-old Anna is mesmerized when she meets thirty-one-year-old Edmund, a medical student attending a university in Budapest, Hungary. While Anna sees nothing wrong with her relationship with Edmund, her parents and others are critical of her dating a black man from Kenya. In this lead story in a collection of seven, "Love Me Black or Love Me White" describes the hypocrisy of the communist regime as well as the world seeing only skin color instead of human beings. The stories in Love Me Black or Love Me White are charged with contemporary interest-human dignity in an indifferent world as seen through the eyes of author Agnes Arany. Based on real events, each story takes place in a different country. "Violations" originated from Arany's experiences as an interpreter in the Soviet Union and witnessing the roots of Communism. "Wives are Best When Thrashed," "The Old Hindu" and "Palm Branch and Typhoon" arose from her personal observations while traveling abroad. A keen observer of the reality around her, Arany harbors sympathy for the world's downtrodden and explores these issues in this collection. Love Me Black or Love Me White describes the world as she sees it and demonstrates that life itself is the best storyteller.

Love Me Black or Love Me White

By Agnes G. Arany-Makkai

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2009 Agnes G. Arany-Makkai
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4401-1625-4

Contents

Love Me Black or Love Me White.....................1Wives Are Best When Thrashed.......................105Violations.........................................129Father Theo........................................181The Old Hindu......................................199Palm Branch and Typhoon............................217Clean, Cleaner, Cleanest...........................225About the Author...................................231

Chapter One

Love Me Black or Love Me White

After the last patient of the day said good-bye and left, he unhooked the stethoscope from his neck and carefully locked it up in its metal case.

The house servant handed him a large manila envelope. "Mbwana, the postman just brought this."

"Registered," the doctor said as he glanced at him in acknowledgement. "Thank you, Ogabe."

"It's nothing," the servant said modestly, straightening up a little and nodding.

The years had rolled past Ogabe without his ever having learned to read or to write. "That sort of thing is not for me," he would say when the subject came up, and yet there was nothing he was prouder of than that he was in fact able to write, slowly and in big, staggering characters, the letters of his name.

"How thick the envelope is! I wonder what it could be?" The doctor turned it over. Air Mail-the white letters stood out against the dark blue background. He glanced again at the return address: Anna Owens, New York. "Who could it be?" Anna, yes. He knew an Anna once, but not with that last name, and not in that place. Perhaps it is not even for me, it occured to him. The envelope was addressed by hand, all in uppercase letters.

"An elegant hand." He brought the envelope closer to his eyes. He found the way the cursive letters were joined together attractive, particularly in the words Kenya, Africa.

"But who could this Anna Owens be?" There could be no mistake; this letter had been addressed to him. With the envelope in hand, he walked over and sat down in his favorite spot, under the wild fig tree.

"I brought your coffee, mbwana." Ogabe appeared, carefully balancing a brimming mug.

"Put it right here," the doctor said, indicating a spot next to him on the bench. He blew on the steaming liquid and sipped delicately.

"Anna? That was so long ago." He closed his eyes. "We were so young."

The slightly bitter taste of the coffee also transported him back there.

"Keep it down!" He glanced up at the gray parrots quarreling on the branch above him. The birds continued their squawking, nipping at each other's white crests. At the foot of the garden, behind the banana palm, there flourished a carpet of fire; long-stemmed matookas were blooming there, the ubiquitous signature flowers of the Luos. Above the spiny leaves, their large, tousled, flame-colored heads met. "That will do." He squinted up again at the parrots. Between the leaves a tiny patch of sky shone through. "Anna's eyes were blue too." He meditated a moment, then his glance fell on his veined hand resting on the envelope. He withdrew the bundle of papers it contained and began to read:

"How tightly they are holding on to each other! And the time is flying merciless," worries an elderly woman at Budapest airport and glances at her wristwatch. "The earth will not stop turning even for their sakes, still ..."

She turns away tactfully, as some old, half-forgotten memory tugs at her.

A few passengers are waiting in line already behind the young couple when the armed security guard calls out, "Next!" in the quiet but firm voice of those used to being obeyed.

"We'll miss the flight because of them," frets an old gentleman at the head of the line just behind them, aggressively leaning on his cane.

Anna extricates herself from the embrace, letting her hand slide down the man's arm, her fingers seeking his, then letting go as Edmund takes a step towards the gate beyond which she cannot follow. He hands his passport to the officer behind the counter and looks back at her with that sweet smile that had always accompanied his nickname for her: "ndovuling." Surely, the corner of his mouth moved, did it not? Surely, he was mouthing it, saying it silently to himself. A hand reaches out and Edmund takes his passport. Then he turns around and starts walking. His hair, with its million tiny interlocking ringlets, appears unusually lusterless under the neon lights.

"How handsome he is!" Anna's eyes follow him. The dark gray suit he bought for his graduation from medical school drapes over his shoulders without a trace of a wrinkle. Anna is keeping her eyes glued to the back of his neck, where the tiny curling ringlets stab at her with the memory of the countless passionate embraces that must, she realizes with a sharp rush of adrenalin, from this moment on remain only a deep-sown seed of hope.

Suddenly she is aware of an awful pressure in her chest that is crushing everything inside her body. It closes down the air passages, and she has to fight spasmodically for breath. Gathering all her strength, she takes one step forward-as though she could free herself by this-and as she battles with her own body, two half-formed words erupt from her suffocating chest: "My son!" The voice is choked, alien, but the pressure in her ribcage instantly ceases.

Edmund can no longer hear her words. At the end of the corridor he turns, his face convulsing into a smile, then vanishes behind the partition. Anna gazes after him, drained. She continues to stare at the wall as though her glance were capable of transmuting it into clear glass.

Perhaps ...

She remains there standing, waiting. When she realizes that she is asking for the impossible, that there is nothing left to wait for, she slowly creeps across the black-and-white tiles of the floor, like an eliminated chess piece, and totters out of the airport terminal building.

The bus into the city is idling in front against the curb, rumbling metallically and spitting sooty black puffs into the July sunlight. The odor of tar emanating from the floor combines with the stink of carbon dioxide; sharp particles of dust are swept in through the open window. Anna collapses into a seat and drags the window at her side shut. The muggy heat draws moist, sticky stripes on her thighs where they are visible under her short skirt. As she shifts her weight, the vinyl seat hisses beneath her. Suddenly she realizes that in Edmund's life it will now be eternally summer-hot, never-ending summer.

Only on that one single sky-embracing mountain, Mount ... what was it? ... Kilimanjaro. Only there is there ever snow. She recalls the photograph she saw in a tourist brochure as she wipes the perspiration from around her nose with the back of her hand.

Through the window, the suburbs crowd into her field of vision with their neglected houses and blistering, peeling walls. Even the flowerbeds lining the front of the houses look dusty in the swirling breeze. At one stop, squash vines creep over the crumbling soil of a garden; stretching through the wire fence, they are heading for the sidewalk with foot-long strides, although what awaits them there is only the tar melting in the heat and discarded cigarette butts. At the rim of the capital city, the prefabricated buildings spread the monotony of their cubiform bodies out under the parched sun. Anna presses her two fists to her eyes and leans her head against the back of the seat in front of her. She has no wish to look at the city, nor to think, not even to exist-no, never to exist, never to feel again! The darkness is pleasant, as though she were floating in the intoxicating void.

The bus gives a big lurch. As its hind end rises again behind the accordion joint, it squeaks and shakes in indignation and avenges itself on the passengers. Is the terminal far yet? She looks around with heavy-lidded eyes and sliding to the edge of the seat puts out a foot to steady herself against the floor. The buildings here look familiar; they are already on the Crescent. Edmund lived just two blocks away. He is gone, forever. He has returned home. His relatives will be waiting for him in Nairobi; they will take him to that village, to his parents. What was it he had said? That it was twelve years since he had seen them. Twelve years! Edmund was their youngest-they had not even planned him. A gift. The blood had given one last passionate surge before settling into decline-my God, how his mother must be waiting for him! And she will be wearing, this time too, a white kerchief on her head.

"Take this for your mother as a gift. Don't say anything, just give it to her," Anna had said yesterday as they were packing, adding quietly, "She does not know about me anyway." She extended towards Edmund her best piece of jewelry, a silver bracelet set with marcasites.

"My mother doesn't wear anything like this," the man had protested. He turned the bracelet this way and that, admiring how the tiny stones sparkled in their silver setting, then handed it back to her. "No. They are very, very poor, my parents. You cannot even imagine poverty like that!"

"We were very poor too after the war, and also during the early fifties."

"Perhaps. But the kind of poverty where we live, that you do not know. Trust me." For an instant, he was at a loss how he could explain it to her, and then his gaze fell on the bracelet and he continued, "Imagine that you are invited to a wedding celebration, and the most expensive thing you are able to buy, that you can take as a gift, is soap! A bar of soap!"

"But surely, your mother has a wedding ring at least," Anna ventured tentatively.

"No, of course not. How would she have anything of the sort? She has never had any kind of jewelry at all. They could not afford such things, but I don't think she was interested in them anyway, unless, perhaps, when she was young ..." He mused on the possibilities for a moment, then shook his head. "Oh well, it doesn't matter. They could not afford them in any case. Jewelry, fashion! You know, it is an entirely different world over there in Africa. In our village, there aren't any such things. There are only tiny houses, trees, bushes, animals, and poor people. My mother wears plain cotton dresses and a white kerchief. I told you, remember, that she always wears a white kerchief tied around her head. It is the traditional head-covering of her sect."

Anna remembered. How could she not? Whenever she thought of Edmund's mother, she was reminded of the folksong,

An ancient aspen on the hillside grows Under the aspen stands my mother's house There, in her white kerchief, my mother's making bread Kneading the dough in a willow-wood tub.

Anna always felt the warmth of love wash over her when she thought of this song, and she could picture the scene in her mind, like a photograph. No matter that she was not sure whether there were aspen trees in Kenya, or willow-wood tubs. (Funny, she had never asked him.) Although Edmund had told her that where he came from, the women made flatbread instead of loaves, this did not interfere with Anna's picture. Chappati, was it, the name of the bread? According to Edmund, it was something they had learned from the Hindus, whom the English had transplanted there. At any rate, the picture struck her as too beautiful to discard. Under the kerchief, her imagination always conjured an honest, wrinkled face, one whose lines and color resembled Edmund's. Never having seen a photograph of her, it was easier for her to place Edmund's mother into this typically Hungarian landscape. Now, too, she sees her before her mind's eye as though real and tangible, and it occurs to her that this time she will be baking the bread for Edmund.

My God, how she must be looking forward to seeing him! The yearning thickens inside Anna into a long, indrawn breath.

"My son!" She hears the echo of her own voice again, those low, tortured words. "What have I said? My son? Who? Edmund? My son?! How could that be? He is fully eight years older than I am! He is black. I am white. So how could he be my son?" She shakes her head in disbelief. "My son ... and why in English? We always spoke in Hungarian. My one semester's worth of English doesn't take me very far. My son? But ... it is as if those words had come from somewhere very deep inside me, as if ... as if I had given birth to them!" she mutters. She is struggling to understand it, explain it, but only confused thoughts surface in her, thoughts that all eddy around one single point, like a whirlpool. "I don't, I do not understand." She presses her head against the back of the seat again, drained.

The bus totters through a narrow street, gives a final snort, and stops. "We have arrived at our destination," the driver says as he begins to extricate himself from behind the wheel. In the center of Vrsmarty Square, the clock lords it over both time and the passers-by from its inscrutable eminence on top of the column plastered with advertising posters. "He has already taken off," Anna mutters. She squints at the sky, which glows so white with the heat of the day above the roofs of the city, as if it had forgotten about the evening altogether. The wind originating in the valleys of Buda picks up the scent of the Danube as it blows across it and carries it into the city streets, where it sweeps the city dust under the thresholds of the houses in short, staccato gusts. Tiny coal-black bodies lie along the base of the sidewalks-small velvet flies. Anna had not even been aware of their existence, but this year they had materialized out of nowhere in the tens of thousands, and the wind, as it blows up against the walls, now spreads their corpses wreath-like around the buildings. The downtown rush hour is almost over; the overtime crowd slowly trickles home, stopping in front of the shop windows, appreciating the luxurious scent of the espresso coffee emanating from the corner caf. Some even light up an accompanying cigarette. An old woman, stray strands of hair escaping from her loosening bun, is scattering breadcrumbs from a brown paper bag. The pigeons, trying to avoid the pedestrians with short, hurried flights, swoop peck greedily at the crumbs only to swallow them at a more dignified strut. The street is full of people. Anna mixes with the crowd. Like this, alone, she can lose herself among them; no one stares, no one makes remarks about her. No one pays any attention to her; she might as well be an Emmenthal cheese among many Emmenthal cheeses.

The concierge's wife stands in the doorway like Cerberus, with the superior air of a territorial, predatory animal.

"Good day!" Anna greets her, granting her a single glance.

"G'day!" the woman replies offhand.

The yellow tiles of the courtyard breathe out coolness, and a faint odor of mildew floats above the dimly lit stairwell. A brief rummaging in the depths of her handbag produces the key, and Anna pushes the door to her flat open with her knee. She picks up the postcard sticking out of the mail slot and tosses it on the table without reading it. She throws herself on the bed and clutches her pillow to her with all her strength. When her breath gives out, she pushes it away and looks around. The colors of the objects in view barely filter through the dim half-dark of the room. Edmund's picture is a small dark square on the wall above the bed. The spasm of their last embrace convulses her arms.

"Is this all? After two years, is this all that is left?"

* * *

The pages grew indistinct before Anna's eyes, boredom causing the letters to coalesce. With her hand clapped over her mouth, she yawned, unable to force herself to continue reading the textbook on international trade. The long rows of tables in the library were lit by lamps covered with old, yellowed vellum shades. Anna found herself in the dimly lit zone falling between two spheres of light cast by two lamps. She was unhappy with the location, but there was no choice; this was the seat the number on her ticket had assigned to her.

"I am half comatose from boredom too," George whispered to her. "Come, let's get out of here!"

"I would so love some coffee!"

"Have you got any money?"

"No."

"I haven't either."

"I have an idea. Let's go visit my friend. He always has coffee. There is something I want to ask him anyway. He lives quite nearby."

"No, I don't think so."

"Why, is there something important you have to do?"

"No, of course not."

"Well, then? As I said, he doesn't live far. He is my brother's classmate in med school. Oh, and just to forestall a surprise, he is African."

"He is what?"

"As I said, African."

"Coffee colored?"

"Umm, espresso."

"Music to my ears!"

The man sitting in the row ahead of them, who had been trying with nervous movements to push back his one remaining lock of hair that was continually falling forward over his eyes, now turned around towards them, his face red and irritated.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Love Me Black or Love Me Whiteby Agnes G. Arany-Makkai Copyright © 2009 by Agnes G. Arany-Makkai. Excerpted by permission.
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