Heights confined to the weekends and the selection from American bakeries, which my father found contemptible. Even in his guise as suburban dad, my father had asserted his Old European taste. Weekends, heâd sit in his armchair in his beret and cravat, a demitasse balanced on one knee and classical music thundering on the hi-fi, and heap scorn on Reddi-wip, Cheez Whiz, and ice cubes in drinking water, along with his American childrenâs proclivity for pop tunes with drum tracks and sitcoms with laugh tracks. He went into a swivet once when it became clear I had never heard of one of his treasured European authors, the Austrian (and Jewish) writer Stefan Zweig. âYou have
no culture
,â he yelled, ripping out of my hand whatever âtackyâ novel Iâd been reading. On a series of weekend afternoons, my father attempted to get me to master the basic waltz steps in our burnt-orange-carpeted living room, Johann Strauss on the turntable. The lessons ended badly. âYou are
leading
again!â he would shout as I stepped on his foot, not always entirely by accident. âHow many times do I have to tell you? The woman does not lead.â
In the years after my father moved back to Hungary, he made regular pilgrimages to Vienna, often with his friend Ilonka in tow, to shop for the âcorrectâ Viennese comestibles and tour the faded palaces and hunting lodges and architectural glories of Emperor Franz Josefâs nearly seventy-year reign, photographing the last vestiges of the empire that collapsed with the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914. Or heâd take Ilonka to Switzerland, where they paid homage to the ancient Habsburg Castle, the dynastyâs original seat. Or to Germany, where he made a long detour so they could cruise past the Bavarian villa of the then still living Archduke Otto of Austria, last crown prince to the Austro-Hungarian throne. âThe best time was under the Habsburgs,â my father told me. âEven as a young child, I could still feel its good influence. If only we could bring the monarchy backâall of Hungary would welcome it.â
My fatherâs latest transition, from man to woman, debuted in the Habsburg emperorâs former guesthouse. Over coffee and Esterhazy cake one afternoon, she waxed nostalgic about the scene at what was now the Parkhotel Schönbrunn, where she attended the LGBT Rainbow Ball the year before her operation.
âEverybody was beautifully dressed, very elegant,â she said.
âYes, I know,â I said. She had shown me the video sheâd made of the ball, formal dancers in white satin gowns and black tie, white gloves, and cummerbunds, stepping in stately minuet formation across a polished parquet floor while an all-female orchestra played âEine Kleine Nachtmusik.â At the end of the evening, each performer received a single rose.
âThey always have good taste in Vienna,â my father sighed, licking the last speck of whipped cream from her demitasse spoon. âEven Ilonka enjoyed it.â In my fatherâs image gallery in the attic, she kept a photograph of the two of them at the ball. In the picture, he (still pre-op) is wearing a bleach-blond wig and a midnight-blue velour evening gown with spaghetti straps; Ilonka is in a plain navy sheath. They are holding hands. My father stares straight into the camera, with a pasted-on smile. Ilonka is looking away from my father, her mouth downturned. Her eyes are sorrowful.
âShe didnât want you to have the operation,â I said, a question.
âIlonka thought it was a game. She never thought Iâd go all the way with it. Ilonka wants nothing to change. Everything has to be the same way it was in the past. She even has to sit in the same pew in the church. Iâm not like that. I get used to new things in five minutes!â
She grinned and took another forkful of cake. It seemed like a good
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