Written by Zary Fekete
Tünde Néni smelled like honey lozenges and harsh, hardwater soap. Her fingernails were squared and short, and her eyes didn’t soften, even when she smiled.
Every morning in our second-grade classroom in Budapest, she played opera through a small black tape recorder while we unzipped our boots and peeled off scarves. Sometimes it was Verdi, sometimes Puccini, but most often it was Mozart.
“In opera, even dying sounds beautiful,” she said once. I didn’t know what she meant, but I nodded because I was the American and had already learned it was better to nod.
One Thursday in early December, she announced we would be attending A Varázsfuvola…The Magic Flute…at the National Opera. She drew a crude stage diagram on the chalkboard and used little x’s to show where we’d be sitting. “You’ll need to listen carefully,” she said. “Some of the notes will be so high they will scare you if you aren’t prepared.”
The morning of the performance, we rode a creaking school bus across the Danube. The opera house looked like a shabby wedding cake. Inside, there were chandeliers and velvet ropes and a woman who handed out brass coat tokens when we gave up our jackets. Tünde Néni pinched one between her fingers like a communion wafer.
“Do not lose these,” she said. “You’ll want your coat later.”
I kept mine in the tiny coin pocket of my jeans.
During the Queen of the Night aria, the soprano’s voice climbed higher than seemed possible, like it was escaping gravity. Around me, other children stirred or leaned forward or whispered. I didn’t move. I turned slightly, just enough to see Tünde Néni in profile, her back straight, hands folded in her lap. Her face was still except for one tear that slipped past her cheekbone and caught on the rim of her glasses.
After, she reminded us to thank the coat check woman.
Years later, I would listen to that same aria on a cassette from the secondhand shop. The sound was tinny and the soprano’s high notes came out like whistles in a kettle. It wasn’t the same.
But I remembered the brass coin and the single tear. I remembered the warmth of my coat when I slipped it back on. And I remembered her voice telling us, very simply, not to lose it.
First published with 3 Panels Press
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Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and currently lives in Tokyo. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (The Written Path: A Journey Through Sobriety and Scripture) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky: zaryfekete.bsky.social
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