Budapest story

Living in Budapest.



The fall of communism in Hungary had come rather suddenly, and because of the same a slew of American and European journalists flocked to Budapest. I had been there for two weeks, mostly spending my time writing fluff stories...lines of typed print that fit inbetween the begining of breakfest and the ending. Although the old communist government had been washed away by the raging waters of public dissent, the new government was every bit as mistrustful of journalists as the old one had been. So to keep us out of mischief the new government ushered all the foreign correspondents into a football size auditorium at the Carl Marx University where a bespectacled man dwarfed by a large gray metal desk in the office of the Hungarian Minister of Information assigned each member of the western press to a pool. There was twenty reporters to a pool; and each pool was to be escorted every morning by a government official to their respective assignment. Pool A was to cover the parliament, pool B the university, pool C the army. I was placed in pool D which was given the task of interviewing the farmers.
I was very upset about my pool assignment and complained most bitterly that I was a political journalist not an agriculture freak...all to no avail.
Later on that evening I took my displeasure and wandered around Budapest. Budapest is a gloomy city; most of the buildings were built during the Ottermen empire and the gargoyles gracing the facades, and the sleepy-fogged filled night moving off the Danube gave the streets a erie feel. I had had a few drinks to sooth my smitten ego and stumbled around in circles, passing sour menacing looks to all I came across. Fall was in full bloom at the time; leaves deep red, high yellow, rusty brown. Despite the gloominess of the architecture, the color of the leaves seemed to match the spirit of the people, and my sour looks were met by an unbridled gaiety. Woman, young and old alike, flung their arms around me and planted a wet kiss before dancing away. Men and boys shared their wine. Everywhere were the shouts of: Viszontlatasra communism!
At first the sight of such unbridled gaiety was unsettling to my cynical heart. But soon the city the gaiety became contagious. So much so that after a few more drinks my displeasure ceased and I found myself dancing in the street. After several hours of this non-stop festivities I was quite sure that I was on the cutting edge of a brave new world.
The next morning, I and nineteen other journalists boarded a rickety bus and along with a smiling Hungarian translator drove to the country. The road out of Budapest began like any major highway leading out of a large city in America. Frame houses of five and six rooms with lawns trimmed to within an inch of the topsoil lined both sides of the highway. But unlike America where suburbs sometimes stretched on for hours of miles, here the landscape swiftly changed; the pavement vanished, replaced by a dirt road that twisted through fields of lush farmland. The bus driver wrestled the wheel, fighting the loops and turns. The tires kicked up a cloud of dust that soon engulfed the bus; obscuring the scenery outside the windows. The bus lacked for air conditioning and we all choked and gagged for what seemed a very long time. Much grumbling went on until someone mumbled a bit too loud, "Lousy cheap ass commie government bus." The translator corrected this remark by saying in broken english, "This is not a lousy cheap ass commie government bus. It is a lousy cheap ass ex-commie government bus."
The translator's comment elicited a round of laughter and the grumbling ceased.
But the dust was still a pain and a visible sigh of relief rippled through the bus when an hour later the bus jerked to a halt outside a little hamlet of four or five houses, a feed barn and a railroad trestle. The translator led us into the feed barn where four men waited who had been obviously informed of our arrival, and were instantly cheerful at the sight of us. They are the farmers, we are told by the translator. The farmers all smiled broadly. We are told by the translator that the farmers are descendants of Magyar plains people, and as such are husky in build, and both jovial and serious at the same time. We all nodded and began asking standardized sanitized questions: Was communism good? Was communism bad? The farmers were proud of their land, and extolled the virtues of freedom with sweeping arms; and with a quiet vehemence, the passing of communism.
The scene had a surreal feel about it. A journalist, pen poised over paper, would ask the translator a question who translated to the farmers who in turn answered the translator who in turn translated back to the journalist who in turn scribbled notes. It wasn't until I was back on the bus and the bus was on the way to the next prearranged meeting with other farmers that I realized that the scene reminded me of the time I was in college watching reefer madness while toking on a reefer.
I instructed myself not to dwell on what was real and not real and just continue to enjoy the assignment.
As is apt to happen when a group of people are thrown together, a camaraderie developed as the days wore on. Some of us had worked together before and knew each other in that vague sense that co‑workers in the same office know each other but really know nothing about each other; and as such some good natured ribbing took place. The ribbing soon became boring and as the bus careened along from hamlet to hamlet, a born again hippie from the New York Times nicknamed the bus, 'the magic bus.' A Judy Garland freak from Associated Press christened the translator, a diminutive man with cheerful eyes and an earnestly smiling face, 'The Wizard Of Oz.' His name was Laszlo. But the nickname fit the translator because at each town he had the knack of magically producing several bottles of the local wine. The local wine was always the same, a red wine and was called, 'Egri Bikaver, literally meaning, 'Bulls Blood.' I can only assume that the reason the wine was dubbed, 'Bulls Blood,' was because the morning after a night of drinking the wine all I could feel behind my eyes were deep thrusting red horns...followed by throbbing jackhammers.
The, 'Magic bus,' delivered us every night to our hotels in Budapest and from the confines of my room I composed copy stories about how rich the fields looked, how high the wheat was, and how contented the farmers and people were now that communism had been eradicated from their little section of eastern Europe. I knew the stories were fluff, and were really just an endless stream of printed chatter designed to feed the American public's appetite for breakfast news. But still I dispatched the stories at the American Embassy news terminal and from their joined the continued gaiety in the streets.
After three weeks of, 'Going out to the country,' we all became good friends with Laszlo and much joking and drinking went on and we all had a very swell time. But as suddenly as the trips had begun, they ended. The Wizard explained to us that it was because of a lack of fuel. I, for one, felt a deep sadness, almost like a part of my heart was being stolen, and was very glad when the members of the American press in pool D decided to throw a grand farewell party for 'The Wizard Of Oz,' at the New York Cafe.
The New York Cafe was where most of the American journalists hung out; the reason being the name but also because they carried a complete line of American whiskey. The cafe was actually called the Cafe Hungaria. But the outside facade still had 'New York Cafe,' chiseled above the entranceway, which is what the place had been christened seventy odd years ago. But whatever the name truly was, neglect ruled today. The interior was decorated in sixteenth century Vienna baroque: exquisite woodwork, granite statues, and tons and tons of marble. When really drunk, one could imagine a faded time of royalty and kings; but when sober the chipped marble, scratched woodwork, and statues with an occasional haphazardly amputated toe or finger seemed to apologize while at the same time crying out: My time in history has come and gone, so please leave me in peace.
Boredom is the fear of all journalists in the same vein as water is the fear of all house cats. The journalists in Budapest felt they had written what was worth writing about in Budapest and were itching for action. So when the news of the party for the Wizard spread amongst the journalistic community, everybody who held a press card wanted to attend; including the British. The British journalists spent their free time at the British Embassy bar; located in a more staid building styled in severe understatement. A few members of, 'The British Royal Press,' considered the American Press to be made up of uncouth louts, which many in the grandest movies of American were; and most of the American Press considered the Britishers to be bores, which a few in the grandest tradition of England, were; and there was a gentlemen's agreement between both that the American journalists wouldn't drink at the British Embassy bar and that the British journalists wouldn't drink at the New York Cafe. But a vote was taken amongst the American journalists and the, 'pro Britishers,' squeaked through a victory and the British journalists were allowed to join in on the fun.
The night designated as the, 'Wizard Of Oz' night went off without a hitch and the party was going well until Steve Kaniso, a United Press International prankster, went to the bathroom and wrote in red crayon on a nine by eleven sheet of paper, 'No Sex please, I am British.' He spread honey on the back of the paper and with a pin the tail on the donkey grin joined in on a conversation between Chris Rumbelow and another man. He said a few words, and before moving on patted Chris on the back, leaving the sign.
Chris worked for the BBC, and was an easy going man and as such paid little notice to the snickers that followed him around. About an half hour later Chris was talking to the British Ambassador when a young lady of the street variety type slid up to him and purred, "You really don't like sex?"
As she talked, she caressed his zipper. Chris quickly developed a deep red pallor. The young lady of the street unzipped the zipper and purred, "I love sex."
Chris bolted into the bathroom, the hilarious sounds of laughter dodging his heels.
Chris was an astute journalist and quickly discovered that Steve was the prankster who had attached the sign onto his back, and had also paid the young lady to embarrass him. He was all for giving Steve a sound trashing, and Steve, drunk by this time, kept urging him in the grandest tradition of Hemingway journalism to go ahead and try. But order prevailed. At least it did until a little while later Steve bolted out of the bathroom as if he was being chased by hell's goblins. Something very white and very thin protruded snake like from Steve's zipper. I was sure he had a strand of spaghetti attached to his zipper and was pulling another joke and paid him no attention even when he screamed like a banshee, "She bit it off! She bit it off!"
The others at the party felt as I did, and continued sipping on their drinks and engaging in conversation as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on what so ever; which is a true and tried method to cure idiocy. But Steve was not to be denied. He hopped around like he had hot coals in his shoes, pausing at each person for a brief second to show off the wet noodle and to scream, "She bit it off!"
Everyone at the party came to the sudden realization that Steve wasn't joking when a young lady screamed frightfully loud enough to wake the dead, "He's exposing himself.
The woman was really upset and it took a belt of whiskey to calm her down. Even then she kept mumbling,"I have never seen such a tiny‑ugly‑thing‑of‑a‑jig in my entire life."
Then it took three shots of Vodka to calm Steve enough for him to explain what had happened. As it turned out, the lady of the evening had enticed him into the bathroom with the promise of a good time. She lured him into a stall and as soon as he dropped his pants, took a little nibble. After the laughter had died down, the little nymph was questioned about why she would do such a terrible thing...the people doing the questioning were men and they could certainly sympathize. The young lady thought it all very funny and readily admitted that she had been hired to nibble on Steve's thing-of-a-jig, but refused to identify the culprit. She claimed that silence was the right of a free citizen. Money was offered. Although her eyes strayed to the money, she held firm.
So a bevy of men accompanied a still moaning Steve back into the bathroom. They emerged and proclaimed that Steve's thing‑of‑a‑jug was all there...such as it was. This prompted the obvious question: Did you personally inspect it?
A minute later, Steve stormed out of the bathroom looking mean and vicious like he wanted revenge. But the near loss of his manhood had taken, so to speak, all the piss and vinegar out of him and the party continued without further incident.
The party dragged on into the wee hours of the night, and finally with dawn breaking over the horizon everybody agreed that they had had a wonderful time and hugged the, 'Wizard," and promised to write.
As I said we all had a very fine time, but the party at the New York Cafe marked the beginning of the end. Soon winter came bringing with it a cold wind blowing off the Danube. The gaiety in the street had abated, giving way to the more realistic drudgery of everyday living. Old women in threadbare coats and bubvshkas covering their heads and shriveled fingers clutching tattered shopping bags trudged up the street, their eyes twisting and turning in an inbred fearfulness that searched for the accustomed, but then disbanded, invading glance from the secret police. Gypsies set up breakaway tables in front of my hotel every morning. The tables were filled with handcrafted pottery. The gypsies were gaunt, and their teeth chattered when they spoke. "Very few Forints. Bring a present home to your loved one."
I suppose that the old women and the gypsies had been there all along, but I had been so caught up in the gaiety that I had not seen them. So to sooth my conscience, I considered writing a copy piece about the old women with empty eyes, and the shivering gypsies, but in the end dismissed the idea. America and Hungary were an ocean and some land apart. Breakfast news didn't extend that far.
As the empty days of doing nothing dragged on there was much grumbling amongst the journalistic community that, 'Budapest was deader than V. I Lenin.' Luckily before the boredom could atrophy, the red plaque of red plague for journalists, the quest for freedom in Rumania had become a full fledged armed revolution. So most of the journalists gleefully packed their bags and headed for Bucharest.
When I heard the news about Rumania I told those who I thought cared that I had decided against going; my reason being that I had seen one war too many. So I said my goodbyes; wishing all a safe return. By this time reason had overtaken the initial gleefulness and there were plenty of tight smiles. To cover an armed conflict was exciting. Yes. No more need be said.
I had never been given to regret, and did not do so then and spent my last two days in Budapest entirely alone and rather enjoyed the solitude. The dark came very early, and walking amongst the snow swept streets was nice, uncomplicated; a time where a man could collect his thoughts. I knew that I had lied about covering one war too many. But during those walks I discovered that worst of all I had lied to myself about having a swell time. (Maybe it was the shock of seeing the gypseys and what not. I didn't realy know. I did know that I had been sent there to cover a story and I had laid down on the jop. I had told myself I was doing a job. So and so.)
I suppose if a man lies to himself often enough, he can fool himself that way. But I liked to think that I was not such a man and realized that the entire trip had held about as much meaning for me as eating a hamburger at McDonald's.
I felt a weariness settle in at what I had discovered about myself. I had been a foreign correspondence for almost a quarter of a century. It was time to call it quits. I had a standing offer from a good friend on the New York Times to become a desk man, and decided with very little remorse to accept the position.
My last night in Budapest I found myself with nothing to do and drifted to the New York Cafe. I was the only customer sitting at the bar and was nursing a Jack Daniel's on the rocks when Marc sat down next to me. The New York Cafe was very large, but on this night only two other people occupied the place, and they sat at a table well away from the bar.
"Feel like company?" Marc asked.
I wore an original Indiana Jones hat, marketed at the time by Stetson, and tipped the corner forward to show it was fine by me. "You just never know with you."
"Really?"
"Yeah, the line is that you old timers don't cotton well to company."
I chafed at the way he put, 'old timer,' but said, "I have been around for a while, yes."
He had noticed my ire at being refered to as an old timer annd said "I was stationed in New Orleans for a while. U. P. I."
"You're A. P. now?"
"Yeah," he replied, "Names Marc Natkin. I was assigned to cover Budapest University. The Econ conference."
"I know. I've seen you around."
"My first time overseas. I suppose that's why my editor wouldn't send me to Rumania. He said I was still sort of feeling my way. Know what I mean?"
"He used the term...green?"
"Yes."
"Yes," I replied
"Yes," he replied, "that's why I wanted to talk to you."
I tipped my hat again to show I was listening, but to also pause the conversation while looking at the far corner of the cafe where at a table sat the other two customers. They were both men, and were arguing loud enough to be heard on the street.
"I'm telling you that I am right," the first man said.
"I am telling you that you are full of shit," replied the second man.
"No, no," the first man answered, "I am telling you that the question is not whether communism has failed, but whether the people who administered communism failed the people."
"You know them?" Marc asked.
"Never seen them before in my life."
"Well..."
He paused, as if embarrassed.
I said, "Yes?"
"I am having a problem, and I need some advice."
"You came to the wrong person," I answered right off.
"But."
The argument between the two men continued, and I tipped my hat at Marc, indicating I would be with him in a second.
"You are absolutely wrong," the second man said, "And to prove my point you need only to stop by the cultural museum and view the atrocities that the communist have afflicted on Hungary."
"I have seen the show," the first man said, "And my question is this: What about the atrocities that the Hungarian people visited on the jews during world war two?"
"What about them?" the second man demanded.
"Is there really any difference?"
"Please," the second man replied sarcastically, "what is your point?"
"Please what?" the first man insisted, "Can't you see that it is not the system but the people who administer it?"
The second man motioned angrily for the waiter.
"They are pretty hot," Marc offered.
"It would seem," I agreed.
"About my problem?"
I studied him for the first time. He couldn't have been more then twenty‑two, or three and had that boyish look of innocence. I couldn't help thinking that the rookies kept getting younger and younger.
"Okay, what is your problem?"
"It is my girl."
It's always a girl, or at my age a woman. But I didn't say this. I said. "Yes?"
"Well, she doesn't understand why I want to be an overseas journalist. She say's that..."
"That," I replied, cutting him off, "A white picket fence and a couple of kids should be enough."
The kid was surprised and showed as much. "Why yes."
The waiter had served the drinks and the two men had resumed their arguing. I had missed the first few words, but the first man was standing with his glass in his hand and yelling something over and over. I held up a pausing finger. The kid fell silent. Much to my surprise the man who was standing set his drink on the table and took out a handgun from somewhere beneath his overcoat and pointed it at the second man.
"You see this gun?" he stated.
The second man didn't answer, but by the way his eyes bugged out in pure fright, it was obvious he did.
"I could shoot you dead right now."
"Yes," the second man answered in a dry scratchy voice.
"That is my point," the first man replied and replaced the gun from where it had come. He finished off his drink and left the cafe. The second man finished off his drink, then noticed that I was looking at him. He circled his finger next to his head, performing the time honored sign that the man who had left was crazy. I said nothing. The man left the cafe. When I turned to the kid, his face was bone white.
"I think I better leave."
"About your girl?"
He pardoned himself with a polite nod, and left the cafe. I returned to New York the next morning. The desk job lasted two weeks before I accepted an assignment in Singapore. I never saw Marc again.

(The kid he see's this as being a younger man's job, He was chafed at the kid for calling him an old timer, but maybe the kid was right? Maybe this was why I had not seen the so and so. I had wither grown complacent or what not and so and so.)
(He see the story in the gun the kid does not.)