by Ailsa Kay
Under Budapest
Copyright © 2013 by Ailsa Kay.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher or a licence from the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). To contact Access Copyright, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call 1-800-893-5777.
Edited by Bethany Gibson.
Cover image “Smoking in the Light” © 2009, Soós Bertalan, www.soosbertalan.com.
Cover and page design by Julie Scriver.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kay, Ailsa
Under Budapest / Ailsa Kay.
Electronic monograph issued in PDF format.
Also issued in print format.
ISBN 978-0-86492-750-7
1. Budapest (Hungary) — Fiction. I. Title.
PS8621.A78U54 2013 C813’.6 C2012-907142-0
Goose Lane Editions acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), and the Government of New Brunswick through the Department of Tourism, Herirtage, and Culture.
Goose Lane Editions
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This book is dedicated to my husband, Todd Fullwood:
your love makes everything possible.
And to my family,
Maureen and Bev, Laird and Raymond.
Budapest Night
What We Deserve
Gellert Hegy
Now or Never
The Safe Room
Brothers
After Budapest
Under
Budapest Night
So me and Csaba, we’re walking down Szent Istvan Korut toward Margit Hid. It’s late. Hardly anyone on the street. And it’s fucking cold out, so we’re walking extra fast, heads down. We’re talking the way we always talk. Meaning, I’m doing most of the talking because I’m eloquent that way.
“Here’s a perfect idea. Where can tourists go to get real authentic Magyar?” This is what I ask Csaba, my best Hungarian friend since we were ten.
Csaba only wipes his nose with the sleeve of his coat, so I keep going.
“In the summer, Budapest is crawling with tourists, right? Thousands, maybe a million even. And what do they see? Just the usual turista shit—Vaci Utca, the market, Castle Hegy, whatever. Churches. Maybe they buy a painting of the Duna. Maybe they eat cake in a superior Budapest café. But they don’t see the real Budapest because what they see is fake. They get nothing truly Hungarian. No authentic Magyar.”
“Tourists don’t get authentic nothing,” says Csaba. “Except maybe authentic girls. Tourists definitely get them.”
“True. Sometimes American men, and even European men, get lucky with Hungarian girls because they have money.”
“So you want to offer authentic girls for money? Bro, that’s not original.”
“No, I’m not saying we sell the girls. That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying we give tourists the real deal, Hungary like Hungary truly is. Veritable Hungarian families, like yours, for example, make dinner for tourists and talk about Hungarian life for real. Maybe they talk about communism. Americans love communist shit. Stalin and gulags and shit. What do you think? Take the tourists into a truly shitty communist panel apartment, serve them a nice goulash, and tell them veritable Hungarian stories. This is what I call a premium opportunity.”
Sometimes Csaba doesn’t get my ideas. He has minimal imagination. So I say, “You could tell the one about your Trabant.”
“Ha. To make that Trabant start, I had to strap my mom to it, tell her to go.” Csaba’s laugh always makes me laugh. His voice goes high like a girl’s, then gets stuck in his teeth like ts-tsts-tsts.
“See. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah. Hulyes drug addict took my car. Should’ve stolen my mom. Woulda got away faster.” Ts-tsts-tsts.
“TRUE Hungary—all one word. Some shit like that. Package tours, bro.”
He’s getting it now, nodding his head, grinning that skinny grin.
“We just need a couple investors, some advertising. Fortunately for ourselves, money’s no problem. I know the veritably richest Hungarian family in Canada. Have you ever seen a true Ferrari? This one dude owns three of them. He lives out in the country, and he let me drive one once. I accelerated it from zero to two hundred in under five seconds. Unbelievable. I thought I was gonna fly. Dude said he never seen anyone drive his Ferrari that fast. I’m a premium natural when it comes to Ferraris. When you visit me in Toronto, I’ll take you to meet this guy, and I’ll drive you in his Ferrari. I know this guy. For sure, he will love our idea.” I always say it’s “our” idea even when it’s usually mine. I learned that in leadership class for delinquents at the Toronto Y: share the glory, build team loyalty. “He’ll give us the money for our plan for sure. He always tells me, ‘Janos, you remind me of me. You don’t stay under any frog’s ass for long.’ That’s what he says. Also, he says, ‘You’re a man of opportunity.’ What a guy. You’d love him. He’s a crazy fucker. Mega-rich. I do him favours sometimes. I’ll call him tomorrow. He’ll do me a favour, no problem.”
Csaba says, “What model Ferrari?”
Csaba always asks me so many questions about Canada. He says he’d never leave Hungary because he loves his country. I know what he’s saying because I love this shithole too. My family left because it used to be communist and oppressive, but in 2010 it’s not. I been back to my homeland twice before this time, and every time it gets better. But still, I think Csaba would come to Toronto if he could. If he had the money. If our business venture works, maybe by next year he’ll have money. That’s the point. We have so many ventures, for sure one of them will work. I got exactly one year here to make it work, and two months is already vanished with doing nothing except thinking of ventures.
We stop at the bank at the corner of Margit Hid and go inside to the bank machine. I slip my card in the slot. Since Csaba lost two of his shitty jobs last week, I’m paying for everything. I don’t mind. I’m generous. It’s my nature. Plus, Dad deposits money in my account every month for me and my grandma—for groceries and rent and shit—just until I stand on my own feet, he says. We’re not rich, but compared to Hungarians we’re Kardashians. My family owns one of the best restaurants in Toronto. Once, Cher ate there. For real. We got her picture on the wall next to my mom when she was prettier, before my dad left her. Me, I don’t want to run a restaurant, but I could own a bar. I did bartending for a few weeks at high school parties, and honest to God, I did flair like nobody ever seen. Like everyone was coming up to me, and asking for my cocktails, saying I’m like Tom Cruise in that old movie. In fact, if you go to YouTube, you’ll see videos of me and my best Toronto friend Marco doing cocktails in my dad’s basement. We got so many hits, and we got so popular all over the Internet, we were going to start our own private course. But I came here to Budapest instead because this is the land of fucking opportunity.
The bank machine spits out the cash. I split the wad and pass half to Csaba. Csaba looks at me like he’s thinking he should say no, but he doesn’t think long. He takes the cash and he stuffs it into the pocket of his nigger-hoodie. That’s what he calls it. Well, it’s what I taught him to call it, but it sounds hulyes when he says it—stupid. I don’t know why. Maybe because they don’t really have niggers in Hungary.
“Thanks for the loan, bro,” he says. As if it’s a loan. How’s he gonna pay me back? Guy earns shit. No, worse: he earns f
orints.
“Whatever. Pay me back in dogwalking. Been looking for someone to pick up Csenge’s shit.”
Joke. Nobody picks up dog shit in Budapest.
We’re going down the ramp to the Margit Hid underpass. It smells like a fucking urinal down here. Not just tonight—every day. Which raises a question: how many dudes piss under this bridge? New idea: if we dress like security, we can catch the piss-for-brains who piss down here and fine their asses. Ha! A thousand forints each. We’d be immediately rich.
But Csaba stops, takes the wad out of his pocket, and he smacks it into my chest. His face goes all proud, like the way he gets in his uniform. He thinks he’s a real Magyar fighter in that uniform. He says he’s defending the real Hungary. I never know from what, but skinny fuckers like Csaba sometimes need to talk big.
“Fuck you,” he says.
“Bro, I was joking.” And I laugh to show him no hard feelings.
I try to push the money back on him, and just then this fucking gypsy comes up to me. He comes right up to my face. “Cigarette? Telephone card?” The guy stinks and he’s wearing this long, filthy old winter coat, and he’s got a kid with him, and the kid’s not wearing any hat or any mitts, and he’s looking at me with those pathetic beggar eyes and his nose is running. Disgusting. They think I’m a tourist, think this’ll work on me same as it works on hundreds of other stupid foreigners.
The gypsy grabs my elbow. “Cigarette?” Kid hangs back, looks hungry.
“Fuck you.” I shake him off.
The floor of the underpass is wet and greasy. I didn’t mean to drop him, but the guy loses his balance, lands on Csaba.
“Fuck.” Csaba shoves the gypsy back at me. I push him off again.
Csaba pushes him harder this time and I jump out of the way. The guy lands on his ass. Csaba laughs. Ts-tsts-tsts. It is kinda funny, I have to say.
Gypsy tries to stand up, Csaba kicks him back down. “Sit, dog-fucker.”
Honest to God, all I want is to get to where we’re going, score the dope, find a party. Fuck, but I can tell by Csaba’s voice, he’s getting the way he gets sometimes because Csaba’s God-given talent is losing his shit.
The gypsy can tell. He shimmies backward on his ass. Leaves an ass-sized trail in the greasy wet.
“Come on,” Csaba says. “Beg, gypsy. Beg the nice Canadian. He’ll give you money. He gives everybody money.”
I’m just standing there, not aiding or abetting, but the gypsy looks at me like I’m gonna save him.
“Beg.” Csaba kicks the gypsy in the face. Blood spews out the guy’s nose. “Beg. You pathetic dog-fucker.”
And Csaba laughs—ts-tsts-tsts—and then I’m laughing because why is he calling him dog-fucker, first of all. And second, I laugh when I’m nervous, and when Csaba goes off like this, I get nervous.
Csaba’s twirling and dancing around the guy like some kind of crazy folk dancer in boots. Bam. He kicks the gypsy in the kidney. Guy screams. Like really screams. Like a girl.
Csaba stops dancing. Looks at me. “You not gonna give him money?”
The guy’s on the ground not even moving.
“Come on, turista. You love to see people beg.”
Turista? “Fuck you.”
“You want to fuck me?” Csaba shouts in my face. “Turista wants to fuck a real, authentic, veritable Magyar now? Wants a TrueMagyar ‘all-one-word’ prick up his Canadian asshole?”
He shoves me. I’m bigger, so it doesn’t do much, but for a second I think he’s gonna come at me for real, lose his shit on my ass. I’m his best friend, for fuck sake. My grandmother bakes him pogacsa. I see the gypsy slithering away. I don’t even think. I stomp on the fucker’s ankle and he yells out. I yell back: “You think we let you go now?”
“Yeah!” says Csaba. And we’re on the same team again, like it should be.
“Go home, you dog-fucker,” and he kicks the gypsy in the head, and then the guy’s truly fucked. He’s on his back, and no way can he fight back, but Csaba goes apeshit on him. He kicks at him with those fucking boots, and the whole time the gypsy is saying, “Stop” and “Please,” which is useless, and I don’t understand why he doesn’t just see it’s useless and shut the fuck up.
Finally, Csaba falls back, worn out. Gypsy’s a bloody shit sack on the floor, looks like roadkill. Csaba’s sweating and breathing out hard white puffs, specks of blood on his face, but you can tell now he’s satisfied. Like he’s put something right. Then I hear something move behind me. Dumb-eyed kid. Totally forgot about him. Soon as I turn, he runs. Fast little fuck on fast little legs. Through the underpass and out the other side. Me and Csaba just look at each other. We don’t even have to say a word. Telepathic is what we are. We take off after that little fucker. Up the stairs and out into night. Down Balassi, asphalt sidewalks and cobble streets. We bang past parked cars and that touristy csarda. He’s a fast little fucker, that gypsy kid. And I don’t even know why we’re going after him, just to get away from Csaba’s fucking mess in the underpass, just to run. Maybe we’re gonna beat up the kid, but I’m not thinking about that. I’m just thinking, Go. Kid dekes onto Hold. I nearly knock over a girl holding on to her boyfriend’s arm when I take the corner. Csaba’s behind me. I can hear him. Gypsy kid flies super-fast and everything’s like a movie. You kinda want a soundtrack for a chase scene, but nobody’s playing one. Just our feet, pounding. We’re hunters and it feels like fucking. Like power-driving the ass of the most beautiful girl who’s ever shot you down, just letting her have it. Fuck, yeah. Past the parliament, past huge apartment houses and the trees on the side and the coffee-hut in the middle of Szabadsag Ter and I am on the little fucker’s heels, maybe five metres behind, and he runs right into the middle of that fountain that comes up from the ground like a room made of water. I follow him into it, but he’s gone. No joke. Like a fucking ghost. Four walls of water around me and no gypsy boy. “Fuck.” I step toward one wall to make the water stop and it does. I walk through it like I’m fucking Moses and there’s Csaba. Bent over and breathing so hard he’s almost puking.
“Buli.” I smack his back.
He wheezes out a laugh. He gives me the sign, our sign: “Party.”
We pick up the dope, same as usual. Not a lot. Just enough for us. That’s one business venture we’ve never even tried to plan. Fucking Vietnamese have it all sewn up these days. Nothing against the Vietnamese, but I’m not their culture. And besides, I’m a man of opportunity, not an idiot. We duck down a side street and share a joint. Fuck, it’s cold. Thank God for my Eminem hat. It’s wool, keeps my ears warm. Chicks love it.
“Where to next, boss?” I call him that sometimes. Joke. I mean, partly joke and partly I like to build him up a bit.
Csaba takes a big inhale. Holds it. “Buli in Obuda. The dockyard.”
You’re kidding me. “No way, man. Too far. Gotta be some party happening around here.”
He waves the joint in my face. “You think I killed that gyp?”
“Nah.” In fact, I’m a little worried about this exact thing, but all I really want tonight is to be high, have fun, maybe meet a girl, and have sex in her car or in a park. Can’t take her back to my apartment because I’m sleeping on my grandma’s couch. Temporary. Just until me and Csaba get our business venture off the ground. Point is, gypsy is not my problem. A real, premium Budapest night, that’s what I want. Get high, get laid.
“Fuckin’ taught him a lesson, though.” Csaba laughs. “Oh my God, and that kid. That was the funniest. You chasing after the little kid. How’d he get away?”
Man, the weed’s wet. Keeps going out. I pull out my lighter again. Fingers are so cold they’re like somebody else’s. “I dunno. There’s got to be something happening this end of town.”
“I bet you let him go on purpose.”
“Suck your daddy.”
“You girl! You couldn’t even kick the gypsy dog.” Csaba’s laughing, getting in my face.
Csaba never gets laid. That’s why
he’s like this. When we go out to a club, the girls stick to me like honey. They love how I talk. They say, “You talk Hungarian like my grandpa,” and I say, “Dirty, dirty old man,” and they think that’s funny. I guess in Toronto we talk old-fashioned Hungarian, which is maybe why I’m so eloquent. But the point is, Hungarian chicks love me, and sometimes I tell them how great Csaba is, and then maybe he gets lucky. But he’s not so good-looking and he doesn’t know how to talk to women.
“Let’s just go to the Seventh District. There’s always something happening around there.”
“Obuda,” he says. “Way better party. I’ll call Abel. Maybe he’s driving.” He reaches into his pocket for his phone. “Fuck!”
I know it before he says it.
“Fuckin’ gypsy took my phone. Fucker!”
He’s mad, but he’s kinda happy too. Makes everything make sense, you know. For a guy like Csaba.
“Gypsies stealing fucking everything from us and then our fucking government tries to shut us down. Tells us we’re the problem. We’re trying to solve the problem: ciganybunozes.”
“Fuckers,” I say. Just to be on his side.
I offer him the last wheeze. He butts it. Then we’re walking; floating, I should say. My phone rings. It’s Csaba’s brother, Laci. Weird. Why’s he calling me?
“Bro,” I say. I call him that sometimes.
“Hey. Csaba with you?”
I pass the phone to Csaba. Csaba says, “What,” listens, and passes it back to me, looking pissed off.
I give Csaba a shrug. “My man,” I say to Laci.
“You been smoking?”
“Nope. You offering?”
“How fast can you get to Blaha?” Meaning, Blaha Lujza Ter. Meaning, he’s partying.
“Pretty fast.”
“Good. Meet me at the romkocsma on Akacfa. Don’t bring Csaba.”
Csaba’s looking at me like he knows something’s up. He fucking hates Laci. Sibling rivalry.
“A favour, Jani. I’m counting on you.”
Awesome. Laci Bekes is counting on me. This night is definitely improving. Really, I’m not so surprised that Laci called me. I’ve been cultivating my relationship with him ever since Csaba told me what a big deal his brother is now. I mean, I know Csaba and Laci from way back. They live next to my grandma, so I knew him when I was a kid and visiting. But now, it’s different. Laci’s a businessman, and I’m an entrepreneur in a new situation. I have to network and cultivate business relationships. Fortunately, I’m good at that. I totally impressed Laci, except that I’m friends with Csaba, who he thinks is an idiot. I told Laci about my BuliZone idea. That was an awesome business venture: the movable party. The idea was, we supply the music and the vibe and maybe some good-looking girls, and we just find a new location every weekend and advertise it online as BuliZone! (all one word). And we charge admission and sell beer and make a shitload. And the sweet thing? The smartest thing? The location costs us exactly zero. We move into one of those old vacant apartment buildings. They’re all over the city, just sitting there, totally empty. Government’s going to tear them down one day, except there’s no money to tear them down. Some of these places are even in the best parts, the really cool parts of town. Unbelievably great business venture, right? Except Laci told me, “It’s been done.” No way. But it’s true. Now that I been here for a couple months, I know at least five party houses. They’re called romkocsma and they’re totally cool. Exactly what I planned. So he didn’t invest in my venture, but he did say, “You seem like a normal guy. Why’re you hanging out with Csaba?” Can you believe a guy would talk that way about his brother?
