by Ailsa Kay
We’re walking, and Csaba’s mad. I can tell. He’s kicking frozen turds and his boots sound like he’s marching in some army parade. It’s all about that Magyar Garda. He says gyps and Jews and immigrants are fucking up Hungary, weakening it, destroying our traditions. Me, I figure if the Jews really have all the money, we should be friends with them. Maybe some Jews can invest in our company. We could have a company especially for Jews. Serious. We could have a company that trains Jews how to be TrueMagyar (all one word). Even though they never will be, really, because they’re not Hungarian blood like me and Csaba, but they could learn to be more Hungarian. Because they have to adapt to their environment, right? Survival of the fittest. Cockroaches will be the only living thing left after nuclear war. I read that once. So here’s a question: “Why would cockroaches survive nuclear war? I mean, wouldn’t they burn up same as everyone else?” I ask Csaba.
We’re going down into the subway. Hey, no ticket guys at the gate. Sweet. Csaba gives me the fist bump I taught him. Maybe he’s not mad anymore.
He says, “If there’s a nuclear war, I’ll come down here. Deep enough. No radiation could get me.”
“Then what? Then it’s you and the cockroaches. Everything else is toast. Radiated toast.”
“Then I go to the country where I did my training. Start from scratch. Me and Ildiko.”
Ildiko’s the girl he met at this training camp. He showed me a picture of her posing in uniform with her rifle. She’s cute. But there was no picture of the two of them together, just Ildiko shooting, or eating a bowl of soup, or Ildiko with her arms around two other girl soldiers, like some kind of TrueMagyar Charlie’s Angels. He says him and Ildiko were hot, but they couldn’t get it on because of military rules. As if. (I just think that, though. I don’t say it out loud because why shoot the guy down, right? I’m his friend.)
“What about a training camp for tourists. Same as the Garda, but expensive, for foreigners. I bet there’s guys in London or Sweden who never held a gun in their lives, never learned hand-to-hand combat. What’re they gonna do if it comes to protecting themselves? They gotta be prepared. We could call it MagyarWarrior, all one word.”
He’s always saying we have to be prepared to protect the true Hungarians. From what, dude? Ciganybunozes, he says. Gypsy crime. I don’t totally believe him, but maybe if you’re Csaba and you don’t get laid and you don’t have a job and you live with your mom and dad and you don’t even have your own bedroom because you sleep in the living room, you gotta blame someone.
The romkocsma on Akacfa is hopping. Wall-to-wall cool people. Super-hot babes on every floor, no joke. And there’s three floors. And the DJ is spinning and some people are sitting and some dancing and some drinking, but everybody’s cool and not the way people in Toronto are cool. I tried to explain this to Csaba once, the difference in cool. I don’t think he got it. The thing is, Toronto babes laugh a lot, and they wear expensive, tight clothes, and their hair is shiny, and they say things like, “You’re so cute,” but they’re just fake, is what I’m saying. Hungarian babes are cool but real. They are real Magyar babes. They’re totally different. And tonight, they’re all partying here. Jesus. It’s like someone put the invitation out to hotties only. And this romkocsma, man, it’s unbelievable. Must have been a super-rich apartment building in the old days before communism, but now there’s just us cool people hanging out on old sofas and grandma chairs. In a couple weeks, everyone will know about this place and then maybe the cops will close it down or maybe they won’t.
“Awesome,” I shout over the music at Csaba.
He just gives me the sign: “Fuck, yeah.”
We find Laci on the second floor in a room that’s totally red—everything painted, walls, ceiling, furniture, floor, like a vampire room or something. There are some girls talking to him. They’re hot, but Laci seems like he doesn’t even notice how hot they are. He’s looking out for us is why. He’s a man of opportunity too. That’s why he likes me. We got that in common, see.
“Dude.” He does the fist bump. That’s not usual, but tonight’s different. Tonight, I’m in with Laci Bekes and we’re tight. He talks English to me a little. “I told you not to bring the donkey.” Why he calls his brother donkey, I don’t know. I’m a little impressed he knows the English word.
“He can be helpful,” I say. In English. Csaba doesn’t understand. And I keep my eyes on Laci so Csaba doesn’t know we’re talking about him.
Laci gives me a look. He’s the businessman, not me. That’s what the look says. It also says, I have no time for this bullshit. “I got a serious proposition.”
I light up a smoke. “How much?” I mean, we both know I’m gonna do it, no question. But it’s business, right? I’m not stupid.
Laci gives me that superior look. “One million.”
Get. The fuck. Out. I figured Laci would pay well, but this is unbelievable. I mean, one million forints. Not dollars, but still.
“All right.”
“Yeah,” Csaba says. He gets the gist, I guess.
“Good.” Laci switches to Hungarian. “We don’t have a lot of time, so I can’t explain everything. You’re just gonna have to trust me on this.”
“Sure, bro.” Fist bump. Yeah. More hot girls walk in. They give us the eye. The room’s crowded. I’m feeling hot, but I don’t want to show my hat head so I just take off my coat. It’s an awesome coat, a Maple Leafs leather bomber. When I wear this coat here in Budapest, girls come up to me right away because they want to practise their English. Well, that’s what they say. Really, they just want to talk to me. But no time for play tonight. I ignore them. We’re businessmen here, talking business.
“I’m supposed to meet these two guys tonight. Here. Talk some business.”
“Right.”
“Right, so problem is I have to be somewhere else. I got this really important thing over at Csepel tonight. I can’t reschedule. And I can’t let these dudes think I’m too busy to talk to them. They’re not the kinda guys you reschedule.”
“Right.”
“So I was thinking. How can I be two places at once?”
“Right. Impossible.”
“So then I figured, if you could be here…”
“Absolutely. I’m your man in Pest.”
“Great, bro. I knew I could count on you. But here’s the thing. They have to think you’re me.”
Huh?
“Don’t worry. It’s dark in here. They don’t know me, really. I mean, they know me but not well.”
“You want me to be you?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Cool.”
“You have to give them a message. That’s all.”
“But not a message from you because I’m you.”
He looks worried. He thinks I’m gonna fuck it up.
“All you say is, ‘Tell your boss, I’m not jerking him around. I just lost it and now I’ll find it. No disrespect intended.”
“Honestly. I lost it. No disrespect. Wait. What’d you lose?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“But if I’m you, I should know, right? It’s my back story.” Actors always say that. Cool.
He thinks for, like, a second. “Okay, a letter. Say, I didn’t mean to lose the letter. Try it again.”
“I can’t find the letter. Honest. I mean you no disrespect.”
Laci’s frowning, looking even more worried. “Good. Fine. Maybe remind them that you—that is that I—am a businessman. I know who my friends are, and I like to keep it that way.”
“I know who my friends are. Do I look like an idiot?”
“Okay, stop. Don’t ad lib like that. I would never say, ‘Do I look like an idiot?’ Just stick to the script.”
“Cool.” God, Laci’s so nervous he’s making me nervous. Maybe he’s a micro-manager. I heard about people like that. Managers like that are no good because they waste time on small details that should be done by the smaller nobodies in the
company. So I say to him, to make him feel better: “Trust me. I can handle the details.”
Csaba’s just watching all this. He’s pissed off, but he wants to be part of it. Laci always does this, treats him like he’s retarded. And, I mean, Csaba’s not always smart, but he’s got his talents. Laci should recognize his talents now and then. Be a lot better for their sibling rivalry.
“I mean it, bro. This is serious business. Don’t mess around. And take that stupid bank robber hat off your head. Here’s my coat. Gimme yours.” We do the switch. He checks me out. “Jeans, okay. Sweater, whatever. Shoes, man.”
He takes off his black leather shoes, slides them over.
“My Nikes? Seriously?” He just looks at me. I take them off, put his on. “They don’t fit.”
“Not like you’re going anywhere. Just stay exactly here. Have a good time—on me. I’ll be back in a while.”
“Right. When you’re done your meeting.”
“And, Csaba, your job is to fuck right off.”
“Truly?” Csaba thunks himself down on the sofa, throws his boots onto the coffee table. Laci lets that slide for exactly a nanosecond. Then he hauls his little brother by the coat, shoves his head under his arm, and walks him out. Fuck. I feel bad. I feel like a bad friend. But I can’t follow Csaba because this could be my chance, the big chance. I mean, Laci Bekes? I don’t even know half of how Laci made his money, but he has it figured out. Luxury developments, real-estate trading, and now he’s in on the construction of the M6—providing concrete or something. I don’t know construction, but the way Laci does it, it ain’t swinging hammers.
So here I am being Laci in a smokin’ hot vampire party room. How cool is this? I light a smoke, lean back in Laci’s rich-dude leather coat. When I finish the smoke, I stump it out on the table. Why not, right? Not my table. Probably some old neni’s once upon a time, with little lace whatchicallits on it. Not anymore. I set my feet up. Laci’s shoes. Pretty nice. What’s Laci got in his pocket? Wallet? Fuck, he’s gonna be mad when he figures that out. Keys to his SUV. What do you know? Right on. I am Laci Bekes. I got a SUV and a house in Rozsadomb, and a hot little wife and a girlfriend on the side, and I do business with you. That’s right. I’m the business. I am business. Construction, right. But deeper. You want multi-million-American-dollar luxury condos—I’ll build them. I’ll do that. You invest in my company, I’ll turn it around faster than a bitch, make you rich. Wait a second. How’s he getting to Csepel without his car? Fuck. Do I go after him? But he said wait here. He said exactly here. Fuck.
“Laci.”
I look over to the door. Two guys. They look pissed and they’re big. Bigger than me, even, and I’m pretty big. Fuck. Laci didn’t tell me their names.
“Dude,” I say. Guy Number One doesn’t do the fist bump. Number Two neither.
“You fucked over the wrong guy, Laci Bekes.”
Fuck me. “I meant no disrespect. I just lost it. I lost the letter.”
“You think we care?”
Guy’s pushing his chest into my face.
“What I’m saying is, I just can’t find it at this moment. But I will. I’m a businessman.”
“Janos, you backstabbing shithead sonuvabitch twat.” Punch to the side of the head, not fake this time, and I’m laid out flat, sprawling. Csaba. What the fuck. Guys are looking down at me. I get up.
Guy Number Two turns on Csaba. “You called him Janos? This isn’t Laci Bekes?”
“Laci Bekes?” Csaba laughs. Csaba, man, you gotta work on that laugh. That stupid sonuvabitch laugh.
You know that smile, that smile that says, “Not funny. Not fucking funny, you hulyes fucking idiot.” That’s what both dudes are giving me.
“Thanks, little man,” says Guy Number Two. He takes Csaba by the arm, shows him the door. Csaba gives me one last look, and there he goes. Now it’s just me. And I’m not feeling so good.
“Okay, you know what? Time’s up, Laci or Janos or whoever you are. You’re an artificer and I don’t care for artificers.”
Artificer? I don’t even know what that means. Neither does the other dude, I figure, by the look on his face.
“Yeah, well, it’s complicated. Laci asked me—”
Other guy opens his jacket. FUCKI’MGONNADIE. Do I put my hands up? Oh, they’re already up. Weird. Holy fuck, I’ve never even seen a gun like that—not in real life. I’m just some guy. I don’t even really live here. Is anybody seeing this?
“Okay, dudes? I’m not Laci. Serious. Whatever he’s into, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Put your hands down.”
Right. Chicks at the bar over there turn their back on me. Bartender’s leaning into them. Room full of cool people and no one sees what’s going on.
“Walk ahead of me. Everything’s normal. Nobody’s looking at you.”
Right. Walking. Nobody looking. Down a flight of stairs and into what used to be a courtyard. Still kinda is, except it’s grooving, and maybe people see me and maybe they don’t. Everybody just hanging out, looking hot, and no one knows who I am. My dad is gonna shit. I can hear him now: “How do you get in these situations, Janos?”
Past the bouncer. What does this dude care? If I were really Laci, he’d care. Fucking right, he would. But I’m just me. Janos Hagy. Entrepreneur. Nobody.
Dude. Mercedes-fucking-Benz, dude. Are you shitting me?
“Get in.”
“My friends, I’m not Laci. I don’t know what Laci did, but I swear to God, I got nothing to do with it. I’m Janos Hagy. I don’t know who you are. I promise I won’t report you. Please let me go. I’m only here for my gap year. Next year I gotta go to college. I swear, I won’t—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Guy slams my head into the car roof. “Get in.”
Fuck. I’m in, dude. I’m shutting up. Not a word. No. I’m gonna be fine. I’m Janos fucking Hagy, man of opportunity. You’ll see. You’ll see what I am.
Whoa.
You never know how quiet inside a car can be till you’re in a Benz going over a bridge in Budapest in the middle of the night with two guys not talking and one serious fucking gun.
What We Deserve
Tibor Roland unbuttons his blue shirt and hangs it on the hook. He eases off his stiff Campers and his cotton socks and places them inside the locker, socks stuffed into shoes. He drops his khakis and his Joe Boxers and hangs them on the other hook. For a moment, he stands in the deserted change room entirely naked. He breathes deeply of the humid, chlorinated air and he feels the spongy padding beneath his feet, the draft on his legs, the slight chill emanating from the metal lockers. At thirty-five, he knows he’s in reasonably good shape. Though not what anyone would call “cut,” he enjoys, in a simple way, the solidity of his thighs, the straightness of his spine, his lightly haired chest. In this naked interval, free of rumpled clothes, he is a living, breathing entity made up of hundreds of thousands of sensations, and he can feel every single one of them. Then he pulls on his trunks, knots the string at the waist, snaps a bathing cap on his head, slips feet into flip-flops, locks his locker, and flip-flops out to the pool.
The hotel has a decent pool, he’s pleased to see —not Olympic but at least ten metres long. No waterslides or multicoloured pool noodles. Windows the length of one wall look out over Montreal. Exactly right, except. Except someone has beaten him here. He pauses, towel in hand, and feels his moment decay just a little.
Never mind, he tells himself as he places towel over plastic lounger, licks his goggles for suction, snugs them over his eyes, and steps out of his flip-flops. This is still good. In violation of the sign-posted rule, he dives in.
They pass each other as they do their laps, the woman at a steady breaststroke and Tibor front-crawling. At least she understands the concept of lengths, doesn’t paddle around in circles like some hotel swimmers, their chins beatifically raised. The swimmers ignore each other as they pass. He could almost forget he isn’t alone. After about twenty minutes, he stops at
the end of the pool to catch his breath. The woman is still breaststroking, which she does with ease, dipping her head under and knifing forward. She pauses at the other end to catch her breath, fastening her gaze on the clock. Maybe she’s timing her breaks. She wears a red one-piece and a bathing cap. Tibor Roland, from his end, his elbows on the edge of the pool, sees how she frowns at the clock and how her chest moves with her breathing. In and out.
Then she starts again.
Tibor, too, starts into his third set. When he makes his turn, the woman has stopped swimming and is sitting on the ledge at the opposite end of the pool, massaging her foot. When he reaches her end, he stops. It’s a narrow pool. They are close.