No Place in the Sun

by John Mulligan

  ‘Is the parliament palace, where stupid fuck Ungarian government works. Bastards!’

  ‘Beautiful building.’ Tom was impressed.

  “You know why is on top a, how you say, cupola?’

  ‘A dome?’

  ‘Yes, a dome. You know why is on top a dome?’

  Tom smiled; this was obviously a local joke. ‘No, why is there a dome up there?’

  ‘Because every circus must have big top.’ The little man laughed loudly at his own joke.

  Tom laughed along with him. ‘Yes, every country has its clowns in power; we certainly have enough of them in government in Ireland. I suppose you have the same problem in Israel, in the Knesset?’

  The Israeli’s demeanour changed immediately; his face darkened with anger. ‘No, in my country the parliament is serious business, no clowns; we live in a tough neighbourhood, mister.’

  They waited in silence for the lights to change; Tom resolved not to make any more jokes about Israeli politicians, it was obviously a sore point.

  Across the street Tom did his best to keep up with his guide as he scampered along. The little man pointed to the building on their right. "Here is fuck museum, appear many times in movies, very famous.’

  ‘Fuck museum?’ Tom was astounded; maybe this meant something else in Hungary. That’s what they call it?’

  ‘Yes, fuck museum, in very many films it appears.’

  The building was an impressive structure, tall stone columns adorned the fagade and the huge ornate entrance doors were approached by wide and elegant stone steps.

  ‘What kind of films? Porno films?’ Tom was having difficulty getting his head around the concept of a ‘fuck museum.’

  ‘No, no porno films, don’t be stupid, you young guys have sex in the brains. Hollywood movies mostly, of course also films about fuck lure.’

  ‘Fuck lure?’

  ‘Exact. Fuck lure, from the villages of Ungaria.’

  Tom suddenly realised what the fat man was talking about. ‘Folklore museum, of course.’

  ‘Yes, how many times I have to tell you, fuck lure museum, is no charge to enter also, some day you have time you enter, but not today, we have work to do.’

  They crossed another busy junction and entered a quieter street. ‘This is Falk Miksa, not far now.’ He stopped and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Safest street in Ungaria, my office is across road from ministry of spies.’ He pointed to a large concrete office block.

  ‘They still have spies in Hungary? I thought that was all in the past.’

  ‘Maybe not spies any more, but the building is still here and many many people work there, maybe they spy on each other.’ He laughed and clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, always plenty policemen taking care of the building, safest street in Ungaria.’

  A large door was set back slightly from the pavement, beside a sign that read ‘ANTIK.’ The half-basements of these buildings seemed to be made up almost entirely of antique shops, their low ground-level windows packed with small items of glass and brass-ware. Amir opened the door and Tom followed him into the tiled hallway, past a bank of mailboxes on the left hand wall. A few steps led up to an old fashioned lift that ran in an open cage. The fat man punched the button impatiently several times and the lift dropped to the ground floor.

  ‘We go up, to the top.’ He slid the gate aside and motioned Tom to enter the lift cage. The lift was small, and Tom felt overpowered by the closeness of the fat man and the reek of cigarette smoke from him. Mamzer pressed the top button and the lift creaked upwards.

  Through the mesh cage Tom could see the layout of the building clearly. The lift rose at the end of an internal courtyard, with iron-railed open-air balconies running right around each floor. The floors of the balconies and the ground floor of the building were tiled with small black and white tiles in a chequerboard pattern, and the balcony railings were ornate and capped with hardwood handrails from which a lot of colourful flower baskets were suspended. The occasional sound of a radio came through an open window, but this inner core of the building was quiet and peaceful in comparison with the noise and bustle of the street outside.

  The lift came to a sudden stop and Amir slid the gate back, holding it against its return spring to allow Tom to exit. They walked through the doors on to the balcony and Tom looked down; it was quite a dizzying drop into the courtyard below.

  ‘Not a place to bring up kids. Hard to watch them on the balconies.’

  The small man nodded. ‘Not exactly balconies, corridors, the corridors are outside in Ungaria. Is the same all over Budapest, all buildings the same as this one.’

  ‘Even the new ones?’ Tom liked the layout, but couldn’t see it working with a new building.

  ‘Sometimes with new buildings also, but usually now we make with internal corridors. Es-roy-elish show stupid fuck Ungarians how to build good buildings, good as Tel Aviv.’

  Tom could see no sign of an office, but the Israeli motioned him to an almost hidden staircase in the corner. ‘Up, up one more floor, to the attika.’

  He followed the man up the narrow flight of stairs to a cramped landing and through a door with a small sign for Kover Ember Developments. If this was the nerve centre for the developer’s operations in Hungary, Tom wasn’t too impressed; he had expected a more high-profile place.

  The office was surprisingly spacious and bright; it was obviously an apartment that had been converted for office use, and the interior was clean and well fitted out. The parquet floor shone and two desks faced each other across the room. The larger desk was piled with papers and architectural drawings; a pretty dark haired girl was working at a computer at the desk near the window.

  ‘Monika, this is Mr. Murphy, Mr. Tom Murphy, he is our partner from Ireland.’

  The girl stood up in welcome and shook his hand.

  ‘You like some coffee?’

  ‘That would be good, yes please.’ Tom didn’t see any coffee machine, but maybe it was in the next room.

  ‘The older man pulled some notes from his wallet and thrust them at Monika. ‘Go, bring us coffees, and some cakes also, nice ones from The Europa, not from the jerk at the corner.’ He motioned to the couch. ‘Sit down, Tom, sit down.’

  ‘Great office, nice and quiet.’

  ‘Yes, it is good for me, near everything, but the rent cost me very little. You like my secretary?’

  ‘Pretty girl, yes. Is she Hungarian?’

  ‘Yes, they are stupid girls, but ok for just do what they are told. Make nice decoration for the office also.’ He leered at Tom. ‘You like Ungarian girls?’

  ‘Yes, very nice, very pretty.’ Tom wished that he would get down to business.

  ‘Very good for the bed, Ungarian girls, always say please and thank you, never complain about the curtains, you should try one while you are here.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You are not an Arab? You like girls?’

  ‘An Arab?’

  ‘You know, a how you say, a homokos, a faggot?’

  ‘No, of course not, of course I like girls.’

  ‘Good, good. You are married?’

  ‘No, you?’

  ‘Yes, I have wife in Tel Aviv, three daughter, no son unfortunately, I was very unlucky. You have no wife, why? You sure you are not an Arab?’

  ‘No, I’m not gay, just never got round to getting married, maybe soon. So your wife and family live in Israel, but you live here, isn’t that difficult?’

  ‘No, I don’t live here, just work here, I live in Tel Aviv.’

  ‘So how much time do you spend here?’

  ‘Most of the time, but I go back five, six times a year for long weekend and for a two week vacation in summer. Is good to go home, I have nice home in Tel Aviv.’

  ‘Sounds tough.’

  ‘Is ok, I am used to it. And Irish girls, they are good for the bed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That is what I hear, Irish and English girls, they like very much
the bed.’

  ‘What about Israeli girls? Are they good in bed?’ Tom wanted to turn the conversation around.

  The fat man’s face darkened with anger. ‘Es-roy-elish girls not like that, they are good for wife, for family.’

  Tom was beginning to get the measure of this guy; all discussion or criticism of Israel and the Israelis was off limits; all other races were lower down on the respect ladder. The conversation was mercifully terminated by the return of Monika with the coffees and the cakes. Tom reckoned that it was no surprise that Mamzer was so fat if he had such an appetite for sweet things, but it had to be said that making cakes was one thing that the Hungarians seemed to do very well; it would be hard to pass up on the pastries that Monika was now putting on to plates.

  The developer spread the plans on the low table in front of the couch. The apartment house looked good, at least on paper, much better than Tom had expected; maybe this crazy Israeli was actually very good at his job.

  He seemed to read Tom’s mind. ‘In Israel I make many big projects, much bigger than this one. This one is easy, small apartment house, any fool can make this project, is easy.’

  ‘So who will build it, have you an Israeli builder, or is it someone local?’

  ‘No, Es-roy-elish constructor too expensive, Ungarian constructor too stupid, I use constructor from Austria, but of course he use Ungarian labour. They ok if they have someone in charge.’

  ‘And this builder, this constructor, have you used him before?’

  ‘Yes, I build two apartment houses before now in Budapest, I can show you today if you want.’

  ‘And are these sold or do you need to sell them?’

  ‘No, they are sold, all sold to Es-roy-elish investors. They buy all together and then sell apartments afterwards at higher price, but not my problem. I build; make quick sell, and then move on to next project. Can you sell this one quick?’

  Tom looked at the plans, the project seemed to be well designed and looked like it might be easy to sell at an exhibition. ‘Yes, I reckon we might be able to sell it, it’s just a hundred apartments; we often sell this much in one weekend.’

  ‘In one weekend? That would be good, make quick sale and then quick build. We both make some money, yes?’

  ‘When do you expect to start building?’

  ‘When everything is sold, not before. Maybe when ninety percent sold, but at least this. I keep the commercial also, that is my bonus.’

  He stabbed a finger at the two shop units on the ground floor at the front.

  ‘If we sold all this in a month say, could you start building straight away?’

  ‘Yes, we don’t have building permit yet, but all is agreed so is simple to get. Constructor is ready, finished last job and waiting for this one, I have agreed price with him.’

  ‘What about the area, is the eighth district a good place to live?’

  ‘Oh yes, good place, the project is close to a metro station so good location. Not Falk Miksa, but ok for investors.’

  ‘Will it rent well?’

  ‘No problem, you can find tenant. Good apartment, no problem to find tenant.’

  Tom decided to get down to business.’ If we sell at a higher price, is that a problem for you?’

  ‘No, no problem, you put commission on top, as much as you want, not my business.’

  ‘No limits?’

  ‘Only what market will stand, there is of course limit, buyers will not pay more than is worth, maybe a little more, but not much.’

  Tom said nothing; this guy hadn’t seen the scramble to buy Montana Fea. There was a chance here to get maybe an extra twenty or maybe thirty thousand on top for each apartment; they seemed cheap by Irish standards, even at twice the price that Amir wanted for them. Best to nail him down to a contract for the prices before showing him what they would actually be sold for in Ireland. If he knew what Tom had in mind he would put up his prices for sure.

  ‘These are for you.’ The Israeli gathered two sets of drawings and some sales literature and pricelists and handed them to Tom. Monika took the papers and put them in a large envelope for him.

  Tom sensed that the meeting was over. ‘Can you show me the project location, maybe the projects you have built before?’

  ‘Sure, we go now, we take the metro, is better than my car.’ He grabbed his coat and briefcase and led the way back to the lift. ‘Maybe we get some lunch first, some sandwich?’

  ‘I don’t mind either way, it’s early for me but if you’re hungry I’ll join you in a sandwich.’

  They turned left outside the front door and Tom followed him to a busy street that crossed at the end of Falk Miksa. It was a wide and bustling, lined with impressive buildings and with two tram lines running down the middle of the thoroughfare. Yellow trams rumbled up and down, and traffic flowed past in an endless stream in both directions. The fat man led him to a coffee house a short walk from the corner.

  ‘This is my local coffee house. You will see, is like Gerbeaud’s but not the same prices, not a tourist place.’

  The coffee house was good; display counters of cakes and pastries along the wall to the left and plenty of small marble-topped tables with bentwood chairs. They went through to the smoking section at the back and Amir sat heavily on a chair and lit another cigarette.

  ‘My favourite place, this is the Europa, best coffee house in Budapest.’

  ‘Looks good right enough.’ Tom was scanning the menu; the prices were very reasonable indeed, this definitely was somewhere for the locals and not just for tourists. ‘They seem to have a lot of good coffee shops in Budapest, not just chain store places like in other cities.’

  ‘Is tradition in Ungaria, coffee house.’ He sucked deeply on his cigarette. ‘In old days, apartments were not big; the coffee house was the living room. If you had visitor, you bring him to coffee house, not to your apartment.’

  Tom ordered a club sandwich, and Amir asked for a sandwich and some cakes. The waitresses here were dressed in long old fashioned skirts, it seemed to Tom that this was a tradition with waitresses in Budapest, but he didn’t want to ask Amir any questions about girls, or politics for that matter. Probably religion was out of bounds as a conversation item as well, he reckoned. Best to stick to business from now on.

  The club sandwich was generous, and Tom decided to skip dessert; Amir ate two large cakes and drank several coffees, punctuated with endless cigarettes. Tom called for the bill and fumbled with the Hungarian money. He handed the waitress a large note, but she pointed to the smaller note in his hand; this place was not expensive by any standards.

  They retraced their steps down Falk Miksa and past the rear of the parliament building. The metro station was close to the parliament, just across the road; Amir bought a bundle of orange coloured tickets and they descended the long escalator to the platform deep underground.

  ‘Very deep metro, long way down.’ Tom was impressed.

  ‘Yes, must go very deep to go under river, under the Duna, the Danube.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tom agreed; it made sense, the river was close by; the parliament building sat on the river bank.

  The train arrived quickly; it was just one stop to Deak Ter, the main station that was close by Tom’s hotel. Amir pushed his way off the train and scuttled along the crowded platform and on to the escalator to another line; the station seemed to Tom to be a hub for three different lines, a kind of central junction for the metro system. Here again a train arrived in less than a minute and they found seats readily; most of the people had disembarked at the central station.

  Amir spread himself along the seat. ‘We go not many stops, will not be long.’

  Tom was impressed at the efficiency of the metro system. ‘You don’t have to wait long for a train, great system, wish we had something like this at home.’

  ‘Built by the Russians. Never would the stupid fuck Ungarians build such a thing; is true, is very good system.’

  Tom was going to ask whether Tel Aviv
had a better system, but thought better of it. Talk of nothing except business from now on; that was the best idea.

  Amir rose suddenly from his seat as the train slowed; Tom had forgotten to count the stops but it didn’t seem that a lot of time had elapsed since they had left Deak Ter. He followed Amir out of the train and up the escalator into the sunshine.

  It was clear that this area was not as fashionable as the city centre, the buildings were shabbier and the shops were basic and functional. There was a high incidence of graffiti on almost all the buildings, and many empty shop buildings had been turned into unofficial bill-posting sites with their windows covered by layers of pasted-on advertising material. The overall impression was one of shabbiness.

  ‘Is not far, very near to metro, good investment for future.’ Amir seemed to be trying to convince himself that the place had potential. It seemed clear to Tom though that the main attraction of this area had to be the low cost of building land.

  To be fair, it was not far, especially if you covered the ground as fast as Amir Mamzer in full flight. Despite his guide’s one pause to light another cigarette, Tom found himself having to almost trot to keep up, and in a short time they arrived at the spot that was destined to be Kover Ember Haz. It was just as he had promised, there was nothing there, just a vacant lot with a crumbling blue-painted plywood hoarding around it, and a dozen cars parked in a row by the rear wall. An elderly man emerged from a tiny hut by the gate when he saw them enter the site. He wore a flat cap and was dirty and unshaven, and his yellowed grin revealed several missing teeth.

  ‘This is my security man, is Ungarian Gypsy, stupid fuck lazy bastard.’

  ‘Security? What is there to steal?’ Tom wondered at the need for security on a vacant site.

  ‘Steal? Is not the problem. Problem is Gypsies, they move things on to my land if I no have security.’

  ‘Things? What kind of things?’

  ‘Rubbish, old cars, broken cars, Gypsy stuff.’

  Tom hadn’t been aware of many Gypsies in the city, although he had a faint recollection of having heard something about Gypsy musicians in Hungary, part of the folklore. Or maybe ‘fuck lure.’ he laughed to himself at the memory of the earlier misunderstanding.