XV. Dave Chats with a Relative
Dave “the Dude” Devoran came to Budapest to be a “free‑market ambassador” and make his fortune about a month and a half ago, but so far, things aren't working out exactly as he had planned. For instance: Dave has been fired from his job, rejected by women, roughed up by bouncers and bullied into assisting weapons smugglers. What follows is Episode XV.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I don't know what she looks like, but as soon as I hear her voice on the phone I can picture her: She's sitting in a kitchen with frilly curtains, black and white tiles on the floor and a pungent, paprika‑filled stew on the stove that has been simmering away and stinking up the house for the last three years. Her hair, probably dyed a sort of muddy gold color, must be done up in one of those two‑foot tall cones that look like furry warheads. I bet she has black orthapedic shoes, fat calves covered by bullet‑proof‑thickness nylons, a frumpy dress over her dumpy build and an apron.
“Ohh! Zees is zo vonderful! I am zo happy you are called!” she says.
This woman talks like a soprano Peter Lorre. It's a hideous accent. And it's my mother's.
I always thought my mother was Jane Devoran, an excruciatingly polite, well‑dressed American woman who weighs about 110 pounds and is on a life‑long diet. But the other day Dad gave me the news: He and mom bought me from a couple of destitute Hungarian immigrants. Since then, the immigrants' fortune has improved, and my real father, David Katona, is now a wealthy businessman in Cleveland. That's why I'm calling him from Budapest. I'm broke, and I figure this Katona owes me. It never occurred to me that Mrs. Katona—my real mother—might be the one who picks up the phone. As soon as I tell her I'm Dave Devoran she gets all hysterical.
“Ohh I can't believe, after all zees time!” she's saying. “My little Krumpli is now calling to talk to me!”
Krumpli? Isn't that the Hungarian word for potato? “Listen lady, I'm not your krumpli,” I tell her. “And I'm not little anymore.”
“Oh, such a vay zat you talk with me! Remember, I am your mozer.”
“Yeah right, 'mom.' And do you remember that you sold me for $10,000 when I was a baby?”
I hear something on the receiver that sounds like a seal barking. Oh hell, I didn't mean to make her cry.
“You must understand—bark bark. We—bark—vere very poor—bark bark. And vee vanted you to have zee best. Bark bark bark bark.”
“Yeah, yeah. It's alright lady ... er ... Mrs. ... er ... Mom,” I say. “Please, don't bark—I mean cry.” This woman must be my mother. I've been speaking with her for less than two minutes and I already feel guilty.
“You call me Mom! See how my precious little Krumpli calls me Mom!”
“Don't let it go to your head,” I snap without thinking. Then I check myself: “I mean, um, it's nice to talk with you. So what've you been up to for the last quarter of a century anyway?”
“Ah my little Krumpli. Even though I had to let you go, I alvays vatched you from afar, keeping up with everything you did. And every Christmas, and on birthdays, I send you my very special szilvás gombóc—ze plum dumplings. Your other mozer said you like to eat them very much. No?”
So that's where those mutant breaded golf balls came from every year. My parents always said it was from my Hungarian grandmother. I was kind of suspicious, because I knew my father was Irish and my mother was a WASP, but I never called them on it. I figured I really didn't want to know more about a person who would do something so bizarre with sports equipment. “Oh yes, the silver gunboats. Those were my favorite treats,” I tell her. “I probably still have a few in my closet somewhere.”
“Yes, yes, it vas me who cooked those,” she says, growing more excited. “And I alvays kept a place for you in my heart and my home. Ve still have a little bedroom ready for you—for vhen you come back to us.”
“Ahhmm ...” I'm not sure what to say. What did she mean by that last remark? I clear my throat and start again: “Yes, uh, maybe some time when I'm in Cleveland, uhhh ... I'll stop by. Of course right now I'm living in Budapest.”
“Of course, of course,” she says breathlessly. “And ve vill be coming to live in Budapest too. Soon ve can all be togezer: One family in our old home country. You know, I still have your little shoes. Zey are probably too small, but I can sew them, to make them bigger for your new big feet. But ohh ... I am being silly. No? I am sure you already have your own shoes that are very fine for you. No?”
“No. I mean yes. I mean yes, I have shoes.” This is scary. I was phoning to get a loan, not a mother. And this woman sounds like a mother of a mother. The situation calls for tact: “Excuse me, but, are you on any kind of medication?”
“No. I am strong like ze bull,” she says. “I am ready to take good care of you. I have been ready for a long time, waiting and suffering, suffering and waiting for zis moment. Now ve can have ze happy life that I always vanted for us.”
“But uh ... I thought Hungarians are poetic people who enjoy suffering. Why should you end all the fun now?” This is not a conversation I want to continue. “Listen, I really kind of called because I need to talk to your husband—about some business. Is he there now?”
“I am sorry.” she says. “He is avay for a few days. I vill give him message. He vill be zo happy zat you calling. But tell me somezing dahling Krumpli. ... Do you still breastfeed?”