XVIII. Dave Receives Some Official Visitors
Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came to Budapest several weeks ago to teach Hungarians about capitalism and get rich doing it. Since then, Dave has been fired, has learned that the people who raised him were not his real parents and has run into other detours on the road to success. What follows is Episode XVIII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Fear comes from thinking too much about what might happen and imagining the worst. Like if the school bully says he's going to beat you up, the most you'll probably get is a bloody nose. But you always picture yourself lying on the ground with several broken limbs, writhing in a fit of extreme pain and humiliation. So you give the bully 25 cents, and accept a little embarrasment, to avoid facing the terror of a fight with an unknown outcome.
I wish I could give someone a quarter right now and get rid of my fears about the immediate future.
As my friend Erszébet and I look from my kitchen window, watching brilliant orange flames swallow a Trabant and create a deep black cloud of smoke, my imagination spins out of control. I can see myself on the TV news, being whisked into court for my trial as an international terrorist. Instead of being called Dave‑the‑Dude by a few friends, I will be known around the world as Dave‑the‑Death Merchant. It's really Erszébet's niece Ildi who's responsible for this mess, but no one's going to try a 5‑year‑old.
I suppose I should also blame my so‑called friend Matthew. It was his thugs who forced their way into my home and—despite my protests—deposited a cache of illegal arms to be smuggled into the former Yugoslavia. Ildi thought it was just a game when she took a hand grenade from the weapons cache and tossed it out the window at the fated Trabant. It's one of those Trabi station wagons. I think it was painted baby blue.
Although fear is burning inside me with the same intensity as this parked car, I'm still able to entertain the possibility that no one will know what happened. That's why I feel deep disappointment when my horrifying visions are brought closer to reality by a knock on the door.
“Rendorseg! Police!” a voice booms out.
Erszébet and I freeze, hoping they'll go away. But little Ildi dashes toward the front door. It occurs to me that, as long as I'm going to get life in prison for terrorism, murdering a child couldn't make my situation any worse. Alas, these thoughts always come too late, and Ildi has opened the door before I even have a chance to step away from the window.
Erszébet speaks with the two policemen and translates: “They are looking for the owner of that Trabant outside. They heard he lived on this floor. The Trabant is parked illegally. It is also against the law for any automobile to be consumed by a huge ball of fire.”
I'm tempted to ask about the legality of an over‑heated engine, but I decide against it. I've heard that police here are not allowed to have a sense of humor and that they receive intensive training in torture techniques. Erszébet is nodding politely, and probably telling the officers that she doesn't know who owns the Trabi, when my roommate Karl comes walking in behind the cops and immediately loses his sanity.
“I didn't stab anyone! I swear!'' Karl screams. “It was all Derk's fault. He did the whole thing! We couldn't stop him! We didn't know he was attacking a member of Parliament!”
The policemen look with disgust at this excited foreigner screaming in English. “Passport please, bitte,” one of the officers says.
Karl breaks into his limited Hungarian. He's obviously telling them the exact same thing, because the cops look as confused as Erszébet and me.
The taller officer says something and Erszébet translates: “No one has been stabbed until the police say there has been a stabbing.” It's a special kind of logic, but I'm ready to go along with it. Karl isn't. Jerk. He argues with the officer, who seems to be growing more annoyed.
Both policemen begin speaking angrily at the same time and invite themselves into the kitchen. I casually plop down on a stack of wooden crates containing illegal AK‑47 rifles as I give my most helpful smile. “Gosh Erszébet,'' I say in a friendly voice. “What can we do for these nice police officers?”
“I think Karl has upset them,” she says, giving my roommate a censoring glance. “They want to look around to make sure we aren't hiding any stabbing victims or Trabant owners.”
I don't have to speak Hungarian to understand the shorter cop when he asks: “What is all that?” He's pointing at the crates that contain weapons and are taking up half of the kitchen. “Amerikai lekvar” (“American fruit preserves”), Erszébet answers. The officer nods knowingly and joins his partner in the living room. They stand in the middle of the room, watch cable TV for a while and then come back and talk to Erszébet.
“They told me to always park legally, and said a nice girl like me should stay away from crazy foreigners,” she explains. I nod appreciatively, as does Karl, who has finally figured out that it's best to keep his mouth shut.
As soon as the police leave, I demand to know what the hell Karl was talking about. He's already told Erszébet, so he might as well tell me: One night when I was out, his drunken friend Derk came over with a strange man. Derk got in a fight with the man, stabbed him and carried him out. Later Karl learned from the news that the victim was a member of the Hungarian Parliament.
I tell Karl it's a good thing he's an artist, because he is too spaced out to be anything else. Then I tell him he is almost too spaced out to be an artist. Then Erszébet reminds me that I have my own confession to make. Just when I was on a roll. I explain to my roommate how our apartment has become a drop‑off point for arms smugglers.
“I'm worried about you guys,” Erszébet says. “You better do something or you'll both be in a lot of trouble.”
That's when we hear little Ildi yelling and pointing out the window. We take a look and see about 12 police cars pulling up downstairs. There's a frantic pounding on the front door, and someone shouts in English: “This is Inspector Janos Homok of the Budapest Police. Open the door now or we will force it open.”