XIX. Dave in the Pit of the Long Arm of the Law
Dave “the Dude” Devoran came to Hungary a couple of months ago, intent on changing the communist ways of the locals and making his fortune. Things have not gone as smoothly as Dave had hoped. What follows is Episode XIX.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
A door slams. Heavy keys jangle. Two men get involved in a brief conversation that I can't understand. Someone shouts out suddenly: “János!” And I hear a grumbling reply. These sounds are sharp and clear, and they come from my left side, where the light is. The darkness on the right mutes all the noises from that direction: A whispered monologue, in which only a few hisses are audible; an occasional low groan of pain from someone who is too exhausted to raise his voice; a wet sneeze; and, at irregular intervals, an angry, unintelligible cry that sounds like “Ah‑may‑nah! ... Ah‑may‑nah!” The person doing this shouting obviously wants to attract the attention of the men in the light, but the darkness suffocates his cries.
I can't see the sources of any of these sounds. All I can see are the bars on the door of my tiny cell and the yellow brick wall across the hallway, illuminated from the left. I know that to my right there are about a dozen more cells like mine, each holding one or two prisoners. To my left, in the light, are our captors: Ruthless, unfeeling members of the Budapest police force.
I curl up on the hard wooden plank that hangs from the cell wall, stare through the bars and try to make myself sleepy. But the strange sounds fill my imagination with frightening thoughts. I can't stop worrying. I can't stop thinking about all the trouble I'm in.
It started when my roommate, Karl, had some sort of party while I wasn't home, and during that party someone stabbed a member of Parliament. The police came and took me and Karl away, but I don't know where Karl is now. I wonder if they're going to try to blame me for this stabbing. I also wonder if the police found the cache of illegal weapons that some gun‑runners dumped in our apartment. And I wonder how someone like me, Dave “the Dude” Devoran, who only wanted to spread the gospel of the free market in Hungary, got mixed up with all these criminal types.
That's what worries me most: the criminal types — especially the ones in the cells next to mine. For now I have this space to myself, but I doubt it will be long before they put me in with the others, the murderers and rapists. I bet those creeps would love to get their hands on a good‑looking, law‑abiding capitalist like me. I've seen “Midnight Express.” I've seen “Deliverance.” I know what they have in mind.
I begin to think about what I'd do if a whole group attacked me: Kick one in the groin, punch one in the head, gouge a third in the eyes. When the others see I'm not giving up without a fight, they'll back off. That's right, I'll kick all their asses. They can't mess with me. I feel better just thinking about it, so I replay the whole imaginary victory in my head a few times. In one version I use a judo flip that somebody showed me once. In another, I break a bad guy's neck with a mighty headlock. Each of these fantasies ends with dozens of cowed prisoners backing away, saying things like: “That guy is really tough.”
Just when I begin to spice up the story a bit — adding a gorgeous female prison guard who is impressed with my prowess — a figure appears in front of my cell. He's wearing handcuffs and someone is holding him by the arm. They're going to put another prisoner in here to spend the night with me. I'm going to die.
The door opens, the cuffs are taken off and a young man about my age enters the dark cell. I'm relieved to see that he’s black. American! That’s great! I can do tough American talk: “Yo man. This is a really f‑‑‑ed‑up jail. It ain't dope at all. What you doin' here m'man?”
“Um. Hello,” he says. “I appreciate your trying to speak English—and please don't take this as an insult—but I didn't understand you just now. We can speak Hungarian if you prefer.”
It turns out this guy’s from Sudan and his name is George. He graduated from veterinary school in Budapest and stayed for a few months to do some work here. He was arrested because he went out to the store and he forgot to bring his passport with him. Typical. I've heard the police here are really severe with Africans.
“Ah these cops are a bunch a jerks arent they?” I say sympathetically. “I mean, here you are, a perfectly nice guy who just wants to take care of little animals, and they act like you're a crook. It's the same with me. I don't belong here either, but if you're not Hungarian, they treat you like shit.”
George asks what I'm doing in jail and I explain to him about the stabbing and the weapons and everything.
“But surely, if you let these sort of things happen in your home, and you help people who smuggle guns to the war zone, you do belong in jail,” he says. “In fact—please don't take this as an insult—but I'm not very happy about sharing a cell with a terrorist.”
I explain to George that it's all a misunderstanding and I'm perfectly innocent. He stares at me with a straight face and remains silent for a few seconds after I've finished speaking. Then he tells me that he believes everything I say. But I'm not sure he's convinced. He sits on the floor with his back against the bars, as far away from me as he can get, and nervously watches everything I do.
At least I'm not as worried as I was before. How can I be afraid of my cellmate when he's obviously terrified of me? I begin to relax a little, and stretch out on the bench.
Occasionally, I glance over at George, and I notice that his head seems to be growing, but for some reason it doesn't bother me. After a few minutes, his head has swollen so large that it's as big as the rest of his body. It must be filling with helium or something, because he seems to be floating. I shut my eyes for a second, and when I open them, George has floated to the ceiling of the cell. His legs and arms dangle uselessly below him. He seems to be smiling serenely, but I can’t tell if he means to smile or if his face is just stretched that way. I want a drink of water. I can’t stop thinking about the time I stayed at Aunt Joan’s and she made us fish sticks and I threw up. Why is George floating, and why doesn't it bother me? This is all so stupid, I want to go home. But I can’t go now, because someone is calling me. Lots of people are calling. They’re yelling at me. Oh no, it's a fire—and I'm trapped. I've got to go. I start to run but I'm on the floor.
George is across the floor from me. His head is normal size again. Someone is shouting, apparently trying to rouse the sleepers. A group of prisoners is standing outside. They're all cuffed together on a long chain. A guard opens our cell and motions for us to come and join the chain gang. Before I have a chance to completely wake up, I find myself chained to a group of miserable‑looking, bleary eyed felons in various states of undress.