XX. Dave Meets an Old Aqcuaintaince
Dave “the‑Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came to Budapest to teach Hungarians about capitalism, and get rich doing it, but things haven’t worked out exactly as he had hoped. What follows is Episode XX.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
He can’t see us, but I see him. He’s wearing dirty jeans and a wrinkled shirt. His hair is messy, his eyes are half‑open and so is his mouth. He sits there, shaking his head and shrugging pitifully as they ask him questions. He looks like an idiot, like someone who would need help putting a spoonful of food into his mouth. I had imagined he would be a miserable character, but even I never expected him to look this bad. He is a ridiculous figure. And he is my son.
I sit behind a two‑way mirror as police detectives ask him about the night a member of Parliament was stabbed in his home. My old friend Laci is a sergeant in the police force and he owes me a favor, so he lets me watch the interrogation.
This is my first glimpse of Dave Devoran since I gave him up for adoption more than 20 years ago. Now I see how wise I was back then.
Laci tells me that my son is not a prime suspect. He says that Dave is probably a fine boy, and that he only looks so bad because he spent the night in jail. Laci also says that the lawyer I brought with me can get the boy out of here as soon as the interrogation is over. I’m not so sure I want to free David, but I suppose that’s why I’ve come down here today.
* * *
I’m not so sure I want to free this guy, but I suppose that’s why I’m here. The last time I met him, he was the epitome of an American boor — and weird on top of it. He took me out for Mexican food, talked like a jingoistic yuppie‑wannabe, got drunk and then went crazy. When I ran out and left him in the restaurant, he was accusing me of being a gun runner or something. Now he’s been arrested in this strange case. What kind of nut would attack an important politician? I guess it makes sense that someone that stupid would be associated with Dave Devoran. Anyway, his friend Erzsébet sounded so desperate when she called me and begged me to help — and his mother is paying good money — so it seems I’m handling his case. I hope Dave is at least intelligent enough to cooperate with the police and tell them everything he knows.
* * *
I won’t talk. These cops won’t get anything out of me. The bastards lock me up and get ready to put me away. But before I get on the bus with all those animals being shipped off to prison, they yank me in here for a little psychological torture. It’s bad enough that I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. I also have to listen to this idiot translator butcher my native tongue. “Duhveed, you have killed, ever before, a member of Parliament?” he asks me. I frown and the next question comes: “Aren’t you, perhaps, international terrorist?”
Screw ‘em. I’m not talking. Well, maybe I would tell them that it was actually my roommate’s friend Derk who did the stabbing. And I suppose if they’ve discovered the weapons in my kitchen I’d explain that that stuff is all Matt’s fault. But they haven’t asked me about those things. They haven’t even told me if I’m being charged with anything. And they won’t tell me where my roommate, Karl, is right now, even though he was arrested along with me.
They’re good at this suspense game. They probably learned how to rattle people’s nerves back when they worked for the communists and tortured little old ladies who forgot to salute Stalin’s statue. But I won’t crack. I’ll show these bums what an American is made of. I just wish they’d let me call my Dad. And I wish this translator would shut up. He’s making me sick.
* * *
It makes me sick, but when the officer signals for me, I step out from the observation room and into the interrogation room to get Dave.
“Amy!” he practically shouts. “Were you arrested too, or ... Are you on their side? What’s going on anyway?”
“It’s OK Dave, really.” I’m amazed that I manage to speak to him in a pleasant voice. Putting up with jerks is something they don’t teach you about in law school. Maybe they should. “I’ve been hired to represent you. I’m going to take you out of here.”
* * *
Damn! She wants to take me out of here. The last time I saw this gorgeous piece Amy, I was sure she was hooked up with Matt, the gun runner. I’m still not convinced she’s clean. I’m glad someone’s come for me, but I’m a little nervous about going with her. Will she just lead me to the weapons smugglers so they can kill me before I talk?
And who is this older woman with Amy? The broad looks to be at least in her 50s, but really well‑preserved. Judging by the way she dresses, she’s loaded too. I bet the old silver fox is one of the brains behind the gun mob. She sure looks like she walked out of a James Bond movie. I shrink back from the both of them, wondering if I should leave my chair.
“Calm down Dave. I’m just here to help,” Amy coos in a honey‑laced voice. Then she looks toward the older woman and says: “Your mother’s here with me. Aren’t you going to say hello?”
“Mother? That’s not my ...”
I stop speaking and stare. It suddenly occurs to me that I just spoke to my real mother — who gave me up for adoption when I was a baby — about a week ago. The woman said she would be coming to see me in Budapest. But could this aging Mata Hari be my mom? I’m not sure if I’m ready to accept this.
* * *
I’m not sure if I’m ready to accept this, but I guess it’s too late to back out now. Besides, I came to Budapest to make certain this little wastrel stays out of my life. To do that, I will have to get along with him for a while.
“Darling! It’s so good to see you!” I say. I walk toward the dirty little boy with my arms out to give him an (ugh!) embrace. Fortunately, he doesn’t stand up. He just stares at me with that village‑idiot expression that never seems to leave his face. “Have you been a bad boy? Imagine, I just arrived from Cleveland this morning and I find out that everyone at your house has been arrested. It’s a good thing that girl Erzsébet was there or I never would have found you. She’s a very nice young lady. You should marry her — that is if you are good enough for her. Of course you know this is just a joke. My precious boy is good enough for any girl.”
“How do I know you’re really my mother?” he snaps in a voice befitting a street sweeper.
I begin to cry. I think this makes the interrogator angry with me.
* * *
My interrogator seems really angry with me. He is shouting something at the translator. Above his shouts, I hear a barking noise that I recognize from my recent phone conversation. This is definitely the woman I spoke with when I called Cleveland. I remember what a nut that woman was. She kept acting like she wanted me to live with her and be her little boy — even though I’m grown‑up and I’ve never even met her.
“Is this not your mother?” The translator demands.
“That’s her bark alright — I mean — yeah, that’s Mom.”
They release me in her custody and she kisses my cheek, pats me on the head and tells me she’s going to cook me dinner. Oh boy! Dinner with Mom! I begin to wish she really had been a mobster.