III. Dave the Dude’s Roomy Parties
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, deflated the bureaucracy at his office. What follows is Episode III.
A woman rushing home with her groceries is preoccupied, perhaps with thoughts of her unfaithful husband. She does not notice as an unripe banana falls out of her bag and into a puddle of motor oil. A dirty child who roams the streets runs through the puddle, smashing the banana and creating a brownish‑green splotch in the midst of the oil’s blackness. You might think the banana looks ugly. I see the splotch as a beautiful thing. I have captured it in a painting that I call “Comeuppance.” If you do not understand, I can not explain.
My name is Karl X. Please pronounce it correctly. I am an artist. I live in Budapest with Dave the Dude. Dave says I am weird. I am not weird. I am creative. He thinks he is cool. He is not cool. He is an idiot who doesn’t appreciate art. I don't think he even deserves to be called a “dude.”
The flat we share together in Ujpest has many of my creations. I made a brownish‑green and black work on the door of our toilet that I call “Untitled 23.” It is brilliant, but Dave says it is stupid. He says the landlady will kill us. If she knows anything about art, she will thank me. Dave the so‑called “Dude” simply does not understand so I cannot explain.
This worries me. I don’t know how I will be able to explain to Dave what happened Thursday night while he was out.
My artist friend, Mira Z., pays me a visit this night and we debate about art. She says that if a person could pour their soul out onto a white canvas, the canvas would become even brighter. I say the canvas would be brownish‑green, with a little bit of black. Mira and I are very different —she is from America and I am German—but we still understand each other because we are both artists. Mira’s boyfriend Derk also is an artist but I don’t think I understand him, especially when he gets drunk. Derk is very drunk Thursday night, and very excited about our argument. He says he doesn’t know what color a soul would be but the question is important. While he is speaking he waves his arms and accidentally pushes the television over. Then he screams something in Norwegian and runs out.
“What shall we do about the television?” I ask Mira. “Do you think it is broken?”
“Television is like religion,” she answers. “It is the opium of the fascists.”
I find it impossible to argue with this statement, so I nod my head and we sit quietly, thinking about the important things that have already been said. A half hour later, there is a terrible banging and screaming noise at the door. Derk is there, holding a wine bottle in his hand. He is with a brutish, older man, who is wearing a faded tweed jacket and a dirty sweater. The man’s nose looks like a dark‑red ping‑pong ball with a lot of veins sticking out of it. He seems drunk, and leans on Derk, who introduces him:
“This is my Bacsi. He is a filthy drunk.”
The man curses at him first in Hungarian and then in bad German. But Derk ignores him. “What color is your soul, filthy drunk?” he says in a very loud voice.
Derk’s Bacsi curses again. “Wo ist der Wiskey? Der Chonny Valker Red?” he demands. Then his eyes roll back into his head and turn white, his knees shake, he bends forward and begins to get sick.
“Look at this terrible mess on my floor!” I say, very angrily. “Derk. You and your friend must leave. Look what he is doing!”
“My Bacsi is pouring out his soul! Get a white canvas so we can see what color it makes.”
Mira and I head toward my room, where I keep my art supplies, but then she stops. She is a discerning artist who cannot be fooled by cheap showmanship. “Derk, you jerk, that’s not his soul. That’s disgusting,” she says. “Eeew! Clean it up.”
Derk’s eyes do some rolling of their own, and I am afraid he will also be sick, but finally he is able to focus his vision on his new friend. “You are a not an artist,” Derk says in a slurred tone. “You do not show us your true soul.” Then he slaps the Bacsi on the back and orders him to clean up his mess.
The older man, still stooped over, butts Derk with his shoulder and says “Awagahh wah, wah,” but I think he means to say “Leave me alone.” Derk stumbles, smiles up at us and says, “I have a good Bacsi.” Then he swings the wine bottle he is holding and breaks it over his Bacsi’s head.
The man collapses on the floor. His arms and legs are stretched out straight, as if he were trying to fly. All around his head, like a halo, are pieces of green glass on the brown floor. For a moment, I am inspired and want to paint. Then I feel afraid.
“Derk, don't be violent,” Mira says. “I’m opposed to violence.”
Derk blinks, seeming unaware of what has happened. Then he moves into spastic action. He grabs a flat‑tipped putty knife from my easel in the corner and rolls the man over. “He’s dying,” Derk mumbles. “Quickly, we must look at his soul before it goes.” As Mira screams, Derk swings hard with the putty knife and it sticks into the man’s chest. But the Bacsi is not yet dead. He jerks up and lets out an awful grunt.
“To the hospital,” Mira says, gasping. “We have to get him to the hospital.”
Derk squints at her, then picks up the Bacsi over one shoulder—he is strong and almost made the Olympic wrestling team in Norway. He tromps out the door, headed I‑don’t‑know‑where with the ailing man before we can stop him.