XXXI. Another Stroll Along the Nagykörút
American college graduate Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, chose Budapest as the first stop on his road to success. So far, the ride has been bumpy. What follows is Episode XXXI.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I remember walking down this block, holding my grandfather’s hand. There was a man with a cart at the corner up ahead who sold us some chestnuts. In the hand that wasn’t holding mine, Nagypapa carried two newspapers; one German and one French. Nagypapa was the smartest man I knew. In my free hand, I held the string of a pink helium balloon that Nagypapa had bought for me — he was also the kindest man I knew. I wasn’t aware there was a war going on. I only knew I had a whole life ahead of me and it would be good. I was about 3 years old at the time, but I can see it clearly: The clean, pretty streets and buildings; spots of the May sun dropping through the thick leaves of the trees; the happy people, dressed in stylish clothes for their Saturday afternoon stroll — beautiful women and handsome men who admired Nagypapa and I. Nagypapa wore matching pinstriped pants and a vest with a tie. I had on my best red dress, with the puffy sleeves and the white trim. Everything was so bright. So much color.
Now the Nagykörút is gray: The street, the sky, the dirty buildings, the trees and the faces of the people. I am walking next to Inspector János Homok, one of the stupidest and meanest men I know. The girl holding Nagypapa’s hand never imagined that her “good” life would contain someone like János.
I met him 30 years ago, when I temporarily gave up my exile to sneak back into Budapest for a visit with my mother. I had to seduce János to keep him from turning me over to the authorities. Now he says he has loved me since that time and he still does. Idiot. It would make me very happy to kill János. But after all, he is a police inspector, and I also need him to help keep my son, David Devoran, out of trouble.
David is another person that Nagypapa’s little girl never could have anticipated. I gave him up for adoption when he was an infant and now, more than 20 years later, he has found me again. I really don’t want to spend much time with the boy; I made that decision when I gave him away. But David is in trouble with the law, and to get him out of it, I have convinced this fool Janos that he is the boy’s father.
“Kinga, I have been thinking,” János is saying, as we enter the New York Cafe. It was so beautiful once, and now its facade is filthy and covered with scaffolding. “If he is our son, I am ready to do what is right. I am ready to take full responsibility for the boy and ... and marry you.”
I let out a short cry — a sharp, barking noise like seal might make — and János steps back. His eyebrows rise and the corners of his mouth drop. “János don’t be a fool.” The words shoot out of my mouth faster than he can blink — and he does blink, like a frightened rabbit. When I speak again, my voice is slower, kinder: “You and I are both married to other people. It just wouldn’t work. And the boy is grown. He does not need a new father. All he needs is for us to make sure he is not wrongly punished for a crime he didn’t commit.”
As we sit at our table, I tell Janos that it was very kind for him to suggest we get married. I say that I’m flattered and that, in another circumstance, I would be happy to marry him. While the words leave my mouth, I am hoping he’ll understand that I’m only making these comments to be nice. But I can see by the way his face brightens up and flushes with color that he actually believes what I’ve said. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t such a good liar.
“Well, perhaps you are right,” János says. “Perhaps it is too late to change. But as long as we both care for eachother — maybe, my little Kinga, we could ...”
My mouth opens, but I stifle the cry-bark that wants to come out. Instead I interrupt him by placing my hand on his. “Lets talk about the boy,” I suggest.
I wish I was 3 again. I wish I could hold Nagypapa’s hand and not know that any of this would happen.