XXXVII. Dad Dishes Dirt
Dave “the Dude” Devoran came from America to Budapest to find his fortune, but things have not gone as smoothly as he had hoped. What follows is Episode XXXVII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I remember the fear caused by being nearly free in November of 1956. After days of insanity in Budapest, the nation declares itself independent of Soviet domination, but my husband Dávidkám, says it won’t last. He says we must leave while we can, tells me to pack and goes to convince his cousin the cabbie to drive with us to the Austrian border. He doesn’t return for hours, and I am terrified: afraid we missed our chance, afraid something happened to Dávidkám — it had been so violent in the streets. When they finally come, my husband knocks and says, “Kinga, it’s me.” All my fears vanish at the sound of his voice. That’s when I know we will really be free.
When it happens again in 1994 -- my husband knocks on the door and calls my name -- I experience the same incredible relief. It is like being set free all over again.
This time it is in the Ujpest apartment of my son, David Devoran. We came here to help end a dispute between the Lithuanian mob and some gun runners who tried to drag David into their dirty business. We have done our part: We lured the weapons smugglers here, and they are outside, trying to kill us. Joey, the head of the Lithuanian gang is with us, and he says his people will come soon to kill the gun runners. I am not so sure who will win this shooting match, but I wish I could watch it from farther away.
And then my husband knocks on the door. I thought he was in Cleveland, taking care of his business. I didn’t want to tell him I was going to Budapest to see David, the son that we gave away for adoption more than 20 years ago. But apparently Dávidkám has found everything out and has come here to help. Now I am so glad he knows.
“Don’t open the door!” David screams. “It’s the Jehova’s Witnesses! They want to convert us like they did to Michael Jackson! They want to turn us into zombies and take us to their planet for slave labor.”
David has been acting very strange lately. I think the whole gang war thing has begun to affect his small brain. He’s so stupid, so weak. We were smart to give him away when we did.
I tell Joey it’s OK, I open the door and give my husband a kiss. Behind him is a man with unruly white hair and a lot of political buttons on his lapel, as well as two of the gun runners that we saw outside earlier. Dávidkám holds his hands up to indicate that everything is alright. Then he points to the man with the white hair and says: “This is Dr. Gazember, and he has something important to say. ... Dr. Gazember?”
“I’m sorry we tried to stash guns in David’s apartment,” the man says.
“And? ...”
“And I’m sorry that we killed the American lawyer and the Lithuanian gangster.”
“And? ...” My husband taps his foot impatiently.
“And we don’t want to have a gang war,” Dr. Gazember says in a pouting tone.
“And? ...”
“And I’ll never do this again.”
“Very good,” my husband says. “You can go now Zoli, and take your friends with you. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you and I don’t want to hear of any trouble. Understand?”
Dr. Gazember nods his head and walks out silently.
“Praise the Lord!” shouts David as he walks toward my husband — his true father whom he has never met before. “I believe in Jesus! If I give you a dollar for a copy of ‘Watchtower,’ will you go away?”
“Oh my God,” says Dávidkám. “This is our son, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” I shrug, embarrassed for the both of us.
“I heard about this whole thing from your artist friend Béla,” says Dávidkám, wagging a finger at me. “How you bailed our son out of jail and got involved with the mob. ... This business is devious; it’s immoral and underhanded. Now I know why I married you to begin with, my little krumpli.”
I acknowledge my husband’s praise, but I have to ask him how he got the gun runners to be so placid. Dávidkám explains that he obtained documentation proving that their leader, Zoli Gazember, had an excellent record with the Pioneers, the old communist youth organization. Dávidkám also has a copy of Gazember’s school records, which show that young Zoli was the best in his class in Russian. This kind of information could destroy the political career of someone like Gazember, who wants to be known as a mindlessly xenophobic nationalist.
I am not the only devious one. My husband is brilliant. Thanks to him we are free again and our troubles are over.
“Praise the Lord!” David shouts once more.
Well, my troubles are over. My son still seems to have some troubles yet.