VII. Dinner with Dave
In the last episode, Dave Devoran, also known as Dave the Dude, free‑market ambassador, was showing his visitors around Budapest's sights. What follows is Episode VII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
Click.
There it goes again.
Click.
And again.
Click.
It’s driving me crazy.
Click.
Every five seconds the taxi’s meter loudly jumps another 10 forints. I glance nervously at the driver, to see if he feels any shame about the ridiculously exhorbitant rate he is charging us. He just smiles at the windshield and steers his Mercedes toward the back of slow‑moving Trabants. Just when he’s about to rear‑end someone, he jerks the car into the next lane and begins to overtake the new vehicle ahead of him. I'm sitting in the front without a seatbelt, wondering why we have swerved into a lane of on‑coming traffic. We’re hurtling toward another Mercedes taxi, with a driver that’s obviously as crazy as mine, because he keeps coming. The two mad Hungarians bear down on eachother without flinching. It’s a regular game of Chicken Paprika‑style. I want to scream, “This is not necessary!” in a language the driver understands. Then I just want to scream. I cover my eyes and ... Click. Another 10 forints.
“Say, this guy charges a hell of a lot. Maybe we oughtta get ourselves a different taxi,” I say to my guests, Matthew and Jennie in the back seat.
“Don’t be so cheap guy,” Matthew says. “We’re on vacation. We don’t mind spending a little.”
How could I forget I’m talking to Matthew the Big‑Bucks lawyer? Mr. Annoyingly Successful. He not only doesn’t care about the fare, he also seems oblivious to our driver’s suicidal tendencies. He oohs and ahhs at the scenerey whipping past, as does his wife, Jennie, who is georgeous enough to be a movie star, but far too intelligent for that sort of thing. I guess being perfect people allows them to be complacent about everything. I hate them for that.
When we get to the restaruant, our fare for a ride from the Castle District to Calvin t_r is Ft 1,673. I like the way it’s an uneven total—a nice touch of realism. Still, the actual price shouldn’t be more than about 300 forints.
I try to argue: "Nem Joe! Nem Joe!" (that's Hungarian for "I'm not gonna pay that much for a cab unless your a six foot‑tall blonde and you spend the entire ride with me in the back seat.")
The driver, though he does not give the appearance of being multilingual, seems capable of making himself understood. He shoves me and screams “Blah blah, blah, blagy!” which must be Hungarian for "I'm a cheesy son‑of‑a‑bitch with nothing to lose aside from my last three teeth, so pay up or roll in the gutter with me!"
Matt steps in, cool suave, Mr. Everything's‑in‑Control. “Don’t sweat it Dave,” he says. “I’m not gonna pinch pennies with this poor guy.” He whips out a 50 forint note, hands it to the guy and says “Keepen sie das change mien herr.” Then he looks the driver in the eye, cranks the man’s hand up and down a few times, like a city councilman at election time, and gives him a quick wink.
I’m waiting for the cabbie to go nuts again but instead he gives a short, sharp nod says “Zank you wery much szir.”
“Have a heart Dave. No need to be a tightwad.” Matt tells me as the cab rockets sideways back into traffic.
“But ... But—I’m not being cheap—you’re ... you only gave him 50 forints. How come he lets you get away with that?”
“Matt’s right,” says Jennie. “Stop worrying about money. You’re on vacation for Christ’s sake.”
“No—no wait,” I stutter. “You’re the ones on vacation. I live here.”
They look at me like I’m somebody’s dull‑brained baby brother and march right into the touristy, rip‑off‑priced restaurant next to the one I wanted to take them to. I’m not saying anything: Wonder‑Matt knows best. I just hope they don’t expect me to pick up the check.
I wave at the maitre D., and say excuse me in my best Hungarian: “Box of lox!” I am ignored with a vengance and the man turns and walks away. Then Matt gently holds up three fingers and the guy, who must have eyes in the back of his head, spins around, charges up to us and says in almost perfect English: “Table for three? This way please.”
I hate Matt. I’m fantasizing about wrapping a phone cord around his neck and squeeezing—oooh so hard—when he grabs me by the elbow and steers me toward the mens room. He calls out to Jennie to go ahead and order three beers.
“I gotta talk fast so listen up,” he tells me. “A client of mine wants to alleviate the suffering in former Yugoslavia.”
I nod. Of course Mr. Perfect is involved in international charity.
“You see.” Matt pauses and scratches his head. “My client’s idea is to help people by, uh, smuggling some weapons across the border and selling them.”
“What?” I half shout. “But you're perfect Matt, with the beautiful wife and the flawless morals!”
“No. No. My wife has the perfect morals. I earn all the money. It's sort of an agreement we have to make our marriage work better. But that’s not the point. I have to talk to you—and quickly—because we need a contact here in Budapest. Someone quiet and above suspiscion. Someone who’s not smart enough—I mean too smart—to try to get involved. That’s why I called you guy. Now here’s my proposal. ...”