EGRI BIKAVER.

Prologue

1
 When you sit down to write a novel, you search, sometimes in

vain, for the prefect beginning. I did and after several failed

efforts, I settled on this: Not one of us died that week in

Budapest. And this in itself was true enough. Not one of us did

die. Not Hemingway. Not Peter. Not Katrina. Not Daniel. And

certainly not myself. But after a few days of thought I realized

it wouldn't do because there are more ways to be dead than to die.

And for a second I wanted to attempt to chronicle the 'ways' but

then the second passed taking with it the poetic desire to

vindicate my life, and I decided to leave such to a less cynical

writer then myself. So I took match to cigarette and ice to

bourbon and worked on a new opening. After several days filled

with cigarettes and glasses filled with three fingers of bourbon,

I decided to begin with Julie and Anna because...well because that

week in Budapest began with them.

 Chapter One.

I first took notice of them, and I didn't know their names

then but would some hours later, while sitting on the floor of the

F-10 departure lounge at New York City's Kennedy international

Airport waiting for the flight to Budapest to be announced. The

lounge served as the departure gate for Yugoslavian Airline's

flights to Belgrade and other central points in Eastern Europe.

The lounge was a cube like room and had eight rows of plastic

chairs, fifteen chairs to a row. The chairs were positioned so

they came to a V a few feet from the wall at the far right hand

corner of the room, and it was here that I sat. I suppose, no I

knew damn well I looked silly sitting there on the floor. And why

not. I was a few months shy of my forty-eight birthday and looked

it and I also sported a suit and tie. I was also a Senior editor

for United Press International, although none of the other

passengers who sat comfortably on the chairs could possible know

this. Anyway, the combination of the three, my age, the suit and

my position, should of prevented me from sitting on the floor. But

there I was, hunkered down, back against the wall, legs stretched

stick-like out before me. I felt very conspicuous sitting there.

3
But there wasn't anything to be done about this. I was pecking

away on a laptop computer and the floor afforded comfortable

breathing space for both the computer and myself.

At this point Julie and Anna remained unnoticed by me because

I was busy typing questions and notes to myself. I was doing so

because a few weeks earlier the communist government in Hungary

had collapsed and a democratic transition government had quickly

succeeded the old government. Through a contact at the State

Department, I had arranged for a series of interviews to stretch

out over six days with the newly appointed Minister Of

Information, a Mr. Joseph Tudakoz. I was very fortunate to have

set up the interview on such short notice. A thousand and one

journalists representing every nook and cranny of the fourth

estate; from the print media to the electronic, were clamoring for

interviews with members of the Hungarian transition government.

But therein, haste belied the problem. Because the interview had

been hastily arranged, a mere three hours ago, I hadn't had time

to secure a visa, book a hotel room or prepare a list of questions

I intended on presenting to the Minister. The hotel and the visa

weren't really a problem. Both could be handled once I arrived in

Budapest. But arriving unprepared...without a list of

questions...was for a journalist the equivalent of a mortal sin.

An hour later I had grown tired of working and shut down the

computer and stored it away in my briefcase. After this, I checked

my watch, then removed my reading glasses and placed them in my

breast pocket. I still had twenty minutes before the flight would

be announced. So I rested against the wall and stared straight

ahead. At first I only saw the other passengers sitting on chairs

and didn't pay any attention to them. But after a few seconds I

noticed two girls laying just beyond a row of chairs that came to

an end at the wall opposite of where I sat. I had hadn't slept for

more than twenty hours and was tired and to keep myself from

drifting off fixed on them. They lay head to hand to elbow to

carpet. They looked young, about fifteen and sixteen respectfully,

and wore the apparel of the laid back youth traveling to hell and

gone without a worry in the world; a bandanna to tie their hair

back, and faded jeans. As they had the same hair color, and the

same general build, I guessed them to be sisters or at the very

least cousins. I suppose that my gaze lingered a bit too long

because I noticed them looking at me looking at them. I don't

embarrass easily, but I didn't want to appear as a middle aged

lecher trying to hit on possible underage girls and shifted my

attention away from them onto an elderly couple occupying the two

end chairs across from me. They were engaged in an argument about

how stupid it was to park their car at the airport lot. She

thought it was a waste of money. He otherwise. I smiled at this

and thought: You are on vacation. Forget about the car. Enjoy.

5
 Chapter Two.

Eleven hours later I arrived in Belgrade, completing the

first leg of the journey. Yugoslavian airlines had arranged for a

hotel room, and I would spend the night here and in the morning

take a feeder flight into Budapest. I normally tried to catch a

few winks when traveling overseas. Jet lag and all. But because I

knew I would be spending the night in Belgrade, I had foregone

sleep during the flight, preferring instead to stay in my seat and

work on my notes. Consequently by the time the plane landed, I had

a severe case of novocain ass. The numbness had moved up to my

eyes by the time I departed the plane and everything had a vague

left over quality to it, kind of like an old black and white

movie.

I knew from experience that much of the fogginess in my head

was because my mental time clock was askew. So while I stood in

line at customs, I performed isomeric exercises to chase the

numbness away. Close the eye lids tight, quickly snap them open.

Work the fingers, stretch them, close them into a tight fist.

Squeeze the buttocks. Curl and uncurl the toes. By the time my

turn came at the customs window, I was feeling almost civilized.

The customs official wore a bored droll look of a man mechanically

going through the motions, and took an excruciating long time to

stamp my passport. Or so it seemed to me at the time. When my new

found civility had fled and annoyance was stitching my eyebrows

together, he handed over my passport and waved me along. I gave

him a backward glance, half wondering if he had annoyed me on

purpose.

I had visited Belgrade many times before and knew my way

around the airport and easily meandered my way to the baggage

section. By this time a few of the other passengers on my flight

were already there and I took up a corner by myself and watched in

the way one does when suffering jet lag for my bag to come

circling out on the baggage carousel; hopeful. Hopeful soon gave

way to resentful as I watched the other passengers one by one snag

their bags and depart. Why them, I thought. Why not my bag. I only

had one. God I was tired.

By the time there was only myself and a few other passengers

left waiting, despair had entered. The despair grew as the few

bags left on the carousal kept going round and round indicating

this was all the baggage from the flight. In my tired state the

thought of my bag lost or on its way to China was too much to bear

and I silently began to bitch at the gods that be. I was still

doing so a few minutes later when Julie and Anna walked up and

Julie asked if I was European.

7
 It was here I realized that they weren't sisters or cousins,

but instead mother and daughter. Upon closer examination, Julie

was older than I had estimated her to be while examining her in

New York. She was maybe twenty-eight, or nine. She had a feminine

face; one given to beauty...dark brown hair that cascaded in a

plum of curls around her shoulders, angled high cheek bones,

oblong eyes, and a full firm mouth. Anna, who I had thought to be

her sister, was actually a girl of about nine years of age. She

had the lively curious eyes often found in one so young. Anna, I

quickly decided, enjoyed where they were going simply for the joy

of it. I also decided that I had first mistaken her to be around

sixteen or seventeen because she was almost the same height as

Julie. Although they had perked my attention at the terminal in

New York, they had done so in the pursuit of a travel hobby

facilitated by boredom. But now my interest in them was genuine.

The journalist in me was a little more than curious as to why they

were traveling to Eastern Europe.

I had lived in New York long enough to immediately recognize

lost and fear in their eyes. Little boys see chivalry on the movie

screen and want to imitate the same and be gallant when they are

all grownup. I have known a great many men who have gotten over

this desire to imitate or be gallant. But I had retained this

youthful desire; more of a curiosity trait then anything else, and

quickly traded the frustration on my face for knowledge; or

wisdom...after all they are both one and the same...and gently met

her eyes.

"No," I replied, "From New York. Why?"

Julie hadn't expected this response and her face held a

polite hesitancy.

"Go on mom," Anna urged.

Her hesitancy fled under the delightful urging of youth.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were from this part of the world.

You see our bags..."

"Yes," I, knowing what she was going to ask, quickly

answered. "either the baggage handlers have expired from over

work, or they're milking a proletariat cigarette break or our bags

are flying high over China right now. I vote for the choice

between the former and the later."

My cheap stab at humor elicited a welcome smile. But still

worry lines wrinkled her forehead.

"Lots of luggage?" I inquired.

"Tons," Anna replied.

Things often appear to happen by magic, or so it seems at the

time. So it was with Julie and me. Before I could respond, Julie

caught sight of one of her bags...and the sighting forestalled

further conversation. It was a faded green army duffle bag. She

indicated this by a tiny yelp of joy. As the bag rolled toward

us, I snagged it and hefted. I am not a little man by any means. I

9
stand about five eleven and weigh in at one seventy. Although I

was a few years shy of fifty, a fact I may or may not have

mentioned earlier, I was in fairly good physical shape. But that

damn duffel bag was heavy. I had not anticipated its weight and

quickly attempted to compensate for the weight of the bag by

digging my heels into the floor and jerking powerfully up. As with

all things heavy, they are not as heavy as they seem when exerting

will and muscle power, and I was doing both when the duffle bag

rocketed toward me at a frightening speed. All at once I saw a

very large green bag careening toward my head, and in a attempt to

duck, almost lost my balance and fell face down on the floor. But

at the last moment I saved face and the bag and honor by seeking

and grasping purchase with the toes of my feet and at the same

time rocking onto the balls of my feet and by shear force jerking

the bag to a halt. I was both proud and foolish and flashed a

sideways awkward grin to show as much. Anna did the natural thing

and giggled; although she had the grace to try and hide the same

behind a raised hand. Julie smiled knowingly. I wasn't sure if she

had smiled because of my foolishness or out of relief that her

bags weren't lost. So to further break the ice I mentioned as

much.

"Both," she freely admitted.

I guess she figured she had hurt my feelings because a

scarlet blush crept upon her cheeks. She wore it well, and I said

as much. We took the moment as the rest of her luggage accumulated

at our feet to exchange personal information. She was Julie

Newman. Her daughter was Anna. She lived in Iowa, Dubuque to be

exact. She taught grade school there. Sixth grade. She was on her

way to Budapest to meet her husband. He taught school there...ESL

to be exact. She had never been overseas before. She was exhausted

and excited at the same time. Although she didn't say as much, she

was also frightened by the whole trip, and was also rather

fascinated by the foreignness of it all. I started to tell her I

was a Senior Editor for United Press International in New York

City. But stopped. The title usually impressed strangers, and also

made them feel insecure. So for my part I simply explained I was a

journalist and was on my way to Budapest on assignment. Still by

the slight widening of her eyes I knew that she was impressed and

probably the other too.

There are many neutral meeting grounds where people gather

and meet and half believe what the other says. A pub is one such

neutral meeting ground. A woman or a man can meet in a pub, and a

pub being a place where booze and exaggeration are passed about in

abundance, will half believe what the other says. But I have often

noticed and mostly while working as a journalist that there are

really only two cases where a complete stranger will accept

without question what a stranger tells them. One is in a dire

emergency where a persons life or their well being is dependent on

a stranger. The other is the solid earth of a foreign land. We

11
were both strangers in a strange land and unlike at home where our

guards would have been up at meeting a stranger, we were both

tired from the long journey and at that moment the bond of

communication now steeped in the familiarity of each other's life

formed between us. She sensed it as I did and showed as much by a

upward lilt of her eyes, and a curling back of the cheeks; both

the actions of lovely ignorance wanting to hear more of this

strangers life. I liked the look and softened my eyes to show as

much. Because of this there was an awkward moment of silence

between us as the last bag on the baggage carousel lazily rolled

our way. The bag was mine. My only bag and I snared it. A mound of

luggage had accumulated at our feet. I stared at it. It was all

hers. I was about to ask how come so much luggage when Anna took

the moment to yawn the yawn of a bored child listening to adults

ramble on. The yawn facilitated a motherly pat on the head. Anna

carried a teddy bear and held it out in reply to what Julie had

done as if to say with it, "Oh Mom, can we go already."

"I suppose you're staying at the Hotel Kasina?" I idly

inquired.

From her purse came the airline ticket envelope given to her

by a far away ticket agent in Dubuque Iowa. She had worried over

the contents often during the trip, and this was apparent by the

worn frayed edges of the envelope. She pulled out a computer check

list and scanned it for a few seconds.

 "Yes," she answered, "Yugoslavian airlines arranged it. You

too?"

I was hoping she was, and she was I was too. "Yes."

"The travel agent gave me instructions. I am supposed to pick

up a voucher at the information counter. I."

The fear of uncertainty was back in her eyes. She was unsure

of how to proceed from here. And why not? She was confused by it

all. I had been through this rigmarole many times before. The

hotel would be second class, especially since it was a freebie

arranged by the airlines. I explained about the hotel and had her

pause for a second while going off in search of a baggage cart. I

was back within moments and shifted the mound of luggage onto the

cart. As there was a great deal of luggage and as I hadn't done a

very good job of stacking it, the duffel bag seemed to teeter on

the brink of falling. I instructed her to follow me and held the

duffel bag with one hand to keep it from falling while meandering

our way through the airport. If Julie noticed the duffle bag was

about to fall, she was kind enough to keep it to herself.

Securing the vouchers for the hotel was as uneventful as the

flight. At the information booth a bored woman wearing the

impassive eyes of longing to be anywhere but where she was at

dispensed the vouchers. But it was only uneventful for me. Julie,

who had never stepped foot outside Iowa, found being in a foreign

land waiting for a very bored and very tired woman to issue

13
vouchers exciting, and bubbled over with questions about Eastern

Europe. The line at the airport information window was long, as

there was only one window open, and I had ample time to answer her

questions. All the while Anne either talked to the teddy bear or

made yawning sounds of boredom.

A short time later we were outside waiting for a bus to take

us into the City Center and to the hotel Kasina. Although it was

fall, late October, winter arrives early in Eastern Europe and the

night air was little cool. Julie was wearing what she had worn in

New York and must of been cold. But if she noticed the cold, she

didn't mention it. She had kept up a steady stream of chatter and

it was here that she fell strangely quiet. The breeze was brisk

enough to toss a few strands of hair over her eyes. The effect

gave her a mysterious appearance. Or so I thought.

All taxi drivers in every foreign port throughout the world

know exactly fifty words of english; each word designed to flim

flam the unsuspecting tourist into a very expensive taxi ride into

the city. But not even the taxi drivers who rushed at us and

rapidly assaulted us in broken english could disturb the quiet

features of her face. I shooed them away and they like dutiful

piranha attacked a elderly couple standing a few feet away from

us. I looked down and saw that Anna had the same look on her face

as her mother did. They were both enjoying the first fullness of a

strange and exotic place. I wasn't so old and so travel weary that

I couldn't remember similar feelings and let them be.

 Chapter Three.

Somewhere between the baggage area and arriving at the hotel,

I mentally manipulated the bond of familiarity into a daydream

(night dream since it was night) of responsibility for both Julie

and Anna. I fancied it was because the newness of what they saw

and felt was by virtue of being with them also transmitted to me.

Or maybe I was just plain tired and a tired mind plays tricks on

itself. Whatever the reason, I playfully began to imagine I was

her husband and it was my sworn duty to show them a good time. I

rather enjoyed the image of myself as a husband and as the bus

sped through Belgrade fulfilled the lark much as a circus clown

fulfills stumbling stupidly for the waiting faces of children and

bounced from window to window gleefully shouting out the sights. I

even went so far as to gather up a Yugoslavian newspaper left on a

seat and proudly displayed it to both Julie and Anna. Of course it

was in Yugoslavian and was greek to them. But they smiled all the

same. In short I played the fool. The other passengers just smiled

knowingly at my antics. I ignored them, thinking at the time, what

did they know. Besides Julie, who although was suffering from

culture shock and jet lag, was woman enough to see through my

15
thinly veiled clown mask, nodded, smiled and laughed

encouragingly. Anna encouraged me with a child's laughter that

rang throughout the bus.

Once at the hotel my jolly good cheer came to a screeching

halt. The bus driver had deposited our bags on the sidewalk and

gone about his business. There was quite a huge mound of luggage

accumulated there and Julie was concerned about ferrying the bags

from the sidewalk into the hotel. I assured her that the bell

clerk would handle this. Although she nodded at what I had said,

still she stood looking forlornly at the accumulated baggage, her

top lip nibbling at her bottom lip. Anna seemed to have a child's

grasp of the situation and reassured her mother.

"Ah mom. You worry too much.

I smiled at Anna, then instructed, as I imagined a husband

might instruct, that they wait and went into the hotel to find the

bell clerk. I found him by the concierge's desk and asked him to

help with my luggage. He indicated by a shrug of his shoulders

that he didn't understand so I gently grasped his elbow and guided

him out to the sidewalk. He followed without protest. Although he

was a smallish man, barely five foot tall, and painfully thin to

the point of malnourishment, he seemed to swell, or at least his

eyes did, at the sight of the pile of luggage accumulated on the

sidewalk. As anger poured from his eyes his entire body followed

suite and swelled to beyond twice its normal size until it seemed
like he must burst. It was apparent that his indignation was too

much for him to endure and continue living at the same time.

"You people," he finally stuttered out in prefect english,

"You people think you can move your entire household from America

to Belgrade and expect me to carry it for you. Well No! No I will

not!"

His short burst of anger served as fuel for his feet and he

spun and marched right back into the hotel.

I failed to react to his tirade right off because at first I

was quite frankly amazed by his grasp of english. I had expected

the normal fifty words of english, much like the taxi drivers,

only this time each word designed to heighten the tip. But then I

glanced at Julie and saw a defeated look on her face, almost as if

she had done something terribly wrong. I am normally a peaceful

man, especially when dealing with people performing menial labor;

part of my bleeding heart liberal tendencies I imagine. But Julie

was a pitiful sight, and I was suddenly angry and stormed into the

hotel after the bellman. He was standing by the concierge's desk

talking to another bellman and as such had his back to me.

"What the hell is your problem!" I demanded rather loudly.

As if I was beneath their attention; say an ant or a fly, the

bellmen continued conversing between themselves. This was a

mistake. Different people are driven to violence by different

annoyances. There are people, especially in New York City, who

17
while walking on the sidewalks dislike it when a stranger so much

as passes them a sideways glance..to do so is very dangerous; then

there are others who while hunched over the steering wheel foam at

the mouth while driving in rush hour traffic...and it is best to

gingerly steer around them; then there are the people who react

violently when ignored...I am of this ilk. I believe it's because

my mother used to leave me unattended while cleaning the house;

but who knows. What ever the reason, ignoring me is the one tried

and true method to get my dander up. Usually I can control the

anger, and not because I am blessed with an abundance of self-will

power; I am not, but because I had grown smart enough over the

years to realize that uncontrolled rage was a losing proposition.

But standing there I lost control for the first time in long

distance memory and stormed between the two men and screamed for

all of about thirty seconds. My rage spent, I suddenly snapped my

mouth closed and set my jaw at them. Little droplets of spittle

rimmed my lips. The two men stared at me as if I had just landed

from the moon. A staring standoff ensued. After a few seconds of

this the door man who had refused to help broke the standoff and

asked, "What did you say?"

He had said this innocently. Or as if he was talking to a

child who had just thrown a temper tantrum. Also his tone and

demeanor were designed to calm me and for a moment I supposed that

as a hotel bell man, he practiced calming irate customers in the

mirror while shaving in the morning. And as much as I hated to

admit it, it worked because I was instantly ashamed by my childish

outburst. But as ashamed as I was, my mind was already regrouping.

I had acted like a fool. So be it. Now be calm. This is what the

asshole wants. So give him what he wants. So I did. But before

doing so I took a good long hard look at the name tag on his

shirt. J. Kernivich.

"I am a journalist. A senior editor," I said calmly, fully in

control of each thought and word, "And if you don't go out there

and cart the luggage into the hotel, I am going to write a story

about you. Such a story. It will stifle tourism until the thaw

next spring. What do you think? What will your party chairman

think? Hey, Mr. J. Kernivich?"

He shook his head as if he didn't believe me. After all, who

was I but an American flying third class and staying at a giveaway

hotel. So I took out my press card from my wallet and holding it

between thumb and forefinger held it up so he could read it. The

lighting at the concierge desk was a bit dim, so I held it closer

to his eyes for effect. I like to think that although I am not

famous, I had written and still did, my share of stories and each

had my name above the byline. As such I wasn't sure whether he

read the International Herald Tribune where many of my stories

over the years had appeared and if so if he bothered to notice the

name above the byline. So not knowing this I didn't know whether

19
it was the press card or my name that snapped him to attention.

But snap to attention he did.

"It was a mistake," he stiffly replied.

"Yes."

"I will attend to the lady's baggage."

"No."

His mouth formed the word, 'NO', and did so so perfectly.

I left him hanging like this and spun on my heels and left

the hotel. Julie and Anna had questions in their eyes as they

watched me walk toward them. I forestalled comment as I hefted two

bags and carried them to within a few feet of the front desk. I

did this repeatedly and by the time I was finished I was out of

breath. Julie had helped me with the lighter of the bags and now

stood behind me at the front desk. I was too out of breath to talk

and wordlessly pushed my voucher across the marble counter at the

clerk. The clerk was obviously aware of what had transpired

between the bellman and myself because he wordlessly assigned me a

room and pushed a key back across the marble counter. As I stepped

aside, Julie stepped up and handed the clerk the voucher.

"I would like the room next to his," She said,"Please."

Her tone had been natural, almost like we were old lovers.

And I reacted in kind and readily accepted my role; one I had

designed for myself and in the back of my mind was already

beginning to question, and the moment the clerk handed her a key

hooked my hand in the crook of her arm and lead her to the
elevator. I allowed the same bellman to carry our luggage onto the

elevator and up to our rooms. I did so because I was too exhausted

to carry them myself. Julie offered him one American dollar as a

tip and he frowned for a second as if to say it wasn't enough. She

tilted her head in my direction, deferring to my experience in

such matters. I was still plenty angry and had no intention of

tipping him at all and just growled at the son of a bitch and he

left in a hurry.

All I could say about the rooms is that they were crummy,

period. I had seen better in the flop houses in the old days

before the Bowery in New York City had been reincarnated into a

yuppie paradise instead of a cesspool for societies

disenfranchised. We entered Julie's room first. As soon as the

light was flicked on cockroaches scattered. Anna let out a cry of

disgust. I quickly assured her that if a lamp was left on during

the night the roaches wouldn't come back out. Anna clung to my

hand while I said this. I don't think she believed me, but bravely

declined further comment on the subject. I was impressed by this.

We had dinner coupons for a complimentary dinner on the house.

After dealing with the bellman and seeing the room I was leery

about eating in this dump, but I didn't want to add fuel to an

already volatile situation and a moment later left them to freshen

up for dinner.

21
 I was mentally and physically exhausted and because of this

the rest of the evening transpired in hazy dream like sequences.

Scene one began when an hour later we went downstairs for dinner.

Julie had changed into a rust color dress that cascaded around her

ankles. She looked very beautiful and the other men in the dinning

room gave her more then a passing glance and I was proud to be

seen with her. Anna wore jeans and a pink halter. She looked very

young and happy and I knew that the other people in the dinning

room thought that I was her father and was pleased by this. The

menu was very simple; either fish and potatoes or steak and

potatoes. We each chose the fish dinner. As we waited for the food

we engaged in small talk. I once again played the clown husband;

only more exaggerated then before. Anna had carried her teddy bear

to the table. I inquired about the bear and Julie explained that

Anna's grandmother had given her the teddy bear before leaving

Iowa. I insisted that the teddy bear should have its own chair,

preferably a chair with a booster cube so the teddy bear could see

over the edge of the table. Anna giggled at this and said, "The

teddy bear isn't real you know you know."

This was blasphemy and I said as much. She giggled louder. I

was huffy about her giggles and to prove my point went off in

search of a booster cube. The first waiter I approached didn't

speak english and I attempted to show what I meant by forming my

hands in the shape of a cube. After a few minutes of this, of

which he looked at me like I was crazy, he said, "Chef speak

english."

Although I was beginning to think this was a bad idea, I mean

I knew the damn bear was stuffed, I, more to save face at this

point then anything else, went into the kitchen and explained to a

man wearing a tall white hat who I assumed to be the chef what I

required. But he had a very little grasp of english and this took

a few minutes. At last I emerged from the kitchen carrying a

rather tattered booster cube. The other dinners from the bemused

expressions on their faces were intrigued by my antics. I ignored

them and positioned the teddy bear so it peeked just above the

edge of the table at us. Anna laughed at this and said that all

this trouble was a waste of time, "After all the bear wasn't

really alive. It was stuffed."

I was again shocked by such blasphemy and promptly displayed

such. "Bite your tongue," I retorted.

Before she could think up a answer, the waiter brought our

food. In between coy glances Julie and I settled into the kind of

conversation that ensures while attempting to eat and be polite at

the same time. We each proclaimed how we hadn't realized how

famished we were. We each extolled the virtues of the food.

Several times Julie instructed Anna to stop playing with her food.

Each time Anna replied, "Ah mom."

23
 From there on most of the conversation was designed to learn

more about each other. As man is a cautious beast by nature, this

was done through crooks and turns. I idly inquired, wrapping the

question under the guise of a joke rather then an outright

question, as to why she was carrying so much luggage. She laughed

and explained. The luggage and bags represented the sum total of

her house in Dubuque. The duffle bag even held a full mainframe

computer. Her husband's. He needed it for his work. I think she

saw a look on my face that said, "Why the hell didn't your husband

carry some of the luggage." Because she quickly added, "My husband

flew ahead to secure us an apartment."

But this really wasn't my business, so I mentioned that

carting such a mound of baggage was going to be a strain during

the return trip.

She shrugged at this, explaining that she had only had enough

money for a one way ticket. Her husband's idea.

To my way of thinking sending a woman and a child half way

around the world carrying a ton of luggage and a child was

irresponsible. And I didn't think too highly of him just then. But

I reminded myself that there must be more to the story.

Julie and I seemed to be hogging the conversation, of which

Anna, by her quiet assent showed she didn't mind. Nevertheless I

took a pause in the conversation between us to draw Anna out and

at the same time to satisfy my curiosity about Julie and Anna.

Julie had mentioned that she was meeting her husband in Budapest.
I had accepted this readily enough, but also I had a hunch that

this wasn't her first marriage and that Mr. Newman was Anna's

stepfather. So to satisfy this hunch, I pointed at the teddy bear

and asked Anna if the bear had a last name?

"Of course, silly," she replied, "It's the same as mine."

"And what would this be?"

"Peck," she replied and made a face to show exasperation at

my question.

It was a cheap trick. But Julie wasn't put off by it.

"Journalistic curiosity," I replied.

"Did I miss something?" Anna asked.

"My first husband," Julie said by way of an explanation. "He

lives in Dubuque."

"Oh," Anna intoned.

Although that was the end of that, I felt a little bit sleazy

about the way I had set Anna up. And the sleazy feeling left a bad

taste in my mouth, so after dessert was consumed and Julie and I

had lit up a cigarette, I humbly accepted a sound chastising on

the evils of smoking by Anna. The scolding made the sleazy part of

me feel better.

Scene two arrived as we stood in the hall outside our rooms.

Anna had gone inside the room to check on roaches. Julie and I

stared at each other. By this time it was very late.

"I enjoyed dinner," she said.

25
 "So did I," I replied.

"Well," she answered.

"Well," I said.

"How can I ever repay you."

Standing in the hall, the comforts of home a thousand miles

away in New York, I thought of a thousand and one ways. They all

involved both of us in bed. Five hundred of them involved both of

us living happily ever after. But I had assigned myself a role to

play and I played it out.

"There is no need."

"I...."

Anna entered the hall.

There are times when all the indecision in the world settles

into my bones. At these times I have learned to quickly force

myself to terminate whatever the situation is I am in. So I said

with more force then intended, "Sleep tight!"

There was an undecided glance from Julie and a sleepy wave

from Anna and then they were gone, their door shut tight. I stared

at the door for a long time. I did so half hoping Julie would come

back into the hall and we would make love all night long in my

bed. Scene three arrived as I lay in my bed thinking about

whether Julie was laying in bed thinking about me. The room was

basic spartan. A bed. A dresser. A nightstand. A lamp. The room

had also been used. I had noticed this before dinner but hadn't

mentioned it because I didn't want to upset Julie. There was the

dead ends of a few cigarettes in the ashtrays. One had lipstick on

it. The pillow smelled of cheap perfume. And the sheet had a tell-

tell stain on it. There was also a coin on the end table. I

assumed the coin was left there as a tip for the maid.

I was to tired to sleep and several times stood and walked

around the room. Each time I rose, I considered knocking on

Julie's door and found myself going out to the hall to do so

before rejecting the idea. I was acting foolish. She was married.

Go to bed already.

An hour later after crushing several roaches, and inspecting

every nook and cranny in the room, I decided to take my excess

energy outside. By this time it was around four A M and the

darkness outside had the gritty before dawn quality to it. The

hotel held the point on a five corner junction. There were two

people sitting on the curb across the street from the hotel. They

probably worked the night shift at the hotel, and was waiting for

a bus, or so I thought. But a moment later a bus spewing out

noxious black fumes rumbled past them proving me wrong.

I crossed the street and walked by the people sitting on the

curb. We passed inspecting glances. I considered waving or saying

hello. But it was late. For all I knew they could be thugs. So I

kept walking. Within minutes I had half circled the five points of

the corners and came face to face with a stone fountain of the

kind found in small European towns. Water spouted from a pipe in

27
the center of the fountain which in turn collected at the

fountain's basin. I failed to see the old man at first, and I

guess it was because of the dark clothing he wore. But I did see

something and paused, squinting. At last through the gritty

darkness he took shape. He was huddled so close to the fountain

that I would have missed him entirely had it not been for his snow

white hair. But white is white and it was dark outside. He

unzipped his fly and relieved himself against the stone bricks

that made up the fountain. The bricks were cool from the water

held within the basin and the warm urine steamed. He next washed

his hands in the water, then in a single fluid motion preened his

handle-bar mustache with thumb and forefinger. After several

seconds, he was satisfied that his mustache was clean and cupped

his hands, submerged them in the water, and in this fashion drank.

He dried his palms on his trousers then set off. He walked slow,

as if his legs pained him. I followed at a safe distance, staying

in the shadows. I don't know why, a reporters inquisitiveness I

suppose. But I knew I should be sleeping. So when he came to the

corner where the hotel was located, and cut up a side street, I

let him be and went inside. But I wished him a soft goodnight

before doing so.

 Chapter four.

Oh how so seriously delicious I felt while I stretched out on

the bed. So seriously stupid and delicious. Deliciously stupid

even. Gad, I am acting crazy, I said aloud, and I have to be out

of my mind.

My next thought was of Daniel. He came naturally to mind

because he out of all the people I had known in my life would

appreciate the dunce cap I wore. Playing husband to an already

married woman. Following an old bum at four o'clock in the morning

through the streets of a strange city.

I hadn't thought about Daniel in...five years or more, and

the recollection on how long it had been snatched the

deliciousness from my merry mood, leaving in its place a serious

melancholia. Had it really been that long, I wondered aloud, and

sat up. I lit a cigarette and lay back on the pillow and blew

smoke rings at the ceiling and dwelled on him for a while. I was

an only child and if there was one person in my life who had

become like a brother to me, it had been Daniel. We had worked

together for fifteen years and had during that time become very

good friends. But we had drifted apart. Well not so much drifted

29
apart, as torn apart. A thorn had come between us...of the female

variety. It is a old story, played out countless times throughout

history. He had met a woman, fell madly in love with her, and when

she left him to marry another, he had fallen completely apart.

When the cigarette burned down to the filter, I stubbed it

out in the ashtray and pulled the covers over me. As I drifted

off, I reflected on Daniel and how he had aggravated the hell out

of me the first time I had met him.

I had met almost him twenty years ago during my rookie year

for United Press International. We had both served a long

apprenticeship working on a small town newspaper and were both in

our late twenties at the time. Back than, to work for a wire

service such as U.P.I. was considered a plum; a plum that carried

with it the wings to fly to even greater heights. I had long

strived for such a plum and had submitted numerous applications to

all the wire services in the country and was straight away

rejected by each one. I was young and remained undaunted and

waited six months before submitting a second series of

applications...once again to no avail. I was discouraged by the

last round of rejections and became resigned that I was of small

town caliber and as such would never rise to the big time. Right

about that time fate stepped in under the guise of my uncle Bobby.

Bobby sold lawn rakes to hardware stores and met a client who's

brother worked at U.P.I. I know this next line sounds fictitious

but I swear it's true; uncle Bobby traded fifty lawn rakes for a
position at U.P.I. And that's how I secured my first job in the

big time.

My first day on the job I was assigned to the rookie pool and

had met Daniel who was also a rookie. I related the story about

the lawn rakes, laughing at the idiocy of it. After I had finished

my tale, I leered at him, fully expecting him to relate a similar

tale of how he had arrived at working for U.P.I. I mean there is

an unwritten code somewhere in the rule book of civilization

stating that each grunt who has sucked eggs has the right to bitch

about it and after doing so is entitled to ease the stupidly of

the tale by listening to a like tale. Daniel obliged, but only

after a few thoughtful seconds.

I was astounded to learn that his road to U.P.I was due to an

honorable mention from the Pulitzer committee for an article of on

all things home baked apple pies and was instantly envious. I had

lawn racks to recommend me. He had, of all things, an honorable

mention from the Pulitzer committee. I would of given my left

manhood to receive an honorable mention from the Pulitzer.

As I was quite excited, I pressed him for more details. But

he modestly declined, saying that was the whole story.

The timber of his voice indicated this was the end of the

matter as far as he was concerned. Because I was envious, I took

his reticence as something other then modesty, and was sure he was

hiding something. He had to be. The Pulitzer committee had far

31
more important stories to award honorable mentions to than damn

apple pies. And because my uncle Bobby had secured me the job, I

readily deduced that Daniel's parent's were on the Pulitzer

committee and had secured the honorable mention for him. Such is

how minds work, especially young envious minds.

But who cared about pies, right. I was in New York. I worked

for a major wire service. Who cared. Pies. Pulitzer. Big deal.

Well I cared about the damn pies, and for many months the thought

of them ate away at me until I wasn't sure if I was fuming because

he wouldn't tell me that his parent's were on the Pulitzer

committee, or because I was envious about the honorable mention.

This was a wicked state to be in, I concluded miserably at the

time and decided through sleuth and guile to weasel the truth out

of him. Like all rookies, we were assigned to cover the city desk.

The work at the city desk was grunt work, and mostly involved

phoning in confessions from a poor guilty soul the police would

beat a confession out of because the person didn't want to go to

jail. This task usually extracted an hour from an eight hour day,

and then the rest of the shift was devoted to idle conversation.

Mostly we discussed shop politics. But every now and then I would

put a different spin on the lawn rack story, and retell it. I did

so hoping he would further elaborate on the pie story. But he

never did. I even went so far as to packing apple pies for lunch.

But he didn't nibble at what I saw as the obvious. So one day out

of frustration, I visited the library and dug out the original

story on the now infamous home baked apple pie and read it. There

wasn't anything special about the story. Finally I outright asked

him. We had become good friends by this time and I didn't bother

explaining why I had to know.

"It's simple," he explained, "I wrote what the old farm woman

said to me."

I didn't get it and said as much.

"I added nothing," he empathized, "Don't you see. I wasn't

there in her kitchen. I didn't belong there. I was invisible. When

she moved, talked, my pencil moved. Get it."

No, I did not. So I blurted out, "You mean your parent's

aren't on the Pulitzer committee!"

He was a bit exasperated by this time, and so was I, and we

never talked about the pies again. But I learned a great deal

about Daniel then, and a great deal about envy and a great deal

more about journalism.

33
 Chapter Five.

When I awoke that morning I went directly to the window and

opened it. The room was warm and cold crisp air quickly filled the

warmth around me. I breathed deep to clear the cobwebs from my

mind. I had a long standing habit each morning of going to the

window and taking in a lung full of fresh air. I did this, I often

told myself, because I wanted to test the weather to see what

manner of clothing I should wear. But my reasons were much simpler

than that. I went to the window to see if the world was still

there. The world always was and I always felt reassured by this.

And the world was there on this morning. Not the New York City

world with its bustling get ready to work time of day unfolding

below me; but the Belgrade world with its bustling get ready to

work time of day unfolding below me.

I watched for a few seconds as busses discharged and took on

passengers from street corners which only a few hours ago were

deserted. At last I grew bored and went to the bathroom to shower

and shave. In the reflection of the medicine cabinet mirror, I

found myself staring back at me...not the buffoon of the previous

evening who had acted the make believe husband. True the eyes were

tired from too little sleep, but the slight arrogance shining
forth showed them to be sufficiently rested. Their was somebody

back behind the eyes. There was the senior editor of United Press

international. He was calm, cool and always collected. He, above

all else, was aware of his inner self. He was, to be blunt, a man

who got the job done. That was why he was a senior editor.

I was relieved to see that the few hours sleep I managed to

garner were enough to chase away the self indulgent fantasies of

the previous evening. I called my break from reality self

indulgent because this is what it was. I had been tired, yes, but

more then that I had rather enjoyed Julie's company from the start

and because of the same allowed myself to be swept away into a

fantasy world where playing house was the order of the day. A

white picket fence, a job pumping gas at the local station, and a

peck on the cheek upon arriving at home when the work day was

done. I hadn't questioned the fantasy at the time, nor did I do so

now. I did suppose the fantasy was harmless enough in itself; much

like, I assume, fantasizing about the air brushed lines of a

playboy model while making love to a woman who's body and mind had

long ago grown familiar is. But I wasn't the type of man who

imagined making love to a face in a magazine while making love to

his girlfriend; to do so seemed dishonest.

I grunted at my last thoughts and began to prepare for the

day. The hour was late and the day would be hurried. A mad dash

with Julie and Anna in tow to the airport. The airport would be

35
crowded and we would be crammed aboard a commuter flight to

Budapest. And as I had left New York in a hurry, once in Budapest

lodgings had to be secured. Yes, I thought with a trace of

fatigue, the day would be hurried.

 Chapter Six.

The prophecy of a hurried day was right on target. I had

phoned Julie's room after showering. She had said she'd be ready

in about a half hour. We had a complimentary breakfast coming and

I asked her if she wanted me to wait breakfast. She replied, no,

would grab a bite at the airport. Since I had time to kill, I went

downstairs and had a breakfast of eggs and bacon and coffee. A

half hour later I rapped on her door and after a few seconds her

and Anna appeared ready for the final leg of their journey. My

thoughts to the contrary, or maybe because of them, I couldn't

help noticing how radiant Julie looked. She wore a cotton dress,

and this could be told by the many natural wrinkles; and it gave

her a lit airy feel. In short she resembled a woman who had taken

the time to look her best for her husband.

"Sleep well?" I asked.

"Very," she answered.

"Liar!" Anna exclaimed.

Anna hadn't spoken out of meanness, but like at dinner the

previous evening, with the luxury of innocence and ignorance of

one so young. And for an all too brief second I envied Anna her

37
youth with a melancholia that filled my entire body, a longing

melancholia that harkened back to my own youth and the innocence

in which I had uttered likewise statements, with but a 'what can

you expect' upturned eyebrows from the adults at hand; but it was

the most briefest of second, for a moment later I thought of

Daniel for the second time in as many days. He had had the same

speak his mind innocence, only in a man his age it was often

referred to as mitigated, or unmitigated gall. But the thought of

Daniel like the one of envy expired quickly and the resolve I had

gained by the few hours of sleep, and the insight I had momentary

gained by staring at my reflection in the mirror, dissolved. All

at once my mind was torn asunder by the implications of what Anna

had uttered and I found myself drifting afloat in the fantasy of

the previous evening. As such I was both excited and disappointed

by the thought that Julie had waited for me to knock on the door

last night. The fair maiden had waited for the knight in shining

armor who had saved her from the terrible fate of the unknown. My

momentary elation quickly vanished to be replaced by

disappointment. And now I bathed in the utter despair of a soul

steeped in the longing loneliness of wanting to turn time back. I

was a fool. I had not had the courage to knock on her door. I was

a fool. Worse then a fool I was a knave. A second later I laughed

at the silly self picture of myself standing there weeping eternal

for a fantasy.
 It was a moment later that I took stock of myself. I stepped

back, literally and figuratively. I calmly reminded myself that

Julie had lain awake all night because she was excited about

meeting her husband. I further reminded myself that I was just,

and the emphasis was on the word 'just,' escorting Julie and Anna

to Budapest. I was the designated escort...period.

After thinking of this I looked at Julie and Anna, and once

again saw a woman with a child who was all dressed up to meet a

husband who she had traveled thousands of miles to see. I was also

relieved to see that Julie was red faced embarrassed by what Anna

had said and as such had not been privy to my inner thoughts.

From that moment on the morning and its direction evolved

methodically. The day bellman transported the luggage to the bus

with a cynical wit that had us all in stitches. His name was

Gustove. I had stacked Julie's luggage in the hall. He took one

look at the mound of luggage and his eyes rolled over in there

sockets. He stooped and hefted the duffle bag, and as he struggled

to stand wobbled on rubbery bowlegged knees until almost teetering

over. As he did all this he let loose a low moan.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, me back."

By the time he dropped the bag onto a baggage cart, his moans

had reached a fever pitch loud enough to bring the maid darting

out of a room. She had a towel in her hand, and took one look at

39
the impish frown on his face and flung the towel so it hit his

chest.

"Men," she shouted for our benefit in broken english and

stormed back into the room.

Gustove winked at us. "Women," was all he said and continued

hefting the luggage and moaning.

Much to Anna's delight this scene was repeated as often as

there were bags, and by the time we headed for the elevator towels

littered the hall floor.

Although it was almost eight in the morning and the sky was

clear and the sun was rising, as we exited the hotel a night chill

was evident in the air. The airport transfer bus was parked at the

curb. A long line of people waited to board it. Despite the chill,

the bus driver loading suitcases in the undercarriage cargo hold

had worked himself into a noticeable sweat. As we waited in line

for the driver to load Julie's baggage, she shivered from the

cold. I offered her my sport coat. At first she demurely declined,

but I insisted and she reluctantly allowed it to be draped over

her shoulders. She then insisted that Anna dig a sweater out of

one of the bags. I seconded the idea. Anna wrapped her arms

herself and pouted between her teeth. She wasn't a little girl,

you know, you know, you know.

But Julie's sense of motherhood prevailed.

A few minutes later, we at last stepped aborad the bus. The

act seemed to cross an invisible line for us; at least I supposed

it did. Unlike at dinner where the main course was chatter

designed to familiarize ourselves with each other, a quiet soul

searching solitude invaded us as the bus ground its way to the

airport. I could see it in Julie as she stared forlornly out the

window at the sights. I know I felt it and wondered if it was

because an ending was coming to our saga. But even so I tried to

act as if nothing had changed between us and chattered widget

conversation endlessly. Julie offered perfunctory responses to my

chatter but did so without detouring from the sights outside the

window. Even Anna seemed impervious to my good natured jesting.

She and the teddy bear socialized; a tea party for two was in

progress.

As all my good intentions were heading nowhere I gave up, and

watched the sights outside the window. As I did so I thought it

was just as well. Soon she'd hold her husband in her arms. Yes, it

was just as well. My, the trees were nice. The leaves were

turning. God, fall was beautiful. Yes. It was nice this time of

year.

41
 Chapter Seven.

Once at the airport the conversation took the awkward form of

avoiding meeting each others gaze while softly maintaining polite

conversation; thank you, and yes I would like a coke, and thank

you, and no I am not hungry. Unfortunately the commuter flight to

Budapest was delayed and this politeness between us soon became

insufferable and both of us directed our attention to Anna. Anna

picked up on this and like all wise kids attempted to weave silk

out of hay. She had spotted a huge stuffed giraffe at one of the

Duty Free shops and wanted it and made all the right fidgeted

rattling moves in her chair to show as much. I was all for

purchasing the giraffe for her. Julie was against it and said as

much, very adamant too. I, like a fool insisted. Women have a way

to show when they are very angry without speaking a word, and

Julie wordlessly in the span of a second displayed anger by the

way she didn't sit.

"How about a coke?" I replied, hoping to defuse the

situation.

She glared away from me.

"About the Coke?" I asked again

"Thanks," she sighed, "I think a coke would help."

 I was very relieved because I was beginning to feel a bit

uncomfortable and dutifully went off and secured three cokes. But

a mere coke couldn't bridge the border we had crossed and the

unease between us continued. So much so that Julie and I took

turns sitting with Anna while the other prowled around the

terminal. I spent my time walking past and into the shop that had

the stuffed giraffe. I stared at the giraffe and titillated

between a desire to purchase it and proudly present it to Anna

while chiding myself at the same time that Julie was Anna's mother

and she certainly knew best. So each time I prowled the terminal I

went from the giraffe shop to the duty free cigarette shop and

purchased a carton of cigarettes. I had already purchased six

cartons of cigarettes and was coming out of the Duty Free Shop

with carton number seven when I collided into Julie, who had

rushed into the shop to inform me the flight had been called.

Julie had been running and I had been walking backwards saying

thank you to the clerk who by this time loved me because I was

making her day. The force of the collision propelled both of us

into a rather stout gypsy woman. In an act of pure skill and

reflex born of god knows what, the gypsy woman opened her arms,

captured us both, and swiftly folded us into her bosom. And she

had a massive bosom too. So much so I almost choked on it, and was

gasping for air by the time she released us. She pointed at us and

boomed out a sentence completely foreign to me. Wagging a finger

43
at us, she backed away. I guess we looked confused, because she

darted back and kissed us both on the cheek, stepped back and

again shouted out in a foreign tongue. I understood this time what

she was saying, more by her actions then her words. She saw I

understood and walked away without so much as a backward glance.

After a few seconds, in which Julie collected herself, she

said. "What did she say?"

"She said," I said, "You and I make a nice couple."

Although Julie silently accepted my interpretation, the

effect of it showed on her face and she excused herself as soon as

we reached Anna. When she returned the polite silence between us

deepened. A few minutes later we boarded the plane. The aircraft

was a Keystone and seated twenty-four people. Although the

smallness of the craft should of served to heighten the tension

between us, it had the opposite effect and actually offered a

respite from the insufferable politeness. This was because by the

time we had boarded most of the seats were already taken and

consequently Julie and Anna sat several rows ahead of me.

I spent the takeoff watching the back of Julie's head, and

thinking how pretty her hair was, while listening to a elderly

Hungarian woman mumble a prayer in Hungarian while running her

fingers over a rosary. After a while I imagined she was saying a

prayer for all the scared people in the world. And because I had a

warm spot in my heart for the gypsy lady, I hoped she was

including her in the prayers.

 A few minutes later the Keystone settled into its flight

pattern and bounced and skidded against the air currents. I guess

the elderly Hungarian woman didn't mind the turbulence because she

had traded in the rosary for talking to a an elderly woman across

the aisle from her. I wanted to lit a cigarette but couldn't find

the to heart to do so in such a small aircraft. So I twiddled my

thumbs while alternating between staring out the window at the

checkered landscape below and Julie's head. I thought of the gypsy

woman and what she had said about Julie and me, and suddenly a

thought occurred to me and I almost laughed out loud at it. Years

ago a gypsy woman had said the same thing to Daniel and his

girlfriend. The gypsy woman had said this a few months before they

had split up.

I soon grew bored with watching the checkered board landscape

and the back of Julie's head so for the rest of the flight I

allowed my thoughts to rummage over the years spent working with

Daniel. At last I wondered what had become of him. The first few

years after we had gone our separate ways I had heard rumors about

him from people in the office. After years of drinking and

carousing he had found Christ and to atone for his past sins had

forsaken the easy life and had become a missionary in the catacomb

hills of what the United States government referred to as the

Asian triangle. He was teaching the word of the Lord to little

yellow men who when not harvesting the opium poppy were busy

45
practicing the time honored tradition of dissecting the

competition. I had right off dismissed this rumor as bull-envy.

Many years ago I had spent some time in the Asian triangle and

these little yellow men had no need of the Lord...they had the

stuff of white dreams. Now had someone told me that he was holed

up in an opium den, this was believable. Another rumor said he was

in Vietnam. He had married a woman and was raising rice and kids.

This was the flip side of bull-envy, which is bull-jealousy. He

hated kids. Then there was the rumor that he had blown his brains

out. Because the thought was too painful, I refused to believe

this. Over the years I had heard many other rumors, all just as

silly and had always dismissed them out of hand. But I had also

heard that he was in Volutes, Mexico, and much like a character in

a Graham Green novel, had set up housekeeping inside a bottle. I

believed the latter because the last time I had seen him, he had

the haunted look of a man running away from himself, and to do

this takes a great deal of stamina. So much so that a booze bottle

is the perfect refuge. It can be a warm and comforting place and

requires very light mental housekeeping. Pop a cork. Tilt a

bottle. Do so twenty times a night. Go to sleep. Wake up and

immediately repeat the sequence. I know because I've known many

men who make it through the day in this fashion.

But as the years passed, eventually the rumors died out. I

guess it was because most of the people at United Press

International who had worked with us had retired, or had moved on.
For a while I still wondered about him from time to time, what had

become of him, but then a few years ago I stopped wondering about

him altogether. I suppose, now in retrospect, my duties as senior

editor had put a curtain on those memories. Right about the time I

had stopped wondering about him, I was promoted to senior editor

in charge of overseas corespondents for United Press International

New York Bureau. As a grunt journalist I had had plenty of time to

wonder about what had happened to past comrades, but those

precious few moments I had had to occasionally dwell on the past

whereabouts of old comrades were now stolen by the immense time my

new job entailed. So much so that eventually the old memories, not

just of Daniel but of other people I had worked with over the

years, died out.

47
 Chapter Eight.

Going through Hungarian customs's was just a formality, and

within minutes after landing, only Julie, Anna and I stood in the

Customs's lounge at Budapest' Ferihegy international airport. The

two custom officers there gave us a passing glance before

returning to filing away the stack of entrance visas accumulated

on their desks. Julie had already had her passport stamped and was

ready to leave the lounge for the terminal outside. I, on the

other hand, was staying right there. It was my own fault. I had

been in such a hurry to leave New York, that I had neglected to

secure an entrance visa. Julie knew this because I had told her as

much over dinner. She had mentioned at the time that she had

secured her visa while in Dubuque. So all remaining between us was

goodbye.

As I stared at Julie and the misbegotten collage of emotions

playing across her face, I silently cursed my luck. Anna stood

nearby, all but forgotten by the awkwardness of saying goodbye.

Although I hadn't harbored a previous desire to meet her husband,

or lack of, I suddenly wanted to. I guess this was the barnyard

rooster in me. A rooster from the next barnyard over always wants

to meet the rooster next door, if only to rattle his feathers and
strut his stuff. I was no different. I had escorted Julie and now

wanted to satisfy my curiosity that the man she was meeting was

worthy of her. I quickly saw this desire as the height of

stupidly. As such I was instantly angry at myself. But god damn

it, I wanted to shout, I liked her. And I didn't want it to end

like this. I took a deep breath and thought, but end it must. So

make it brief.

"Well," I said.

"Yes," Julie replied.

Those two words served to increase the awkwardness of the

situation by a hundred fold. Tension was now evident in the air.

There was a smell of sadness to it. To escape this, I dug my hand

into my pocket and withdrew the coin that had been left on the

nightstand for the maid. I stooped and handed it to Anna.

"I found this. It's a good luck coin. If you need luck just

rub it."

"How do you know it's a good luck coin?" she asked.

"Because the man who had it got lucky," I answered with a

straight face.

She accepted this without further explanation, which was just

as well. The coin folded into her palm. She gave me a great big

hug. A few seconds later I stood.

49
 "Julie," I said, "Things can happen in foreign countries.

Things like. Well just things. If anything happens, go to the

American embassy. They will pay your way home."

"Really," she answered.

"Yes. They hold your passport until you pay them for the

flight."

"Thanks," she replied, "I mean you never know right."

I hugged her.

"Go. Your husband is outside those doors waiting like the

dickens for you."

She offered a rueful disbelieving smile at my comment. I read

many things into that smile. I ignored them all.

"Come for dinner?" she hopefully asked.

"I. I would love to. Give me your address."

"I, I," She shrugged helplessly, "My husband. Well like I

said over dinner. He had to find an apartment."

"I don't know where I am staying either," I replied.

This seemed to stump her. And I was relieved. Yet at the same

time I was hoping she would say, "I will wait for you in the

terminal. We can ride into Budapest together. This will give you a

chance to meet my husband. You will like him. He is a very nice

man. Such a very nice man."

For many reasons I really wanted her to say this. But instead

she asked if I knew of a coffee shop we could meet at.

 "The Cafe Gerbeaud," I answered, "The Cafe is a few blocks

from the British embassy. Ask any cab driver for directions."

"Tomorrow at noon," she replied, "I'll bring the address."

I reluctantly agreed. There was a sense of something being

lost while watching Julie and Anna exit the custom area into the

terminal. I really didn't expect to see them at the Cafe or

anyplace else for that matter. She was just being kind. After all

travelers often made arrangements they never intended to keep.

Civility and all such.

51
 Chapter Nine.

Although it had been a while since I had done so, securing a

visa wasn't complicated. But I tried to hurry the procedure along,

hoping to catch up with Julie and her husband in the passenger

terminal. After all, the mound of luggage they had would slow them

down. And I did want to meet him. Hell, I figured I had earned

this right. But it's almost always a mistake to hurry a

bureaucrat. The mere effort slows the clock to half speed. I

quickly filled out the vias application and handed it to the

custom's woman. I didn't want to seem impatient by blurting out I

was in a hurry, so instead I drummed my fingers atop the counter

hoping she'd get the message. She was friendly enough and asked

the few questions required while smiling. I answered them, trying

to maintain a level voice, but unable to succeed. I think my

impatience showed, because soon her smile vanished. As I stood

there I knew by the look on her face that I had encroached upon

her kindness. Nobody likes these procedures. But she had attempted

to ease an unpleasant experience by displaying congeniality and I

had acted in kind by displaying impatience. In short I had

offended her. She verified this assumption by taking great pains

in cropping the passport pictures and lining them up so they fit

the designated square on the visa application. I tried rescuing

the moment with congeniality. But she wasn't fooled. I couldn't be

angry at her. At myself, yes. So in the end I paid the visa fee

and thanked her as politely as possible.

I first checked the baggage area. An old man sat on a stool

guarding my lone bag. I handed over the baggage claim check and

went to the passenger terminal. My attention wandered around the

terminal in search of them. Who knows, I thought, maybe her

husband hadn't shown. Maybe he had met an particularly attractive

gypsy woman and was right now buried in her bosom. Maybe Julie was

crying over a mound of luggage. But it wasn't to be. The terminal

held but a few people and I quickly saw she wasn't one of them. I

wasn't too disappointed. She had gone to great pains to make

herself pretty for her husband. After traveling so far, she would

of been hurt and disappointed had he not met her at the airport.

Upon leaving the terminal, I sought out a Taxi. Too no avail.

But I really hadn't expected to find one. It was noon and this was

the slow time of day at most airports. The taxi drivers were

obviously in the City Center shuttling passengers between offices

and luncheon restaurants. I was tired and really didn't care. So I

elected to take the bus into the city. I pretty much knew the

routine as far as public transportation in Budapest went, and

found without any trouble the bus stop. It was then, as I sat on

the bench waiting for the bus into the city that the mad dash from

53
my office in New York to the long flight to Budapest caught up to

me. I was suddenly very tired. I tried to combat this by mentally

listing the things I had to do. But it all seemed to confusing. It

could all wait until later, I concluded, right now I just wanted a

bed.

Although it was late fall, and I had expected the air to be

chilly, the day was very warm so I shed my sport coat and laid it

across my legs and settled back against the bench. I was sort of

into myself, watching the external events while lazily examining

without really doing so the internal events of the past forty

eight hours when Joanne sat on the bench next to me. I didn't know

her name then, but did a few minutes later. She inquired as to

what time the city bus arrived. She had spoken in French and I

knew the language well enough to understand what she was asking.

But I didn't know it well enough to answer her in French, so I did

so in english, and explained that they ran every hour. I wasn't in

the mood for conversation and this was the end of it as far as I

was concerned.

"You're not French," she said in english, "Sorry you look,

well."

This was too much, and I gave her a long inspecting glance.

She was a rather petite woman who appeared to be in her late

thirties.

"Is this a new line?" I asked.

"Pardon me?"
 "A woman said almost the same thing to me in Belgrade. I was

wondering if this was a new pick up line. Admittedly your

delivery is more sophisticated. But."

"You got me all wrong," She answered, blushing, "I'm waiting

for my husband. He's off searching for a taxi. But there doesn't

appear to be a taxi in sight. So the bus. Well."

"Sorry. I'm from New York."

"Well that explains it."

"Explains what?"

"Why women mistake you for European."

"It does?"

"Of course. New York is cosmopolitan."

"Yes."

"As is Paris. London. Rome. Vienna."

"And Chicago? Boston? Philadelphia?"

"Just cities."

I had been joking, but she was serious and I replied, "I

see."

"Did this woman succeed?"

"Her name is Julie. And succeed in what?"

"Picking you up?"

"No. She had a husband waiting for her here."

"Oh, her loss."

"Let's hope not."

55
 "Yes, yes of course. Sorry. I was trying to be nice. The

American in me I suppose."

She was very chipper, very upbeat, very hyper. And sincere.

"No need," I replied, "To be sorry of course."

Considering we were strangers I fully expected this exchange

to end there. But a moment later when her husband arrived grinning

about securing a taxi, she invited me along. Her husband wasn't

much taller then she and had a soft friendly face. Yes, he said.

We were all Americans. It was the sociable thing to do. Right.

Tired as I was, I readily excepted their offer.

The ride into the city was short, twenty minutes at best, but

during this time we exchanged names and small talk. They were Jack

and Joanne Trecill. They were on their way to Paris. They had an

apartment in Paris and spent a month there every year. But now

with the communists gone they had decided to spend a month in

Budapest. Joanne had always wanted too. Her paternal grandmother

was from Hungary. I explained I was a journalist and was in

Budapest for a week on assignment. At some point she asked if I

had secured a place to stay in Budapest.

"No," I answered, knowing what was coming.

Well this just wouldn't do, Joanne replied. Why, I could stay

with them. They had an entire flat. Six rooms. They had secured

the flat before leaving the states. I must stay with them. It

would be so interesting for them to talk to a journalist. Jack

agreed. He didn't normally seek out Americans when in Europe. Got

enough of them at home. But since I was from New York and a

journalist, well heck it would be nice.

I politely declined, but Joanne further insisted, as did Jack

until together their persistence won out, and I accepted, thinking

why not. I could always relocate after a good nights rest. I

offered to reimburse them for a nights stay. But they wouldn't

hear of it. I would leave fifty dollars on the pillow in the

morning.

Too my surprise the apartment was on Honard Street, a stones

throw from the Danube, and the American and British Embassies. The

apartment was quite large by Hungarian standards, and was

comfortably furnished, including a phone, cooking utensils and

food in the cupboards and ice box. There were three bedrooms and I

took the middle and smallest one. After unpacking my bag, I

settled on to a chair at the kitchen table and spent an obligatory

hour sharing coffee and sandwiches that Joanne had made and

conversation with Jack and Joanne. During this time we got to know

each other a little better. And I learned that at one time Jack

had operated a wholesale spice business in Vermont. And that

Joanne worked six months a year as a gourmet cook. Just boring,

she said. Just boring. As for me, I rattled off a few interesting

ditties about life as a journalist and received good hearted

laughter in response. When the conversation started to dry up,

Joanne inquired about Julie and I readily elaborated on what I had

57
already told her. A short time later I excused myself and retired

to the bedroom to catch a cat nap. But despite a deep sense of

fatigue, or maybe on account of it, a hundred and one thoughts

assaulted me and sleep eluded me. Julie, of course. My mind was

stuck on her. A few hours sleep would cure this state of mind, I

knew, but therein lied the catch; the state of mind I was in

prohibited sleep. So I took a long hot shower. Very hot. Slowly

the grip on my thoughts lessened until at last I was able to focus

on the more mundane task of why I was in Budapest.

I holed up in the bedroom and, in between coffee and a few

sandwiches generously supplied by Joanne, spent the next seven

hours pouring over my notes for the series of interviews with the

Minister of Information. At last I couldn't keep my eyes open any

longer and went to bed.

 Chapter Ten.

I fell into a dead like sleep for a full fourteen hours and

the deep rest mended the fractured spirit within me. I felt this

the moment I awoke...anxious to begin the day. The first thing I

did was to attempt my normal routine of opening the window to see

if the world had survived the night. I was mildly annoyed when the

window wouldn't budge. But I quickly discovered the problem. The

window in my room swung out French style, as opposed to American

style from an up down angle. I playfully chided myself, one must

adjust to different cultures, and swung it open and breathed in

the morning air. I did this several times, each breath cool and

crisp. A few seconds later I was sufficiently awake enough to

notice the world about me. A courtyard faced me, and from an

apartment window across the way a woman stood up from a couch or a

bed. She was naked. The bald dome of a man's head appeared for a

second before falling away out of sight. She laughed, and walked

out of view. I stared for a while, hoping to see her again. But

all I saw was the man's bobbing appearing and disappearing head.

Although she was a pleasant sight to wake up to, a very

enjoyable sight really, I gave up on her and went to the kitchen

59
expecting to find Jack or Joanne. A pot of coffee sat warming on

the stove. Attached to the handle was a note: Gone sight seeing.

Left coffee on the burner and french toast warming in the oven.

Enjoy. See you later Alligator.

"Sure," I thought, "And after while Crocodile.

The coffee and the french toast and the note were a pleasant

surprise. Although I had planned on securing a hotel room, I

decided right then to take Jack and Joanne up on their offer and

spend the week in the apartment. The coffee was part of the reason

for the decision, but also because they were nice unobtrusive

people. They could have stuck around and talked my head off

instead of attending to their own agenda. I liked that in people.

But my reasons weren't altogether altruistic. I disliked hotels.

Plus the thought of moving to a hotel seemed too much to bear

after traveling such a long distance.

As for agenda, I had a full plate to attend too. Of the many

arrangements I had made before leaving New York, the first had

been to secure the necessary approval to set up a makeshift office

at the American Embassy. This was necessary because United Press

International didn't have an office in Budapest. The nearest

office was in either Moscow or Paris. Once the office was set up,

I had to contact the Hungarian government and verify the

appointment I had with the Minister Of Information. In between

doing all that I had to think of something to dispatch to the

states. I wasn't to worried about the dispatch. It would be fluff.

When away on assignment the first story always was.

I quickly showered and dressed and wolfed down the french

toast and a cup of coffee. Before leaving the apartment, I phoned

the Minister of Information's office. The woman on the other end

was very friendly and helpful and arranged an appointment for

later on in the afternoon. After the phone call and on a hunch I

went to my bedroom window. The woman who I had seen earlier now

stood on the balcony. She was without clothing. She had her hands

planted on her hips while doing knee bends and was totally

unabashed about her nudity and offered me a full smile. She had a

lean fit body and it was a pure joy watching her exercise. She

moved with a natural animal grace; a smooth bend of her knees

followed by a slight upward spring on the balls of her feet.

Since I considered myself a neighborly sort of fellow, I

quickly decided to do the neighborly thing and say hello. But

because of the angle of the window, I had difficulty leaning out,

but managed to do so by twisting and then wedging my body between

the frame and the window. I imagined I looked rather silly stuffed

and sticking out the window, but in the best 'I am a male so what

do you expect tradition' paid this foolery zero attention.

"You speak english?" I shouted.

"A Little." She never missed a beat as she answered me.

"I just arrived in town."

61
 A bend of her knees. "From America?"

"Yes."

A soft spring of her heels and up. "How nice."

"You have great breasts."

A soft bend off her knees. Before springing up she took her

left hand off her hip and waved it in the air, motioning to show

she didn't understand.

I wanted to show her what I had meant by using hand language,

but I experienced some difficulty, as the window frame was like a

straight jacket. Finally I managed to crawl a hand up my chest and

cup it against my right breast. She laughed.

"Breasts," I called out.

She was standing by this time and was again on her way down

and without missing a beat touched a hand to her left breast and

said something in Hungarian.

"What?"

"Ovoce."

I didn't know Ovoce' from smelt, but they looked great to me

and I yelled, "Yes. Great Ovoce."

She merrily laughed and said goodbye, or what I assumed to be

goodbye in Hungarian. Before I could answer, she disappeared

inside the apartment. Very firm twin half moons were the last

sight I had of her. A man's hand, firm and hairy, reached up and

grabbed a half moon and pulled it down. Whoever said that you

can't reach for the moon and pull it down was wrong, I thought.
 The unseen man reminded me of Julie. I idly wondered how she

had fared with her reunion with her husband; remembered I was

supposed to meet her at the Cafe Gerbeaud, and although I didn't

believe she would show, inserted time to do so into my day's

agenda. After all I said I would meet her and on the off chance

she showed, it would be rude to stand her up. So I told myself

anyway.

63
 Chapter Eleven.

Budapest is a gloomy city; most of the buildings were built

during the Austro-Hungarian empire and had gargoyles gracing the

facades. Even in the daytime the sleepy fog crawling off the

Danube often gave the streets an erie feel. But there were plenty

of trees, and fall was in full bloom, and the leafs were painted a

deep red, high yellow, and rusty brown. So despite the gloominess

of the architecture, the colors added just the right touch of

gaiety to the city.

It had been a good long time since I last visited Budapest

and I stood on the sidewalk for a few seconds and quickly

familiarized myself with the area. Satisfied, I started off.

Although the embassy lay a few blocks away, I took the long way

and strolled along Szechenyi walk which followed the Danube river.

I thoroughly enjoyed the walk. Although the day was warm a cool

breeze washed ashore. I normally wasn't given to nostalgia, but I

was glad to see the city lay pretty much unchanged since the last

time I had visited it. But I really hadn't expected otherwise.

Budapest was a very old city. Old cities seldom changed like new

cities did. Especially old cities frozen in time by over forty

years of archaic communist rule. But one change I did notice was
the people. I had walked through the streets of many countries

where the government ruled through fear and intimidation. In these

countries the populace, even the leaders, seemed to share a common

demeanor; their eyes were always furtively searching for the

hidden intrusion of the secret police. The Hungarian people I

passed on the street were not afraid at all. Their eyes met you

head on when you glanced at them. Their was a joy there to be

sure, but there was also something else. It wasn't until I reached

the Embassy that I thought I knew what this was. Pride. Proud to

be Hungarian. Proud to be free of the communist. Proud to be free

period.

And right then I had my first dispatch to the states. And the

opening line came to me. "The vail of fear lifted, the people blah

blah blah."

A few seconds ago I was ready to dispatch fluff. Or what is

appropriately referred to in the forth estate as breakfast news;

long forgotten the moment the dishes are washed and the morning

paper cleared away. But now suddenly my mind filled, almost

brimming over with words and ideas. The blah blah blah's were

forming into a nice two paragraph piece. Writing was and will

always be like that. One moment calm the next a storm. The best of

writers discipline themselves to write during the calm periods;

for sure tearing their hair out, each plucked hair a word on the

paper. Yet the best of writers eyes shine with utter joyful

65
madness when their mind is torn asunder with ideas. They write at

these times with a fervor, the pain of the plucked hairs

forgotten. Although I had never considered myself a particularly

good writer, too analytical for my own taste, I had plied the

trade long enough to recognize my mind kicking into high gear and

to go with it. So I rushed into the Embassy.

I had to stifle my enthusiasm, as there was a momentary delay

while I showed my credentials to the security guard at the

entrance to the Embassy. But from there on I was quickly escorted

into the press room. The room held three desks, two facing the

lone window in the room. I sat at a desk facing a window where I

could see the street below and the people walking. I imagined I

saw in their walk what I had seen in their eyes earlier. I

immediately set up my laptop computer, followed by the phone modem

that would feed the copy through to the New York bureau. This done

I slipped on my reading glasses and began working on the dispatch.

As my fingers slid across the keyboard I began to feel as I had

felt twenty years ago during my heyday as a young foreign

correspondent. I knew it was silly. I was forty-eight years old.

But the long dormant youth resting in my fingers sprang, as if

waiting years to fly free, to life. I was amazed. Sitting at a

desk playing desk jockey hadn't diminished the old groove. But I

reeled in my excitement by cautioning myself to take it slow. I

was a senior editor not some green rookie out on his first

assignment. So slow I went. In a fast sort of way.

 I always write a first draft on the screen and check it twice

before dispatching it and was doing so when the door opened. I was

lost in what I was writing and didn't want to glance up, but did

so, just for a moment to see who it was. It was Daniel. I was so

flabbergasted my fingers froze on the keyboard.

67
 Chapter Twelve.

As the room was small, I know he saw me. But even so, he

feigned indifference and staked out the only other desk facing the

window. He carried a leather flight bag and slowly transferred a

few of its contents from the bag onto the desk. This took all of

about three minutes. The last thing he removed from the bag was

six bottles of Wild Turkey bourbon and two plastic glasses of the

kind found in motel bathrooms. As I looked at him I had to shake

my head in disbelief. He, in all honesty, hadn't aged a day. He

sported the same unruly head of brown hair. And the same impish

half grin rested on his lips. And even wore the same brown leather

flight jacket he had had on the last time I had seen him.

Admittedly the leather was a bit cracked and faded and the nylon

cuffs slightly tattered and threadbare. But I wasn't surprised by

the jacket. He had always considered the jacket to be a good luck

charm. This jacket wasn't the kind the beautiful people paraded

around in while attending the neighborhood disco. The jacket was

the real thing. Years ago a F-15 attack pilot in Vietnam had

presented him with the jacket. Days later, the pilot was shot down

and never heard from again.

 He was in the process of going out the door, presumably for

some ice when the suspense, joy and curiosity spilled out of me.

"What the hell are you doing here!"

He stopped at the door and rotated on his heels until he

faced me. By the grin he wore I knew he was enjoying my surprise.

"I could ask the same of you?"

I removed my reading glasses and laid them on the desk. "You

could. But I asked first."

"Seniority and all such such?"

"And such."

As if giving my reply serious thought, he grabbed the door by

the edge and slowly dragged it forward until it almost shielded

his face. Theatrics, I thought. Shit he hasn't changed a bit. From

aside the door I think he read my thoughts because he smiled.

"For the fall of communism," he replied easily, "they only

want the best."

"Who?"

"Routers." he replied and spun on his heels and left.

The computer buzzed, waiting like a hungry sibling for words.

Using the three finger method, I tried to peck at the keys and the

almost finished dispatch. But the excitement of the dispatch was

lost now and all I saw were disjointed sentences, and flat dull

words. I sighed, saved what I had and shut the computer off. As I

stared out the window at the people below, I told myself that one

69
should never think when writing, not really think. And I was

thinking too much. I was thinking about the rumors. I was thinking

about Julie. But most of all I was thinking about how hurt I was

that he hadn't called and asked me for a job. Why go to somebody

else. Although we hadn't seen each other in years, I would of

gladly hired him.

A few minutes later Daniel returned carrying a bucket of ice.

I knew he was carrying the bucket of ice because I was still

staring out the window and the reflection of the bucket showed in

the glass. Through the reflection in the glass I watched him toss

a few ice cubes in one of the plastic glasses. He next lifted one

of the bottles of Wild turkey, opened it and poured two fingers of

whiskey into the glass. He did all this lazily, unconcerned.

"Want a drink?" he asked.

"No," I answered, "I gave up drinking a few years ago."

He wasn't surprised by the statement. He should be, I

thought. Years ago when Daniel and I had first started out, I had

with a vengeance bought into the journalist myth of the hard

drinking reporter. I had given up drinking the week I became

senior editor. I had not done so because I had moved up the career

ladder, but because a few weeks earlier a good friend of mine had

succumbed to cirrhosis of the liver. As I watched him die, daily,

and inch by inch, I realized for the first time that the myth was

just that...a myth. I was prepared to explain this to Daniel. But

there was a game playing out, and had been since the first moment
he had walked in. I couldn't rush it. Like a runaway train, the

game had to play out at its own pace.

He seated and rested his feet atop the desk. He gave me a

long inspecting nod, "Okay, you're angry." he said, "So lets say

for the sake of the argument that I neglected to call you because

I didn't want to queer it for you. You know, senior editor and

all. How would it look, huh? You hiring a washed up reporter for

the most important news story to come around the bend since the

Vietnam war. How would it look, huh?"

"You could of asked," I replied to his reflection in the

window, "How the hell do you think this makes me feel."

"Like a penny waiting for change," He admitted, "But I never

figured on finding you in Budapest. Hell, senior editors don't go

running around the world like grunts. They stay in the office and

issue the orders. Besides, after all this time I figured you for

the wife and kid route."

"I never married. Too busy," I answered, "But all this is

bull shit and you know it."

For the first time since walking into the office and seeing

me sitting at a desk pecking away at a computer, Daniel showed

genuine nervousness. And I was surprised by this. He had always

had almost a perfect poker face; almost at will able to control or

shift his expressions to fit the circumstances. But his eyes had

71
shifted; not much, just enough for me to notice. By what he said

next, he must of also noticed the shift.

"I had heard rumors."

I couldn't fathom what rumors he had heard about me and

almost laughed. "Funny," I said instead, "I heard rumors about

you."

"Well?"

I had, up until then, spoken to his reflection in the window.

I spun the chair and propped my feet up on the desk and glared at

him.

"I was here first. So you go first."

"Seniority and such such," he replied.

"And such."

"No. Double is the charm. You go."

"Acceptable. There are many rumors on you. Mexico is the

generally accepted one. Living in a bottle. You know why."

"Bull shit. I've covered Asia all these years. You know,

working my way down the ladder of success. Seems each job I get is

a rung down from the last job. I called in an old favor to get

this assignment."

"But not me."

"No."

"Your go," I replied dryly.

"Acceptable. Just remember you asked. Rumors say you had

crossed back over."

 To accuse me of such a thing was incredulous. And I was

suddenly very angry and very insulted by what he had just said and

damn near sprang up and punched him. But I was prohibited from

doing so because I was too crushed by what he had said. To cross

over in the journalistic world was to go from a working grunt

journalist to management's ivory tower.

"Who!" I demanded after several seconds.

"Just scuttlebutt."

I jumped up in anger. "Who!"

"Let it go. There isn't a single Who. You're a senior editor.

You know how scuttlebutt goes. No matter how you may see yourself

sitting in the senior editors chair, others see it differently."

I was still too shaken to speak. All these years I had

thought it was him who had disappeared into the floorboards of

life. The sudden thought that it was I, not him, was too unnerving

right then. I really shouldn't be in Budapest, I pathetically

thought. Although I was sure I hadn't crossed the line between

journalism and management, I had acted the fool since leaving New

York. So perhaps Daniel was right. Senior editors have gray hair,

a shine on their pants from sitting too many hours a day on a

chair, and callouses on their inner palm from holding a phone. In

short they never played an instrument, they only orchestrated the

symphony. But I was in Budapest, I miserably concluded, and there

wasn't anything to be done about this.

73
 At this last thought, I met his eyes. He met mine in return.

I think mine were sad. I know his were guilty and knew why. We

were, or at the very least had been, good friends. And he had just

hurled a terrible insult at me. And a part of me was glad that he

was guilty. A part of me was also ashamed by the gladness.

"Well, it seems we both have ghosts," I said.

He didn't flinch when he replied. "Not me. Maybe you."

Had any other man said this I would have punched him and damn

the consequences. But there was no anger or malice in his voice.

But still, I thought, that maybe he was taunting me. But I saw in

his eyes that he wasn't. He was stating the truth as far as he saw

himself, and by the 'maybe you' leaving my truth to me.

"Whatever. Still, it's good to see you."

"Same."

"You got a place to stay?"

"No. Figured I'd find a place when I got here. Otherwise I'd

have to find a place through the Hungarian cultural exchange.

Communist efficiency what it is, I'd probably wind up staying in

Prague. E'Tu?"

"Same here. I lucked out. When I arrived at the airport, I

met a couple while waiting for the bus. They're from Florida. Jack

and Joanne Trecill. Nice people"

He flashed a face.

"No, really. Nice couple. They're spending the month here.

They had already lined up an apartment through a friend back in

the states. The apartment has six rooms. Three bedrooms. A few

blocks from here."

"Think they'd mind one more?"

"Are you kidding. The moment they found out I was a

journalist, they were thrilled. They'll love having two

journalists. Be like old times."

He gave me a sideways grin. The grin fled and he stared

wistfully out the window while murmuring, "Old times. Sure, old

times."

I believed I detected a certain pain in the timber of his

voice. And he was thinking about her, I was sure. And although I

was still more then a little hurt that he hadn't asked me for the

assignment, and still miffed about his crossing the line

statement, I had been there when his life had come unraveled and

wanted to say something. A soothing word. A kind comment. But

before I could speak a kid of about twenty intruded by barging

into the room. He was dressed in ivory league clothes and had a

clean lily white face to match.

75
 Chapter Thirteen.

As often said, events conspire. And events had conspired to

throw Daniel and I together again after years apart. In this case

the advent of the kid walking into the room conspired to take

Daniel and I beyond the existing conversation. At the sight of the

kid I withheld whatever consoling remark I had intended on

uttering. Daniel glanced over his shoulder at the kid.

"Hi, my name is Peter Williams. The man at the desk said this

is the room assignment for American journalists attending the E.

E. F. C."

Peter was a very very ernest young man. This much was

evident. But neither one of us had an inkling of what he meant and

said simultaneously, "The what?"

He was dumbfounded. "The Eastern European Freedom

Convention." "Say again," I replied.

He did so. Only this time he met our confusion with

elaboration. "The Karl Marx University is hosting a conference on

freedom in relation to the fall of communism." I suppose we still

looked confused because he almost cried out in desperation, "Don't

you know what I am talking about?"

"No."
 The kid truly looked alarmed. "Professors from all over

Eastern Europe are attending the conference. My school paper sent

me to cover it."

"Well Kid," Daniel said, "Grab a desk. Take a load off your

feet. Smoke a cigarette. Have a drink."

"The guy at the desk said smoking wasn't allowed in here. I

asked you see."

"The guy at the desk was wrong," Daniel pointed out.

"Well, I don't know," the kid answered doubtfully, "I am

allergic to smoke."

"Where you from kid?" Daniel asked.

"Indianapolis Indiana."

"Really?"

"Yes. I was selected from out of a thousand college

students," He proudly replied, "The contest was sponsored by Vice

President Dan Quayle himself. You see, a couple of years ago the

United States government passed a law prohibiting journalists with

less then two years experience on a major newspaper from obtaining

an overseas press pass. The contest was my professor's idea...a

give the beginner a chance idea. My professor knew Vice President

Dan Quayle, and sold the Vice President on the idea. The contest

is going to be a yearly event. Isn't it a neat idea?"

77
 "If I follow you correctly, "Daniel replied, "And I am not

sure I do, but if I do, than you were selected from a pool of

over a thousand students and you didn't find this a bit strange."

The kid's face reddened. "I know what you're thinking.

But..."

Daniel and I cut him off by enjoying a hearty laugh at his

expense, and were still doing so much to his chagrin when events

once again conspired. Ernest Hemingway, and not the real one but a

fake, entered. If there was one man on the planet I detested, it

was Hemingway. And I had good reason. Although I hadn't seen or

spoken to him in years, we went back a good long way. He was a

black man, and as such in his younger days h ad relished playing

the oppressed minority. The women ate this up. I supposed his plea

awakened their own white guilt. Or maybe they just wanted to save

one oppressed black man before they settled down to a life of

living in the suburbs. But I can't speak for the women. But I can

for Hemingway. He was hanging around journalists then and they

promptly saw through the game and called him on it and he just as

quickly gave the game up. But my detest went beyond his wanting to

get laid. To be sure that was his business, and theirs. He was as

large as the Hemingway of fame had been, and as such cast an

imposing shadow. He had played off this by sporting the same

peppery beard as Papa Hemingway, and like Papa Hemingway, he

played the loudmouth jerk, and played it well. This was why I

detested him. He had also at one time been an excellent

journalist. But that was years ago. He had long since sold out to

work for the National Enquirer. The pay was good. Job security was

excellent. I had no respect for him. He knew it.

But still I was surprised to see a bald spot run through his

hair and it made me think of my own thinning hair. This only made

me dislike seeing him more, if this was possible.

79
 Chapter Fourteen.

The first words out of Hemingway's mouth were, "I'll be a

sonofabitch!"

He said this to Daniel and me.

"My name is Peter Williams."

Peter, who I shall hereafter refer to as the, 'kid,' offered

an outstretched hand. But Hemingway ignored the outstretched hand.

And although it must of appeared to the kid that Hemingway was

looking at the kid's hand, he wasn't, he was glancing at the three

desks in the office.

"I am Peter William," the kid repeated to Hemingway.

"How come there are only three desks?" Hemingway in a deep

falsetto boomed.

"They must of known you were coming and set up a desk in the

gutter," I answered.

"Is this any way to treat a pro," Hemingway indigently

replied.

"Maybe freedom hasn't come this far," Daniel replied.

"You can't treat me like this," Hemingway yelled.

"I am William," the kid repeated to Hemingway.

"Fuck you kid!" Hemingway replied.

 If in all the confusion of voices, the kid heard Hemingway, I

don't know because right then an officious looking prick wearing

governmental smug righteousness on his face marched into the

office. He introduced himself as the assistant liaison between the

press and the embassy. No name. Just his title. So out loud I

tabbed him for always and forever as, "The gopher."

If he heard me, he didn't indicate as much. Instead he

marched about the office and handed us each a sheet of paper. On

it was the do's and do not' of Hungary. Do pay the fare on the

trams and buses and subways. The fare is only two Forints, which

is about four cents U. S. The fine for not paying the fare is two

hundred and fifty Forints, about five U. S. dollars. Do not

approach the Hungarian woman...this can only cause animosity. Do

be polite at all times. Do dress respectfully. Do, and do, and do

not and do not and and and and and. And Daniel tossed it in the

metal garbage can that rested in the far corner. Hemingway did

like wise. The gopher was undaunted by this.

"These are the rules," the gopher instructed.

"Yes sir," the kid respectfully replied.

"There are only three desks," Hemingway said, "And four of

us."

"Yes." I replied.

"Yeah," Daniel said, "And I have no intention of sharing a

desk with him."

81
 "A desk will be brought in."

"See to it," I instructed.

"There will be a general press meeting in two hours at the

Karl Marx University," the gopher announced and left.

"You two are a laugh riot," Hemingway announced.

"We try," we both answered.

The kid's face showed one of those, 'I am on Mars,' look.

He muttered in exasperation, "I was told smoking wasn't allowed

here!"

Somewhere between where the kid had entered the office,

Hemingway, and then the gopher, Daniel and I had reconnected on

the wave length on which we had enjoyed each others friendship so

many years ago. We had always played off each others thoughts and

feelings. The snappy comebacks showed this had not changed. I felt

it and I know Daniel did likewise. So when I stood to leave, he,

in almost perfect sync, did likewise and followed me out the door.

The last thing I heard was the kid muttering, "I'm allergic to

smoke."
 Chapter Fifteen.

Feet are like homing pigeons. No matter how tired, or drunk,

or incumbent the weather, they always carry you to the friendly

confines of home. Such was the case with Daniel and I. And I

should of known where we were going when we turned off Parlay

street onto Lenin Kart. But I had been strolling along in a quiet

solitude. I was thinking about Daniel and the missing years, and

assumed he was doing likewise. Eventually my thoughts gave way to

the present and the world about me and I immediately saw that our

feet had carried us to the New York Cafe. Daniel noticed this at

the same time and we both let loose a short laugh, more a snort

really. We had frequented the New York Cafe years ago when first

assigned to Budapest. At the time the New York Cafe was the in

place to go. Actually at the time it was the only place in

Budapest where most brands of American whiskey were served. That

winter was very cold. So much so that American and British

journalists both flocked to the Cafe. The whiskey was warm. The

nights long. An Affable Hungarian bartender named Laz played the

bar like a piano. He spoke english as if he had marbles and a

towel stuffed in his mouth, and was almost incomprehensible. But

he served a hell of a drink. And he danced a fine tango,

83
especially while drunk. I seemed to remember that the women loved

him.

"Buy you a drink?" Daniel asked.

"Sure," I answered, "as long as you can stomach drinking with

a man who slams down mineral water?"

"I am flexible," he said and grinned. "Fact is I will join

you."

Many years ago when I had first set foot in the Cafe, the

Cafe had instantly filled me with a sense of place. I had

frequented the Cafe often since that first visit and truly

believed that people unconsciously harkened back to it, much like

Daniel and I had, because in an ever changing world the Cafe

offered a sense of home. There are places that will conjure up

such emotions. The pyramids. A castle in England. The Roman

coliseum. A Parents house. The cafe was one such place. The Cafe

was built over a hundred years ago and stepping through the doors

of the Cafe was like stepping back a hundred years in time to a

period when gentlemen roamed the earth and women wore hats

sprouting tall feathers. The decor was Baroque; plenty of mirrors

and ornate woodwork, and imitation sculptured Michelangelo like

statues. But the Cafe was much more then ornate woodwork and

sculptured statues. The cafe had seen the Austria-Hungarian empire

crumble, two world wars to end all wars, the communist revolution,

and scores of writers and artists from Picasso to the real not the

fake Hemingway.
 From the moment I entered, I immediately felt this sense of

place. And a quick look around told me the Cafe had basically

remained unchanged during my absence. The cafe was a bit beaten by

father time; the statues had a haphazardly amputated toe or finger

here and there, and dust layered the crystal chandeliers. But the

Cafe itself was the same. A home away from home. A port in the

storm. Unlike many others, both people and architecture, the cafe

had survived the communist revolution.

As Daniel and I took a stool at the bar, I wondered if the

Cafe would survive the coming capitalist revolution. As I looked

around me, I wouldn't of bet the family farm on it. The poverty of

communism rallied against change, the affluence of capitalism

demanded it. A wise entrepreneur would clean the place up; paste

regrown toes on the statues, sand the floor, and add a coat of

paint, and adorn the walls with plaques of all the famous men and

women who had frequented the cafe over the years. Tourists would

come and ogle the plaques and upon returning home boast and and

and and and the Lord lead us into green pastures.

Laz, of course, wasn't there. In fact the place was empty.

There wasn't a soul but us and the bartender. As soon as the

bartender came our way, Daniel immediately asked him about Laz. As

I didn't speak Hungarian and the bartender didn't speak english,

Daniel translated for me.

"No. He died. Heart attack. Were we friends of his?"

85
 "Yes. A long time ago."

"Americans?"

"Yes,"

"Yes. Laz spoke of the many Americans friends he had. I have

a brother in Cleveland. You know where Cleveland is?"

"Yes," Daniel replied.

"Nice place, no."

"Yes," Daniel lied.

"I go there some day. Be happy. Live in America. Work. Make

lots of money. My name is Stanujem. In Hungarian Stanujem means 'I

am staying.' But I am going. It is a long name. Just call me

Stan." So we did and after a few more words of which Daniel

neglected to translate, Stan brought the requested mineral water,

smiled broadly and excused himself. Daniel and I clinked bottles,

toasting Laz goodbye. I felt silly toasting Laz with a bottle of

mineral water. Laz had been a jolly man, even the austerity of

communism failed to dim the joy in him. And he would of preferred

something a bit stronger, and I mentioned this and Daniel nodded.

We ordered Wild Turkey. But Stan apologized, explaining the Cafe

hadn't carried Wild Turkey for years. Cost too many Forints to

import. But there was a bottle of Jim Beam. So we settled for

this. After Stan brought the whiskey, we repeated the toast. This

time it seemed more from the heart. I said so. Daniel agreed.

Still the whiskey was bitter going down. I wasn't sure if this was

because of Laz or because of my years of abstinence.

 We hadn't seen each other for a few years, and now that the

initial shock was over, we lazily exchanged news over past

comrades. After going through the list of who had retired, and who

had grown tired of the correspondent game and had taken a desk job

writing obits on a small town rag, I asked if he knew about Paul

Mascone. He shook his head no. I explained that Paul had succumbed

to cancer. He was saddened by the news and showed as much by

hanging his head. A few minutes of silence ensured.

"You hear about Ted Smith?" he asked.

Long ago Daniel and Ted and I had worked together on the city

desk. Like Daniel, I had lost track of Ted.

"No," I answered, "What about him?"

He committed suicide," Daniel replied, "You remember how

methodical he was. Well he was just so in death. By all accounts

he had it planned well. He flew to Paris and checked into the

Ritz; the Presidential suite. He shed his clothes and neatly

folded them and lay them at the foot of the bed. He went to the

bathroom and set the shower mat on the floor by the toilet. He sat

on the toilet and positioned his lips over the twin barrels of a

shotgun so the blast would blow upward and behind him instead of

directly against the wall and blew his brains out. A parisian maid

entered the room to change the towels and found a naked headless

man. She neglected to change the towels, what with being

understandably upset."

87
 Chapter Sixteen.

Twenty minutes later, we left the Cafe for the press briefing

at the Karl Marx University. I hadn't planned on attending the

press briefing at the University. There wasn't a reason too. I

already had an interview set up. Besides I was depressed about Ted

Smith. But Daniel wanted to go and since I had a few hours to

waste, tagged along.

I discovered upon arriving at the University that the kid was

to become more then just a general pain in the ass who disliked

cigarette smoke. A middle aged hall monitor directed us past a

statue of Karl Marx who appeared to be frowning to the auditorium

where a man from the Hungarian Cultural exchange was on the stage

giving a speech about the transition between communism and

capitalism. The auditorium was very crowded and every chair

appeared to be occupied. There were quite a few foreign

corespondents there. I even recognized a few old timers from my

salad days. But I was not surprised. The fall of communism was big

news.

Daniel and I were searching for standing room in the rear

when the kid stood and called out to us.

"He's talking to you," Daniel Joked.

 "Right."

The kid gestured at two empty chairs lodged between him and

Hemingway.

"Stand or sit?" Daniel asked.

"Sit," I replied, "But you sit next to Hemingway."

"Sure."

The kid earnestly explained as we sat down, Daniel on

Hemingway's left and I next to the kid, that he had saved the

chairs for us, through much peril too, even going so far as to

fend off an Italian with a handlebar mustache who had threatened

great bodily harm.

"Thank's kid," I replied, expecting this to be the end of it.

But it wasn't, and because I sat next to him I was the sole

recipient of his attention. As the man on the stage continued his

lecture, the kid whispered in my ear about how sorry he was about

causing such a ruckus at the embassy. Although smoking bothered

him, he could live with it. After all he was a journalist now. And

as a journalist, he should be more understanding of other peoples

faults. Of course smoking wasn't a fault, but well well I knew

what he meant, right. And he was honored to be sharing an office

with such journeymen journalists as Daniel and myself. And was it

true I was a senior editor in New York for United Press

international. Wow. Imagine it. Senior editor. The man in charge

89
of the New York bureau of a major news service. Must be a mighty

big responsibility. Blah blah blah.

He didn't cease his earnest chatter until we all stood

outside.

"So what do we do now?" he inquired.

The thought of playing nursemaid the reminder of the day

sickened me. Besides I wanted to throttle him. But I resisted the

urge. He was young and would want to explore this strange place

called Budapest. So, knowing this, I told him I was returning to

the office to send off a dispatch.

"I left my bag at the embassy," Daniel said, "I'll walk you

back."

The kid had a pained look on his face. He wanted to hang

around with myself and Daniel.

"Com'on kid," Hemingway said, "I'll buy you a Coke."

Hemingway was doing me a favor and why troubled me. But I

nodded his way in thanks. He gave me a two finger wave in return

and lead the kid up the block away from the University.
 Chapter Seventeen.

I was still very upset about Ted Smith and back in the office

I poured a stiff drink from Daniel's stash of Wild Turkey. While

Daniel went off in search of ice, I slowly sipped the drink,

savoring the warm feeling growing within me. But still, I couldn't

shake the sight of Ted doing himself the way he did. He had hated

violence and was while alive very squeamish about the sight of

blood, even his own. Sitting there, I flashed back to 1982 and

vividly remembered him and I discussing an accident I had covered

earlier in the day. The accident had occurred on Twenty-Eight and

Third, and had involved two cars and although none of the

passengers were seriously injured, the street was covered with an

inordinate amount of blood. We were in a bar sitting on stools and

sipping beer when I mentioned the blood, and the mere mention of

it had sent his eyes fluttering and him into a fainting swoon. He

would of fainted too, but I caught him in time.

But maybe this is the way a man goes; he takes the hounding

life long dog fear by the throat and laughs right into those

fangs. A few minutes later Daniel returned accompanied by the

liaison between the press and the embassy. I had almost finished

91
the drink and had worked myself into a deep funk and greeted them

with silent melancholy eyes. Without waiting for Daniel to do so,

the liaison, in a deep southern drawl, introduced himself as Mr.

Sam Hopkins of Houston, Texas. He had spoke very loudly and added

in the same voice and breath, "And yes indeed I sure would like a

nip of that Wild Turkey there; if you don't mind."

I didn't.

He poured himself a large nip; four fingers by my estimate,

into a glass. Daniel did likewise and sat at his desk. Sam took a

sip, smacked his lips and said cynically, "I love America."

The comment was bait, but I was foolish enough to bite at the

remark and asked why.

"Because only in America can a fellow find booze like this.

It's prosperity and happiness."

I flashed Daniel a look that said, "Where did you find this

guy?"

He silently mouthed, "In the hall."

I silently replied, "Really. Television more likely."

"Yeah, I get your drift," Sam answered, reading our faces "I

ran some bucks into a string of oil wells. The bucks were borrowed

and the wells were dry. But still you are worth in America what

you owe and for a while I was king of the sheep. The blond babes.

I could tell you stories. Your third leg would blush. But all

things come to pass, especially blond babes. Well my turn came to

pass, and like a hungry wolf pack the bill collectors lined up and
the blond babes fled. My ex-wife's lawyer led the pack. I said

bah, an old Uncle sent me here." He winked, "It don't hurt to have

an Uncle in Washington."

Like I had said, I hadn't drank in a long time, so I laughed

much louder than necessary at his little joke about the Uncle in

Washington. But only because the current president and its

administration owed a birthright and an allegiance to Texas. As

such what was known as the, "Texas cartel," controlled Washington.

But this cartel was extremely conservative and it was obvious that

this Mister Sam Hopkins was anything but.

"Do you know anything at all about being liaison to the

press?" I asked.

"Not a wit."

"Really?"

"On Davy Crockett's tail."

There was a challenge in his voice. He was a government man

and as such was naturally suspicious of the press. He had met

Daniel in the hall; this much was obvious. He had also taken to

Daniel right away, which was not surprising since Daniel had a

common fellowship that appealed to his fellow man. But he wasn't

sure of me. He had spoken off the cuff and was ready to gauge my

response. Like I said I was a little bit high from the booze and

considered making him squirm, but rejected the idea. I had met men

like him before. They didn't squirm. They met you at a bar and

93
bought you a drink and waited for you to buy the next round. If

you didn't buy the next round then you failed their idea of the

litmus test and there was no second chance; not with men like him.

"Have another drink," I said, "It's on me."

When he immediately reached for the bottle and poured himself

another four fingers I knew I had passed the test. After a

challenge is successfully answered to the satisfaction of both

men, there is a general relaxation. Such was the case in the

office. Sam sat in a chair and propped his feet on the desk.

Daniel poured himself another drink. I had decided that the few

drops in my glass was sufficient. For a few minutes we exchanged

history. Sam had worked at the embassy for two years and expected

to be there another six. He mentioned this as if he was a man

resigned to a prison sentence. I asked him about the gopher who

had stopped by earlier with what amounted to an instruction manual

for staying in Budapest. "He seemed a bit overly rigid," I added.

"Is. Names Spruce Sardine. Funny name for a funny fellow.

He's only worked at the Embassy for a few weeks. Takes his duties

as a gopher very very seriously."

"Most gophers do," Daniel replied.

"Aye," he answered, "So what's your two stories?"

Daniel and I related our stories and when finished Sam's feet

dropped to the floor.

"Different men different stories. Same road. Well it's been

nice talking to you boys. But I have to get back to work. The
embassy is putting together a press pool departing in the morning

to travel via bus to the country to interview the farmers. You

know, see how they like the capitalistic way. You interested?"

This innocent invitation between three men drinking and

sharing memories was how it started. The moment Sam asked this,

Daniel glanced my way, and I knew he was forestalling a reply and

was waiting for me to answer. I should of declined; said politely

thanks but no thanks. And I considered this. A press pool was

usually made up of everyday working journalists. As a senior

editor, I would be out of place. Besides I had the series of

interviews with the Minister of Information. But I wanted Daniel

and I to work together again; like the old days. In my defense had

I known that Hemingway and the kid were going, I would have

declined. But at the time I wasn't aware of this and replied sure.

Daniel said the same.

A few seconds later Sam departed with a hearty farewell to

arms as he lifted his glass and downed the last of the whiskey.

For a few minutes Daniel and I passed small talk about the

apartment; The kind of people Jack and Joanne were; middle class

with a touch of spice, was there room enough for his own room; and

one other. A few minutes later he, bag in hand, left.

95
 Chapter Eighteen.

With Daniel and Sam gone, I should have had the computer on,

my fingers working on a dispatch to the states. But from the

moment they had left, the office seemed strongly quiet and instead

of working I sat at the desk sloshing around the few drops of

bourbon in my glass. As I did so I wondered why men traded life

stories. I, of course, knew why. To relive the glory days. But in

the end the reliving of such tales just made one sad or at the

very least melancholy for a time and place; one trapped by

cobwebbed memories. So why? Why relive such pain.

This train of thought only served to make me depressed so I

shifted my thoughts to Julie. I kicked around going to the Cafe

Gerbeaud to meet her or staying put and sending off a dispatch.

But I didn't feel at all like working. But I was a senior editor

and as such couldn't let myself off so easy. I had to justify

sloth. So I did so by telling myself that I had agreed to meet

Julie. I had an obligation. Yes, I answered back, but I also had

an obligation to send off a dispatch.

This train of thought put me at an impasse, and, undecided

about what to do, I drummed my fingers on the desk for a few

minutes. At last I nodded my head and took a quarter out of my

pocket and flipped it. If it came up heads I would write some

story or other, tails I would go to the Cafe Gerbeaud. It was

tails. An ever so little voice in the far corridors of my head

said that I was playing the fool. Julie had been a nice diversion

during a long grueling flight. But I was here. There was work to

be done. Don't be a fool.

But I had drunk my share and told the voice where to go.

Someplace where the sun never shined.

97
 Chapter Nineteen.

Woolgathering can be dangerous. This is what my long departed

mother always preached. She was correct too. Had I not been

sitting there wasting time undecided about something I was damn

well going to do, then I would have left well ahead of Hemingway.

I was and didn't. I was getting up to leave when he walked in. As

I had already mentioned, I had a keen distaste for the man. The

image of Ted sitting naked on a john while his brains loitered on

the ceiling intensified the distaste. Ted had lived his life as a

real journalist. And before me stood everything Ted had rallied

against. "How's it going?" he asked.

"Fine until now."

"Surprised to see me in Budapest?"

"Yes. Was it you who turned the kid on about Daniel and

myself...the crap about great journalists."

"Hey, you know one good joke deserves another. Right?

Besides, I waylaid him for you at the University.

"What the hell are you doing in Budapest?"

"Same as you."
 "No, you're here because your editor see's Eastern block

stories involving one legged cows, and aliens kidnapping communist

women."

"If you knew then why did you ask?"

"Why you?"

"I want one more scoop."

"No. You want to shed the trash journalist label that's

followed you around all these years."

"So why are you here? Hey mister big time senior editor."

I let that pass.

"I am curious, how did you ever get the name Ernest?"

"My parents were in a literary frame of mind at the time."

"Help any?"

"Sticks and stones and all."

"Literary, huh."

"Listen, forget all this crap. With Russia easing up on the

hammer and sickle, this whole region is up for grabs. There's even

rumors Ceausescu's about to bite the dust. If you and I team up,

we can clean up."

"Not likely."

"Com'on we can be friends."

"You want to bet."

"Yes. I am here for the same reason as you. Hey, the kids a

washout. He'll wind up writing for some small town rag about

99
apple-pies and two pound pumpkins. Daniel, well, okay, so you like

him. But he hasn't written shit since that broad left him. And he

isn't going to write anything worth a tinkers damn now. But you

and I together. We can scoop. I can wind up editor of the

Enquirer. You, hell you can write your own ticket. Teach at

Harvard. Write a book. Whatever. What do you say?"

"Put a lid on it."

"Really?"

"Really."

"A couple of days. You will change you mind."

Assholes and arguing and all such. So I stuffed my notes for

the interview and my reading glasses into my briefcase and left.

 Chapter Twenty.

Did Julie show? No. But I hadn't really expected her too. But

going to the Cafe Gerbeaud wasn't a total loss. I had brought a

note pad and as I sipped coffee I reworked the questions I

intended on asking the Minister of Information. Because I was

still pretty upset about Ted Smith, at first I had difficulty

concentrating. Every time I began to write, I vividly pictured him

in the bathroom at the Ritz and my fingers froze and I found

myself staring off into the distance. As an escape from my

thoughts, I marveled at the weather. The sky was clear and a warm

breeze carried off the Danube. Perfect. Just like yesterday. Then

I'd think how Ted liked days like this. And I'd be back at where I

started.

This became an unescapable vicious circle, and I had finished

my first cup of coffee in this fashion and was well into my second

cup before I finally let go of Ted. This wasn't a conscious

decision. One moment Ted was there in my head and the next my

sport jacket was draped over the back of my chair and I was

hunched over the note pad and thinking and writing and munching on

a ham sandwich. I rolled my sleeves up to my elbows and soon the

101
years and conditioning took over, and Ted was regulated to the

distant past. He'd live there now but not alone, safe in the

living rooms of my mind. Every now and then I would visit him;

when I was depressed or lonely, or just bitter over a real or

imaginary hurt. We'd share a drink and laugh or bitch or moan or

cry. During the long absences apart we wouldn't miss each other so

much because we both had plenty of company.

 Chapter Twenty One.

I had worked for about an hour when I lay pencil and reading

glasses aside and looked around me in the way one does after

totally engrossed in something else. Chattering people had filled

the outside tables when I had first arrived. But now only myself

and another woman who sat well away from me were there. The table

I occupied was near the door to the cafe, and two waiters,

probably to keep an eye on the eight tables that zip-zagged

between the tree saplings by the curb, lounged at the table

closest to the door of the cafe. For a moment I watched her with a

distant curiosity. She occasionally sipped from a cup of coffee

and nibbled on a piece of bread before returning to writing in a

note pad.

After a moment, I glanced at the waiters. They conversed in

english, and since I was bored, I tuned into their conversation.

As I listened, I did something I had never done before. I picked

up the pencil and began writing down what they said to each other.

Months later back in New York, I stumbled across these notes and

what follows is exactly what I had transcribed.

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 "I like this time of day when the lunch customers have left

and before the dinner crowd arrives better than any other," the

old waiter stated.

"Yes, so do I," the young waiter agreed.

"It's not because I am lazy, you understand. It's just that I

want to enjoy some of the day."

"I didn't think it was," the young waiter replied.

"Well it is not."

"I didn't think so."

The old waiter was about to answer when the girl waved her

cup in the air, indicating she wanted a refill. "Damn," he

mouthed.

"She is very pretty," the young water offered.

The old waiter snorted in disgust. He pushed his chair back,

stood and went to the hot plate set up on a table along the wall

of the cafe and carried the pot over to where she sat. He bent

over at the waist and poured coffee into her cup, careful not to

fill the cup so that coffee spilled on the tablecloth. When the

cup was full, she smiled up at him in thanks. He said nothing and

abruptly returned the pot to the hot plate, and went and stood

next to the chair where the young waiter sat.

"But were I to be lazy," the old waiter said right off, "I

wouldn't serve her."

The young waiter upturned his eyebrows in question.

 "You don't know her," the old waiter asked, his eyebrows

raised.

He did not and reluctantly admitted so.

"She comes here at least twice a week."

"This is only my third day."

The old waiter's face brightened. "Yes, I forgot."

The waiters fell silent, as a carriage with the lovers inside

oblivious to the world around them bumped on the cobblestone

street. The driver of the carriage tipped his top hat at the

waiters. The waiters waved in return.

"Is this your first job as a waiter?"

"Yes."

"Where do you come from?"

"I come from a small town."

"You come to Budapest to attend the University?"

"No. I came to work as a waiter and to see."

The old waiter nodded as if what the young waiter had said

was how it should be. "See. Yes. To see is good. To be a waiter in

Budapest is better. I know. I have worked as waiter for many

years. The tips are good. But yes to see is also good. But watch

out for that one."

"The buggy driver?"

"No, the girl," the old waiter snorted, waving his hand in

annoyance.

105
 The young waiter glanced at her. She was engrossed in what

she was writing in the note pad.

"She looks harmless?"

"You are young."

The young waiter did not take offense at this.

"And you have much to learn about women," the old waiter

stated, "and that one is a thief. She steals hearts. I would not

be surprised if she keeps them in a canning jar at home. She looks

at them at night, laughing, I am sure. See now. You see how she

looked at you?"

The young waiter shrugged his shoulders as if to say: NO

"See, you do have much to learn about women. She looks at all

men like that."

"She looked at me because I was looking at her."

The old waiter's face curled up into a knowing stare.

"I was looking at her," the young waiter defended, shifting

in his chair uncomfortably.

"She looks at all men like that. I know," the old waiter

answered pointedly, "She has given me this same look. She has

given many men that same look"

"It was just a look?"

"I know the customers who come in here," the old waiter said,

his voice on the point of anger. "You don't. You are young. You

are new. Listen to me. Watch out for that look."

"It was just a look."

 "You think I am an old fool? I know that one! Listen to me!

She has dated many men who come to the cafe! They talk about her!"

"What do they say?"

"She steals hearts!"

"They say this?"

"No!"

"What do they say?"

"I can not say!"

"Why not?"

"I can not say!"

"But why not."

"I can not say because what a customer says should be held in

confidence, "The old waiter responded, his face now red with

anger, "And you do best to learn this or you will not be a waiter

for long in Budapest! Just believe me when I say she is a wicked

one! She has dated many men who come here! This should tell you

something!"

The old waiter was too angry to speak, and marched into the

cafe. The young waiter called after him. But the old waiter stayed

inside the cafe with his back to him. Right then the woman stood

and placed the note pad into her purse. A sparrow swooped down

from one of the tree branches and perched on the chair she had

vacated. The sparrow gave her an imploring squeak. She giggled at

the sparrow. The sparrow chirped. She swept the crumbs from the

107
plate onto the ground. The sparrow jumped from the chair to the

ground and pecked at the crumbs, trapped a few between its beak

and flew away. The girl let out a half laugh and walked up the

street, her hands swinging at her side.

The young waiter watched her until she disappeared up the

street.
 Chapter Twenty Two.

The Parliament was two miles away. I considered, but rejected

hailing a taxi. I had a caffeine buzz from drinking too much

coffee and the walk would do me good; clear my head. As I walked,

I thought about Julie while at the same time thinking about the

scene at the cafe between the two waiters. Did the conversation

actually take place. Or did I just daydream it? A product of a

bored mind. A fantasy way of saying goodbye to Julie. I wasn't

sure.

109
 Chapter Twenty Three.

Once at the Parliament the Minister's secretary showed me to

his office where he stood waiting at the door. We shook hands. He

was a tall elderly gentleman, gray hair and shining blue eyes.

Insofar as he didn't speak english and because there wasn't a

translator present, the interview got off to a bizarre beginning.

He ushered me into the office without saying a word, but with a

hearty smile directed me into a chair in front of his desk, then

rushed to a liquor cabinet and from a dark green bottle poured two

large tumblers of wine and rushed back at me and thrusted one of

the tumblers into my hands. He lifted his glass and drank while

all the while smiling down at me. I guessed this was some sort of

get acquainted ritual and did likewise, while all the time looking

up at him and waiting for him to put the glass down. But he drank

until his glass was empty, by at which time I regurgitated

liquid; much so I had to pucker my lips to keep the liquid from

spurting out from between my teeth.

The moment I finished the wine, he dashed behind his desk

with a vigor of a man half his age and began scribbling on a pad

of paper. I was still choking down the last of the wine when he

pushed the pad of paper across the desk. Drinking the wine so
quickly stung my eyes and they were a bit watery, but even so I

managed to make out what was written there because of the wide

loop to the point of almost comical construction of his letters.

"I do not speak english. But I write english perfectly. So we as

men shall conduct this interview by writing on a pad of paper.

Okay. By the way the wine is a red and is indigenous to my native

region. It is called, 'Egri Bikaver,' literally meaning, 'Bulls

Blood.' Also my name is Joseph Tudakoz. In Hungarian my name

means, "Mr Information."

Seeing as he was Minister of Information, I thought this a

rather poetic touch of irony and said so. But of course I had

answered him in english, and immediately realized the error and

nodded in response. The epitome of a hearty belly laugh roared

from him. He stood, went to the liquor cabinet and carried the

wine bottle over to me and filled my glass and afterwards went

behind the desk and sat. He fixed a silly grin on me. This grin

belonged on a five year old kid who had just won a treasure trove

of marbles, I thought, not a sixty year old man. But on second

thought, I realized he had won more than a treasure trove of

marbles...he had won a country. So why not grin.

I tore off the top page and wrote my name down and pushed the

pad back across the desk.

111
 He nodded, tore the top page off, scribbled, and when

finished pushed the pad across the desk at me. I looked at what he

had written: So we begin, no."

Yes, and we did. I rattled off questions by scribbling them

down first on the pad of paper, then sliding the pad across the

desk. He would look at the question, and nod thoughtfully for a

second, or two or three, or once even a full minute according to

the grandfather clock to the right of the desk. Always afterward

he'd hang his head over the pad and furiously scribble, then push

the pad back across the desk all the while laughing; laughing as

if he was privy to a private joke; and perhaps he was.

This went on for a good forty-five minutes. He emptied his

wine glass twice during this time and I out of a desire to meet

this happily smiling man soul to soul did likewise and would have

done so a third time but the bottle was thankfully empty.

At the beginning the questions were standard journalist to

politician drivel and fell into what I classified as drivel A and

drivel B. Drivel A followed his career and went as so. "You are

part of the newly elected democratic government. Your term is four

years. What did you do before this. And so on and so on. '

Drivel B keyed in on the Russians and carried the preface:

"In Your opinion...Will the communist, and in particular the

Russians, respect the validity of the newly elected democratic

government...And so on and so on.

 It was as the interview was closing that we connected soul to

soul. It happened when I asked him if freedom would come easy. He

took a full two minutes to answer.

"Nothing comes easy, no," he wrote.

I had to agree.

"We will be hungry for a while," he wrote, "as we are now and

have been for many years and then we will be prosperous for a

while, and then the wolf will once again visit our door and hunger

will follow. It is the way. You see a little hunger feeds the soul

and the soul when fed reaches out for new roads; ah but prosperity

feeds the body, and when the body is fat and lazy so is the

spirit. All this was a bit folksy and I wondered if he was

trying to pull one over on the visiting American; so I fixed eyes

with him. For a second we sat like that. There was no laughter

now. Just the black pools of his eyes inspecting the brown pools

of mine. Slowly his lips creased, and his eyes sparkled, and right

then he gave an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders; as if

saying, "Hey I know its all crap, but it plays well and its what

the people want to hear and its true. And this is my job. Too

remind them of this truth. Not too loud you understand. And not

too soft, you understand. And not to stick around too long you

understand because nobody wants to be reminded of truth for too

long. You do understand?"

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 I did and smiled to show as much. He abruptly stood and

suddenly and forcefully clapped his hands together. The resounding

clap echoed throughout the office.

"So the interview is over," he announced in perfect english.

"And so it is," I answered, not the least bit surprised he

spoke english. After all, if you can write it you can speak it.

"Good. I am a busy man now. I am a politician. Politicians

are always busy men."

As I stood to leave, I answered absently. "It seems so."

"Yes, Yes, it is so. Busy. Busy. Ah but tomorrow I give the

second interview to you, no. But we do so at my house. I am giving

a party. You see the Minister in a different light. There will be

important television news men. English. American. French. Print

journalist too. They beam interview to entire world. The entire

world will watch and feel sorry for the poor oppressed Hungarians.

We have plenty of food afterwards for these imprudent important

men. Plenty of wine. But you my guest of honor, no. Afterwards we

retire to my study and talk. Just you and I. Talk as men, no."

I was dumbfounded by my own stupidity. And ill manners. I had

completely neglected to postpone tomorrow's interview, something I

should of done the moment I walked in. Well, I told myself, there

wasn't anything to be done now but eat crow.

"Sorry," I replied, "I made arrangements to go out to the

country and interview farmers. I should of mentioned this earlier.

It slipped my mind. "

 "Ah yes, the farm tour," The Minister replied, "I thought

that up. Something for everybody."

"Keep the western journalist happy right down to the littlest

man?"

"Yes, no," he said his eyebrows raised as if the statement

was academic, "But it is a pity you can't attend my function. Oh

well the country is much better anyway. The wine is fresh, and the

women are well fed and a well fed woman is a happy woman."

He was talking to himself not me and said as much. "Of

course. Politicians like to hear themselves speak"

"The world over," I answered.

"Just so too."

"Yes."

"Well have a good time tomorrow."

"Yes, I will be sure to do so."

"About the rest of the interviews?"

"I'll phone your secretary? And again, I apologize for the

rudeness."

"No need," He replied, and bounded from behind the desk and

lay an arm across my shoulder, "Really. I understand. And Yes.

Yes. Do so."

He longed to be in the country, I thought as I left.

115
 Chapter Twenty Four.

Fifteen minutes later, I was at my desk at the embassy. I was

the only person in the office and glad of it. I had work to do and

didn't need Hemingway or the kid jabbering at me. I composed, then

dispatched the interview. This took all of an hour. It was dark by

the time I left for the apartment. On the way home I once again

walked along the Danube river. The air was cooler than it had been

earlier. I stopped at the railing and stared at a cruise ship

docked below. Waterfowl traced the water around it. By the looks

of the moorings the ship was permanently docked. A sign above the

gangplank leading to the dock read: Casino. Welcome. The greeting

was in english. The ship was lit up like an Italian christmas tree

and the bells and whistles from slot machines and laughter carried

from it. Tourists, I thought. The thought made me think of Mr.

Information. A sad old happy man. I felt sorry for him. He was a

key player in a revolution he had longed for. But now after

getting what he had wished for was stuck in the position he had

spent his life rallying against.

 Chapter Twenty Five.

The rest of the way home I thought about Daniel. I had had a

full day and was looking forward to a quiet dinner at the New York

Cafe while conversing with him about old times. Also since he had

just arrived in Budapest and hadn't had time to form his own

sources, I intended on sharing the interview with Mr. Information

with him. In journalese this is called 'story sharing.' How it

sounds is how it works. Journalist A secures a story and after

dispatching the story shares the meat of the story with journalist

B who then restructures the contents and dispatches it under his

own byline. Although this may sound dishonest, two journalist

using the same story, it's not. There is often more then one

journalist at an interview, and often times, such as presidential

interviews, there are dozens. If I had during the interview

discovered a juicy tid bit of information, then I wouldn't of

shared the interview with my mother. But I hadn't.

117
 Chapter Twenty Six.

When I entered the apartment I saw Joanne in the bedroom

singing to herself while she unpacked a suitcase. Daniel and Jack

sat at the kitchen table. A half empty bottle of Johnny Walker Red

rested on the table between them. They didn't notice me. They both

had a raised glass in their hands, and had obviously come to a

meeting of minds and right now were toasting each other raucously.

The lighting was dimmed and in the soft glow they looked very

drunk and very happy.

Well, I thought, the best laid plans of mice and men and all

such. A quiet evening wasn't in the cards. Nor was a leisurely

dinner at the New York Cafe. I should have known better. Daniel

was always a nocturnal creature, and at his most charming during

the evening hours. And he had obviously been charming Jack and

Joanne for quite some time.

"I see you met each other," I said.

The moment Jack saw me he jumped up and draped an arm around

my shoulder. "This is great. Really great. Isn't this great

honey!"
 "Yes," Joanne called out from bedroom, "You know Jack and I

never talk to other Americans when we're on vacation. Get enough

of them at home."

"True dear," Jack yelled out.

"But this is great. Two journalists," he said. He swallowed

down some whiskey before continuing in a much lower voice to

Daniel and me, "I was just telling Daniel that the New York Time's

had once interviewed me. It was when I owned a wholesale spice

business in the Virgin Islands."

He had told me the other day that his business was located in

Vermont. He was drunk and I corrected him as to avoid confusion

later. "You mean Vermont."

"No, that's where the business is situated now. I started out

in the Virgin Islands." He had a soft face and the light of

rememberence showed in it and he chuckled, "Great story. Want to

hear it. Sure you do. Sit down. Have a drink."

He took his own advice and plopped hard on the chair.

This wasn't exactly what I had in mind. So I tried to catch

Daniel's eye. But he was busy reading the label on the Scotch

bottle. I realized that he was drinking Scotch which if memory

served meant he was really far gone. Daniel had always hated

Scotch; would never touch it, said the stuff tasted like sheep

piss; besides it left you with a mean head the next morning. So I

joined them by sitting and fixing a drink. But reluctantly. I

119
soothed this decision by telling myself that whiskey and men and

talking go together like steak and eggs and hash browns. And it

seemed like I was partaking of the same meal all day so what was

one more serving. Anyway this was what I told myself.

There was an expectant look on Jack's face as he waited for

me to clang a few cubes of ice from the bowel next to the whisky

bottle into a glass. As soon as I did so, he started to gush out

his story but only managed to utter a few words before Joanne came

out from the bedroom and laid an arm on his shoulder while at the

same time looking at me. "Julie show?"

"No."

"Damn shame," Jack said, "Saw her on the plane. Nice looking

lady."

"Who?" Daniel asked.

"A woman I met on the plane," I answered.

"She had a cute daughter too," Joanne said.

"Anna," I replied, "Nice kid, yes."

"I'm about to tell how we started the spice business, dear,"

Jack announced.

"Oh do so, dear," Joanne urged and returned to the bedroom to

sort out clothes.

"A kid?" Daniel asked.

"Anna," I said, "Cute kid too."

This little exchange peaked Daniel's curiosity, and he leaned

toward me on his elbows to show as much. But Jack was not about to
be denied the story and imitated Daniel by leaning forward on his

elbows and butting in between us.

"So you see Joanne and I are in the Virgin Islands for the

winter," Jack said, "And we hire a native guide to show us the

sights. We wanted to see what the average tourist doesn't see and

told him as much fully knowing he's gonna take us to see things

every tourist since the Spaniards landed has seen. But who cares,

right. We are on vacation. So he takes us up the beach far away

from the tourist hotels to a small village. Straw huts. Women

balancing huge wicker water baskets on their heads. So anyway we

snap a few pictures while all the time the guide is smiling and

jabbering. On the way back to the hotel he spins a yarn about a

mystical spice. The morning tide washes the spice ashore from far

far and deep deep out in the ocean. According to him, the spice

was magic. Rotten fish. No problem. Add the spice and presto the

fish was fresh again and tasted ahhhhhhhhhh so good. So I ask him

how can I obtain this spice. So, sorry, he grins, the Spaniards

you know. They wanted gold. There was no gold. Chief Bboiou said

as much. The Spaniards thought the good Chief lied and tortured

many natives in an attempt to loosen the Chief's tongue. So out of

desperation the Chief told the Spaniards of the spice. The

Spaniards were so greedy they dredged the ocean floor and loaded

all the spice onto ships and took it back to Spain. The people

mourned the loss for many years. The story was rot, of course. But

121
an idea came to me. Create a spice mixture. Box it. Retell the

story about the Spaniards and the Chief on the box and sell it

back in the states. So I started it as a hobby. Called the spice,

'The Original Native Virgin Island Spice.' What I failed to

realize at the time was that it was a natural. The back to nature

craze had just sprang up. I cleaned up. For four years. But I grew

lax and my partner in the Virgin Island eased me out. I lived in

the states you see. But that is another story. Anyway after my

partner had eased me out, I repackaged the spice and sold it as

the 'Original Vermont Spice.' I superimposed a picture of the

Mayflower on the package. On the side panel there's a ditty about

how seven generations of my family, going all the way back to the

Mayflower, lived and died in Vermont. All true too. Not that I go

around bragging about it. I mean my forefathers came over, at

least on my mothers side, on the Mayflower. So what. Big deal.

Live in Vermont long enough and you learn that almost everybody in

Vermont has a forefather who come over on the MayFlower. Mighty

big boat. So when we first started or I should say restarted the

spice business we operated out of our kitchen. Just the two of us.

Joanne and I. Well we had a gross of the packages with the 'The

Original Native Virgin Island Spice.' labels on them in the

garage. So I had a few hundred of the 'The Original Native Vermont

Spice," labels printed up and glued the labels around the gross of

boxes bearing 'The Original Native Virgin Island Spice,' and took

them to town to a county store who only sold 'Original Vermont'

food products. I knew the proprietor and talked him into carrying

the spice. He consented and straight away put a few dozen packages

on the shelves. You know what happened the next morning?"

We shook our heads

"Those damn 'The Original Native Vermont Spice' labels came

unglued exposing the 'The Original Native Virgin Island Spice,'

labels beneath. The proprietor was incensed. He phoned and told

me so. He hasn't spoken to me to this day. I learned two things

from the experience. Never use Elmer's glue for anything

important. The second thing I learned was never entrust your fate

to somebody else. You see after the incident, I contracted with a

manufacture to produce the spice. Soon I was selling spice all

over the country. Well to make a long story short, Proctor and

Gamble wanted to cash in on the health food craze and offered me

oodles of money to sell. Not being a fool I did so. Course

now...well, I kind of miss the business. You know. Gave me

something to do. A man needs this. Needs something to do. Right. I

mean just right."

Both Daniel and I started to agree, Daniel a bit more vocal

than I, when Joanne came into the kitchen carrying a black leather

garment bag. The conversation paused as we questioningly glanced

her way. As she was a small woman, under ninety pounds, the

garment bag almost dwarfed her.

"I don't mean to interrupt you men, but this is not my bag."

123
 Jack was a bit cockeyed and showed as much by sticking his

nose against the bag. "Nope. Looks like your bag. But it's not."

"Probably just a mixup," I said, "You grabbed the wrong bag

at the airport. Call the airlines in the morning. Whoever has your

bag will turn it in."

"What will I wear in the meantime," she mumbled absently as

she walked toward the bedroom.

"You look good in anything," Jack yelled out. But his face

wore a look of distress, and like a dutiful husband who really

doesn't give a hoot about the bag but who wants to comfort his

wife, he gave us soulful eyes that male-comrade in arms are

supposed to understand, and we showed we did by offering

understanding soulful eyes in return. He stood and followed along

behind her. Muffled condolences came from the bedroom.

 Chapter Twenty Seven

Now there seemed to be too much space in the kitchen, what

with Jack gone. I don't know if it was the whiskey or what, but

like in the office when I was alone with Daniel, I felt the past

crowd the present.

"She's dressing for tonight," Daniel explained, "Probably why

she's so upset about the garment bag. I invited them both out to

the New York Cafe. My way of saying thanks."

"Yeah," I answered.

"You met the woman of your dreams on the plane ride over?" he

asked.

"No," I answered. I must of replied a bit wistfully because

he laughed; a thin sound.

"My you are a cynical bastard."

"Goes along with the territory," he answered.

"It's not M?" I asked.

"No."

"You really are over her?"

125
 I realized immediately I had gone too far. A friend should

never say 'really,' to a friend. There is something underhanded

about such a word. It implies lying, or fooling. He should have

smacked me across the chops. He declined. But there was a pause

during which time he shrugged indifferently.

"Yes," he replied, "And yes, I saw the way you were looking

at me at the embassy. That's all gone. She's all gone. She is

dead."

I was genuinely surprise by this and my face showed as much.

"Not in the literal sense," he replied. "She's

alive...somewhere. But it isn't her. Not the M. I knew. The M. I

knew is gone. End of conversation."

Old friends are the most difficult too fool. There are numerous

subtle nuances that give the truth away; a sideways glance that

refuses to meet the eyes, talking into one's drink, speaking too

fast so the tongue trips over the teeth, a nervous tick such as

brushing an imaginary speck off ones' trousers. And many others.

And I searched for all these signs that he was lying, or fooling

himself. And as I studied him, I believed he was over her because

I wanted to believe. I wanted it to be like old times. I wanted

him to be the same. I wanted both of us to be the same. After a

few moments, I was ashamed and found myself staring at my drink.

He was properly embarrassed for me and playfully punched me on the

arm.

"Get to the punch line about this Julie, will you."

 The playful punch on the arm is what convinced me. He had

always had an easy laugh. An easy smile. And an easy way to break

the tension. He had lost all of this when M. had left him, and

although the broad ready smile was apparent when he had first

entered the office at the Embassy, I had remained skeptical. But

now I was convinced. He was back. I was happy. It would be like

old times. So I explained how I had met Julie. I added that on the

way back from the Cafe Gerbeaud, I had reasoned out I was being a

fool. Not just a fool but a sentimental fool. Julie and I, if the

pun can be excused, were two ships passing in the night. And as

the night is made up of shadows, so were we and in this way we

touched in a shadowy way. But the daybreak dissipates shadows;

sending them scurrying toward familiarity. Such it was with us.

He understood so well what I was saying that he refilled my

glass. Afterwards we sat quietly for a while.

127
 Chapter Twenty Eight.

Before we left for the New York Cafe, I checked for the woman

with the great ovoce. The apartment across the ways was dark and

the balcony was empty. But a Gull rested on the railing. The Gull

blinked at me.
 Chapter Twenty Nine.

The New York Cafe was wall to wall people, which was in

direct contrast to a few hours earlier when Daniel and I had had

the place to ourselves. A few of the old timers I had recognized

at the Karl Marx university were there, and Daniel and I passed a

few hello's and glad to see you handshaking with them before

moving off to find a vacant table. The moment we were seated, Stan

hurried over to the table. He had a white towel draped over his

right arm and a broad smile of friendship on his face. The smile

seemed to glow as he ran the towel over the table brushing the few

crumbs there onto the floor. A translator wasn't required. I read

his face. I had seen the same look on many a bartender from here

to Timbucktoo. Simply by virtue of a few inane words about

Cleveland, Daniel and I had become regulars. To bartenders the

world over, regulars were accorded privileges non regulars

weren't. I could now get drunk and make a fool out of myself and

Stan would take my side and save me from being pummeled, pour me

into a taxi, and even listen to, if he speaks the correct

language, my troubles. And I had to admit I was pleased by this

rapid and sudden elevation. Maybe it was because the Scotch I had

129
drunk at the apartment was affecting me. Or maybe it was the old

me responding to the miles between here and the long distance

past. I preferred to believe the latter.

As Daniel ordered drinks all around, Joanne said to me, "I

was so upset about my garment bag I forgot to ask about Julie. Are

you upset? You know? Standing you up?"

The thought of engaging in such a conversation, Julie and

all, was painful. I was at the cafe to have a good time. But

Joanne meant well, so I answered no, and was about to add it no

longer mattered when Daniel leaned across the table while pointing

to the far side of the room. I looked over to where he pointed.

Katrina Little waved at me. I was surprised to see her, and

overjoyed and showed it by laughing loud while waving her over.

"Saw her at the university," Daniel commented.

"Really?"

"I know. She left before we did."

By this time she had meandered a path to our table. She,

Daniel and I had worked together long ago. But like Daniel, I

hadn't seen her for many years. But I had always liked her. She

was a real person. I stood and gave her a great big warm hug.

Daniel followed suit. She asked if she could join us for a few

minutes. Another journalist. Jack and Joanne were delighted. Love

to have her join us. She did. As she sat, Stan, the smiling

bartender, returned with our drinks and took her order of a Jim

Beam on the rocks. He hummed as he went off to fill her order.

 "So," she said right off, "What are you two old war horses

doing here?"

"The smell of the hunt and all," Daniel replied.

She snorted and said to me. "And you?"

"A victim of circumstances," I answered.

She had always had a devil may care laugh and quickly

displayed it now. "Like the time in the Belgium Congo?"

She had used just the right amount of 'mysterious timbre' to

whet Jack and Joanne's appetite. They hooted. They just had to

hear this story. It sounded just too precious. Oh yes please tell

us.

Katrina was referring to the time I had wound up with a rope

tied around my leg while the other end was looped around the head

of a very large water buffalo. The water buffalo was dead. I had

worked a long hard day and at night had fallen into a sound sleep

and had awoke the next morning to find myself tied to the water

buffalo. The whole thing was a joke. But I saw no need to

reiterate the story here, embarrassment the main reason, and

stated as much. Now they all hooted and hollered, including

Daniel. I held steadfast until finally the hooting gave way to

conversation. As Daniel was talking to Jack and Joanne, Katrina

focused her attention on me. She did so by leaning forward and

resting her right breast, a soft luscious mound of desire I may

add, on my forearm.

131
 "You like being a victim, huh?" she cooed.

"No," I replied, finding it difficult to resist her cooing

voice. "I do not. And you haven't changed much over the years.

Still a fifteen year old teasing nymph living in a woman's mind."

And she was too. But it was the life she had chosen a long

time ago and now reveled in it. She was also beautiful. Oh, not in

the way one see's portrayed on the cover of those glamour

magazines. But in the way most mature women were who had

maintained their figures while at the same becoming worldly.

She answered my remark by pressing her breast so firm against

my arm that her brassiere pinched my skin. I squirmed a little in

my chair just to show that she had achieved the desired effect.

But still her breast stayed put. I never thought I would be happy

to see Hemingway and the kid. But when they appeared, thus saving

me from a very embarrassing moment, I could have kissed them both.

Jack and Joanne hadn't noticed the tete la tete between

Katrina and I...to busy engaging Daniel in conversation. But the

moment Katrina saw Hemingway, an almost visible electrical tension

passed over the table. Her eyes instantly traded in the teasing

banter for a rock hard coldness. She flung more then lifted the

breast off the table...no further comment. But at this I raised my

forehead into an inverted V. Years ago Hemingway and Katrina had

had a torrid affair. I was surprised the bitterness still

lingered.
 "Oh goodie," Joanne said, obviously a bit tipsy from the

drink, "More journalists."

"Not really," Katrina icily remarked.

"Katrina," Hemingway replied, "What a nice surprise."

Joanne followed the 'oh goodie' remark by inviting Hemingway

and the kid to join us. Hemingway was a nervy bastard, and of

course, readily agreed. Katrina fidgeted in her chair while her

eyes fumed. I have always believed that it's best to defuse a

potential hostile situation before the impending eruption sweeps

away innocent bystanders; in this case Jack and Joanne. So in an

attempt to shift the attention away from Katrina and Hemingway, I

quickly introduced Hemingway and the kid to Jack and Joanne.

Daniel picked up on my cue and while I made the introductions

engaged Katrina in idle conversation.

Although Hemingway was a black man, the obvious question was

to ask him if he was related in any way to the real Hemingway. In

fact to do otherwise invited possible racial overtones. I had seen

it happen before. I don't know whether Joanne perceived such, but

she immediately asked the obvious. Hemingway, when he wanted,

could be quite charming. And I suppose he wanted to impress

Katrina because he immediately put on airs. "Why of course. Sixth

cousin on my mother's side." He replied. His eyes twinkled and he

quickly rattled off a few verses from 'The Old Man And The Sea."

"Oh goody," Joanne screeched.

133
 Hemingway winked at Jack to show he was only fooling. At

first I wasn't sure Jack had picked up on the wink, but knew he

had when he urged Hemingway to continue the game with a rapid

motion of his head. But right then Stan brought Katrina's drink,

interrupting Hemingway. He was very happy to see so many people

drinking and having fun and said so in broken english. Hemingway,

acting like the host, stood and draped an arm around Stan and

after asking what Stan had served Katrina, ordered the same for

himself and a mineral water for the kid.

My gambit to defuse the possible hostile situation had

worked. As soon as the drinks were served, the table took on a

festive quality. Jack urged Hemingway on, Hemingway obliged, and

enchanted Joanne by rattling off bits and pieces from the real

Hemingway. Daniel and Katrina were discussing the merits of women

versus booze; I heard Daniel say that the morning after headache

that booze gave you lasted but a few hours whereas the headache a

woman gave you could last a life time; Katrina countered by saying

that she could say the same for men. As fate would have it, I got

stuck talking to the kid. He had taken a few sips of his mineral

water for courage before asking me right off all earnest like if

he could be frank. I made the mistake of saying sure.

"You just never know with you."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Hemingway said you old timers don't cotton well to

company."
 I chafed at the way he had put, 'old timer,' but replied,

"Hemingway's funny, huh."

"Sorry. Like I said earlier this is my first time overseas. I

guess I am sort of, well..."

"Green?"

"Yes."

"Yes," I replied

"Yes," he replied, "that's why I wanted to speak to you."

A rather loud argument had begun at a table in the far corner

and I held up a pausing finger while looking at the customers

causing the commotion. They were both men, and argued loud enough

to be heard on the street.

"I'm telling you I am right," the first man said.

"And I am telling you, you are full of shit," replied the

second man.

"No, no," the first man answered, "I am telling you that the

question is not whether communism has failed, but whether the

people who administered communism failed the people."

"You know them?" the kid asked.

"I knew who they are," I answered rather off handily, "One

guy works for the French press. The other the Israeli news agency.

He also doubles as an information wire for the Massed."

"Oh?"

But he paused, as if embarrassed.

135
 "Yes?"

"I am having a problem, and I need some advice."

Giving advice is for suckers. I said as much.

"But."

I held up a pausing finger so I could listen to the argument

between the two men. The argument had grown rather heated and I

saw out of the corner of my eye that Daniel and Katrina were doing

likewise. So was Hemingway. Joanne went on saying whatever it was

she was saying to Hemingway. Jack watched Joanne.

"You are absolutely wrong," the Frenchman said, "And to prove

my point you need only to stop by the cultural museum and view the

atrocities the communists have afflicted on Hungary."

"I have seen the show," the Israeli replied, "And my question

is this: what about the atrocities the Hungarian people visited on

the Jews during World War Two?"

"What about them?" the Frenchman demanded.

"Is there really any difference?"

"Please," the Frenchman replied sarcastically, "what is your

point?"

"Please what?" the Israeli insisted, "Can't you see it is not

the system but the people who administer it?"

The Frenchman motioned angrily for Stan and I took the moment

to turn back to the kid.

"They are pretty hot," the kid offered.

"It would seem," I agreed.

 "About my problem?"

"Okay, what is your problem?"

"It's my girl."

It's always a girl, or at my age a woman. But I refrained

from saying this. I said. "Yes?"

"Well, she doesn't understand why I want to be an overseas

journalist. She say's..."

"She says," I replied, cutting him off, "a white picket fence

and a couple of kids should be enough."

The kid was surprised and showed as much. "Why yes."

I had kept a half an eye on the two men while the kid spoke.

After Stan had served their drinks the two men had resumed their

arguing. I had missed the first few words, but the Israeli stood

now with his glass in his hand and yelled something over and over.

I held up a pausing finger and the kid hushed. I was surprised

when the Israeli set his drink on the table and took out a handgun

from somewhere beneath his overcoat and pointed it at the

Frenchman.

"You see this gun?" he stated.

The Frenchman's eyes bugged out in pure fright, showing the

obvious.

"I could shoot you dead right now."

"Yes," the Frenchman answered in a dry scratchy voice.

137
 "My point," the Israeli replied and replaced the gun from

where it had come. He finished off his drink and left the cafe.

Before the argument had began, the cafe had been buzzing pockets

of people. But as the argument increased in tempo, the buzzing had

accordingly decreased until only the combatants shouts echoed in

the room. Now everyone stared at the Frenchman. I had no idea what

they expected of him. I suppose some expected the masculine

thing...follow the Israeli out to the street and through

fisticuffs win back his lost honor. Others, I am sure, just wanted

him to stay put. The Frenchman did the latter and finished off his

drink, stood and nodded apologetically at all in the cafe for

interrupting their evening. He gracefully left. Embarrassed, many

people in the cafe turned away. The gesture took a great deal of

dignity and I secretly applauded him. When I turned to the kid,

his face was bone white.

"We all just sat here," he stated.

"About your girl?"

But his girl was forgotten. "The Israeli could of shot him,"

he said, his voice very high, "We should of done something."

Up until then, Katrina hadn't really noticed the kid. But she

did now and asked me to switch places. I obliged. She laid a

calming hand on the kid's shoulder while leaning forward. She

whispered something in his ear. He shook his head violently. She

said something else. Again he shook his head violently. She

whispered something else and they both stood.

 "We're going outside for some air," she announced.

It seemed like the scene had sobered Joanne because when she

spoke it was in a clear tone. "He wouldn't of really shot the man.

Would he?"

"No," Daniel replied.

"So much anger," Jack said.

"Politics brings out the worst in people," Hemingway replied.

"Yes but still..." Jack answered. His face took on his

thoughts and he waved helplessly at Stan who was standing close.

"I need a drink."

The scene stole the festiveness from the evening, and after

an hour of struggling to reclaim the easy banter of before we

surrendered and headed for the apartment. Before leaving Jack and

Joanne respectfully retired to the bathroom. We loitered outside

while waiting for them. After the smoked filled air of the Cafe,

the evening air was refreshing. Katrina and the kid were nowhere

to be seen. Knowing Katrina as we did, we withheld comment.

Instead we passed small talk about how wonderful Budapest looked

and how happy the people seemed. A few seconds later, I discovered

through Hemingway that he and the kid had been invited to attend

the day trip in the morning. It seemed like Sam's gopher had

invited them. Hemingway had engineered it, I was sure. The gopher

probably had the National Enquirer sent to him. He looked like the

kind.

139
 Displeasure crossed my face, and if Hemingway noticed he was

wise enough to restrain himself.

 Chapter Thirty.

I fully expected to awake feeling like shit. The massive

quantity of whiskey I had consumed after years of abstinence was

reason enough. But also because Daniel and I had stayed up going

over the interview with Mr. Information until almost dawn and I

had only managed a few hours sleep. We had spent a great deal of

this time arguing about how to rewrite the interview so it wasn't

just a clone of what I had written. He had always been a stubborn

cuss, and hadn't changed a bit. But I too was a stubborn cuss. So

in a quiet way as to avoid waking Jack and Joanne we shouted and

yelled and softly banged on the kitchen table and in the end

arrived at a version that suited both of us. Since the arguing was

of the productive kind, as opposed to the destructive kind, I felt

a sense of satisfaction. Daniel felt likewise and said so.

So when I awoke feeling the opposite of shitty, I lay in the

bed wondering why. I lay there for so long wondering why that I

began to wonder why I was questioning why. Would a hangover so bad

that I had to carry my head in a cushioned suitcase make me feel

good, even though I felt bad. What was I crazy?

141
 Jesus, I muttered out loud, I had a busy day ahead and didn't

need this self-analyzing crap.

I slid off the bed and went to the window. Another wonderful

day greeted me. The sky was clean, and the sun blazed high

overhead. But she wasn't there. I was a little saddened by this. I

was hoping to continue our conversation.

I found Daniel in the kitchen, his head cradled in his arms.

Jack and Joanne weren't there and I figured they had gone sight

seeing.

"Morning," he mumbled.

Ah, I thought, here sits a man carrying his head in his arms

and only a few seconds ago I wanted to be like that. Well, better

him than me.

"You look like shit," I observed a bit too cheery.

"Scotch," he grumbled, "I hate the stuff."

I knew and went to shower. An hour later we left the

apartment. Before doing so, I checked the balcony. She was half

way into a knee bend. She smiled at me. I smiled back. She

finished her knee bend. There was a God and it was going to be a

good day.
 Chapter Thirty One.

During the night the streets had been hosed down and it was

still early enough and they smelled clean. This despite the fact

that there were already hundreds of pedestrians out pounding the

pavement. As Daniel and I headed for the embassy we passed small

talk about what to expect during the ride out to the country. A

few blocks from the embassy, we were going past a run down house

and noticed an elderly woman peering at us from the window. The

white paint was weather beaten and huge strips of it peeled away

from the facade. The elderly woman peered very cautiously and

fearfully at us from between dirty gray curtains. For all of a

second her countenance rested on us eyeing her. Perhaps she saw

the knock at the door, the secret police, the pleas of innocence

of her neighbors, the pleas ignored. Perhaps I imagined too much.

I do know I saw too many years of fear in her eyes, and I had

lived too many years in New York City to mistake fear for the ice

cream man come a jingling. And in that long second I felt like I

had violated her space. A fast look at Daniel told me he felt the

same sense of violation and we bowed our heads and hurried along.

143
 As we were about to enter the embassy, Daniel commented,

"Capitalism has arrived too late for the old woman and her ilk.

She has witnessed far too much."

I agreed.
 Chapter Thirty Two.

The bus port along with the embassy helicopter pad were

located in a fenced in area in the rear of the Embassy. For a

moment I thought I was in South America because loudspeakers piped

out Andes flute music. At least thirty journalists loitered in the

courtyard in groups of two, threes and fours. Katrina waived from

the far corner of the compound where she stood along with the kid

and the Frenchman who had gotten into the argument the night

before at the New York Cafe. Daniel joined her while I stopped at

a makeshift desk and signed us in. The moment I lay the pen aside,

Sam walked up to me.

"The music your idea?"

"Sure. Reminds me of home," He answered. "This shindig is

shaping up to be a fine time, huh."

"Lots of people," I commented.

"Yeah," he said, "The gopher racked up brownie points."

"Figured."

"We leave in ten minutes."

"We?"

145
 "You bet," he replied, "I ain't gonna let you boys have all

the fun."

"I thought you were deficient in the area of liaison to the

press?"

"I am," he replied. He took a few back backward steps. "But

my Uncle taught me how to spot a bull in a China shop."

Although his intent wasn't lost on me, the comment was just

too old time country boy to pass up. But before I could quarry

him, Hemingway walked over. They hadn't met yet and I introduced

them. Sam's eye's became mischievous. "Gad," he said, "Your name

calls out for a hundred and one jokes."

I forced back a smile.

"I know," Hemingway replied without malice, "And I've heard

them all." He winked. "But go ahead and give it a try."

"Bet on it," Sam replied, "You know us Texans. We love a

challenge. But it will have to wait for later. I've a few last

minute details to clear up."

He went into the Embassy.

"Guy's okay," Hemingway observed.

"Yeah," I replied, and turned to leave.

"I was out of line yesterday."

I faced him. "Forget about it," I said.

"Yeah, well."

"Why do you want to go on this outing? One legged cows you

can find back in the states."

 "I'm not going. I have an interview set up. I just stopped by

to apologize," He said. "But I see that's a waste of time. But I

am curious. Why you going? A big shot senior editor like you

should be at the Parliament interviewing the President."

Arguing with him was pointless. So I did an about face and

walked away. I was still upset with myself as I joined Daniel. I

had let Hemingway get the better of me. He was a stupid man. To

let him get my goat meant I was also stupid. I knew this was

stupid logic, but it made sense at the time.

"Hemingway bugging you?" Daniel asked.

"No. I am bugging myself."

He let it pass and introduced the Frenchman. He was Jean.

Worked for the French News service. I had met him briefly about

ten years ago and mentioned this. He remembered. It was at

DaGaulle's funeral.

"Yes, I replied, "A sad day for France."

He had the fatalistic features the French so often have; a

small dark face with brown fortune tellers eye's and melancholy

lips, and he used all of this to his advantage when he nodded.

"It's time to board the bus," Sam loudly announced.

As if Sam had shouted last call for a drink, the announcement

caused a bit of a commotion and everybody stared anxiously at him,

but only for a second, then everybody returned to gabbing. Sam

lazily went back inside the embassy. I had looked away at Sam

147
possibly a second longer then everybody else which was a mistake

because by the time I turned back to Katrina, Daniel and Jean,

they were locked in conversation. And I found myself once again

stuck with the kid.

We stood for a few moments without speaking. He seemed a bit

nervous by this. I wasn't ignoring him. I was at a loss as to what

to say to him. I experienced the same difficulty at work in New

York. The rookies, most who were in their early twenties, baffled

me. Their clothes. Their manner of speech. Their choice in music.

Only at work I had to, as their generation put it, interact with

them because I was their boss.

As the minutes wore on he became increasingly more nervous,

as was evident by his frequent glances at the bus. He was way out

of his league here, I thought. Hell, just running off with Katrina

the previous night was a mistake for one so young and naive. So I

began to feel sorry for him. And I hate feeling sorry for anybody.

But only because if I am to feel sorry for anybody, I'd rather

feel sorry for myself. I rarely do. But if I have to conjure up

such emotion, and the queasy stomach that follows, I'd rather do

so for myself.

"Settle down kid," I said at last, "The bus won't leave

without us."

He lifted one hand above his head in the awkward motion one

does when unsure or embarrassed. "I know. But I got the jitters

just the same. First time. You know."

 I knew. "Why you going? I mean you should be at the E.E.F.C.

who whatever it's called."

"Yes," he replied, "I should. It's my duty. It's why I am

here. I suppose I am letting my professor down."

He was so earnest, much like a hoosier singing the national

anthem, and I had to force back a smile.

"But this is a chance of a lifetime. I was thrilled when

Hemingway offered me a seat on the bus. Besides the E.E.F.C.

conference will be in session for eight days. I'll have plenty of

time. I know you and Hemingway don't get along. But he did get me

this assignment and I do owe him. What I mean is I would like us

all to be friends.'

He had talked very fast, much like a man trying to sell

himself on an idea. He stopped all at once and smiled sheepishly.

"Katrina says you're not as gruff as you act."

As much as I hated to admit it, the kid had grit. And I had

to grudgingly appreciate his loyalty, however misplaced, toward

Hemingway.

"Let's board the bus."

He dutifully followed along beside me as I walked toward the

bus. Still he was apprehensive about the others following us,

Katrina more then anybody else I suppose...puppy love and all

such, and did look over his shoulder. Much to his surprise and

149
delight, as he smiled happily, Katrina and the others trailed

behind us.

"Number one rule," I said, "The pack always follows a senior

editor."

"I'll remember," he replied.

I believed he would.
 Chapter Thirty Three.

The gopher decided to play hall monitor and when the bus was

fully loaded positioned himself in the aisle facing the

passengers. He wore a stern face and his intent was obvious. And

he looked about as threatening as a sparrow and I almost laughed

out loud. Sam, who because of his height was crammed packed in the

seat across from me, must of seen this because he looked up over a

note pad he was writing in and leaned over and whispered, "I think

the turkey has heard too many stories about journalists going hog

wild on road trips."

I nodded agreement.

But the gopher worried prematurely. As road trips went, this

one started out peacefully enough. Except for a few whispers, the

bus was stone quiet. I had attended my share of press road trips

and knew this was because people were jotting down questions to be

asked. Daniel, who sat on my left, was doing as much for the both

of us. I would of course scan his list later and add a question or

two. Once I was satisfied, we would tear the list down the middle

and separately present the questions.

151
 Since I had nothing to do, as the bus pulled out of the

compound I lit up a cigarette and settled into the seat and stared

out the window. The road out of Budapest began like any major

highway leading out of a large city in America. Frame houses of

five and six rooms with lawns trimmed to within an inch of the

topsoil lined both sides of the highway. But unlike America where

suburbs sometimes stretched on for hours of miles, once the bus

left Budapest proper, the landscape swiftly changed; the pavement

vanished, replaced by a dirt road that twisted through fields of

lush farmland. The driver wrestled the wheel, fighting the loops

and turns. But the road was rough, and the bus frequently bounced,

jarring the kidneys, and the tires kicked up a cloud of dust that

soon engulfed the bus; obscuring the scenery outside the windows.

Because the bus lacked air conditioning, most of the windows were

open and in no time at all dust filled the interior. A chorus of

choking and gagging began; some exaggerated, some not. The choking

was making quite a racket and the gopher rather loudly, as if a

school teacher addressing a group of unruly kids, cleared his

throat. To this someone in the rear mumbled a bit too loud, "Lousy

cheap ass commie government bus."

I was amazed when the gopher stood and demanded to know who

had spoken, but only because I didn't believe he had it in him.

Journalist are a lot like children, and in the grandest

tradition of the classroom, his demand was greeted by snickers,

including myself Daniel and Sam. Only the kid and Katrina, who sat
directly behind me, didn't snicker. That was because the kid was

coughing hard from all the dust and cigarette smoke in the bus and

looked to be in the throes of a spastic attack, and Katrina was

patting him consolingly on the back. Fortunately there was a

Hungarian translator aboard who had a sense of humor and he stood

and promptly corrected this remark by saying in broken english,

"This not lousy cheap ass commie government bus. It lousy cheap

ass ex-commie government bus."

He had occupied the seat behind the driver and with a

straight face sat back down and continued talking to the driver.

I think up until then most people had kept busy with their

notes. The translator's comment elicited a round of laughter and

the grumbling ceased. A few miles later for the first time people

started moving around the bus. Some of us had worked together

before and knew each other in that vague sense that co-workers in

the same office know each other but really know nothing about each

other; and soon some good natured ribbing took place. A never say

die hippie who was a well known journalist who wrote leftist

propaganda and right now worked for the Village Voice shouted out

that he was nicknaming the bus, 'the magic bus,' and the

translator, 'The Wizard.' A few loud moans from people who had

heard this hippie shit once too often over the years followed this

remark. Minutes later several bottles were passed across the

153
aisle. Soon the din of conversation was almost overpowering in the

tight confines of the bus.

All in all this transformation from the peace and quiet to a

fraternity party atmosphere occurred in a very short time and the

gopher stood ramrod straight while hanging onto a overhead

passenger strap. He looked very pained at the change in events.

Sam lay aside his notes and passed me a distasteful stare

while taking a moment to hang his legs out in the aisle; way out

in the aisle. "A pained gopher is a sad sight."

"Sure is."

"Maybe we should shoot the poor critter. You know, put him

out of his misery. Or offer him a drink. Take your pick."

"Sure."

"Offer him a drink."

"You brought a bottle?"

"No you did," Daniel replied before Sam could.

I gave him an apologetic shrug.

"Think again," he replied, "I stowed it in your bag before

you awoke."

My look was now incredulous.

"Hey," he said, "Remember that time in Saudi. They searched

our bags. I got tossed out of the country. Damn Muslim purity. How

was I too know they wouldn't do the same here."

"You're one dependable fellow," Sam commented, "Which is why

I neglected to bring a bottle."

 I had brought a carry on bag and upon opening it quickly saw

the Wild Turkey nestled there. I wanted to be angry. But it was so

like Daniel, all I could do was laugh.

"Where is the ice?"

"There wasn't room in your bag for ice."

"Hell, I got ice," Sam replied and pulled a gallon sized ice

chest from under his seat.

That there was a conspiracy underfoot became evident when

Katrina readily produced a stack of plastic glasses of the kind

found at picnics. I gave them a, huh huh, look just so they knew I

knew. They laughed at the look. After a few seconds the laughter

ran its course and we filled the glasses with ice and Wild Turkey.

Except for the kid, that is. We offered, but he had gotten over

his coughing spell long enough to squeak out a polite thank you,

no. Katrina gave him a brave knowing understanding peck on the

cheek and he blushed red all over.

"Bully, for you," Sam said.

We all touched glasses to a successful trip. A few minutes

later Katrina and Daniel left to explore the bus.

"Hear you interviewed Tudakoz'?" Sam asked.

"You mean Mr. Information?"

"Exactly."

"Sly old fox, him. He managed to charm more information out

of me then I weaseled out of him."

155
 Sam found this amusing because a smile traced across his

lips. "Undoubtedly he poured you some 'Bulls Blood.' Nasty stuff."

I couldn't argue the point.

"Mr. Information is the smartest politician I ever met," I

said, "So tell me great one from the land of the Lone Star. Who is

Mr. Information?"

By pulling his legs a little closer I knew he was stealing a

moment to answer. I didn't attach any undo significance to this.

Except to note he was a thorough man.

"A poet. At least he was before the revolution. I presume he

told you he was a country boy. More at home with simple folk then

high minded thieves."

"Close to it," I replied.

"It's true. His parents were of the Magyar Plains people.

Strong and sturdy. People of the earth. No nonsense. You'll meet

their ilk today I imagine. They owned a small farm. The farm had

been in he family for generations. They strongly resisted when the

communists came into power and nationalized all private land. The

communists weren't too pleased about this and to set an example,

the communists executed them in front of the entire town;

crucified them...literally. Up until then, a few others had also

resisted. As you can imagine, the people in the town quickly fell

into line; watching your neighbors nailed to a cross has such an

effect on people. At the time Mr. Information was fifteen years

old. And like most fifteen year old kids, he had a defiant streak
in him, although in his case it was obviously inherited, and wrote

poetry against the communists and their atrocities. So they tossed

his ass into what is double speak for booby hatch; a reeducation

camp. Two years later when he was released, he again wrote poetry.

So they again tossed him back in the booby hatch. Over the years

the booby hatch became a revolving door. The communists opened the

door and he wrote poetry against them, and back in he went. He was

out long enough to be one of the key players in the fifty-six

uprising. So when the government collapsed, he was the first

person called upon to set up a new government. He was very very

reluctant to get involved. So as an incentive they offered him the

post of interim president."

"Let me guess," I replied, "He declined the position."

"Right. Blame him?"

"No. It's a no win job."

"Right. What the eggheads at the state department call the

Humpty Dumpty scenario. To many broken pieces. But I believe his

reasons were other."

"The Hatfield and McCoy syndrome," I commented.

"That's my guess," Sam Replied, "He doesn't have a whole lot

of respect for either side. Seeing as what happened to his

parents, I can't say as I blame him. "

"True," I replied, "So he accepted the post as Minister Of

Information. Smart move."

157
 "Right. The man who controls the flow of information controls

the mind of the public."

I agreed. "You know a lot about him."

"There are some people you make it your business to know.

Especially if you work for Uncle."

"True," I answered, and glanced sideways at him, "But not

when your job title is liaison to the press."

There was a slight change in his demeanor. A second ago he

wore the good old boy hat. But now lines furled over his eyebrows.

He had used the term Uncle once to often and I had trapped

him...unintentionally of course. The conversation was just what it

appeared. Two men passing down time. But he had made a mistake and

I had subconsciously closed in. He wasn't any more liaison for

the press then the bus driver was. He worked for the C.I. A. The

trick now was how to play it out. Make a big to do or pass it off.

He chose the latter. He lazily stood and stretched the kinks out

of his bones for a few seconds. At last he smiled down at me. "I

moonlight."

It was now my turn to play it off or, in Texan slang, ride it

into the ground. The problem was, I really didn't care. The fact

that the C.I.A. had their fingers into Hungarian politics wasn't

news to anyone in the fourth estate or for that matter the

Hungarian government. On the other hand he couldn't be sure of

this. So the question facing me was did I want to make him squirm.

NO. There was no payoff in this. If it was the gopher, yes, just
for fun. Besides, Sam was okay and I never knew when I might need

a favor.

"Always good to have a second job," I said and raised my

glass in salute.

He raised his glass and matched the salute. As he lowered his

cup he spun and meandered his way to the rear of the bus. But not

before winking at the kid. The act and the reason for doing so

wasn't lost on me. The kid had listened avidly to our

conversation; and the twists and turns had to be difficult for him

to follow. So the kid undoubtedly had questions, and Sam's wink

had added fuel to his curiosity. As I was the answer man, I was

once again stuck with him.

"Thank's Sam," I yelled out.

"My pleasure," Sam sang out.

Immediately the kid's expectant face shined on me. A hundred

and one questions lay there. I bemoaned the obvious of 'why me.' I

wasn't a god damn baby sitter. But and as much as I wanted to

follow Sam to the rear of the bus, I couldn't. Too rude. Besides I

had taken a liking to the kid. So as the kid stared at me I sat

there faced with the dilemma of what to say. He was too young to

outright admit that Sam worked for the C.I.A. He would, without

pausing to think, undoubtedly see all kinds of bogeymen in such a

statement. So I decided to change the subject. This is always the

159
best way to avoid discussing a matter best left alone for all

concerned.

"About your girl?"

By the way he blinked his eyes in confusion, I might as well

have said, "Look! cows!"

"Remember," I said, snapping my fingers before his eyes,

"Last night at the Cafe. Before Frenchie almost got shot. You were

about to ask me for advice."

For a second he was still confused, but the snapping of my

fingers woke him up.

"Yes. Sorry. I was thinking about something else."

I was sure. I waited patiently for him to continue, for his

mind to shift gears. And it took him a few seconds. I took a few

sips from my drink during this time, wondering if he was going to

attempt a reversal and try to force the conversation his way.

There are people who do this. Some young and naive, and they do so

because they are usually eager to learn, and these can be forgiven

once or twice. And then there are others who are just plain

stupid, and do so because they want to impress, and people such as

these are too be avoided. He turned out to be neither. Whether it

was because he knew better, or because Katrina had made the

problem with his girl more acute I couldn't ascertain. Whatever

the reason, I liked him all the more for it.

"I've had a fantasy for years to meet a worldly woman and

have a mad passionate romance with her. I met her last night. It's
Katrina. Now I don't know what to do. I love my girl back in

Indiana. Her name is Marcia. And I intend on marrying her as soon

as I finish school. She's wonderful. But I can't tell her about

Katrina. To do so would break her heart. I am all mixed up and

don't know what to do?"

After he told me this, I sat staring out the window. He must

of figured out what I was thinking because he guiltily blushed and

defended, "I know how it sounds. But it's not like so. My girl

will never know. I do love her. I..."

I had heard to many self effacing excuses in my time and

tuned the rest of what the kid was saying out. The kid was a fool,

I decided. And I should send him packing back to his girl. I would

have but who was I to lecture him about subscribing to below the

waist dream lust.

But I was angry, very much so, and fortunately Katrina

returned before I changed my mind and made a fool out of myself by

grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and kicking him ass forward

off the bus. Katrina started to say something to me but I didn't

trust what I might say and stood and brushed by her and went to

the rear of the bus. I wasn't sure who I was angriest at; Katrina,

the kid, or myself. Katrina was Katrina. She had always played the

field and did so better then most men. Sometimes she got hurt and

sometimes she did the hurting. But those were men. This was a boy

who was still wet behind the ears. She should know better. The kid

161
was another matter. He was just a fool letting his little head

drive his big head. And I was mad at myself because I had let the

kid draw me in. I supposed it was because he reminded me of myself

when I was young. But all the supposing in the world couldn't

change the way I felt.

 Chapter Thirty Four.

As evidenced by the group of men kneeling in a circle, I knew

right away there was a dice game going on in the rear of the bus.

I knew it was a dice game because I had learned long ago that men

only knelt for four things; while praying, while being delivered

the coup de grace, while with a woman and while shooting dice.

I was still very angry and easily pushed through the circle

to find Daniel and Sam kneeling side by side. They both were busy

motioning excitedly to a stringer for C.N.N. and failed to notice

me. The stringer passed me a 'wish him luck' glance before

trapping his tongue between his teeth and rolling the dice. The

dice came up snake eyes, and he moaned out load. A stack of one

dollar bills exchanged hands. Another pass and another moan and

another stack of bills exchanged hands. On the third roll the

stinger hit a five and a duce and a stack of dollar bills

exchanged hands in the opposite direction. That was when Daniel

noticed me. I guess he noticed the frown on my face because he

said, "The kid got to you huh?"

Before I could answer, he offered me the dice. Stooping, I

accepted them. I hadn't played dice in the rear of a bus for

163
years, or a bathroom stall or anyplace for that matter, and at

first the plastic cubes felt unfamiliar in my palm. But such games

help pass the time and I had played often during my younger days

as a journalist and within a few seconds the dice had a

comfortable feel to them. The first throw stole away the anger. My

point was six. The second throw calmed me. A four and a two. As

money exchanged hands I squeezed the dice tight, and the action

helped facilitate a decision to talk with Katrina. Doing so, to

stick my fat nose where it wasn't asked for was a suckers game, I

knew. But she'd see reason, I reassured myself. After that I

wanted no more to do with the kid. I would not be a party to

ruining two lives.

 Chapter Thirty Five.

About fifteen minutes before the bus arrived at our

destination, the dice game and whatever other festivities had

ensued broke up and everybody returned to their seats and began

pouring over notes. I hadn't had an opportunity to talk to Katrina

as she had stayed with the kid and failed to do so now because she

was going over his notes and giving him advice on what to ask at

the press conference. The kid diligently applied himself to the

lesson as was evidenced by the hard slant of his eyes. So I took a

few minuets to scan the question list Daniel had prepared.

Although the list seemed complete enough, I penciled in a few

questions of my own, handed him the pencil, removed my reading

glasses, and announced the list word perfect.

After reading what I had written, he lazily placed the pencil

behind his left ear and scratched. "It was perfect before. Now

it's flawed."

These were fighting words and I was about ready to defend my

meager few questions via a vile denouncement of his questions;

which is the sure and tried method of winning such a discussion:

make the other person defend. But by than we were already at our

165
destination, so I chalked his statement up to the twenty dollars I

had taken off him at dice and glanced out the window instead. The

town was of good size because it took us ten minutes of driving

past houses before coming to a stop outside a white church.

Outside the church a group of men awaited us. They were all

dressed in their Sunday best, and didn't look at all like farmers

to me; more like a welcoming committee made up of the Mayor and

the town elders.

"Ah paradise," Daniel remarked.

The aisle soon crowded with people anxious to depart the bus.

"About those questions." I stated.

"Just teasing. Although one did seem. Well. Listen. 'So how

do you feel about capitalism compared to communism?'"

"That's a valid question," I defended.

"Weak. Weak."

"How so?"

"It's a breakfast question. Now were you to say, 'how do you

feel about the changes going on in your country.' Ah dinner,

dinner."

"On the surface they appear to be the same question. But not

so," I pointed out, "Your question facilitates a literal reply;

mine a theoretical reply."

For all of a half second, he considered this. "You got me,"

he conceded
 "Fret not son," I said, "Just stick with a senior editor and

someday..."

"Watch it!" he warned.

"Watch what?," Katrina asked.

She was standing, as were Sam and the kid.

Daniel replied, "I better not say."

"Better not say what?" Sam asked.

Sam had winked at me and I realized he had overheard the

conversation between Daniel and myself, and was setting up Katrina

for some kind of adlib joke. I decided to play along, and said, "I

better not say."

Although the kid was confused, in his wonderful confusion he

played the innocent come a calling. "Are you keeping something

from me?"

It was obvious Sam had first intended on setting Katrina up,

but when the kid had spoken, a quick shift in victims occurred and

he did a slow crawl of his eyeballs for effect and placed them

directly on the kid. "Nothing."

"Absolutely," I said.

"Definitely," Daniel replied.

I sadly shook my head. "Shit, somebody should inform him."

The kid was now primed for all the horrors he had seen under

his bed as a child.

"Tell me," he all but cried out.

167
 For an improvisational joke of this nature to work requires a

good long pause for effect. Sam did just so then said, "We're all

dead, kid. I just told them. The town out there. Its contaminated.

Chernobyl. The towns a toxic dump for Chernobyl. It's in the dust.

The air. Sorry. I didn't realize the error until I saw the name of

the town. Who ever planned the trip screwed up. Some bureaucrat

drone, I imagine. Undoubtedly a republican. Probably a non smoker

to boot. Can't even disclose the news to the public. Too risky.

Cause panic. The Hungarian government is working on it of course.

They will evacuate the town soon. Once the town is evacuated, I

imagine they will burn it down to the ground. For now...well. I

feel bad for you kid. Daniel's old, or at least middle

aged...which is damn near the same. I, well I'm from Texas and

like all Texans carry a shit load of guilt ever since Kennedy was

assassinated and as such have nothing to live for anyway. Katrina,

well she has herpes. She didn't tell you. Sorry to be the bearer

of bad tidings and all such, but she's a woman and getting up

there in years and well. And him, well, he's a senior editor and

has gone as far as he's going up life's ladder and has nothing to

live for anyway. But you, you're young. Damn shame too."

Tell me it ain't so Joe. This was in the kid's eyes, as he,

looking like doom, looked first to Katrina whom he loved and had

trusted, then Sam, then myself. As he began to lower his head to

her shoulder, I thought he was going to cry. But all at once his

head snapped up and he walked stiffly off the bus. He did so

without uttering a peep, proudly, head held in the fashion of a

man going to meet his fate."

"Kid's got grit," Sam observed.

"I hope you three are good and ashamed," Katrina retorted.

"Us," Daniel replied in mock astonishment.

But I was intrigued by his departure, and stared out the

window at him during this exchange. The others on the bus had

emptied out onto the street and had formed a crowd facing the

gopher and the translator. The gopher was addressing the crowd.

The onlookers listened nonchalantly; scribbling in their note

pads, or whispering in a colleagues ear, or staring off

uninterested at the sky. But not the kid. He believed he had come

to see the farm and in doing so had bought the farm and was damn

well going to make the best of it and listened for all he was

worth. I had to commend him for this. He wanted to be a real

journalist, whatever the hell that was, and in his last days on

this earth, he was going to act like one, or what he imagined this

to be.

But as much as I enjoyed studying him, the seriousness of his

demeanor, I reminded myself he didn't belong. He was a kid who as

a child had read too many stories about journalists; those free

wheeling men and women who traveled the world over in search of

truth, justice and undoubtedly the American way, and while reading

these stories had hatched a dream to be like them. Whatever the

169
hell like them was. But hell he didn't even know a joke when he

saw it coming.

As I turned away from the sight of him, I was more determined

then ever to speak about him to Katrina. And would of played the

fool and done so right then in front of Sam and Daniel but she had

gone to console him.

 Chapter Thirty Six.

The sun was setting and the air was sweet like the change of

fresh sheets; I guess it was the day giving way to night that made

it so. Daniel and I nursed our drinks while watching from the

kitchen window the gypsies on the street below selling curio

goods; mostly hand crafted doilies and tablecloths. We had

returned to the flat directly from the embassy where we had

dispatched our respective stories. We had been standing at the

window for about an hour, and hadn't said word in this time to

each other. No particular reason really. I suppose we were just

enjoying the end of the day together. The silence of the one on

one camaraderie that two men find in each other, but never three

or four and more. Two was the secret number. Two men going off on

a hunt. Two men sharing a bottle and telling glory day stories.

Two men knowing each other as well as they knew themselves. Two

men riding off into the sunset. All this is a male thing. It was

also a myth. Young boys had time for such camaraderie, but men had

obligations. I knew this and was thankful for the time to enjoy

something not so much lost but shuffled out of my life by the

necessity of everyday living.

I was thinking about such things when I first noticed a

distinctive odor in the air; pungent, yes, but also bitter like

171
gone to rotten cabbage. Although faint, it was there. And it

hadn't been there before. I thought, gunfire. A second passed and

I quickly corrected myself, and thought, gunpowder.

Daniel and I turned simultaneously to each other. We both had

covered our share of war and know the smell all too well for what

it was. So without speaking we crossed out of the kitchen and went

to the living room where a nine inch black and white television

rested on an end table. I searched channels until I found the Sky

News. Sky news originated out of London and through a world wide

satellite feed updated world events every ten minutes. We watched

for fifteen minutes. But there wasn't mention of an armed conflict

erupting in Hungary or anyplace else in the region. So we returned

to the window in the kitchen. We sniffed at the air like two hound

dogs sniffing up wind at an unseen raccoon.

"It's powder," I said.

"Yeah," he replied, "But faint. Far. Very far."

There were rumors of the Hungarian military destroying old

Russian munitions dumps and I ventured this opinion.

"Good as an explanation as any," he replied.

But our words rang hollow, and as proof of this we stood at

the window until the dim glow of the sun fading in the west cast

shadows over the room. I was set into my thoughts by this time and

when Daniel moved, just a slight upraising of his left arm, I

pulled back as if startled by an unseen person.

 "Likewise," he whispered. He breathed very deep and the sound

of it rippled in the room breaking the quietness there. "We better

leave."

"Right," I replied.

We had agreed to meet Sam at the New York Cafe at seven. Jack

and Joanne were out, and knowing that they would want to hear all

about the trip to the country, I left them a note on the kitchen

table explaining where we would be. Before leaving, I checked the

bedroom window for her. Her apartment was dark. I sniffed the air.

The smell of sour cabbage was still evident, but so very faint as

to be almost imperceptible. I was heartened by this and assured

myself it was alright. The nostalgia of reliving old times with

Daniel was nice; even good. And although we had covered many wars;

both large and small, I could do without another war. The death.

The insanity. Its impersonal nature.

173
 Chapter Thirty Seven.

I wore a sport coat and as soon as we hit the street realized

it was too thin to keep out the strong wind blowing off the

Danube. "It's considerably colder than last night," I ventured,

"Maybe I should go back for a jacket."

"It's fall," he commented, "And in this part of the world

winter rides a fierce snow white horse. But go ahead. I'll wait

here."

"Forget it," I replied, "It's only a few blocks."

His voice had carried a vague leftover feeling of meaning

something other then what was implied, and knowing as I did how he

loved the double entente, I wasn't sure whether he was talking

about the possibilities of war, or just the weather. I decided

against pursing the matter. Talking about the weather was idle

chatter and had never been my cup of tea. And if it was war he

was speaking of; the white Russian steed of winter sweeping its

icy grip over Hungary...as the invading Russian army had been

called by the Hungarians during the fifty-six uprising, then

talking about such matters wouldn't alter the facts. I guess he

felt the same way because he stuffed his hands in the side pockets
of his flight jacket, hunched his shoulders and began walking. I

did likewise.

In this fashion, we arrived at the New York Cafe a short time

later. I expected most of my colleagues who had attended the farm

tour to be there and wasn't disappointed. I immediately spotted

Sam sitting at a table along with Hemingway and the kid. Sam waved

a hand, beckoning us over. Although I was a bit dismayed to see

Hemingway and for that matter the kid without Katrina baby sitting

him, I acknowledged Sam with a return wave. Daniel and I edged

through the crowd shaking hands and exchanging greetings until we

reached the table. We said hello to Sam, Hemingway and the kid,

but only Sam returned the greeting. I figured Hemingway was still

angry about our little spat earlier and I thought the hell with

him. As for the kid, I ignored him entirely. A moment later Stan

came over. "Cleveland," he stated, a broad smile covering his

face.

"Yes," I replied.

"Soon I go. But before I do what I serve you. The same. My

American good, no."

Although he sounded like a school kid reciting the pledge

of allegiance, I answered in the affirmative. And Daniel said

something to him in Hungarian.

"Nem," he replied, "Speak American. I, how you say, teach me

at night from a American book many months. I too red faced to talk

175
in crowds. Know not how I how you say, sound. Sound right word. I

worry on this. But now. You Americans. You tell me. I talk good. I

go to Cleveland soon. You come see me. We get drunk and stupid,

no. Free. We all free."

"You leave soon?" I asked.

"Talk slow please. I no, how you say, follow."

I pointed at him. "You."

I waved my hand at the sky and made like a plane flying.

"You go soon."

"Ah," he answered joyfully, "Yes, soon. Two days. I got

visa." He nodded vigorously, and paused during which time his face

grew very serious. "Wait long time. Save much Forints. Forint no

good. Now communist gone. Forint still no good. I save many

Forints. Trade them on black market. Many Forint to one American

dollar." He paused as if calculating in his head. His eyes got

wide at what he was thinking. "Much much much Forint. Few American

dollars. Now I got Visa. I go."

And so he did. And If a man ever carried a wistful look, it

was him as he left to fetch our drinks. But speaking english had

been an obvious strain on him and the tiredness of it showed in

his eyes, but there was also great expectation there. And joy. And

yes hope. And I was reminded right than of something taken for

granted in America. Despite the crime and battle scarred

neighborhoods, the racial hatred between and interwoven into a

color spectrum of people, and the endless supply of crooked

politicians from the lowly elected dog catcher right up to the

last few presidents, to millions of people around the world

America remained the promise land.

"Quite a happy man," Daniel commented.

"I am glad for him."

"Yes," Daniel replied.

"Poor slob," Hemingway said.

That Hemingway's comment failed to elicit a response wasn't

unexpected. I, for one, figured Hemingway was Hemingway; an

obnoxious jerk, and wasn't about to dignify his comment with a

response.

"I said the poor slob isn't going anywhere."

"Give it a rest," Daniel replied.

"Fuck you asshole."

Daniel's eye's narrowed, then anger clouded over them. I lay

a hand on his shoulder.

"Sam," Hemingway said, "Tell these fucks."

Sam glanced at Hemingway distastefully.

"Tell us what?" I asked

"The Hungarian government has indefinitely suspended all

travel Visa's. Except, of course, for foreign nationals who want

to go home."

"Why?" Daniel asked.

177
 "A full scale revolt has broken out in Rumania against

Ceausescu."

Daniel and I passed each other a look.

"It wasn't on the Sky News," I replied.

"I know," Sam answered, "The State Department extracted a

promise from all the major news organizations to hold off

announcing the revolt until morning while they conferred with the

Russians. My information is a few hours old. But as of then, the

Russians were willing to stay on the sidelines. And unless the

Russian troops stationed in Rumania are attacked, I imagine it

will stay that way."

Hemingway scoffed. I took a moment to digest the news and

while doing so studied Hemingway and realized he was stone drunk.

I had known the man for many years and to be drunk was

uncharacteristic for him. He was the type of man who liked to

remain in control. I guess this was one of the reasons why I had

never liked his brand of obnoxiousness. He did so with intent,

unlike an obnoxious drunk who had to work his conscious through

the use of alcohol into being obnoxious. I also thought I knew why

he was drunk. He had come to Hungary hoping to get a scoop and

restore his lost pride. And I suppose there were scoops in Hungary

to be found, but they took grit and determination and skill and he

had long ago forsaken all this for the easy life. But now hundreds

of miles away in Rumania he saw the scoop he so desperately

wanted. And he wouldn't even have to work very hard at it. A war
had a way of rotating mediocre men into heros. But he was stuck in

Budapest. Poor poor Hemingway.

By the time I got around to asking a question, Stan had

returned with our drinks. Daniel had been quietly talking to Sam

and out of respect for Stan they both fell quiet. Stan practiced

his broken english as he placed our drinks on the table. As soon

as he was out of ear shot, I asked Sam how many people in the room

knew?

"I can't say," Sam answered, "Bastard weasel gopher. But as

far as I know only us at the table."

"Katrina?" Daniel asked.

"Yes. She was here a while ago but she left with the

Frenchman."

"Jean," Daniel answered.

"Right."

"She went off to fuck him," Hemingway sneered.

I had just about had enough of him and was about to say so

but the kid jumped up and shouted, "She isn't!"

Up until then the kid had remained reserved; sitting at the

table with us, but off into himself. I hadn't talked to him since

he had abruptly marched off the bus and had figured he had

remained quiet because he was angry at Daniel, Sam and myself

about the little joke played on him. I was obviously wrong.

"Kid," Sam said and stood, "Settle down now."

179
 Like I said before, Sam was a large man in every respect. The

kid, without further comment, sat and stared off into space. I

expected Hemingway to razz the kid but he stared hard at the drink

in his hand. I guess he liked the kid and felt bad. As much as I

hated to admit it, I didn't think he had it in him.

For the next half hour, Hemingway drank like a fish, the kid

brooded and Sam and I and Daniel discussed and rediscussed the

current events. Just about the time we had worn the subject to

death Katrina walked in and sat down. Jean wasn't with her and

relief spilled across the kid's face. Almost instantly hurt

replaced relief and he refused to meet her eyes. Stan came over

with his happy chatter about Cleveland and took Katrina's order.

As soon as the drink was served, we resumed discussing the current

event. Katrina joined in and soon the four of us had a raging

debate going. There was one question on all our minds from the

beginning, and finally Daniel got around to it. "Is Rumania sealed

off?"

"Sure," He answered, "Although the State Department really

can't say for sure."

"Why not?" Daniel asked.

"Because the information we have comes from the Russians and

is suspect. But they say that the Securitate, Ceausescu' security

forces, have the country sealed like, well like an iron curtain.

The State Department has monitored the Rumanian news broadcasts

and with some sureness I can say a dawn to dawn curfew is in

effect in Bucharest, and dusk to dawn for the rest of the county."

"Otopeni International Airport in Bucharest?"

"Forget it. All international flights are canceled. Ditto for

trains.

"And overland?"

"Who knows? Some borders are guarded. Other's? Overland.

Mexico. Texas. There's always a hole somewhere."

"Can you pinpoint one?"

"Officially?" Sam asked, or kidded.

"Off the record."

"Sure. Thinking about taking a ride?"

"Crossed my mind."

"Could get rough. The Securitate will kill en masse to put

down this revolt. They're vicious bastards. And if they are

slaughtering civilians en masse they won't want eyes recording the

deeds for posterity. Can't say as I blame them. Do you?"

Katrina and I had followed this exchange with interest and I

wasn't surprised when Daniel let the last remark go and nodded

thoughtfully. I knew him well enough to knew that he was going. Of

course he knew that Katrina and I would want to tag along, and

when we both said as much, he again nodded thoughtfully. But

that's where all agreement ended. For the past hour, I hadn't paid

too much attention to Hemingway, but did so when he interjected

181
that he was also going. Entering a war zone with him was not my

cup of tea. Not because I disliked him. But because he was too

inexperienced in such matters. I was about to say so and was very

much surprised when Daniel agreed to allow him to go.

I had already opened my mouth to protest when the kid cut me

off and said he was also going. This was too much for me. I wasn't

wet nursing a kid who was in heat and vigorously said as much. I

suppose I was a bit harsh in this denouement because the kid

flashed hate at me before storming out of the cafe.

"He's going," Katrina stated.

Although I heard her, for a moment I refused to believe my

ears. When I did I was beside myself and looked to Daniel and Sam

for support. They were amused by my befuddlement, and showed as

much by almost laughing; which is worse then laughing. At least

when people laugh at you you can almost laugh along. The other way

leaves you wondering if you're stupid. And I did wonder. But I

wasn't. I was right. He was just a kid. So I told Katrina what I

had planned on telling her earlier in the day but hadn't had the

opportunity to.

"Hell," she replied, "I knew about his girl back in the

States. He told me straight away. So what."

"He's just a kid."

"So?"

"So," I almost shouted, "He's a wet nosed kid who belongs

back in Indiana on some small town rag while his wife flips
pancakes for breakfast. I figured by screwing the Frenchman you

had figured this out. Jesus."

If hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, then it went

double for a real angry woman. And I figured that she was real

angry when she leaned forward and bunched up my shirt in her fist.

"Mr. Morality!" she sneered, "What a lark. Especially coming

from you."

"Yeah. That's right," I said, yanking her hand away, "How the

hell would you feel if I was corrupting an eighteen year old girl.

Huh."

"That old acorn, huh. Well preach it to some stupid feminist

who is a true believer listening to a true believer because I

wouldn't give a flying fuck," she screamed. "I'll have you know an

older cock fucked me when I was a naive eighteen, and if he hadn't

I'd be flipping pancakes in some small town right now. And I

fucking hate pancakes. And the guy was a prick. And if I ran into

him today, I'd slap him with one hand and shake his hand with the

other. So there. And the kid is going. End of conversation."

Her anger spent, she slumped back in her chair. She had

screamed so loud that number one, my ears were ringing, and number

two everyone in the Cafe was passing me strange condescending

looks. Last night the Frenchman, tonight me, I thought, how

quickly the screw turns. So I displayed a happy smiling face to

show them I wasn't affected by the humiliation bestowed upon me. I

183
sat like this, foolish, and waited a few seconds for us both to

calm down before continuing the argument. As I regrouped, I

realized my error. I had used the word 'corrupt.' This had been a

major mistake. Tact was called for here. I just had to use tact

and she would see reason. After all she was woman...somewhere.

"Okay, Katrina," I calmly said at last, "You're half right.

But he is a kid. And Rumania is at war. He could get hurt. Even

dead. Katrina, he's a kid who's in love with a worldly

sophisticated woman. He thinks this is a joy ride. Like going to

the amusement park and riding on a roller coaster. It's not. This

is life or death. Only you can convince him to stay. It's for his

own good."

"Something to think about," Sam agreed.

"Thank you, Sam," I said.

"I agree," Daniel added.

"And thank you," I said.

By the way she sighed, I was sure she was won over.

"Where do we get off telling him what to do," she replied in

a steady even tone, "Us. We of all people should know better. We

who know all too well that the first words out of a tyrants mouth

are 'for you own good.' Sure he's in love. And sure he could die.

Or worse he could wind up a cripple. Or worse yet, like us. But

this is his choice to make, not ours. I beseech you, Sam, Daniel,

don't do this."
 Her impassioned plea was too much to overcome. And she was

right. I knew this deep down inside. But still I looked into Sam

and Daniel's eyes for help. I saw defeat and said nothing further

on the matter.

For the next hour we planned the trip into Rumania. We needed

an automobile and Sam offered us a Mercedes from the Embassy car

pool. An after market tank had been installed and it held forty

five gallons of fuel. Twice the average for the model. This, he

said, should be enough to get us to Bucharest and back. Of course

it was understood, he explained, that the car would unofficially

officially be listed as stolen. Which meant that the car wouldn't

be reported to the police as stolen unless official inquires were

made. After solving transportation, the next logical step was an

Hungarian travel permit to see us to the border. After all, Sam

pointed out, although there wasn't anything to be done about

securing a Rumanian travel permit, it would be a shame to start

out and be turned back by the Hungarian security forces. I felt

that Mr. Information would issue the permit and said so. Sam

concurred and agreed to secure it and that was that. We next

discussed the length of the trip. Since we were traveling without

the official approval of the Rumanian government, the prudent

course was to cut the risk of capture by keeping the trip in and

out to under twenty-four hours. Drive into Bucharest, spend a half

a day recording events, and drive back to Budapest under the cover

185
of darkness. Katrina dissented on this. A day wasn't enough. Two

days, maybe three. During a heated exchange, Sam, Daniel and I

convinced her otherwise. Six hours in Bucharest would be

sufficient. Although by then the news agencies would undoubtedly

be feeding information about the revolt via satellite feed, we

would be back in Budapest with the only eyewitness account of the

revolt. This left the matter of who was to be in charge of the

group. Although this seemed a trivial matter on the surface, it

wasn't. As a senior editor I knew all too well that chaos leads to

chaos. Somebody had to be in charge. I didn't speak Rumanian and

said so right off. Daniel and Katrina did. Katrina bowed to Daniel

and explained why. Although she spoke Rumanian, she was a woman.

The Rumanian culture for centuries was steeped in the male as cock

of the roost. And if we encountered trouble, it was best that a

male do the speaking for the group. This was said without rancor,

just logic and Daniel agreed. The next detail concerned taking a

camera. We had already decided to go under the guise of innocent

American tourists and to carry expensive camera equipment might

betray otherwise, especially if arrested by the Securitate. So a

cheap Brownie or its ilk was decided upon. Katrina would act as

the camera man, such as it was, and carry the camera in her purse

and while playing the role of my wife snap whatever pictures

possible. She rather liked the thought of playing a scatter

brained American housewife innocently pointing her little Brownie

intrusively and not only said so but pantomimed doing so by

panning and clicking everybody in the cafe and uttering things

like, "Look dear, a statue. Look dear an old building."

Finally Sam told her to knock it off and she laughed but

stopped. There were a few minor details left and we quickly

dispensed with them. At last we agreed to leave at first light.

As far as the journey we were about to undertake was

concerned, there didn't seem to be an avenue left

undiscussed...except of course the danger involved. But to discuss

such a thing brought life to it. We all knew this. We had long

since traded in the whisky for mineral water because we wanted to

be clear headed in the morning and each of us sat there with our

own thoughts and worries while toying with our drinks. I wouldn't

presume to guess what they were thinking about, but I thought

about the war. And the thought of what we were undertaking

suddenly hit home. What if we were apprehended. What was the worst

that could happen? Death. Death wasn't a particularly exciting

prospect to me, and I quickly shut such thoughts down.

At last the cafe was closing. Stan informed us of as much in

apologetic broken english, and looked embarrassed about it. Daniel

told him it was alright. Stan still looked embarrassment. As we

stood to leave, I realized that Hemingway was at the table. He sat

with his head resting on his arms. He had not uttered a peep

during the planning of the trip and I had assumed it was because

he had fallen into a drunken stupor. I considered filling him in,

187
or at the very least informing him that we were leaving at dawn

and he had better be ready, but rejected the idea. The hell with

him. If I was lucky he'd awake in the morning and discover we had

left.

I shook him awake, and told him to go home and sleep it of.

He seemed to jump off the chair.

"I'll be at the embassy at first light," he said and stumbled

out of the cafe.

The son-of-a-bitch had lied there with his head in his arms

all along, I thought, damn bastard.

Although I was miffed, Daniel and Sam, who were engaged in

conversation, were shuffling toward the door. So I shrugged to

myself, and followed and noticed Katrina by my side.

"Most kids sleep with pricks who just want to score and move

on. You know this," she said, "The kid learns nothing but

bitterness from this experience. You know what I mean?"

I did. But I still thought she was wrong. But the argument

was over. I had lost. And there wasn't anything more to say on the

subject.
 Chapter Thirty Eight.

Once outside, we didn't stand around and indulge in idle

chatter as most people do when closing a bar. We once again agreed

to meet at the Embassy in the morning then went our separate ways.

For Daniel and I the walk back to the apartment, like the walk to

the New York Cafe was accomplished with hands stuffed in pockets

and in silence. The cold was more intense then earlier, and I

attempted to keep it at bay by jigging my steps, almost in a dance

movement. Except for an occasional person waiting for a tram or a

bus, the sidewalks held a sleepy lonely quietude; a resting time

before the thousands of feet pounded at them in the morning.

Although I was nursing my own thoughts, at one point I set them

aside and glanced at Daniel. His head was cocked off and down to

one side and he appeared to be studying the sidewalk. I was sure

he was thinking about war. So was I.

The apartment was dark, and I expected to find Jack and

Joanne asleep. But Jack sat at the kitchen table. The note I had

left rested by his left hand. He held a glass of Scotch in his

other hand. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes; and I

commented on such.

189
 "I am," he replied. He pushed the note aside. "Sorry."

"What happened?" Daniel asked.

"That damn bag," he replied, "You know how difficult it is to

retrieve a lost bag from an airline?"

We did and sympathetically said as much.

"Yeah, well," he said. There was more written on his face,

and he wanted to unload his anger and frustrations. But instead he

stood up and said, "Tell you about it in the morning."

As the hour was late, I expected Daniel to also say

goodnight. So I wasn't surprised when a second later he slid past

me to his bedroom door and reached around to the wall and flipped

on the light. The light framed him there for a moment. He looked

sad. And hesitant. I figured the former was due to the seriousness

of what we were about to undertake. The latter was because he

wanted to talk, but didn't want to say as much because the night

was short and tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

"Nightcap," I whispered.

"Sure. A quick one."

Moments later we settled on to the bed in his room. It was a

good ten minutes before either one of us said a thing. It was

Daniel who broke the silence. We had fixed a small drink and by

this time had finished it off and had set the glasses on the

floor.

"Are you ready for this?"

"No," I answered right off.

 "So why? For old times?"

"No," I lied.

He accepted my response readily and said simply, "Sorry."

"No need."

He waved a hand. "About the kid and Hemingway?"

"They shouldn't be going," I replied, "One chases one legged

cows, the other lust and dreams. Both chase illusions."

"Of course," he responded, "But Hemingway has a big mouth,

and had I not agreed he would of exercised it loud and clear by

announcing our intentions to everyone in the New York Cafe. As for

the kid, Katrina's correct, it's his choice to make, not ours."

I smirked at this, and for the briefest of a moment imagined

I was Hemingway.

"You like the kid, don't you. I do also. The kid grows on

you. He's tenacious, yes, but also gutsy."

"Can it," I replied, "And okay, I agree about Hemingway. But

the kid. Gutsy don't cut it. Not in war. Only experience does."

"I know. But it is his choice."

"Just let the fool child sink or swim, huh."

"Something like that," he answered, "By the way his name is

Peter. I think he's earned the right to be referred to by his

christian name."

There was the fear of another smirk. But I didn't want to be

like that. Not tonight. So I said goodnight and went to my room. I

191
lay in bed with my clothes on and listened to Daniel move around

in the room next door. Finally the rustling ceased and I knew he

was asleep. It was as it should be. He was a professional.

But sleep eluded me, and I lay there for a while just

thinking, thinking, thinking. When I got tired of it I stood, lit

a cigarette and went to the window. I guess because war was on my

mind, I took notice first of the smell of gunpowder in the air,

and then her. And as it was late, I was very much surprised to see

her on the balcony doing exercises. The moment she saw me, she did

something she hadn't done before...she stopped exercising and

stood full at me. She had brought a lamp out to the balcony to

work by and the dim light from it cast dark hue's and shadows

across her body. There was an animal grace about the way she stood

within the soft light; very still, almost a natural stature, yet

the muscles were sinewy and tense and ready to spring...and yes

mysterious and erotic. The image of her was hypnotic, and a

longing tugged within my loins. Seconds passed, then as naturally

as she had paused, she resumed the knee bends, and the spell was

broken.

I watched her work up a sweat while smoking the cigarette.

When the cigarette was finished I stubbed it out in the ashtray

and lay on the bed and watched her until sleep took me.
 Chapter Thirty Nine.

At some point during the night I must of shed my clothes

because a few hours later when I came fully awake I was naked. I

lit a match and shadowed my watch with it. It was four thirty. It

was funny, but the last thing I had been prepared to face was the

morning, but now that it was here; or almost, I was relieved.

Since there was much to be done, I didn't dwell on this

relief, instead I went to the window. The air was cold and washed

across my body awaking the sleeping nerves. The sky was pitch

black, and she wasn't there, but she had left the lamp on the

balcony and on. I knew she had done this for me.

I wanted to freeze the sight of the lamp in my mind, so I

backed away from the window until I was out of the bedroom door.

Only then did I turn, and when I did I crashed into Joanne. I had

to grab onto her to maintain my balance and to keep from stumbling

over and realized almost immediately that she was naked from her

head to her toe. I too was naked. She must of realized as much

because both of us sprang back at the same time.

"Jesus!" she whispered, "You startled me!"

"Me too."

193
 "I thought you were a burglar."

"Yeah."

There was a momentary awkward silence. The silence was broken

by her a moment later. "The fuse blew. I was taking a shower and

the bathroom went dark. Just like that. Jesus we are naked."

"Yeah."

"I better go put a robe on."

"Like wise. And I will change the fuse. Should be a spare in

the pantry."

"Yes."

We had stood there long enough whispering so our eyes had

became accustomed to the dark and for a second we stared at each

other.

"You have an erection," she said.

I looked down and saw she was right. I thought about

explaining about the girl on the balcony. But wasn't sure myself.

Joanne was an attractive woman with lines and curves and such. I

was a man. Such a reaction was normal.

"Just woke up," I said by way of an explanation, "You know

men."

"Yes. Well I better go put on that robe."

But she stayed.

"God this is funny."

I nodded.

"Well."
 "Well."

"Yes. Well."

And with that she was gone.

I went to the bedroom and donned a robe. Before going to the

pantry, I checked the balcony. The lamp was gone and her apartment

dark. I felt a momentary sadness at this. But also glad. She was a

good luck charm. The day was going to be okay.

195
 Chapter Forty.

Although changing the fuse only took a few minutes, by the

time I returned to the kitchen Joanne had coffee ready. She had a

robe on and was sitting at the table. I poured a cup of coffee and

joined her. Neither one of us seemed to have the courage to meet

the other's eyes.

"I didn't think anybody was awake," she explained.

"Nor me."

"Well. No harm."

"Right."

"Gad," she laughed, "Wait to I tell Jack. He will laugh like

a leaf peeper."

"Leaf peeper?"

"Yes. People who drive up to Vermont to peek at the leaves

changing colors."

"Oh."

"They laugh a lot."

"Leaves are funny, I take it?"

"No."
 "Okay," I replied, thinking I had missed something and still

do. "Jack seemed a bit stretched last night. Something about the

airline."

"Yes, he's angry because I'm upset. Poor dear. The garment

bag itself I don't care about. But all my good clothes were in

it."

"What's the mix up?"

"The airline wants us to drop off the garment bag that we

have. The problem is is that the person who has my garment bag has

yet to return it to the airline office. So if we return this bag

that we have then we have nothing. Jack tried to explain this to

the clerk at the airline, but they failed to appreciate the logic

and insist we return the bag. So Jack has decided to do some

sleuthing of his own. The baggage tag on the garment bag has a

name and phone number on it. Someplace in the midwest. Jack's

going to call the number today and hope somebody is there who can

tell him where in Budapest the person who owns the bag is staying.

Personally I believe it's hopeless. But the poor dear is trying so

hard. Besides, what can it hurt."

Seemed worth a shot to me and I said so as Daniel came into

the kitchen. As he poured himself a cup of coffee, he asked what

was worth a shot. Joanne explained and from there we all made

small talk for a while until Joanne asked about our day. Telling

her about going to Rumania was out. So not wanting to lie, I

197
excused myself and went to shower. Daniel could handle lying, I

was sure.

While showering I thought about Jack. Jesus I felt guilty.

But there wasn't anything to be done about the erection. I could

only hope that as Joanne said, Jack would laugh it off. There

really wasn't a reason in the world as to why he should. He didn't

know me from Adam. I had saw his wife naked, and had gotten horny.

We would be gone before he awoke, and I decided to talk to him the

moment I returned from Rumania. I was confident he's understand.

Still I chuckled. Joanne was right. It was funny.

 Chapter Forty One.

By the time we left the apartment the gray dawn peeking over

the horizon gave us a hint of what to expect weather wise. The

late indian summer we had enjoyed over the past several days was

replaced by a vary black sky, indicating a heavy rain was in the

cards. During the walk to the Embassy, Daniel and I saw the

thunderclouds as a good omen. Rain would keep road traffic,

military and otherwise at a minimum.

That there was anger and hurt feelings about the previous

night; the argument over Peter and what not, was evident as soon

as we all gathered at the Embassy compound. Daniel and I had

arrived at the Embassy well ahead of the others and were leaning

on the car studying a map of the region with Sam when Hemingway

walked up. There were dark hollow circles under his eyes,

indicating he hadn't slept very well. We each greeted him, but he

ignored us and took one look at the map spread out on the hood of

the Mercedes and stalked away in a childish pout. I was rankled by

this. He was probably angry because we hadn't waited for him to

arrive before discussing what route to take and blamed me for this

slight. I had never felt charitable toward the man on the best of

199
days and right then didn't feel charitable toward him at all and

thought, screw him.

Almost at the moment we had returned to studying the map,

Katrina followed by the kid entered the compound. She greeted Sam

and Daniel by name but just nodded curtly at me. The slight was

obvious, and even the kid was embarrassed and shuffled in place

while nodding a greeting at us. Daniel and Sam glanced at me out

of the corners of their eyes, and what they were thinking was

obvious; but they held their peace. I was glad of this because

although they meant well, the wrong word very well might of

erupted into a full scale argument.

"There's coffee inside," Sam said.

Katrina nodded, and the kid dutifully followed after her.

"You better work this out," Daniel said.

"Wait a second," I replied.

"No. No. This isn't up for discussion. We're entering a war

zone, not a theme park. Work it out before we leave."

I started to reply, but he was already studying the map. Sam

pointed at the map and said something so I was forced to pay

attention. But even though I returned to studying the map, I was

angry. But Daniel was right, of course. The rift between Katrina

and myself was troublesome. We were old friends, and in time we

would both get over our anger. But time wasn't on our side. Too

remain angry at each other while going off together into a war

zone was stupid. Just stupid. The same held for Hemingway. So
despite my anger, I decided to have a talk with both of them

before we left. There were a few minor details to tend to and

during the next hour we each attended to them. Several times I

approached Katrina, but each time she huffily moved away from me.

I also approached Hemingway. He was sitting off by himself jotting

down notes and refused to acknowledge me. In short, he ignored me.

And I was pissed enough to storm off. The kid, well I wasn't about

to apologize to him.

Because of my inability to connect with either Katrina or

Hemingway, I was in a foul mood by the time we were almost ready

to leave for Bucharest. But I wasn't the only one. There was a

nervous tension evident in the air. Even Daniel had grown testy.

Twice he snapped at me in response to an innocent question. Such

behavior was unlike him and I was taken aback. But I didn't take

it personally. I knew it wasn't only the rift between Hemingway,

Katrina and myself. It was the trip. We all were rightfully

nervous about entering a war zone.

A comedy of errors solved the problem for all of us. I had

decided to confront Katrina even if it meant forcefully holding

her down. I didn't particularly relish this and took a moment to

look at the sky for courage. As I did so it started to pour. The

ground in the compound was more dust then clay and within minutes,

the earth turned sodden and muddy. Sam had been thoughtful enough

to raid the Embassy canteen and had filled several large paper

201
bags with bottled water, chips, and cigarettes. He had set the

bags on the ground while a maintenance man filled the Mercedes

with fuel. As everybody else was busy checking their personal

belongings, Sam and I and the kid made a mad dash for the bags.

The kid slipped and skidded into the man pumping gas, knocking the

hose from his hands. Like a very angry snake, the hose uncoiled

wildly in the air while spewing out petrol. Just about the time

Sam and I reached the bags, the kid regained control of the hose

and red faced handed it to the maintenance man who himself was

passing defensive looks saying see it wasn't his fault. This kid.

This kid.

By this time the kid was drenched, and his hair, previously

looking like a hair stylist had groomed it, now lay flat on his

head, little beads of water dripping in his eyes. He looked like a

lost puppy, and I wanted to joke with him but wasn't sure how he

would take it. And I would of joked with him had he been Daniel,

or Sam or Katrina, or even Hemingway. So I felt sorry for him

instead. It wasn't his fault. It was just an accident. He started

to shuffle away. As I watched him, I knew I was wrong. Like it or

not, he was one of us. And I couldn't treat him any different.

"Hey mangy dog," I razzed, "Get over her and help carry these

bags.

He came running over, a lopsided smile on his face. As he

hefted a bag, the gopher, who when it had begun to rain had ran

back into the Embassy, returned carrying an umbrella. He marched

over to Sam, who was setting a bag in the Mercedes's trunk, and

started to chastise him. The gopher was talking so fast that he

tripped over his tongue mangling his words and it took a moment

before I understood what he was saying. He was furious about the

Mercedes. The car was new. Sam just couldn't loan this car out to

non Embassy personal. There were other cars. This little speech

seemed awfully long, especially considering it was raining. At

last he demanded that Sam heed him or else he would take the

problem to the Ambassador.

"You're right," Sam calmly replied.

"I am," the gopher replied, surprised.

"Sure are partner."

So right there with the rain pouring down, and the ground as

muddy as the earth outside of hell's gate, Sam, who was wearing

snake skin cowboy boots, proceeded to walk around the Mercedes,

pause and kick at a fender or a door. There would be a loud bang,

and instantly where the metal was once smooth, now lay a large

dent like crevice. He did this numerous times before coming to a

halt in front of the gopher. The gopher was so dumbstruck at what

had happened, that he looked about to cry, yet at the same time

ready to explode.

"It ain't so new anymore!" Sam retorted, "Now get the hell

out of here!"

203
 Before the gopher could retreat, Daniel came over and circled

the car, inspecting each ding and dent. The act seemed rather

strange and we all held our ground while watching him.

"You think of everything, Sam," he said at last.

The statement failed to make any sense and Sam replied,

"What!"

"The car," Daniel replied. "We are supposed to be tourists.

The car rented. Rental agencies never hand out perfect cars. They

are always dented."

This statement was so perfectly hilarious, we all broke out

in loud raucous laughter. Daniel was in the dark as to why, but

the laughter was infectious and soon joined in. Katrina and

Hemingway came over and attempted to ask what was so funny, but

received only laughter in reply and soon started laughing

themselves. The gopher was frustrated, and attempted to speak, but

only air spilled from his open mouth. We laughed harder at this,

grabbing onto each other for support and balance. The laughter

rendered the gopher impotent and he fled to the security of the

Embassy.

As our laughter died out, we disentangled from each other. As

luck would have it, I clung to the kid, and Katrina to Hemingway.

I had a hand on the kid's shoulder ready to offer him some inane

comment about the gopher, when I noticed him staring away from me.

He was staring at Katrina and Hemingway who had discovered

something of interest in each others eyes. I knew right away that

they had rekindled their long ago romance.

I patted Peter on the back. "Com'on lets go inside."

Our shirts were too wet to wear, And Sam produced khaki

shirts all around. We joked about how we each looked in khaki and

in this spirit left for the front.

205
 Chapter Forty Two.

Rain followed us all the way to Piblu, which according to

Sam's map was a farming hamlet a few miles this side of the

Rumanian boarder. The drive had been uneventful thus far. Perhaps

because of the uncertainty, or perhaps because each of was afraid

to express the fear we felt, we had avoided all talk of what lay

ahead. Whatever the reason, the forestalling of a dreadful subject

often leads to a light easy banter if only to maintain a safe

distance from the unspeakable. Such it was with us. The atmosphere

inside the car was relaxed, unconcerned, as if we really were

tourist. Katrina, Hemingway and Peter sat in the rear. Katrina,

and up until then I had forget how charming she could be,

entertained both her suitors and did so splendidly. That they both

desired her played into her charms; often foolishly. And at times

I wished I was one of Katrina's fools. I was once. But that was a

long time ago.

As they were preoccupied with themselves, this left plenty of

time for Daniel and I to commiserate and we did so to the sounds

of Mozart coming from the tape player and the rain tapping on the

Mercedes tin roof. Since we had already caught up with each other

on the fate of past comrades, this conversation was just that, two
old friends shooting the breeze and having all day to do so. We

started out reminiscing about our early days spent in New York

working nights on the city beat. We first dredged up old Phil

Hawkens, the night editor. Old Phil never cussed. Didn't believe

in it. The nearest he ever came to uttering a profanity was using

the word: crime-uh-netly. As young journalists who had a tendency

to infuriate, Daniel and I had incurred more then our share of

'Crime-uh-netly. So we highlighted the many occasions we had

earned old Phil's wrath. We mimicked him and the exasperation in

his voice when yelling crime-uh-netly and about laughed ourselves

silly in doing so. And in the end we concluded that old Phil had

forgotten more about journalism then we had ever learned. From old

Phil and the night shift on the city beat we moved on. Month by

month we dredged up many memories and scores of moments and

people. Far too many to inscribe herein. But we laughed. We shook

our heads. And we even shed a tear or two.

I for one tremendously enjoyed this time more so then all our

conversations, and at some point knew that I loved him as one does

a brother and would cherish this ride if only for the time spent

with him.

207
 Chapter Forty Three.

At Piblu, the tone in the car quickly took on a more serious

nature. We were all tired from being cooped up in the car and a

discussion ensured on whether to stop to stretch our legs or risk

detection by stopping at the first town we came to in Rumania. The

vote was evenly divided, with Peter abstaining. Sam had broken up

the trip into two parts. Budapest to Piblu. Piblu to Bucharest. By

his calculations, the first leg of the journey should of taken

four hours, and the last leg four. But the rain had slowed us

some, and the ride into Piblu had taken almost five hours. Since I

was both mapkeeper and timekeeper, I mentioned this. I added that

there was of course a chance that we'd run into a roving border

patrol and be turned away at the border. Katrina replied that were

this to happen, it wouldn't matter one way or the other whether we

stopped or not. Hemingway agreed with her, adding that if we got

lucky and crossed undetached, then it was best to stick to the

rural routes Sam had marked off and stop only if absolutely

necessary. Since their logic was flawless we decided to stop.

This few moments of seriousness evaporated when Daniel, who

had wanted to continue driving, joked about how much he loved to

see democracy in action. Katrina just hooted, "Sore loser."

 But it was all done in fun.

Piblu was obviously a one horse farming community, and what

there was of it stretched along the highway for all of a block.

But one of the buildings appeared to house a cafe and Daniel

guided the Mercedes to a halt there. A rusty pea green metal

awning jutted out from it. A faded coke sign hung from the awning.

A group of men loitered under the awning safely out of the rain.

They were dark of feature, almost gypsy like, and stared at the

car inquisitively. As we piled out of the Mercedes, a trace of

fear and apprehension became evident. The men stuffed their hands

in their pockets and assumed a defensive stance. As the rain was

coming down quite hard, we all headed for the safety of the

awning. An older man wearing overalls and a face lined like a road

map stepped away from the group and forward. Daniel intercepted

him.

"J'o napot," Daniel said.

"J'reggelt," the man replied.

"Keresek egy Vendeglo."

"Egy pillanat."

The spokesman stepped back to the group of men and they

conversed amongst themselves for a few seconds. I guess they found

us to be no threat because the defensive stance they had assumed

dissipated, and they once again took up positions of loitering;

209
and leaned against the building, or stooped, or lit a cigarette.

The spokesman stepped aside and pointed at the door. "Vendeglo."

"Koszonom," Daniel replied. He said to us. "Cafe."

The woman who ran the cafe was as dark in feature as the men

and was obviously delighted that Daniel spoke Hungarian and fussed

over us in a motherly fashion. The fare consisted of a rural

Hungarian menu; stew was the main and only dish and this was

heavily laced with paprika, and was served with heavy dark bread,

and of course the local wine; Bull's blood. As if we really were

tourists out for leisurely ride in the county, the atmosphere grew

festive. Katrina continued playing the lady in waiting and

lavished attention on Peter and Hemingway; although it seemed

Hemingway received the lions share.

I was much surprised when halfway through the meal Peter

asked for a glass of wine. He had stuck to mineral water or tea at

the New York Cafe. I suppose he drank the wine to impress Katrina.

Whatever the case, the second glass took some of the conservative

Indiana starch out of him and he even joked on one occasion about

how all Hungarian food was laced with Paprika. The woman who ran

the cafe had been at the table refilling our coffee cups, and

fearful about hurting her feelings even though she undoubtedly

didn't speak english, waited until she had gone into the kitchen

before adding with a perfect straight face, "And God this wine

will scorch the varnish right off you're teeth."

 This was such a radical departure from his yes sir no sir

attitude that I laughed for this reason alone.

"Better take it slow on the wine," Katrina cautioned.

"It's just wine," Peter replied and ordered another.

Katrina as a mother was a new and delightful experience to me

and I laughed aloud, as did Daniel and Hemingway. The experience

was new to her also, and after a moment of looking playfully

rueful, she laughed along.

I can't say how long we sat there playing the happy tourist

while the woman who ran the cafe refilled the wine and coffee

cups. I do know it was too long because when I went to use the

bathroom and returned Katrina and Hemingway were gone. The woman

who ran the cafe was sitting at a table along with a girl of about

seventeen and they both giggled when they saw me looking around

for Katrina and Hemingway. I did not mistake their giggles for the

tell tell dribble down the front of my pants.

I returned to the table where Peter sat slumped in his chair

looking as miserable as a young man could possibly look. And I

didn't need a translator to know what had happened. But to clue me

in on what was going on, Daniel directed his eyebrows to the

ceiling. The woman who ran the cafe and her helper giggled at

this. I groaned inwardly. I had forgot Katrina spoke fluent

Hungarian. I glanced at Peter. If misery were money, Peter was a

wealthy man right now. But I couldn't fault Katrina and Hemingway.

211
They had awakened their long ago torrid romance. And they were

entering a war zone, and this might be the last chance either one

of them might have to touch the other. I would of done the same in

their position. Still I felt bad for Peter. First Jean, now

Hemingway. This was a hell of a way to grow up.

"Don't you think it's time to shove off?"

"Past time," Daniel responded, "I'll go roust them."

As we had a few minutes before they returned, I expected

Peter to use me as a sounding board. To bitch about the injustice

of it all. To curse Katrina. To rail against Hemingway. He

refrained, and instead just sat there, a sad glum clown smile on

his face. I was very proud of him for this. He was very polite

when a few minutes later Katrina returned; her hair askew, the

khaki shirt she wore wrinkled. He even attempted a joke, something

about how one could see better from the second floor; a bit

strained yes, but it was there. Fortunately she wasn't

condescending. Nor was she apologetic in any way. She simply

treated him the same as before even going so far as to crook her

arm in his as we left the cafe.

Daniel and I glanced at each other, both amazed at the

audacity.
 Chapter Forty Four.

From the moment we left the cafe whatever emotions, ill and

otherwise, stayed on the table along with the dishes and empty

glasses. I had hoped that the rain had diminished, but when we

stepped outside the rain was coming down as strong as ever and I

for one immediately felt a chill. I mentioned this and the second

Daniel fired up the Mercedes he turned the heater on. But the

chill clung all the way to the Rumanian boarder. Expecting to run

into border guards, we all held a collective breath here. But we

freely, and much to our surprise, crossed the border into Rumania

without so much as a peep from the Rumanian boarder guards. Sam's

information had been correct, and Hemingway, his voice rift with

relief, noted as much. I numbly nodded. Then to feel superior to

our fears, we joked and laughed for all of a minute. Then we fell

silent and studied the scenery, much in the way tourists will do

when crossing over a state line. And if there was a change in the

scenery, the flat yellow earth that had been apparent for the past

fifty miles or so, I failed to notice it. But I really wasn't

watching the scenery so much as I was listening. And I was sure I

heard the soft far away thud of artillery fire. But it was

213
difficult to tell for sure...the noise could of just as easily

been attributed to distant thunder. When I looked at Daniel to

confirm my suspicions, his face said it all. They also were quiet

in the back seat and I knew they were thinking the same.

For the next several hours we were tense and almost silent.

Not because of what had happened at the cafe, but because the

closer we arrived to Bucharest, the more real the war and possible

discovery became for us. I felt isolated during this time, alone

with my thoughts, and found myself staring for long periods out

the window. The road outside the Mercedes seemed to me as isolated

as my thoughts. Not a living thing moved out there. The pastures

were void of all livestock and the fields sat fallow. The villages

we went through were empty of people and the ramshackle houses

themselves were dark and somber looking. Only twice did a car

appear from the opposite direction and each time Daniel pulled

into the underbrush along side the road, doused the head lights,

and waited for the oncoming car to pass. The rain had stopped the

first time this had occurred, but still a gray daylight filled out

the sky. We all held our breath as the car passed by us. Although

the rain had ceased, the earth was wet and sodden, and Daniel had

a bitch of a time getting the car back on the road. The second

time Daniel pulled off the road it was dark, and I was dreamily

listening to the music coming from the tape player. The oncoming

headlights invaded the windshield, and I reacted by throwing my

head to one side as if punched.

 Chapter Forty Five.

By the time we reached Arges, a small town about ten miles

outside of Bucharest according to the map Sam had supplied us, the

sky far ahead was rift with tracers. Daniel pulled to the side of

the road here and cut the headlights. The darkness outside

immediately and intimately drew us in to its protective fold until

there was only the dark and Vivirdi' Four Season's on the tape

player. The light show ahead had a mystical magical quality to it,

and we sat for a few minutes entranced as silver tails rocketed up

from far ahead into the sky and burst into fiery orange balls.

After a while Peter commented, "So that's what the face of

war looks like from afar."

The interior of the Mercedes offered only the dim lighting

from the dashboard; shadows and lines, but in this atmosphere

Daniel turned in the seat and looked at Peter.

"Yeah," he replied, "Just like the fourth of July Parade in

Little Town Indiana. Only real."

215
 Chapter Forty Six.

During those last ten miles into Bucharest each of us busied

ourself with whatever personal preparations we deemed important.

As I didn't have any particular preparation to make, I, to busy

myself, watched them. I saw Katrina open up the pitiful Brownie

and inspect it and load film. She was very methodical, never once

deviating from her task by looking at the road or the carnage

taking place in the sky far ahead. Hemingway had brought a

briefcase and from it he took a note pad and went from page to

page inserting a single pencil mark; and I guessed, correctly as

it turned out, that he was penciling in page numbers. He was also

methodical about the task. Peter just stared out the window; and

in the darkness his image looked back at him scared and

frightened. This was his first time, I thought, and like a virgin

was unsure of himself and of his role and how he would perform. We

would look out for him, I knew. Daniel had the best task of all

and I envied him this. He drove, and by doing so occupied all of

his concentration. We had avoided detection so far and he had

taken the extra added precaution of dousing the headlights. But it

was dark, and the road twisted and curved, and he had to lean

forward in the seat and scrutinize the road to keep from veering
off into a ditch. Once Daniel turned on the headlights and almost

brought the car to a halt, saying he saw a human shadow crouched

on the road in front of the car, but it turned out to be a

pitifully thin dog who, frightened by the headlights, scampered

away.

As I mentioned, I didn't have any particular preparation to

make and after growing tired of watching the others I stared out

the window and found myself examining my feelings and was still

doing so when we crossed over the Zibrinskie river via a bridge

into Bucharest proper. The street lamps were out and the only

light came from tracers rocketing overhead. Daniel slowed the

Mercedes to a crawl here, and the slow movement of the car

afforded time for my eyes to adjust to the lack of street lights.

The street was residential and was lined with single story frame

houses. A plume of black smoke arose from several burning houses.

A mile further up Daniel drove over the curb and in to the

hulk of a burned out house. The tires kicked up dust and spewed

out fragments of bricks. He pulled deep into the recesses of the

building until the street was hidden from view. As was the

Mercedes.

"Someone write down the name of the street so we know where

the hell we're at," he said while shutting off the engine.

217
 "For all the good it will do," Hemingway cracked, "What's

left of this rat trap is about to crumble. You plan on digging the

car out."

At the prospect a slight shudder passed through Peter's body.

"I hope you brought hiking shoes," Daniel commented.

"I'll write down the street name," Peter replied.

"Let's go," I said.

"Amen," Katrina thinly joked.

As we intended on traveling light, it only took five minutes

for us to gather our gear. A bitter cold hit us the moment we

stepped from the car and we all turned up our collars to ward off

the wind. The house, such as it was, offered slight protection,

and we were reluctant to leave its safety. But at last we did so

and skirted the edge of the building until we reached the

sidewalk. We stayed within the shadows of the building and

searched the sidewalk and street for signs of life. This

precaution proved unnecessary. There was nothing but an eerie

deserted silence out there. And it was evident that whatever

fighting had transpired in this part of town had taken place long

before we had arrived. And as evidenced by the echo of gun fire

and the occasional rocket bursting in the sky, the combatants had

moved to the City Center.

Daniel broke away from the building out onto the sidewalk and

circled his hand over his eyes and as if peering from a pair of

binoculars searched up and down the street. After a few seconds of

this, he returned to the shadows and explained the route we would

take. "The Bulevardul Ana Ipatescu lies four blocks up. Another

half mile and the Bulevardul intersects with the Palace Square and

the University distract. There we can hook up with the

revolutionist. Sound good?"

"Sure," Hemingway replied.

"Katrina?"

"Yeah."

For a second, I thought he was going say more, perhaps a pep

talk of the kind given by a coach before a game, and perhaps he

was because he grinned at whatever he was thinking and moved onto

the sidewalk. We all followed. Katrina and Hemingway walked side

by side discussing in whispers. And it didn't take a crystal ball

to guess what they were saying. They were lovers now and

undoubtedly intended on sharing the writing of their dispatches.

And why not. Daniel and I intended on doing the same. I did wonder

who in the end would include Peter. Probably Katrina. Daniel was a

few feet in front of them, moving slow and easy, his head

swiveling, checking out everything around us. Peter and I brought

up the rear.

"Do you think the building will fall on the car," he asked,

worried.

"No."

"But Hem..."

219
 "He was just releasing tension."

"Stupid."

"No.It helps."

Questions born of fear of the unknown were rampant in him, I

was sure. But he was either too embarrassed to probe further, or

was considerate enough to forgo inflicting them on me.

The rain we had encountered earlier during the ride had left

the streets of Bucharest wet and pint sized puddles were

everywhere. Mindless of the puddles, we proceeded cautiously, and

stayed close to the buildings. It was quite chilly, but by the

time we had gone three blocks, I was perspiring. The destruction

was similar to what lay behind us. A few buildings were burned out

hulks, while others were left standing, but were dark inside. The

streets were also void of all life, not even a stray dog or cat. I

briefly supposed that people huddled within the houses left

standing, in cellars, closets and under beds. But I didn't pay

this much thought. I had other concerns. Fear foremost of them.

 Chapter Forty Seven.

The moment we turned onto Bulevardul Ana Ipatescu we came

face to face with the aftermath of a fearsome battle and the

destruction here was almost apocalyptic. The Bulevardul Ana

Ipatescu began the commercial district that would feed us into the

City Center, and was lined with large drab gray buildings. The

Bulevardul was wide, an easy six lanes across, and scores of cars

and trams lay scattered as if tossed there by some unseen giant.

Corpses were strewn everywhere. So were the carcass of dead dogs

and cats. The sight that made Peter literally lose his lunch was a

young man; maybe fifteen or sixteen. The youth sat, his back

resting against a bus stop pole, his brown hair curling down over

his forehead, a soft smile frozen on his dead lips. Sitting there,

he looked to be waiting for the A bus to take him uptown where his

girlfriend lived. I had no idea what had happened to his legs.

At the sight of all this destruction, Peter had twirled in a

circle scanning everything all at once. He must of missed the boy,

because he rested a hand on the street pole where the boy lay and

lowered his head in despair and in doing so caught sight of him.

Peter's entire body quivered as if he had the flu. I saw him

221
swallow hard twice, then his chest violently heaved and the lunch

from the cafe spilled over the kid.

Katrina and Hemingway were busy snapping pictures and hadn't

seen this. But Daniel and I had and the fact that Peter had thrown

up all over the kid would of been funny if played out in some

surrealistic movie or play, but as it was it made the scene ever

the more tragic.

Out of embarrassment for Peter, Daniel turned away. I did

likewise, wishing I hadn't witnessed the scene. Not because the

act was gross. It was and wasn't. I wish I hadn't because I was

incapable of such feelings. But I also knew that a feeling of

sadness and loss for the dead would come much much later; probably

while sitting back in New York City watching some inane television

show.
 Chapter Forty Eight.

If there had been a vibrancy, a fullness to Peter, and such

was abundantly evident when he had first danced into the Embassy,

the sight of the legless boy emptied it, spilling all such

innocence at his feet. He, without joy, feeling, or even pain or

fear, walked woodenly as we cautiously continued moving toward the

City Center. I wanted to console him, but didn't. This was neither

the time nor the place.

We had traveled a few blocks up Bulevardul Ana Ipatescu, the

destruction similar to what lay behind us, when we came close

enough to the City Center to hear sporadic fire from semi-

automatic rifles. Above us tracers from rockets and artillery fire

lit the sky. There was also the elongated shadows of men darting

between the buildings. I think it was the shadows that convinced

Daniel to change course. Whatever the reason, and he didn't

explain this decision at the time, he grouped us all together and

instructed us to follow him across Bulevardul Ana Ipatescu. He

waited just long enough for us to nod, then he was gone, a half

crouched figure running.

223
 I grabbed Peter's arm and darted along in a half crouch

behind Daniel to the other side of the street. He continued

running, cutting a zig zag pattern between two burned out

buildings. I wasn't sure whether Katrina and Hemingway followed,

but I, with Peter in tow, did, dancing over bricks and twice

barely veering in time to miss stepping on a dead body. By the

time we came out onto the next street over, I was gasping for

breath and hunched over and stole a second to breath. When I

looked up, I saw that the street was residential and was lined

with fourteenth century brownstones. I continued behind Daniel up

the street, and was surprised when he just disappeared. One moment

he was one of the many shadows, and the next gone. Because of the

trees and the brownstones, the street had a darker hue to it then

the Bulevardul and everywhere I looked stick like shadowy figures

greeted me. I knew that most were tree branches, but others were

undoubtedly people.

I finally worked out the route he had taken, and this took

all of second, by the angle he had ran. I was sure that he had cut

between two brownstones on the opposite side of the street. So I

followed, hoping I was correct. I was and was relieved when I came

out into a wooded area. The area seemed familiar and suddenly I

knew where we were at and silently commended Daniel for his course

of action. He had thought to bypass the obvious fighting on the

Bulevardul and had lead us into the Cismigiu Gardens.

 Sound strategy, I thought. There was nothing to fight for

here. This was a park and a Botanical garden. During the day

lovers walked hand in hand and gazed at the trees and flowers.

During the night lovers walked hand in hand and gazed at the trees

and the flowers. When the lovers grew tired of this, they

meandered a path that led to the Zibrinskie river and gazed at the

water. When they grew tired of this they went somewhere and made

love. Yes, there was nothing to fight for here. The war and the

hate were outside. This was a sanctuary, and also a place to

regroup and go on.

As it turned out, I was wrong. Katrina and Hemingway were a

few feet behind us, and had no sooner caught up, each gasping for

breath, when angry shouts came from a few feet away. The voices

froze us in our tracks. Daniel held a quieting finger to his lips

and silently moved off to investigate and returned a moment later.

"Four men," he whispered, and indicated by pointing beyond

the bushes, "They seem to be having a jolly good time beating on

an old man. Taking turns kicking him. We can bypass them by going

along the river. About a half mile up the river we can cut back

and come out in the University district."

"I want to get a picture of the men beating the old man,"

Katrina whispered.

"Not enough light," Daniel said.

225
 "Use a lit cigarette as a infrared light. You hold it just

over the perimeter of the shutter a moment before I snap the

picture," Katrina replied.

This would work, I knew. It was an old trick used mostly

during World war two when the photo technology wasn't what it was

today. Although the tip of the cigarette would leave a shadow

ghost on the negative, this could be erased during developing.

"Let's do it," Daniel replied.

"You people are mad," Peter said before Katrina and Daniel

could move, "All you care about is a damn picture. What about the

old man. Huh. What about him. There's four of us. Huh. What about

him. What the fuck about him!"

Yes indeed, I thought, what about the old man. Well the old

man wasn't our concern. We were there to observe. Not choose

sides. For all we knew, the old man could be a member of the

Securitate and had tortured and killed many people over the years.

He could also be an innocent bystander caught up in the chaos of

war. But whatever he was, he wasn't our concern.

I was about to explain this to Peter, but by then we had

lingered far too long. I don't know if we had whispered too loud,

or if one of the men had stepped into the bushes to relieve

himself, and had seen us, or what. But they came at us quickly.

There were two of them, both about Peter's age. They poked guns at

us and issued harsh orders. Daniel Translated. They wanted us to

go. Now! Move! Now! Go! Go! Go! Go!

 Except for Katrina sliding the Brownie into her shirt,

resistance was out of the question. And we meekly marched to the

clearing where the old man lay in a fetal position on the grass.

He was beaten bad, bruises and gashes peppered his face, and he

didn't appear to be breathing, but it was dark; maybe, who knew.

Two men other then the two who had brought us stood over the old

man. Their eyes had a crazed look, their hands were clenched into

fists and their hard fast breath plumed smoke like in the cold

air. They liked inflecting violence, I thought, and like a junkie,

were high on it.

"Thugs," I remarked.

This remark cost me a rifle butt across the kidneys. The

blow doubled me over, and so intense was the pain, that I almost

fell to the ground, but managed at the last moment to stay upright

by digging the souls of my heels into the earth. I was too angry

to be afraid right then and felt a small satisfaction at not

falling. As I stood there gasping for breath, Daniel spoke in

Rumanian. He used the word Americans several times, and was very

forceful in what he was saying. I knew he was trying to bluff

them, and I hoped it worked. But it didn't. The same man who had

used the rifle butt on me, did likewise to Daniel, only more

forcefully, swinging the rifle like a baseball bat. The blow

caught Daniel square across the back and he instantly crumbled to

the ground, brought his knees to his chest and withered and moaned

227
in pain. The man found this delightfully funny and laughed, as did

his comrades. The louder Daniel moaned, his knees curled up to his

stomach, the more derisive and taunting their laughter grew.

Katrina said something to them, and they allowed her to help

Daniel up. My pain had lessened by this time, and I made a move to

assist her, but was waved back by the man who had struck me.

"No," Katrina cautioned.

I nodded and resumed my position next to Peter and Hemingway.

The men sneered at me. I knew what the sneer meant, but didn't add

any credence to it. At this point my interference would only make

a situation that Katrina was quite capable of handling worse,

possibly resulting in one of us beaten or killed.

That they were men who enjoyed inflicting violence, was

evident, but they were also cautious men. On one hand we spoke

english, yet two of our party also spoke Rumanian. Also as a group

of four we poised a far greater threat then one old man. So

although they taunted us, they weren't about to give us a chance

to over power them, and did so from arms length while Katrina

helped Daniel up and over to where we stood. They exercised

further caution by raising their weapons and grouping us into

tight knit circle. Satisfied, they stepped a few feet away and

talked amongst themselves. I assumed our fate was under discussion

and in short whispers Daniel confirmed this.

"They can't decide

whether to kill us here

 and rape Katrina

or take us elsewhere

and do the deed."

Although this news wasn't particularly shocking, hearing it

spelled out was unsettling. Had our tormenters been the army, or

even the Securitate, I would of attempted to bluff my way out. But

these were obviously just common ruffians taking advantage of the

chaos of war. So I decided to make a stand right there and hoped

to over power them. I wasn't a particularly physical man, but I

had acquired enough street savvy from the years spent in New York

City and elsewhere to knew better then to allow idiots such as

these to take us to some deserted building. Although it was dark,

I could see Daniel thought along the same lines. So did Katrina,

and I couldn't blame her. The thought of these louts invading her

was reason enough. But Peter and Hemingway were another matter. I

knew Peter was a gamer, but one look told me the current turn of

events had thrown him into shock. He'd be no use to us. Neither

would Hemingway. He had lost his usual bravado and smart comebacks

and in fact had not uttered a word while the thugs had detained

us. I saw now that he was white faced. Poor Hem, I thought, he had

come all this way hoping to resurrect a career, and instead had

discovered something more daunting than flying saucers and one

legged cows. He had discovered reality, and reality carried

rifles.

229
 Whatever they had in store for us, and what resistance we

could muster became academic when six men wearing army uniforms

emerged from the bushes. They also carried semi-automatic rifles

and issued harsh orders in Rumanian. They didn't appear to notice

us, but then we were standing off to one side, and their attention

was understandably focused on the four men and the rifles they

carried.

For all of us there time was moving forward very quickly and

I only had time to notice the man who had hit me before all hell

broke loose. The man smiled and raised his rifle. The action was

very slight, as if the man was testing the seriousness of the

situation. But one of the soldiers saw the movement and issued

another harsh command. By this time the man who had hit me had

managed to raise his rifle to his waist. He fired a short loud

burst and the soldier who had issued the command fell to the

ground. One of the other soldiers fired, and the man who had hit

me slid downward before my eyes in excoriating slow motion. Before

he hit the ground, he looked my way and a confused confession

passed from his eyes to mine. I believe he died right then because

his eyes became milky and clouded over.

This short battle had a hypnotic effect and a confused stand

off ensured. Wherein a second earlier time had moved too fast to

control current events, now time stood at a virtual standstill.

The three remaining men and the five soldiers didn't see us. They

only stared at each other in stunned disbelief. I was

unquestionably stunned and was able only to stare in disbelief at

the bullet riddled body of the man who had hit me. Unbelievable as

it seemed to me, I experienced a moment of irritation at this

idiot and wanted to throttle him for placing me in such jeopardy.

The moment of irritation passed as quickly as the standoff and

both groups began firing away at each other. The nose from the

rifles was deafening.

"Lets get the hell out of here," I heard Daniel shout.

I was momentary confused and turned unsure of which way to

run. I saw Katrina crouched and snapping pictures of the battle

and couldn't help thinking she was the consummate

professional..and a fool. A second later I lost sight of her as

smoke from the discharging semi-automatic rifles clouded the air.

I yelled out to her, then moved to my right and almost tripped

over the old man who had risen up on all fours and was crawling

toward the bushes. A half second later I saw Katrina spring up

from her crouching position and grab Peter and disappear into the

bushes.

"The old man!" Daniel yelled.

I gave him the thumbs up sign and on a dead run we reached

for the old man. Although he wasn't our concern, we couldn't leave

him. He was crouched on all fours and had just about cleared the

first bank of bushes. We each gripped an arm, and yanked him

upright. The old man didn't weight very much and he readily

231
allowed us to half carry him and half drag him. In the confusion,

I hadn't seen Hemingway and hoped he had followed us.

 Chapter Forty Nine.

We ran for all we were worth, our legs pumping under us, our

breath coming in lung burning gasps, through the open space of the

gardens for about a half mile before reaching a bank of bushes

that led to a street. We fell to our knees and crawled through the

dirt until we reached the bushes. I separated a few branches and

saw the medieval bell tower for Piata University and knew where we

were at. In our confusion we had cut through the center of

Cismigiu Gardens and were about to come out on Calea Victoriei

street. And it was also evident that we were only blocks away from

the main battle for the city. Rocket fire and tracers that we had

gazed at from afar now seemed to whistle overhead at almost tree

length. Tanks rumbled up the street, firing at will. The constant

barrage was so loud it hurt the ears. Strangely, this was where we

had been headed. But the fighting here was very fierce. There was

no way to get through to the University. Just no way. I had to

yell above the noise to be heard as I mentioned this to Daniel.

Daniel and I still held the old man, and Daniel roughly

pulled us back into the bushes out of all view. I was glad to see

Hemingway and Katrina and Peter already crouched there.

233
 "Listen up because I am only saying this once," Daniel

screamed, but he sounded like he was whispering, "Reaching the

University is out. So we're going to follow the bank of bushes

until we come out on Bulevardul GH. I know the area. Plenty of

houses. We'll search for a house to spend the night at. We'll

carry the old guy. Hem, you stay between Katrina and Peter. Let's

go."

"What if we get lost or separated?" Peter asked.

"No questions."

"We won't," Katrina assured.

"But."

"I said no questions," Daniel said. "We go. Now! Now!"

 Chapter Fifty.

Minutes later we left the safety of the park. The battle

seemed all around us now. Rockets screamed overhead. At one point

a burst of semi-automatic fire was directed our way. But luck was

with us, and the bullets hit the pavement, kicking up a cloud of

dust. But the near miss increased our adrenalin and we continued

running, our knees pumping up to our chest, the old man carried

along by Daniel and myself; Katrina, Hemingway and Peter staying

at our sides. We checked, desperately so, all the doors to the

houses as we went, turning the handles, pounding, shouting,

screaming, even pleading. At one house we paused because Daniel

thought he had seen a human face at the window. He pounded at the

door. We waited. No response. We continued running. Right then the

shelling and gunfire ceased. A quietude invaded. A second later

came the eerie graveyard cry of a mother, a wife, a woman, for a

loved one now more than likely buried deep within the cold dank

dead earth, "Andre, dinner is getting cold. Please come home.

Please. Dinner is ready."

The last human voice we had heard aside from our own had been

the thugs at the gardens and for a moment the sound of a human

235
voice froze us in our tracks. We listened in this fashion as her

cry echoed along the dead streets where everyone who had an ounce

of sense was already at home hiding in cellars or had fled the

city and this madness.

"Lets go," Daniel said, "Let's go."

So we continued running. After many blocks, we stopped beside

a house, each of us too weak to go on. We pounded on the door, but

there was no answer. We discussed in whispers whether to force our

way in or not. This discussion seemed stupid to me. There really

wasn't much choice. The old man was too weak to go on, and for

that matter so was I. I said as much. As I said this a shell burst

up the block. Dissent was out of question.

"The cellar," Daniel said, "In back. Probably a door leading

down to it."

We quickly circled the side of the house until we came to the

rear and a gray door leading into the cellar. Katrina crouched and

cautiously opened it and peered into its mouth of darkness.

"Looks empty," she said, looking at us.

"Call out in Rumanian," Daniel instructed, "Explain we are

Americans. Need shelter. Do it now."

Katrina did so. I held my breath expecting an angry response.

But only silence greeted her.

"Go," Daniel ordered.

"What if they're waiting down there," Peter said, "They may

have guns."
 "Got to chance it," Daniel replied. "We can't stay here and

we can't keep running. Eventually our luck will run out. Go."

The logic was sound and Peter and Katrina cautiously threaded

the stairs down into the cellar. Daniel and I followed and helped

the old man down the stairs. Hemingway brought up the rear. The

cellar was a small cube like area roughly eight feet by nine feet.

I glanced around for windows. There were none. I did notice a

stairway leading up into the interior of the house and fleetingly

wondered if there were people home.

Daniel and I eased the old man so he was resting on the

earthen floor, his back against the cellar wall. We huddled next

to him. Katrina sat next to me. Hemingway sat next to her and

draped a comforting arm around her shoulder. Like a frightened

cat, Peter paced from one end of the cellar to the other. Although

the cellar was dusty and damp and dark, I felt safe for the first

time in a long time. The secure feeling I felt fled when a moment

later a massive barrage of artillery fire rang out. At first there

was just one or two shells, then the shells came bold and steady.

Then there was a pause. I didn't feel so safe any longer.

"Shit," I muttered.

At the sound of my voice, Peter ceased pacing and sighed out

loud, "I don't like that sound."

Before anyone could agree, or disagree the shelling resumed,

pouring from the night outside, yet this time unsure, hesitant, as

237
if the shells had lost the freedom they had strove so hard to

find.
 Chapter Fifty One.

The shelling was unnerving, yes, but to just sit in the dark

and listen was to invite insanity into the room. There was an old

cabinet and some metal shelving in the cellar. So to give

Hemingway and Peter something to do other then stand around and

listen to the shelling, I instructed they search for blankets or

candles. They did so obediently. Katrina realized the importance

of doing something, anything, and attended to the old man. Daniel

and I discussed whether anybody was home in the house. If so, then

they had undoubtedly already heard us rummaging around and were as

frightened as we were. We decided to chance going into the house.

Too do so was risky. Frightened people often reacted without

thinking. On the other hand to sit and wonder about them was a

greater evil. We discussed how to go about this and decided to

utilize the same tactic Daniel had used upon entering the cellar.

He'd speak softly in Rumanian to calm any fears the people might

have.

We hadn't consulted the others and I quickly explained what

we planned to Katrina. Her only response was to be careful. I

didn't need to be told that, but appreciated hearing it just the

239
same. We took the stairway leading up cautiously. The door opened

freely, and the moment we stepped inside, Daniel began a constant

stream of chatter. But the house turned out to be empty, not even

a speck of furniture. A thick layer of dust on the floors

indicated a long period of vacancy. I had held my breath all the

while and I whistled while releasing it.

"I'm a nervous wreck."

"Me too."

We searched for blankets and food and were half lucky and

found a stack of eight wool blankets in a linen closet. Before

heading to the cellar, we paused in the living room and stared out

the window. The shelling was taking place a few blocks away and

the street outside seemed peaceful enough.

"How are you?"

"Fine," he replied, "The flight jacket absorbed most of the

blow." He smiled. "I was faking for time. E'tu?"

"Hurt like hell at the time. But now. The run. The war."

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"If it was just you and I or Katrina," he said after a

moments consideration, "I'd say we continue on. But now. No. Spend

the night here and see what's what in the morning."

There was no need to reply. He was right.

"What do you make of what happened in the park?"

"Thugs."
 "Same," I replied, "But what I can't figure is who is

fighting who. Rumania is a dictatorship and the nature of such

restricts the possession of firearms. Yet they seem to be in

plentiful supply, indicating the army fighting the army, the

Securitate fighting the Securitate, and the population feeding off

of both and in revolt. If this is the case, then this whole god

damn city is up for grabs."

"I know," he replied. He paused as if about to say more. He

smiled and shrugged.

"Yeah, me to," I answered.

The cellar was well lit when we returned. Peter and Hemingway

had found three boxes of candles and had lit them and placed them

on the earthen floor in a tight circle for heat. They huddled near

them warming their hands. The old man was awake, and appeared to

be shivering. Daniel and I sat and passed out the blankets.

Katrina took two and tucked them around the old man. He thanked

her with his eyes. Back at the Gardens, I hadn't paid much

attention to him, but I did so now. He was woefully thin, almost

skeletal. But even in this state, their was a genteelness about

him, and I wondered what had brought him to the Gardens. Why go

outside in this chaos. Was he a flower freak.

"I take it we're spending the night here?" Hemingway asked.

"It's best," the man said in english before Daniel or I could

respond. Even in the confines of the cellar, a natural echo

241
chamber, his voice sounded like it had came through a thin

reed...and as such was barely strong enough to rise above a

whisper, but we all heard him and turned his way. "Madness walks

the streets tonight. A madness birthed onto a country twenty years

ago by a madman."

"Who are you?" Katrina asked.

"I could ask the same of you," he answered. He would of said

more but coughed up blood choking off his words.

"Take it easy," Peter cautioned.

Although it took obvious effort, the old man turned his way.

"You are young. You have much time to, as you put it, to take it

easy."

"We are American journalist," I said.

"Ah, this explains why you were at the park. Lost, huh."

"You could say this," Daniel replied.

"Yes. And I did. I was there to walk in the park. Foolish I

know. But I had not walked in the park for a long while. A very

long while."

"You're from the V.I. Lenin prison," Katrina stated.

"Yes. I came from the V.I. Lenin political prison," He

answered, "How did you know?"

"You are thin. Your clothes."

"Ah, you've been in Bucharest before?"

"Yes."

"So now I am a desperado and you are afraid?"

 "I am sorry, no," Katrina replied, "But in any case I didn't

mean to infer."

"No need. Besides there is enough fear outside," he replied

and smiled. "But twenty years ago I would of thought the same. The

police take a man off the street and I assumed he had done

something wrong. But then it happened to me. The same happens in

America, no. People do nothing when the police take a man off the

street. They think he had done something wrong, yes. Funny, isn't

it."

Even though it wasn't, Katrina smiled to show it was.

"You have a cigarette? Please."

Daniel took a cigarette from the pack in the pocket of his

flight jacket, lit it and handed it to the old man. The old man

coughed as he pulled on it, but didn't seemed to mind.

"How such a thing can be so good," he said. "Well. You

wouldn't have whiskey."

He had spoken to Daniel.

"No," Daniel replied, "War and whiskey. I didn't bring any.

Sorry."

"He usually does," I said.

"Yes," he replied," I can see as much. Well no need."

"Why were you in the Gardens?" I asked.

"Like I said. To walk in the park. Twenty years is a long

time, no."

243
 "But the war," Peter said, "Why not wait."

"Like I said you are young. Some things can not wait." He saw

that Peter did not understand, and as I watched the way in which

he studied Peter, I knew then that he had been a teacher of the

young.

"My young friend, three hours ago I shared cell number ten

with two other prisoners. I spent twenty years in this cell, and

in this time had only gone out once and that was to bury a

comrade." His eyes grew misty at this, and he shrugged, "Anyway,

my cell mates and I could see from our barred window, the

Zibrinskie river through the trees that lined the shore. Due to a

hunger strike over a prisoner who had died under suspicious

circumstances, the river had remained a topic of conversation over

the past several days. Nicolau, a fisherman on the outside, longed

for a very long fishing pole. He proclaimed rather boastfully

that with a long enough pole, he could thread the line through the

gaps between the trees and into the water and in no time at all

yank out a big fat wiggling trout. I teased him that even if he

had a long pole, and even if he could thread the line through the

trees, and even if a big fat trout was stupid enough to give up

its freedom for a fool locked away in prison, how the devil would

he cook the darn fish. Ional, a laborer, just laughed and said,

"Eat the damn fish raw."

But it was later now, and we had put such foolish bantering

away as we stretched out on the cold dank floor and searched for
warmth beneath the blankets. Ional had been lying there for about

an hour, but the cold and hunger, and the overhead light that

burned continuously day and night kept him awake. He couldn't

remember the light bothering him before. But it did now. It just

seemed to glare at him. Just glare.

He scooted over to where I lay and asked in a whisper so he

would not wake Nicolau who was snoring loudly in the far corner of

the cell if I was awake.

"Yes," I answered back, "That damn light. Never bothered me

before."

"Same here," Ional replied.

"Yes," I answered.

"You think the strike will work?"

"What's to work?"

"Nothing?"

"Right."

"We don't strike for the prisoners who died?"

"No."

"We don't even know his name do we?"

"No."

"Besides he's dead."

"Yes," I answered.

"We starve for honor than?"

"No."

245
 "No?"

"No."

"We starve because we are men, no?"

"No," I replied.

I could see he was confused. He raised up on one elbow. The

light glared at him and he used his hand to shield the glare so he

could better see me. "Then why?"

"Because it makes us feel like men."

"Ah," Ional said as if he understood and lay back down. After

a while he said, "Are you afraid we will starve to death?"

"No."

"What than?"

I raised up on one elbow and mindless of the glare, stared in

earnest at Ional. Ional was only nineteen and was younger then me

by thirty years, and I knew this was why he was asking so many

questions. This and fear. But I also knew it was the privilege of

youth and fear to ask questions. "Are you afraid we will starve to

death?"

"Yes," he answered.

"So eat. This is what the guards want."

"I know. But I am still afraid."

"Yes," I answered and lay down, "So am I."

"Of what?" he asked.

 "Of never walking through a park again. Never watching the

old men playing chess, the lovers walking hand in hand, the young

tossing a ball. I am afraid of all this."

Ional didn't think that never walking in a park again was as

fearsome as starving to death and said as much. I said nothing. I

pulled the blanket tight around me and just thought: Yes to never

walk in the park again is fearful my young friend.

247
 Chapter Fifty Two.

"So you see my young American friend, this is why when hours

ago the cell doors were thrown open and all the prisoners freed

that I went to walk in the park. This and fear."

The old man had spoken barely above a whisper and the telling

of his story had exhausted him and he closed his eyes. For a few

minutes his breath was labored, then a few seconds later grew

shallow and I knew that he slept. The cigarette had almost burned

down to his fingers and Daniel gently took it from him and crushed

it out.

We didn't want to wake the old man and sat silently huddled

around the candles, our fingers clutching the blankets tight

around us. His story had touched each of us, and as the night wore

on we gazed at the candles. Every time a shell burst outside, the

candles flickered and we would glance away from them to the old

man. But he slept, undisturbed by the noise or the flickering

candles.
 Chapter Fifty Three.

At some point during the night the shelling tapered off,

growing less and less frequent, and less disturbing, permitting me

a twilight sleep. I awoke suddenly from this sleep and instantly

when Daniel shook me. The dampness in the cellar seemed to of

invaded my bones and I shivered. He pointed to a window barely

large enough for a small child to crawl through. The beginning

rays of dawn filtered through years of accumulated dirt. I hadn't

seen the window before, and was mildly annoyed to see it now. But

the annoyance was overshadowed by the relief that we had survived

the night.

"The shelling has stopped," he said, "So let's get the hell

out of here."

We had lingered well beyond our deadline and I, my voice

husky, readily agreed. Although we had failed to hook up with the

revolutionist, we had enough to write a hell of a dispatch and

include pictures to boot. It was time to head back to the Mercedes

and to Budapest before something else happened to us.

I had slept all doubled over and as I stirred, shaking the

chill from my cramped muscles, I saw that the others had fallen

249
asleep also. Peter slept hunched over with his legs crossed and

his head in his lap. I had expected to find Hemingway and Katrina

curled up next to each other, but they slept apart; Katrina curled

up on her side, and Hemingway flat on his back. I guess he had

fallen out of favor as quickly as he had fallen into grace. Such

was life. Only the old man slept sitting upright. I briefly

supposed that prison life had conditioned him to such hardships.

One by one Daniel and I awoke them, muttering it was day

break and time to leave. As I reached to gently awake the old man,

wondering at the time what was to become of him, he fell to one

side. He had died in his sleep, and as I stood there looking at

him, I was suddenly very tired of Eastern Europe.

"The old man is dead," I announced.

Although the news affected us all, Katrina sobbed, Daniel

angrily kicked at the ground, and Hemingway looked away, the old

man's death affected Peter most of all. He kneeled next to the old

man. I expected him to cry, but instead he went through his

pockets. I didn't have a clue as to what he was looking for. But

when he came up empty, he touched the old man's hand and stared

sadly at his face.

"We never know your name," he said.

Katrina lay a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder.

"We have to leave him," Hemingway said.

"No we're not," Peter replied, "We're taking him back to the

Gardens."
 "Be sensible kid," Hemingway said.

"We're not leaving him!"

It was crazy, but I agreed with Peter and said as much.

"Get a life," Hemingway sneered

As distasteful as Hemingway was to me, I was glad to see him

back to his old blustery self as opposed to a walking zombie. But

he knew better then to object. Or he should of. There was an

unwritten code in the fourth estate: you never left your own for

the jackals to pick over if you could help it. I supposed that

Hemingway could argue that the old man wasn't one of us. But he

was. Sitting there, I honestly believed that the old man had

known he was dying, and because Peter was young, had made an

effort to share a lifetime of knowledge in a few minutes. But in

doing so he had left a part of himself with each of us and I

wasn't about to leave him in that dirty dank cellar. I didn't care

what the consequences were. Or what Hemingway said.

I guess Hemingway read this in my face because he declined

further protest.

As it was a long ride back to Budapest, Daniel suggested we

freshen up before leaving. So one by one we trekked up the stairs

to use the bathroom there. I was waiting my turn when Peter came

out. He had borrowed Katrina's brush and the mere act of washing

his face and brushing his hair added a spark of life to his eyes.

He wordlessly stepped by me and went downstairs. I hadn't relieved

251
myself all night, and the fullness in my bladder ached something

awful. So I did this first, and moaned at how good to do so felt.

When I had finished I stepped to the mirror and turned on the

faucet. As best I could I brushed my teeth with my fingers. After

washing my face, I dampened my hair and used Katrina's brush on

it. Before leaving I studied my reflection in the mirror and

looked behind the gruff unshaved stubble and saw arrogance; no,

tiredness; yes, relief; absolutely. But also something else.

I shook my head and headed for the cellar.

 Chapter Fifty Four.

By the time we emerged from the cellar, the sun was nipping

above the eastern skyline. Still there was a wetness in the air

from yesterdays rain and the streets had a layer of dew on them.

But the warmth from the sun was a welcome change from the cellar's

dampness. Although we had all slept, we had not slept well and

this showed in our steps; heavy and weary. Peter and I carried the

old man's shoulders and feet respectfully. Daniel and Katrina

offered to relieve us in a block or so. But the old man didn't

weight very much and I didn't think it would be necessary and said

so. What I failed to say was that I was more then a little

concerned about carrying a body in broad daylight. But I worried

needlessly. The battle of the night before had left many dead, and

even more wounded. Consequently the path to the Gardens was rift

with babushkas headed women dressed in black mourning dresses.

They sat cross legged on the ground while weeping over a deceased

loved one at their feet. All around them medics cared for the

wounded, and rescue workers dug people out of the rubble.

We weren't affected by the destruction around us...in any

manner. We just woodenly made our way to the Gardens. During this

253
long somber walk my grip on the old man slipped once, and half of

him sagged almost touching the sidewalk. We paused while I firmed

up my grip. We then continued. There was a lake located in the

middle of the Gardens and we carried him to it and propped him

against a tree so he faced the lake. Afterwards we gathered around

him into a half circle. The awkwardness of what to do next ensued.

We really didn't know him. He was a stranger to us as we had been

to him. But I guess to make it right, a few words had to be said

before leaving and we left this up to Peter. He confessed that he

had never done such a thing and was unsure on what to say.

"Just goodbye," Daniel offered.

Peter replied, "But goodbye? Seems so little."

"Maybe," Daniel answered, "But it says it all."

Peter remained unconvinced by this and stared at the ground

morosely. As he did so an military convoy truck, its tires kicking

up huge clumps of dirt, came bounding across the grass. The truck

pulled to a halt a few feet away from where we stood. Four men in

uniforms got out. Each cradled an semi-automatic rife. I was to

tired to care. A man with Lt. Bars on his uniform shouted out,

"Americans?"

Before they reached us, Daniel broke from our ranks and met

them halfway.

"This is my fault," Peter said.

"Forget it kid," Hemingway replied.

 Katrina and I were both surprised by Hemingway's response and

looked his way.

"The hell with it," he said.

"Hem," Katrina said, "You made it."

As it turned out it didn't matter. Daniel came back and

explained that the Lt. had been instructed to find four Americans

and bring them to headquarters. He was very happy that we were the

Americans because he had searched for us for many hours.

"Sam?" I asked.

"I asked who, but the Lt. just shrugged."

I shrugged. It didn't matter. I was tired.

Before we left we explained the old man's love for the

Garden's and extracted a promise from the Lt. to bury the old man

on the park grounds. The Lt. had seen right away by the old man's

skeletal frame and prison wardrobe that he was a political

prisoner and seemed to think this was fitting and left two of his

men to do so.

"There are many such who should be buried here in the

Gardens," he said.

Although the Lt. had many questions, including, I am sure,

how we had come across the old man, he held his peace and we left

it at that.

255
 Chapter Fifty Five.

A few minutes later the truck pulled to a halt outside of the

bell tower for Piata University. The Lt. lead us to an office

where a bellicose man with drooping eyes stood from behind a desk

so large it spanned at least five by six feet. Dozen of maps

littered the top of the desk. Upon seeing us, he stood, and with a

very noticeable limp, came to the door and greeted us. In perfect

english, he humbly introduced himself as the commander in charge,

then begged us to sit, saw there were only two chairs, and

quickly instructed his adjutant to fetch three more chairs. After

this he nodded, more to himself than us, and went and sat at his

desk.

There was a gaiety to the man that said we were among

friends. Perhaps had we had time to discuss the current round of

events, we would of been more cooperative. But we hadn't and were

also very tired and weary from too little sleep. The combination

of the two often brews bravely and recklessness and such it was

with us and consequently despite his friendliness, we, in a

unified act of defiance, remained standing even after the adjutant

had brought the extra chairs. This exasperated the commander, and

his tone grew short, "You Americans are so suspicious. Why? You
have never tasted the hardship of war. Sit! Besides if I wanted to

kill you you'd be dead already."

His last point was perfectly logically true and, out of

tiredness and an eye toward the chairs, I was about to coincide it

when Daniel spoke to him in Rumanian. The commander answered him.

After which for several seconds they carried on a conversation.

Since Katrina understood, I glanced her way. She laughed and sat

down. I, out of fatigue, was ready to drop to the floor, and

readily followed suit, as did Hemingway and Peter.

"You have had quite an adventure," the commander said as he

fumbled about in his desk drawer and finally pulled out a large

black cigar, "And are probably hungry and thirsty. Food and coffee

are on the way. And wine. Rumania makes a very fine wine. Better

then that bull shit the Hungarians make. So relax. Please forgive

my manners. My name is Colonel Biserica. That is pronounced Bee

seh ree kah. In Rumanian it means 'The Church.' I never attend, of

course. The priest are old ladies and the nuns are old men. I am

in charge here."

He was interrupted right then by a short burst of semi-

automatic rife fire. We had not heard gunfire for a few hours and

the sound was so startling we all jumped nervously in our seats

and glanced toward the only window in the room. All I could see

were soldiers loitering about outside, which wasn't cause for

alarm. The commander scrubbed a weary hand across his face and

257
excused himself and left the office. On his way out a rather dour

woman in a black peasant dress passed him on the way in. She

carried a tray and set it on the desk. There was a stack of

sandwiches on the tray made of hard black bread and cheese, and

also five cups of black coffee.

"Buna seara," The woman said. She pointed at the tray. "Micul

dejun."

"Multumesc," Katrina replied.

"La revedere."

"La revedere," Katrina answered.

The woman slowly, as if pain, shuffled out.

We were all famished and each stood, took a sandwich and a

cup of coffee, and sat back down.

"What the hell is going on?" I asked through a mouthful of

food.

"The Hungarian minister of information is his fifth cousin,"

Daniel replied.

"Of course," I muttered.

"The man you and Sam were discussing on the bus?" Peter

asked.

"Who?" Hemingway inquired.

So I explained to them. After I had finished, I asked Katrina

what had been so funny.

"Oh just the way he explained the lineage. Something about

how his father's brother's uncle's sister had offered her hymen to
a traveling Hungarian shoe salesman and nine months later out

popped a little shoe horn of a Hungarian and they have had to live

with this blot on their good Rumanian name ever since."

After the long night in the cellar, this garnered more then a

chuckle, and we were all grinning upon the commander's return.

"Ah," he said while sitting behind the desk, "Your friends

told you about the blot on the family name. Yes it is true." He

rolled the cigar between his thumb and forefinger, smiling at his

own joke for a moment, then struck a match against the desk and

quickly filled the air with black foul smelling smoke. "Russian

tobacco. Manure really. But I ramble, no. You have questions and

the first one is what is to become of you. I have instructed my

radio operator to notify the Hungarian security forces that we

have picked you up. They will send a helicopter for you. Now you

have questions about the war. The war is over. Pockets of

resistance. The Securitate dogs. Ceausescu is on the run. We catch

him and his wife and deliver the coup de grace and then Rumania

will be free and prosperous like America. You have other

questions, no?"

"The wine?" Daniel tiredly asked.

"Good question. It so difficult to get good help."

He seemed to flinch when right than another round of semi-

automatic weapon fire rang out. So did we. And like before we all

glanced at the window. And like before a few soldiers loitered

259
outside. The commander threw his hands up in disgust and once

again excused himself. He wasn't gone more then thirty seconds,

when the adjutant who had brought the two chairs entered carrying

six glasses and a bottle of wine. He set the glasses on the

commander's desk, uncorked the wine, and filled the glasses. By

then we had finished the sandwiches and coffee and stood and

placed the coffee cups on the tray and each picked out a glass of

wine. The adjutant seemed pleased by this, nodded so, picked up

the tray and left.

Katrina raised her glass and said, "To a hell of a story."

"And to the old man," Peter added.

We drank to both. The commander returned, and picked up his

glass and joined us.

"What happy occasion am I saluting; not so it matters. A man

does not need a reason to drink fine wine.

I explained about the old man.

"Ah, yes," the commander replied, "I was told of him. His

name was Parcul. Means The Park. He was a school teacher. He

picked the wrong time in Rumanian history to teach, no. So we

toast him once more, hey."

We did.

"The gunfire?" Daniel asked.

"Work," he replied, waving the cigar in the air. As he did

this his expression grew troubled. "It's nothing really. We the

victors are executing Ceausescu sympathizers, Securitate dogs, and

innocent idiots. We have rounded up hundreds. Of course, I don't

know the innocent from the guilty, so after every execution I go

and point at a man and say, that one is innocent, and my men let

him go. In this way I satisfy my conscience and the men's lust for

revenge for loved ones who were tortured at the hands of the

Securitate dogs."

I suppose there was horror written on our faces because he

lowered his eyes at this, the burden too much to bear. I reminded

myself thrice that I was there to observe not to judge.

At last he continued speaking in a high whisper, "I believe

it was your American Civil War General William Sherman who said,

'It is only those who haven't heard the cries and the shrieks of

the dying and the wounded who cry out for more blood, more war;

war is hell.' He was right. So I offer a salute to Sherman."

We did so, emptying our glasses in the process.

"Where were we?" he asked, taking a seat behind his desk, "Ah

yes. Questions. You have many, no. First off you want to know what

is to become of you, no."

"You already answered this one," I replied

"So I have," He said, "Funny, a man's memory is the first

thing to go. I sometimes think that men, like an old horse, should

lay down at forty, and this way young people would not have to

listen to past glories, and would not hatch a dream to live them.

Instead men live on; marching in parades, and what not and make

261
long elegant speeches while looking out from wheelchairs and

stumps and." His eyes focused somewhere beyond us. "I talk too

much and say too little. So you have a little time before the

helicopter arrives, and I am your humble host. Ask anything."

I, for one, had many questions, but before I could speak, a

burst of semi-automatic fire rang out. Knowing the reason for the

gunfire made the sound all the more unnerving and Hemingway sprang

up. "Jesus!" he shouted. "Just fucking Jesus," and stormed out of

the room.

The commander stood. "Yes, Jesus. Well, one minute please."

True too his word, he returned a minute later. "Where was I.

Yes. I am your humble host. Ask anything."

"I would like to speak to some of your men, and if possible

interview one or two of the men about to be executed, "Peter

replied, "Is this possible?"

"Yes. Certainly. Feel free to talk to my men. Listen to them.

Write about them. They would like this. Yes." He yelled out for

the adjutant. We waited a long second for the man to come. When he

did, the commander instructed him to show Peter every courtesy. I

was not surprised when Katrina elected to tag along.

"The young one, what's his name?" the commander asked the

moment they had left the office.

"Peter."

"He has come too far, it is in his eyes, no. He has passed

over."
 It was my turn to stare off in the distance.

"Ah but for ones who have drank of life as we this is a sad

subject," the commander said, seeing my wistful gaze, "So what we

will do, us who prefer to sit and drink of fine Rumanian wine

instead of watching men execute men, is pretend we are old friends

enjoying an afternoon chat. I will tell you about my life, and in

exchange you will do likewise."

For my part, I had never lived a more bizarre hour. The time

was spent exactly as the commander had wanted. While the

executions were methodically carried out, like clock work every

five minutes according to my calculations, we reminisced as if we

were old comrades. The commander was a delightful narrater, and

punctuated his story with comical shrugs, groans and exaggerated

cries of dismay. But in a final struggle to rid himself of the

executions, his tone shifted from comical to tortured as he

related about his home, wife and son. He was married to the army,

although he did have a wife at home, a fat woman. But she is a

good woman. He has one child. Attends the university; the one we

are sitting in at this very moment. The boy is a straight A

student, which is not so good, better he get a few C's and B's. Ah

well, youth, what can you tell them.

He was crazy. And the sad part was was that he knew it. And

he also knew that he would never pass back over.

263
 Chapter Fifty Six.

The commander seemed sad when the helicopter arrived. His

limp was noticeably worse as we gathered outside on the lawn to

board the helicopter. He pointed at the sun, which shone bright,

and offered a joke about how nice it was to fly in good weather. I

stared at the sun, more so I wouldn't have to look him in the

eyes, and agreed. In the little time we had spent together, I had

grown to like the commander, and after a second I warmly pumped

his hand and wished him well. As Daniel did likewise, Peter, who

had stood off to once side during this farewell, moved closer to

me. I knew what he was going to ask even before he did so.

"I want to stay and cover the rest of this," he said.

I had not spoken to him since he had left the office, and I

eyed him for a moment...just for good measure; habit I suppose.

"And you want me to hire you?"

"Yes."

"What about your girl?"

"I'll write her."

I shook my head as one might do at a persistent child.

"Very well," I answered, knowing full well his girl had seen

the last of him, "But when you work for me, you work. And I expect
a dispatch a day. And no cutesy crap. Or political lobbying. Or

taking sides. Think you can handle it?"

"I don't know," he truthfully answered, "But I will do my

best by you."

"Good enough. I'll leave a line open at the American Embassy

press room. You have the number. Route your dispatches through

there."

Although he tried very hard to act subdued at my response,

acting very nonchalant as if this happened to him every day, he

finally lost it and cracked a grin and said 'Hot Damn!'

I grinned at him and he sheepishly smiled and wandered off to

tell Katrina.

Daniel and I along with Hemingway were about to board the

helicopter a few minutes later when Katrina ran up and said that

she had decided to stay. She did so, I am sure, because she wanted

to spend more time with this new person Peter had become. I

jokingly mentioned this as she handed me the film she had shot.

She airily laughed it off and joked back that I was envious. I was

but refused to allow her the satisfaction of hearing me say so.

Although Hemingway was a bit put off by her decision, he took it

uncharacteristically well and respectfully shook both their hands,

wished them luck and turned to board the helicopter.

265
 "God, he's a prick, but he's a hell of a prick and I just

can't leave it at a handshake," she said to no one in particular

and ran after him.

She whispered in his ear and he laughed heartily. She kissed

him full on the mouth causing a halt to his laughter. He held her

for a long moment before releasing her.

She returned to where Daniel and me stood along with Peter.

There was a special bond between Katrina, Daniel and I and Peter

moved away allowing us a few moments alone to say goodbye. But

goodbyes are always difficult, and I found this one to be

particularly so.

"Well." I said.

"I missed you these years. Don't be such a stranger." She had

put too much intensity into her words, and to play it off wrapped

arms around Daniel and I and hugged us close. "Hell, we're the

last one's still hanging in there."

Our eyes got misty, and we stood there silently clutching one

another. Eventually our arms went slack, and we all promised to

meet in New York over the holidays.

 Chapter Fifty Seven.

The tiredness I had felt since leaving the cellar seemed to

overwhelm me as the helicopter lifted off. As I sat slumped,

looking out at Katrina and Peter, I, not so strangely, considered

staying. About asking the pilot to set back down and just stepping

off. Out there was a fountain of youth. Not of water, but of

bullets. I could follow the wars, year in and year out, never

growing rusty, or old, just forever young right into death. Like

Daniel. Like Katrina. Now like Peter.

Fortunately before I could act on these feelings, the

helicopter was well on its way. But still the urge was strong

within me and I wanted to talk about this, and Daniel was the

obvious choice. But he was already working on his dispatch. As a

Senior Editor I appreciated this and let him be. But like I said,

the feeling was strong within me, so I even considered approaching

Hemingway. But he had a forlorn look about him; Katrina I

imagined. So while following the landscape below; the burned out

buildings blending into the checkerboard countryside, I worked

over my emotions on my own.

267
 Three hours later when the helicopter set down on the

American Embassy landing pad, I found myself grinning at my own

foolishness.
 Chapter Fifty Eight.

The moment we cleared the helicopter pad Sam yelled out,

"Glad to see me?"

He stood all smiles under a party cloudy sky. In one hand he

held three clean khaki shirts, and in the other a fifth of Wild

Turkey and four glasses. The shirts were welcome, to be sure,

because the shirt I wore was high holy hell rank. But the Wild

Turkey was a sight for sore eyes. I needed a drink, if only to

wash away the Rumanian wine which had tasted like goat piss.

Daniel had felt likewise about the wine but we hadn't had the

heart to tell the commander this. He was so proud of the wine. I

also wasn't the least bit surprised that Sam hadn't immediately

inquired about the absence of Katrina and Peter, or the Mercedes.

The four glasses he held said it all. He knew what was going on.

Probably knew minutes after the helicopter had set off for

Budapest.

"Glad to see the bottle," Daniel replied.

"I am wounded," Sam said, stepping back in mock astonishment.

"It's good to see you also," Daniel quickly replied. But I

think he did so because he was afraid Sam was going to drop the

bottle.

269
 "Those words sing out to my lonely Texas heart," he replied,

"Now com'on I'll buy the first round."

This was to be a full day and night of drinking. After all we

were men who had returned from war and tradition dictated that

there were stories to embellish and lies to tell. So without

further fanfare, we headed for the press room to send off the

dispatches, and to see who could tell the biggest lie.

Hemingway had stood off to one side by himself and

consequently wasn't a part of this initial celebration. When I

reached the door to the embassy, and looked over my shoulder and

saw him still standing by the helicopter pad I shook my head in

disgust. I was trapped. From the beginning, fate had saddled me

with Peter, and now Hemingway. Although I disliked the man, he had

come this far, and was entitled to go the rest of the way.

"You going to stand there all damn day?"

I was far enough away that I had to shout, and for a moment I

wasn't sure he had heard me because he failed to respond. So I

repeated myself.

"Forget it," he shouted.

"Sam has four glasses."

"Forget it,"

Our little charade had attracted the attention of the grounds

keeper. The guy was raking leaves and paused in his work to watch

us. This was ridiculous, I thought. There I was embarrassing

myself by begging a man who I despised to come and celebrate the

art of living. So I did the only thing I could do. I walked over

to him.

"Hem, what's the problem?"

"The charade is over," he said, "I am going home. Going home

to my wife and children."

"What about your dispatch?"

"Oh stop it!" he sneered, "At least I know what I am. And

even if I didn't, you've reminded me of it often enough the past

few days. I am a man who writes about three or six legged cows."

"One legged cows," I corrected.

"Whatever," he sneered, "Hell the dispatches never meant

squat to me. They never did. I came for one last hurrah. I can

return home now, and late at night after feeding on bullshit all

day and when laying next to my snoring wife, I'll look back on

this time, smile and feel the better and go to sleep. In short,

this last hurrah will last me the rest of my life. But will this

shot of youth last you the rest of your life? Yes, I saw you and

the look on your face when the helicopter lifted off. You're not

fooling me. Nor is Daniel. Nor Katrina for that matter. So go

drink the celebration of the returning hero. But we both know what

happens to heros, don't we?"

I had stood there unmoving while he had talked, unable to

comprehend the anger and hate in his voice. Livid, I spun on my

271
heels and headed for the embassy. At the door, I turned and

yelled, "Tell me Hemingway, what becomes of hero's?"

But only the grounds keeper remained. He gave me a momentary

look before shrugging and returning to raking leaves.

 Chapter Fifty Nine.

Daniel and Sam, each holding a glass of Wild Turkey, were

chatting about Rumania when I entered the press room.

"You've met the commander," Sam said, "Hell of a man, huh?"

"Yeah," I replied testily, "A hell of a man!"

"Hemingway get to you again?" Daniel asked.

I refrained from peppering Hemingway with insults or curses.

Although I certainly had a willing audience in Daniel and Sam; and

there was the bottle of Wild Turkey to speed the sympathies along.

Instead, I simply poured myself a tall glass of whiskey, sat down

at my desk, put my reading glasses on, fired up the computer and

furiously attacked the keyboard. To their credit, Daniel and Sam

did not attempt to intervene by asking dumb questions. By the

storm clouds etched on my face, they obviously had guessed I was

very angry, and continued talking as if I wasn't there. It was

just as well.

There are times when a blank computer screen is very

daunting, but this wasn't one of them. I knew exactly word for

word what I was going to write. Had known since we happened upon

the old man in the park. I was going to write about Peter, a young

273
man, meeting the sector of war face to face. But as the words

flowed from my fingers, I changed the dispatch, and instead wrote

about Hemingway. I used my anger as motivation and finished the

dispatch in under an hour. Afterwards, I felt spent, as if the

vitality that had driven me was now stored in the computer. I

pushed my chair away from the desk, sighed, and stood to refill my

glass. The office was quiet, and somewhere in the far corner of my

brain, the corner that sense's a threatening shadow has appeared

from between a bank of garbage cans while walking up fifty-ninth

street in New York city late at night, I noticed Daniel and Sam

staring at me. I supposed they had watched me for a long time. And

why not. I had acted like a madman.

"Sorry," I sheepishly said while pouring the drink.

"Hey," Sam replied.

"Right," Daniel said. But he went to the computer and stared

at the screen. I almost screamed for him to get away, but caught

myself in time. He read aloud the last line in the dispatch.

"Hemingway was an individual searching for a dream, but the hype

of the Super Bowl and the convenience of the microwave oven

defeated his individualism and he returned home to his dreams of

three and six legged cows. Is this what America has come to?"

"You want to talk about it?" Daniel asked.

"No. Yes. No. It's Hemingway," I finally said and told them

what had happened.

"He's jealous," Sam observed.

 These were my thoughts exactly, but I was heartened to hear

them somewhere other then in my head.

"Yeah, he is," Daniel agreed. "Want me to activate the modem

and transmit it?"

For a second the idea was tantalizing. As soon as the second

passed, the idea horrified me. The dispatch was self indulgent

crap, and I knew it.

"How about delete," I replied, my anger gone.

"Yeah sure," Sam perked up, "Why give the bastard the

satisfaction."

"Consider it done," Daniel replied.

Yes indeed, I thought, now that the anger was gone. Why give

Hemingway the satisfaction. And there was the moment, right there,

to let go of the anger and Hemingway. But instead I talked about

him as men talk about men; and I denied everything he had said.

What did he knew. He was man who wrote about one legged cows. I

wrote real journalism. What did he know. And here was where I

began to see the truth as it was, not as Hemingway had seen it,

and the truth was, was that we had accomplished the impossible. We

had planned a daring foray into a war torn country and had emerged

unscathed.

"So fuck Hemingway," I said at last.

"Hear hear," Sam clamored.

"And hear," Daniel seconded.

275
 "Ball-less bastard," Sam added.

"Yeah, no balls," Daniel agreed

"Hear hear," Sam said again, only louder then before.

As the whiskey freely flowed, we eventually moved away from

Hemingway and grew more robust in congratulating ourselves on a

job well done.

 Chapter Sixty.

The celebration continued unabated for the next three and a

half hours. We wolfed down ham sandwiches that Sam had the gopher

bring up from the Embassy canteen. We drank whiskey. We toasted

the Minister of Information. We hooted. We toasted Katrina and

Peter. We hollered. And in between, Daniel and I worked on our

dispatches. As we did so Sam delighted in playing the nasty

editor, the repressed writer in him I imagined, and hopped from

computer to computer criticizing what was written there. Although

I feigned anger at his criticism, for the most part it was valid

and I instituted the changes he recommended. And all in all we had

a swell time and when the dispatches were transmitted, and the

film that Katrina had shot was on its way, via courier pouch, to

Paris, we laughed at the serious pretentiousness of such work.

After this a general relaxation overtook us. We lazily sat

around, feet propped up on desks, drinking and shooting the bull.

Actually we were well oiled by this time and the whiskey did our

speaking for us. Each of us took turns telling an outrageous tale.

Each of our tales was sexual in nature and in each we exaggerated

277
our sexual powers. Sam was in the middle of a story about a blond

when Daniel remarked that Sam had already told the story.

"I did, huh," Sam commented, "Mm."

"I know one," I said.

They both looked expectantly at me. A second ago the story

had been there, but now it was gone and I just shook my head at

them.

So we all sat there with the befuddled look men wear when

they are trying to rescue the life of the party by telling the

greatest tale ever told. But we were each stumped and sat for so

long staring at our drinks that we soon felt boredom's icy fingers

brush across the heart of the celebration.

Somewhere in the recesses of my brain I knew this was because

we had worked, and we had shot the breeze, and now the celebration

had reached the moving on stage; go out and show the world how

happy you are even if they don't care.

"lets go," I said.

"Where?" Daniel asked.

I wanted to exercise boasting privileges and voted we go to

the New York Cafe and snort and grunt and scream. I knew this was

silly, like a little boy, and shyly said as much. But this too was

the whiskey speaking.

"As a Texan," Sam solemnly replied, "I understand boasting."

 But it's still too early," Daniel said, "Not quite five. The

New York Cafe is probably dead."

So where to go became a grievous problem. Sam suggested a

strip joint located in the gypsy part of town. He had gone there

twice and both times had feasted on the most amazing sight he had

ever seen...and he had been to Thailand, he added. The joint, and

the name escaped him right then, had lined up five hundred naked

women and took their picture and superimposed it onto the outside

wall. The sight of all those breasts was so overwhelming that he

spent two hours studying each and every breast and concluded that

breasts truly did come in all shapes and sizes. Although I had to

admit that the sight of five hundred breasts sounded intriguing, I

wasn't up for it. The, I wasn't up for it,' part of my sentence

elicited a few rowdy comments from Sam and Daniel. But it was done

in fun.

After this we all poured a drink and contemplated where to

go. We were still doing so fifteen minutes later when Jack and

Joanne stopped by. This was a pleasant surprise and after

introducing them to Sam, I said as much.

"Thanks," Jack said, "But why so glum looking?"

As Daniel explained the problem, Joanne grew excited. "You

were in Bucharest. Gee how exciting."

"Yes."

279
 "We heard about the civil war a few hours ago on the Sky

news," Jack commented, "The announcer was a bit short on

information."

"Is it terrible?" Joanne asked.

"Worse," Daniel replied.

"And you both were there?"

"Eye witnesses."

"Must be a hell of a feather in your caps."

"Ostrich," Daniel replied.

"Yes. And I can see your problem."

"Problem?" Sam asked.

"About where to go."

"It will solve itself very shortly," Daniel replied.

"How so?"

"Through procrastination. If we sit here long enough, the New

York Cafe will be crowded. See."

"Yes."

"Care to join us?"

"Love to."

"Good," Daniel replied.

"By the way what brings you here. A pickpocket lift your

passports?" Sam asked.

"No," Jack replied.

"The garment bag, remember?" He said to me.

 The conversation had moved along at quite a rapid clip, and

in my present condition I wasn't sure for a second what the hell

Jack was talking about. It dawned on me all at once, and I quickly

explained to Sam.

"Yes," Joanne proudly said when I had finished, "Jack was a

great sleuth. The garment bag had a name tag attached to it with

the owners address in the States written on it. He called the

information operator in"

"Dubuque," Jack added.

"Yes," she said, "Dubuque, and wrote down the phone number

for every listing that had the same last name as on the baggage

tag."

"Newman," Jack said.

"Yes," she said, "Newman, and then called every name on the

list."

"And there were an even dozen," Jack said.

"Yes," She said, "Good thing the guy didn't live in New York

City. Anyway, he finally reached this Newman's father."

"The old geezer was a bit leery at first. Understandable. I

was a stranger," Jack said.

"But after Jack explained about the garment bag," Joanne

said, "The man gave Jack the phone number of where his son worked

here in Budapest. Isn't Jack great!"

"I did it for Joanne."

281
 "My hero."

"Sounds like a hell of lot of work," Daniel commented.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "But what brings you to the embassy. The

reason I ask is if you need a new passport, I can grease the

wheels."

"Why we came to exchange garment bags," Jack replied.

The conversation had transpired as laid out above, and I

think by this time Daniel, and Sam were totally befuddled. I know

I was. I was still back at when Jack had been talking to the

Stateside information operator in Dubuque asking about some guy

named Newman.

"I think I should explain," Jack said, seeing our obvious

confusion. "This Newman teaches english at the Gorki Fasor

Gymnasium. I called the school and they referred me to a Mr. Rose

here at the Embassy. Know him, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam replied, "He heads the Agency for International

Development project here, and is in charge of recruiting english

teachers from America. A bookish man."

"Sounded like it. Anyway, he was very glad to hear from me.

He knew Newman well. Had recruited him right off the campus. When

I explained about the bag, he agreed to talk to him and set up the

exchange right here."

"Why here?" I heard Daniel ask.

"I don't know. Seemed strange to me. But I was so happy I

didn't pursue why."

 "The guy's a spook," Sam said.

"He's black?" Joanne intoned.

No," Sam laughed, "He see's bogeymen in every corner. The

AID's project is a C. I. A. front. Don't get me wrong. It's not

what it sounds like. It's a benign arm of the C.I.A. They recruit

english teachers and send them all over the world. The idea is to

teach the oppressed english while at the same instilling American

values. Some brain at Langely thought it up. Works too."

"Except in El Salvador," Daniel replied.

"True," Sam conceded.

My drunken condition was affecting my state of mind, and I

was still pretty much behind in the conversation. After all, I

wasn't used to drinking; especially Wild Turkey, a smooth, but

wallop packing hundred and one proof bourbon. Also I hadn't had

much sleep in the past twenty four hours. Consequently my brain

was grappling with an overload of facts and trying to sort them

out. Newman. Dubuque. Garment bag. AID. CIA. El Salvador. The New

York Cafe. So one by one I discarded every fact but the name

Newman, and was truly amazed at the coincidence.

"You have Julie's garment bag," I announced.

"Your Julie," Joanne said, "But how can..."

Her mouth fell open in total amazement.

"Who the hell is Julie?" Sam asked.

"A woman he met on the plane over," Daniel replied.

283
 "This can't be," Jack said, as amazed as Joanne.

"Amazing," I said, "Just amazing. I meet a nice woman on the

plane ride over, say goodbye, and then by happenstance I meet you

two. Just amazing."

"Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?" Sam

demanded.

Sam seemed very flustered, and I wanted to explain, but the

coincidence was too stunning right then. So I took a moment, and

dwelled on Julie. But too many miles had transpired, and in truth

she seemed a million miles away. But the prospect of seeing her

again excited me, so I left it at that.

"Com'on lets go exchange the bags," I said and excitedly

jumped up. The alcohol quickly went to my head I immediately grew

light headed and dizzy, and wobbled a bit. I corrected my balance.

"I'll explain on the way."

"Good think you're not driving," Daniel said.

"Thing," I replied, "Thing."

 Chapter Sixty One.

"What a delightful coincidence," Mr. Rose said upon hearing

about the garment bags.

The six of us stood outside his office located on the third

floor of the Embassy. Sam had made introductions all around, but

except to mentally note that Mr. Rose's name suited him; thin and

delicate like a rose, I really hadn't paid too much attention to

this. I was slightly disappointed that Julie wasn't there and

tortured myself by wondering if she'd show. After all there really

wasn't any reason for her to do so. Adjusting to a strange country

and its customs was daunting enough, but she also had Anna to

attend to. Her husband could exchange bags well enough without

her.

"Yes," Joanne replied, "A chance in a million, wouldn't you

say?"

"Oh, yes."

I absently nodded agreement, but kept looking toward the

stairwell, expecting them, or him, to come walking up the hall. At

last I couldn't take the suspense any longer and rudely intruded

on the conversation going on. "I hate to break this up. But do you

know what time they'll be here?"

285
 "Oh, they are here."

"Here?" I intoned a bit more harshly then intended.

"Why yes. They are waiting in my office."

"All three of them?"

"Yes."

Right then my face must of held a 'What the hell are we doing

standing in the damn hall,' smirk because he quickly apologized

for rambling on so. After all, we were busy men. "My office is

small, as Sam can attest to. So I'll go and fetch them and the

infernal garment bag that has caused this terrible inconvenience."

"Good idea," I replied a bit too tersely.

I realized that my ill manners was the whiskey speaking, but

I didn't care one bit. The silly bastard had it coming.

"My my my, we are impatient," Daniel ribbed.

"No," I answered foully, "But the silly bastard intended on

standing there all damn day gabbing. Jesus. Don't these embassy

people have anything to do but gab on taxpayers time."

"No, not really," Sam replied.

I was just working up a good head of steam and would of

railed on about this petty bureaucrat much longer, but Julie

stepped from his office. And but God damn, she was beautiful, I

thought. And then as I watched her walk toward me, I was struck by

two realism's. I loved her. And this love didn't matter. From the

onset our chance encounter had had an air of finality to it, and

this rather bizarre setting was to be the closing chapter.

 There are times when a man strives to be everything the books

and the movies say a man should be. Never mind the pain. Go ahead

doctor and amputate the limb. I'll just grit my teeth and bare it.

Well I was on the operating table and I was determined to be a man

about it. I'd keep the conversation polite. Avert her eyes. Say

hello. Laugh at the coincidence of the garment bags. And I was

going to do all this by maintaining tight control over the

situation. I would lead the conversation, keeping it within the

boundaries of polite discourse. But the moment she walked up to

me, her eyes meeting mine, I lost all thought. Now it was only her

and I in the hall. There was a conversation taking place around us

and I was vaguely aware that Daniel had taken the lead, and why,

and silently thanked him for it, and than the conversation was a

million miles away. Julie and I didn't require language. Thousands

of years of evolution and a single unspoken word passed between

us. A second later a hand was rudely thrusted toward me, and when

I looked at the face the hand belonged to I assumed it was Julie's

husband. It was. I amassed all my years of sizing people up, and

quickly inspected him, wanting desperately to like him; if only

because Julie deserved a good caring man. At first glance he was

greasy. He was also greasy at second glance. He had greasy eyes,

and greasy hands. I really wanted to be objective about him and

searched for a substance in him. But there was none. Even his

clothes were greasy. The top two buttons of his polyester shirt

287
were unbuttoned and a gold chain shone out from his chest. This

jerk, I thought, fancied himself a ladies man. So I of course

shook his hand, but not warmly.

"Edward Newman," He said right off, "And I want to thank you

for taking care of my wife and daughter during the flight. Would

of done so myself, but I left a few weeks ahead of her. You know

how it is?"

No I did not and did not want to know. Fortunately Anna was

rummaging through the garment bag, forestalling a need to answer

him. She found what she was searching for and proudly held up a

children's diary.

"Oh it's here," she exclaimed, "I was so worried.

Julie smiled down at her and said to me, "You staying much

longer."

"No. The morrow I take the feeder flight to Belgrade. From

there a flight to New York City."

"Yes, I forget," she replied, her voice barely above a

whisper, "You mentioned you were only here for the week."

"Yes. I have to get back to New York."

"Come, come for dinner tonight. It's the least I can do to

repay you for your kindness. Please say yes."

Her request had a soulful kindness to it. But I couldn't

accept. Daniel knew this. He stood a few feet away, his hands

stuffed in his pocket, his face melancholy as if he had seen this

scene played out before. Sam too. I was about to politely decline
when her husband shocked me by abruptly taking her forearm and

leading her back into the office.

"He always does that when he doesn't want me to hear what he

saying," Anna said.

I stooped so we were at eye level. "Adults are like this," I

said, "You still have the coin I gave you?"

She gleefully produced it from her pocket and held out it at

arms length.

"Good. You hang on to it. It's a magic coin. Bring much

luck."

Although she looked as leery as she had when I had first

presented her with the coin, she stuffed it in her pocket and gave

me a great big hug. By this time Julie had returned. Her once

bright eyes were down turned and sad and doe like.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, "I wasn't thinking. The house is

such a mess. I."

"Maybe next time," I replied.

"Yes."

"Well."

"Well."

"Goodbye's are always difficult."

"Yes."

"But you got your bag back."

289
 "Yes. What a great coincidence. Something to tell our grand

kids."

"They'll never believe it. Think we're old fools."

"I suppose."

"Well, we'll tell them anyway. The devil care what they

think."

"Yes. The devil care."

This

nonsensical

chatter

could continue

forever

and in this

way forever

we'd be.

Our gaze said. But her husband had put on his jacket and was

ready to go. He stood outside Mr. Rose's office. Etched on the

glass behind him was the Embassy Emblem. From where I stood, he

seemed to be in perfect alignment with the eagle on the emblem.

"Take care," I said and winked.

There was no response as she shuffled along behind him. At

the opening where the stairs met the hall, Anna waved goodbye.

That was the last I saw of them.

"Nice lady," Daniel commented.

 "Tough scene," Sam said and hit me on the forearm. "Com'on

I'll buy you a drink."

291
 Chapter Sixty Two.

The encounter with Julie had sobered me and from the moment

we left the Embassy, it was evident, at least to me, that I wasn't

in the mood for company. Daniel and Sam were wise in the ways of

such matters and walked a few feet ahead of me keeping

conversation to themselves. But Jack and Joanne were still pumped

up about the bag and wanted to chatter on about Julie and her

husband and how strange the whole matter was. So I felt obligated

to respond, if only in a perfunctory way. Fortunately it started

to drizzle a few blocks away from the New York Cafe and we all

covered our heads with our hands and ran; except for me. Joanne

saw this, and broke the skipping duck legged stride she was using

long enough to pause and laugh, "Com'on run. The last one there is

a rotten egg."

I knew she was being kind, what with Julie and this my last

night in Budapest. But I waved her on, and she continued skipping

duck leg style until she caught up with Jack who carried the

garment bag and was lagging behind the others.

The rain quickly turned into a downpour, blurring the street

and sidewalks ahead until at last I lost sight of them running. I

lengthened my stride, thinking to hurry my pace, then dashed into

the safety of a doorway and paused there. As I looked out at the

rain I decided against going to the New York Cafe. I didn't feel

like listening to them sully Julie's husband, while feeling sorry

for her because she was married to such a jerk. They wouldn't do

so because they were mean spirited people, but out of

consideration for me. I was their friend, and as such the script

demanded that Edward play the asshole, and Julie the innocent

victim married to the asshole, and I the great and wonderful but

feeling sorry for himself injured third party. I could well

imagine that Edward right now was sitting amongst friends sipping

beer and playing out his own version of this same script.

Well the hell with them all, I angrily thought, I wasn't

going to play. I wasn't about to feel sorry for myself, and I

didn't want to feel sorry for Edward. Daniel and Sam would

understand, I was sure, and they'd sooth any hurt feelings.

Once this decision was made, I was faced with where to go. I

knew I had to go somewhere, if only, I told myself, then assured

myself, because I was wet and was chilly. So I decided to go to

the apartment. I'd pour myself some of Jack's scotch and sit in my

bedroom and watch the rain fall. Maybe if I was lucky, she'd be

exercising on the balcony and invite me over. Or maybe if I got

good and drunk, I'd shout at the moon. After all I had done the

right thing and the moon owed me one.

293
 Chapter Sixty Three.

I awoke all sudden like the next day, as if jarred into

consciousness. I lay more groggy then awake for a few seconds.

When my brain came to life, I quickly stumbled upon two alarming

facts. I had a blazing hangover. My head felt like a demolition

derby was taking place there. And had I missed the flight to

Belgrade. I knew the latter because the sun outside the window

wasn't where it should be.

Although it hurt to think, I forced myself to go over my

options. As I did so I wasn't too alarmed about missing the

flight. I was reasonably confident that I could catch a late train

into Belgrade. If I was lucky and caught a midnight run, I'd be

able to catch some zzzzzz, and arrive in Belgrade in plenty of

time for the morning flight to New York City.

Working this out had taken a great deal of energy and I

allowed myself the luxury of staring at the ceiling for a while

before rising. There were noises outside the door. Coughing.

Daniel's voice. Joanne's answering him. Jack saying something. All

three laughing. There was also the smell of eggs and bacon. The

smell made my stomach nauseous. To take my mind off the smell of

the food, I attempted to make out what they were saying, but I
could only make out a word here and there and after a while I

filtered them out and concentrated on last night. Right away a

vague recollection began to take form of what had transpired when

I had arrived home. I had immediately shed the wet clothing for a

towel, grabbed Jack's scotch off the kitchen table and went and

sat at the bedroom window facing the balcony. The window was open

and the breeze had been a bit cool. I had shivered from it. I

considered closing the window, but was too depressed to move. But

the scotch quickly eased this depression, and after a while the

cool breeze seemed almost warm. She wasn't there, of course. Her

apartment was dark. But I stared nevertheless at the balcony. When

I had first sat the bottle had been almost full, and after

drinking about a three quarter's of this, only taking my eyes off

the balcony long enough to fill the glass, she was there. The rain

caressed her body and cascaded at her feet into a puddle. But she

really wasn't there. It was just the rain and the dark playing

tricks on my eyes. A few minutes later she was there, smiling

waving, calling me over. A mere leap covered the distance between

the window and the balcony. I had leapt further as a youth. I

could do it. I took a step and immediately started falling, my

head spinning.

From there everything was blank.

295
 Chapter Sixty Four.

She was out there now, and as always, was unabashed about

her nudity. The thunder storms from the previous night had cleaned

the sky of clouds, and she worked under a clear azure blue. As she

completed the downward motion of a knee bend, she removed one hand

from her hip and waved. I smiled. Of course she had not been on

the balcony last night. Seeing her had been an alcohol induced

illusion. I had forgotten this about whiskey during my years of

abstinence.

As I reveled in the way she moved, lean and graceful, I

considered calling Daniel into the room to translate for me and

tell her that I was leaving for the states in a few hours and

inviting her over for coffee. I quickly rejected the idea. There

was mystery and intrigue between us. Because of the language

barrier we had passed but a few words. Hello and Ovoce. And some

heart felt laughter. And for a moment something more. To learn

more about her life than I already knew would destroy this mystery

and intrigue. I was sure she felt the same.

But I had to do something for us. The image as it was was

incomplete. So I raised an open palm to my lips and planted a kiss

on it. I held the palm out, and softly blew. I was fairly sure
she'd understand the meaning and would not take offense. But one

never knew. But she didn't disappoint me. She paused and did the

same. But I still wasn't sure whether she understood the meaning

or was simply imitating me. But a second later when I turned away

from the window, I was sure. For she stood very still, the knee

bends she had been engaged in forgotten.

297
 Chapter Sixty Five.

As I emerged from the bedroom, Daniel made a comment about

missing the flight, but I still felt like shit and preferring to

explain later, let it go. I went to the bathroom and set the

shower for as hot as I could bear. As the water steamed over me, I

noticed a black and blue bruise on my backside where the man had

struck me with the rife. I examined the bruise and found it was

tender and sore to the touch and let it be. Little by little the

hot needles of the spray helped to alleviate the fogginess in my

head. As my thoughts cleared, I decided, unlike with Julie,

against sharing the woman on the balcony with Daniel or Jack and

Joanne. I suppose this was childish of me, and not too unlike a

young boy who has a crush on his high school home room teacher but

never reveals these feelings to his buddies because he fears

ridicule. I didn't fear their ridicule so much as the thought of

sharing her. To share her in anyway would diminish her or tarnish

the illusion. No, the lady on the balcony was mine and mine and

mine alone.

Even grown men, I assured myself while shaving, need an

allusion to hang onto.

 My reflection in the mirror replied, "Especially grown men."

I flashed a rueful smirk at this last thought. The smirk said

that I didn't want to get into such crap right now. Especially

right now.

299
 Chapter Sixty Six.

By the time I had dressed and entered the kitchen, I felt

like a new man. No strike that. I felt rejuvenated. Showering and

shaving does this to a man. A woman too, I suppose. You go to

sleep with the same old problems, and awake to them. But somewhere

in between showering, shaving, and slipping into clean clothes a

new day takes shape in the mind and yesterday's problems get

pushed onto the rear burner. Such it was with me. The tenderness

in my side had lessened. The pounding in my head had become a

shallow knock. Yesterday; Julie and Rumania seemed like a million

miles away. Even the eggs and bacon smelled good. So much so that

my stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn't eaten in almost twenty

four hours.

Although I protested, Joanne insisted I sit. I did so and she

immediately set a cup of coffee in front of me, and followed this

by a plate of eggs and bacon. She warmed up Daniel's and Jack

coffee, then her own, returned the pot to the burner and sat.

Daniel again mentioned missing the flight. I explained my thoughts

on the matter.

"Good, we can go to the train station together," he said.

 I had figured Daniel would stay another few days at least and

was very much surprised by his statement.

"You leaving?"

"Talked to the Bureau Chief in Rome. He wants to do a spread

on Rumania. Assign a crew. Want's me to head it. Just found out a

few hours ago so I am forced to take the train to Prague and fly

to Rome from there. Jack has a train schedule."

"Great."

"I picked up the schedule yesterday," Jack added, and handed

me the train schedule. I spread it out on the table before me.

"Joanne and I planned on taking the train to Eastern Hungary today

and I wanted to be sure of the departure times. The tour books

show several towns to be interesting. Wine growing country. But

sorry to see you two go."

"Same," I answered.

"There are two departures for the train to Prague," Daniel

said, "Six and eleven. I want to make the Six o'clock Train."

"Same for Belgrade," I said while studying the schedule, "But

my flight leaves at seven in the morning, so I want to take the

later departure and sleep. But I'll go to the train station with

you and just lounge around."

"Sounds good," Daniel replied.

I pushed the schedule aside and dug into the eggs. "What was

all the laughter about?"

301
 "We wake you?" Joanne asked.

"I don't know," I answered truthfully, "One moment I was

sleeping and the next I was awake and in pain. Damn scotch. How

can you drink the stuff?"

"It's an acquired taste," Jack replied with a straight face.

"Or Eastern pretentious. Take your pick."

"Well, if so, sorry," Joanne replied, "I was telling Daniel

about the other night when you came out of the bedroom naked and

how we stumbled into each other."

Daniel grinned and said, "With an erection, no less."

I had completely forgot about that, and the memory of it made

me blush.

"The erection was quite understandable," Jack commented. He

leaned over gave Joanne peck on the cheek. "Considering how

attractive Joanne is. But Joanne assured me it was all very

innocent. So I will forego the Vermont revenge."

"What would this be?" I foolishly inquired.

"Death by leaf peeping," Joanne said, and so relished this

she doubled over in laughter.

"Jesus," I said, running off a few chuckles of my own, "You

and leaf peeping. I think you two have a leaf peeping fetish."

"We do," Jack replied, "Living in Vermont isn't very exciting

you know."

"Quiet though," Daniel commented.

"Yes. And damn cold," Joanne replied.

 "Aye," Jack noted. He checked his watch. "Well dear we had

better be off. The train leaves in forty minutes."

"Yes," she replied.

We all stood. There is a sociological order to most things in

life and so there is to leaving new found acquaintances who have

become friends. Address and phone numbers are exchanged. Each

promises to write the other. One person complains that although

people promise to write, they rarely do, and Joanne complained

about this. This complaint embarrasses and the injured party feels

compelled to defend, and Daniel and I did so, both agreeing that

this was usually the case but that we would write. As A follows B

the embarrassment passed from the injured party to the person who

made the complaint. But Jack came to Joanne's defense and admitted

that he was guilty of not writing, even when promising to do so.

So this admission soothes all the embarrassed parties and then

they group together for a series of photos.

And we did. And Joanne sent me copies of them and to this day

they sit on my desk at work.

303
 Chapter Sixty Seven.

A few minutes after Jack and Joanne had left I looked at

Daniel. He sat lazily at the table, his body english saying all

hurry was gone. And why not. There wasn't much for us to do. We

had traveled light, and packing what few possessions we had would

only take a few minutes at best.

I stood and carried my dishes to the sink and rinsed them.

This done, I poured a half cup of coffee from the pot on the stove

and joined him at the table.

"Naked huh," he stated.

"Yeah."

"My but you do have a way with the ladies," he said and

grinned, "I guess some things never change."

What I replied began with F and ended with U.

"Yeah sure," He replied, "Well they are nice people. Eastern.

Yankee. Strong. Conviction."

A pause.

"Gad I had a good time in Rumania."

Another pause.

"Naked huh."

"As a jaybird."
 A much longer pause.

"Did you ever sleep with Katrina?"

"Yeah, you."

"Sure, I had my ten days with her before she dumped me."

Another long pause.

"Strange, but I think the kid has her number."

"I agree."

"A first for her."

"Maybe?"

A very long pause. Long enough to finish off my coffee and

refill the cup.

"Come to Rome. Spend a few days."

So there it was, what was going to be said was said.

"You skip Rome and come to New York."

"Got a job for me?"

"Naw, you're too set in your ways."

"Listen to us. We're out of our minds."

"Maybe?" I answered, "Tell you what lets talk about it over

the holidays."

"Sounds good," he said and stood, "Lets get out of here.

There's a waiting world to inform."

305
 Chapter Sixty Eight.

A half hour later, we left the apartment. Although the

streets were crowded with mid-afternoon shoppers, we paid scant

attention to them. The conversation between us was light, airy,

just two friends out for a stroll and if the conversation was

going nowhere it was because we were already there. We went from

the apartment to the Embassy to pick up our laptop computers and

to say goodbye to Sam. He was out, and both of us left him a note.

I called the Minister of Information's office to thank him and was

informed he was out. I mentally noted to call him upon returning

to New York City. Then to avoid possible delays at the train

station we stopped at the Embassy pursers office and purchased our

tickets from the Cashier. I had wanted to say goodbye to Stan so

we headed for the New York Cafe next. Stan also wasn't there.

Daniel had two bottles of Wild Turkey remaining from his stash and

left one for Stan. Both of us signed a note wishing him luck. By

this time it was two thirty and we headed for the Keleti Pu train

station at Baross Sg. Like all train stations in Eastern

Europe, the Keleti Pu was A typical for the region. The structure

was concrete and steel with catacomb like open air archways

leading to the outside. Since the train was the main form of
travel in Eastern Europe, the station was a mecca for hordes of

Eastern Block travelers; soldiers, farmers, students, and

tourists.

We arrived at the station with a few minutes to spare and

Daniel verified this by checking his watch. "The train leaves in

ten minutes."

"Yeah. Remember South Africa. We caught that plane out with

inches to spare."

Daniel laughed in rememberence. "Yeah. If the C. I. A. didn't

get us, the South African government would of."

We were still laughing about this when Daniel realized that

his train wasn't listed on the schedule board. Because both of us

had dealt with communist inefficiency before, we weren't too

concerned and searched for the information booth to inquire about

the train to Prague. Vendors abounded every few feet; some selling

what passed as American hot-dogs, other selling pale orange juice,

coke, and beer, still others with magazines and newspapers laid

face up so the headlines of a dozen different languages showed.

Several times we were approached and asked if we wanted to

exchange money. We gently but firmly shooed these people away. We

found the information booth by walking up a corroder lined with

dozens of people stretched out on the floor. Most were bundled up

in rags. Lice crawled on their filthy clothing. Pigeons, their

wings fluttering to maintain flight in the tunnel the corridor

307
was, raced through the corridor from the open archways. Outside of

the archways, men urinated against the outside walls.

Daniel gave me a look that said the scene was in sharp

contrast to what we had seen on the streets of Budapest.

"Freedom has a long way to go," I said.

"I am sure," He replied.

At the information booth, we waited our turn in line, about

five minutes, before Daniel made inquiries. A harried man told him

that the train to Prague was delayed.

How long?

Maybe two hours. Listen for the announcement.

Thank you.

There wasn't anything to do but wait, so we bought two

glasses filled with ice from a refreshment stand and went to one

of the arches that opened to the outside and hunkered down on the

floor. Daniel cracked open the Wild Turkey and for a while we

didn't say much, each of us preferring to sip and watch the

passing parade. Occasionally when something of interest caught

our eye, such as the family who had a bambie look alike on a

leash, we commented; taking dinner home to some small town.

It was in this vain about an hour later that Daniel pointed

at the rafters overhead.

"Look."

All I saw was a bunch of pigeons and said so.

 "Yeah, but look at those two grouped well away from the

others. The gray and the white."

"Yeah so?"

"They are mates."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"I've watched them for a while now. Every time a pigeon comes

near, the gray one squeaks and jumps up and down and chases the

intruder away."

We had about finished the bottle of Wild Turkey and the

whiskey was affecting him, of this I was sure, and said so.

"Watch," he insisted.

"I am not watching damn pigeons."

"Suit yourself."

I did. But I had seen what the station had to offer thrice

and after a while my attention strayed to the rafters. By God, he

was right, I thought. The gray pigeon stayed very close to the

white pigeon except on the occasions when a stranger pigeon landed

on the same rafter they were on. Upon seeing the offending pigeon,

the gray pigeon puffed out its chest and cooed so fiercely that a

few feathers flew from him, fluttering to the ground.

"That pigeon is smarter than we are," he said.

"How so?"

"He knows enough not to let another man get to close to his

mate."

309
 A pause.

"You can't blame Edward for doing the same."

"I know."

"But you handled it well."

"Thanks."

"You know I lied to you about her. She's in my mind. "

"Yes, I know."

"No, you don't know."

"No, I don't," I admitted.

"I forget for a while. A month. Two. Three even. But than

slowly the truth seeps through the barricades; the whiskey, and I

begin to lose myself. Me. Just gone. You remember in the beginning

when she first left me how I was. Dead inside. When you're dead

inside, everything around you feels dead. That's how it is now.

But over the years when I feel this dead consuming me I've learned

to stem the feeling by hiding. I hole up in a hotel room for a

week or a month, however long it takes. I stay drunk the entire

time. The last few times this has happened, I think about Ted

Smith. The shotgun. An ending to the pain. I dwell on it."

"I feel dead inside right now. The war, the commander and the

men being executed. But most of it was seeing Julie and the look

on both your faces. How the hell does one remain neutral."

I was too stunned to reply. He had been so sure of himself,

so much like his old self. The one to take charge. Hell, it was
him who had gotten us into Rumania and out. Had we gone without

him chances were we'd be dead or wounded.

But I had to say something. But before I could respond, he

started crying. The tears weren't large, just little drops of

water that tumbled down his cheeks. He attempted to hide them by

staring very straight and very rigid at the pigeons. I wanted to

turn away, if only out of friendships sake, but couldn't. I was

angered and humiliated by my actions, or lack of. Shit I was a

journalist. I was trained to deal with what I was feeling in an

analytical fashion. But my training failed me when I needed it the

most and I sat there staring at him. I knew as I watched him that

things would never be the same. I had been fooling myself. Maybe

it was my own fault. I had wanted to recapture the past; scoop it

up in my hands and drink from it. A Don Quixote fountain of youth.

Relive the old days with a friend and everything would be okay.

But nothing was okay. I had briefly met and fallen in love with a

woman named Julie and she was now lying in bed with another man; I

had met a man who had wanted to walk in the park and he was now

more then likely sleeping under six feet of dirt; and I had fallen

back in love with Daniel and he had not really been the Daniel of

yesteryear...but only a piece of Daniel. The past was just that;

past. All the windmills were gone.

311
 Chapter Sixty Nine.

I arrived in New York city all but brain dead. I had thought

about Daniel the entire trip and by the time the plane set down at

Kennedy international I was so full of him I wanted to scream him

out of me. The air in New York always smells like exhaust fumes,

and today was no exception. I hailed a taxi and instructed the

driver to take me to Greg's tavern on Fifty fifth and Sixth. The

city slowly materialized from within the taxi, but the sights were

too familiar to be of any interest. I was a regular at Greg's and

the moment I entered, someone yelled: Hail the conquering hero. A

few people greeted me by name, then went back to whatever they had

been doing before I had walked in. Christie, the bar maid, rushed

up and threw her hands and arms around me and hugged. We had, off

and on, and in between seeing other people, dated each other for

some months and she purred on about how she had missed me, and how

naughty I was not to of written her, and did I want to go? She had

a new bedspread. It was warm. Soft. No I did not. A childish pout.

A promise of later. The pout fled. She laughed merrily and joined

three well known artists sitting at a table well away from the

bar. Greg was behind the bar and asked me how it was hanging. A

tourist in a straw hat asked me if I was famous. Greg shooed him

away. I ordered a Wild Turkey on the rocks. Greg had served me

nothing but mineral water for years and gave me a funny look.

"That bad?"

"Worse."

He nodded and without further fanfare served me. I took the

glass and picked a table well away from everybody. And everybody

left me alone. That was the nice thing about Greg's. The regulars

knew enough to make you feel welcome, and knew enough to leave a

person alone. The tourists, well they were tourists, and this says

it all.

Slowly the whiskey relaxed me. Three drinks later, I almost

felt congenial enough to be around people. Almost. Right then a

woman asked if she could join me. When I looked up from my drink

and saw who it was, I was not surprised. Greg's was an institution

in New York, and was like that. If you sat there long enough,

everybody who you knew since year one would come in. If you sat

there long enough.

"Sure," I answered, and waved a hand at a chair.

Upon seeing her sit down, Greg, a towel draped over his arm,

came right over. While toweling off the table, he gave her an

approving once over.

"Scotch on the rocks," I said.

"For a woman such as this," Greg replied, "You don't just

mean bar scotch?"

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 "No. The best. For a woman like this."

He walked away humming to himself. He was in a good mood.

That was nice.

"Long time," she said.

"Years," I replied.

"I've been here for a while." She pointed at a group gathered

around a table by the door. Her husband was among the group. "At

first I thought you were ignoring me. But soon after I realized

you hadn't seen me."

"No," I admitted, "I hadn't."

She took a deep breath and laughed. "I am glad. See my palms

are sweating."

"Why?"

"Well, you know. Daniel and all."

"Oh yes, and all."

The conversation paused as Greg set a coaster on the table,

followed by her drink. He started to make small talk, took one

look at the sour look on my face and went behind the bar.

"Maybe I should go. You don't look very happy."

"I left happy back on the floor of the Keleti Pu train

station in Budapest. But that is okay because I had watched

unhappiness board a train to Prague."

"Daniel?"

"Right."

"It wasn't my fault."

 "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be the man who was always fair and honest."

"He is my friend."

"Be honest."

"Why?

"Because."

"Because why?"

So I can tell you how wrong you are."

"Right."

"Be honest."

"Lets get off the subject, okay."

"If you want."

"What brings you into town?"

"The Modern Language convention."

"Ah yes," I said, slowly running my palms across the table as

if brushing away a troublesome crumb there, "those hollowed men

and women of higher learning."

"See, we really can not get away from it. Not you and I."

"Right. He is my friend."

"And I left him. Was this so terrible?"

"No. But there was no need to laugh at him, or let your

friends laugh at him when he made a childish fool out of himself

by sending you flowers or calling on you. You were his lover, you

were his friend. Hell, you owed him that much."

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 "He let me."

"I know."

"I always found you attractive."

I had read her from the moment she had sat down and had

expected this. "Why?"

"Because."

"Because the man you married is gay," I stated.

She was shaken for a moment, and her face turned pale,

showing as much.

"How?" she whispered.

"The week before he married you he made a pass at me."

"You never told me."

"No."

"You really are a bastard!"

I was close to being drunk and very slowly furled five

fingers in the air, as if to say, so what. I said, "It comes and

goes."

"No. You are a bastard. You let me marry a man who was...You

know what that's like for a woman?"

"You didn't have to take his dignity."

"He let me! Don't you understand, he let me! What you did..."

"Let me tell you something," I said, rising up in anger, "Men

like us, like me, who live outside of society, well we don't have

much. And we ain't much when it comes right down to it. We hop

from place to place trying to make sense out of an otherwise

senseless world. We search for black or white...right or

wrong...but there is no right or wrong, so we try to make

ourselves right or wrong, and damn well know the difference...at

least those of us who are worth a tinkers damn know, and yes those

of us who are not worth a tinkers damns also know, but they are

able to, except in extreme moments of stress, fool themselves. And

every now and then we meet somebody like you, a woman or a man who

appears to live on societies fringe the same as we do. And we see

a way out...a pillow to rest our heads on at night, a port in the

storm if you will..and we give this person a piece of our heart

because we know this person is just like us, that this person

would never intentionally destroy that piece of heart. Oh the love

might die, but we know, yeah we know because...because this person

who we have entrusted a piece of our heart to has seen pain, no

not just seen pain, but felt it deep in the marrow of their

bones...like us. And every now and then one of us gets hustled,

and in the process that piece of heart is burned, sacrificed

really, at societies altar....and another one of us is dead. And

this is why. Not for Daniel. I am not Daniel's keeper. I did it

for all the ones out there who gave their all and were destroyed

by people like you. So go find somebody else to fuck you; there's

plenty out there like you willing. Now you're in my bar so get the

hell out of my sight!"

"I am going," She stiffly replied

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 She stood. But she lingered and I knew she was going for the

last word.

"I hope you remember what you threw away."

"Mistake," I coldly replied. "Writers always have the last

word. So when you get back over to your table, tell your husband

to come over."

That last comment destroyed her. There wasn't anything left

for her to say, and she knew it. She was all shrunken up as she

went back to her table. A few minutes later the entire group left.

I suppose I should have felt better, but I only felt worse. At

closing time Christie took me home. The bedspread was indeed soft.

So was the sheet. So was she. So was I. It was okay, she purred.

She would fix it. It was just a little thing. And after all any

women could fix such a little thing.

 Epilogue.

A few weeks later the following dispatch was slid across my

desk for insertion into the late editions.

Last night the French police reported a suicide at the Hotel

Ritz. The deceased, pending further investigation by the French

police, was tentatively identified from an American passport found

in the room as one Daniel Logan. A French police spokesman

speculated...blah blah blah.

End.

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