1.

Pets in the bush....

“Jano, where are you?” - The man yelled as he ran

up the narrow staircase, taking two steps at a time. The
house appeared to be abandoned. There was a sizable
kitchen up front with a weathered dinette set in the
middle loaded with dirty dishes and leftover food. On
the stove something simmered, unattended.Through the
kitchen a narrow hallway led to the rooms lined on one
side of thecorridor. Everything was kind of lopsided, as
in houses built on those old thirty-three foot lots. A cafe,
more like a restaurant occupied the main floor, a
favoured hangout for all sorts of new immigrants.
Almost all the Europeancountries delegated some
representatives at one time or another, a kind of mini
United Nations. The place changed hands almost
annually. When it got totally rundown, somebody with
big dreams and ambitions took it over, - practically for
nothing. They cleaned it up, maybe a new coat of paint,
table cloths and a couple dozen new cups instead of the
chipped ones and the most important cosmetic change, -
booted out the regulars, keeping only the name: The
Spot.
With these changes they were desperately hoping
for the never appearing paying public. The gang, in the
meantime, patiently waiting, hung around in the garage
in the corner service station or at the front of the
drugstore. And when the new
owner let his guard down, one by one, the bums,
the freeloaders and “the occasionally, temporarily doing
okay regulars” retook the fort until next the time,
destroying the new proprietor mentally and financially.
As an added income, dubious as it was, the apartment

1
upstairs was part of the restaurant’s leasing agreement.
Whoever owned the restaurant, controlled the living
quarters upstairs. Originally the tenant lived over the
restaurant, but somehow, nobody remembers when and
how, it became a rooming house. Four rooms, a kitchen
and a bathroom in the back of the house, a perfect setup.
The great feature of the layout was an exit through the
bathroom window, where a fire escape ladder led to the
top of the garage in the back lane and was used
frequently by whoever had urgent disappearing to do.
Presently five occupants called it a home. In the big
room, - the master bedroom, Mike and his sidekick Jano
resided. Mike, the young man just come home,
was paying the rent, - most of the time anyway.
He was selling used cars on one of the small lots in the
east end of the city. His friend Jano, was frequently
between jobs, - as he liked to describe his status. They
used to go to school together in the old country, they
both graduated with honours, but went their different
ways. Mike entered the army as a career choice, reaching
the covetedrank of a second lieutenant, while Jano has
worked at the state owned radio station, first as a youth
announcer, but later demoted to the position of a gopher
in the music library. All because of an on air incident,
which for a
casual observer might appear trivial, but back in
those days, if you clear your throat right after
pronouncing the name of your beloved leader, it
definitely sounds as like insubordination. They met
again on a cold December night at the Austrian border,
both of them running westward, not because they feared
retaliation for some heroic revolutionary deeds, but
more likely to exploit the God given opportunity, to seek
a fortune in the free world. They stuck together not only

2
for old time’s sake, but they somehow complimented
each other’s talents for survival. Mike was a born
wheeler-dealer, an unscrupulous salesman, and Jano
readily provided justification for everything he did. It
was good for the soul and opened the road to the
pinnacle for them. But a lot later, it was 1958, a tough
and cruel existence, a bit of pioneer times. Low paying
meaningless jobs, endless parties in crowded, smoke-
filled rooms, beer, cheap wine, and sex on the run.
In the room next to Mike’s and Jano’s lived a girl
named Kati. Age? Well, that depended on what time of
the day you attempted to guess. At nine in the morning,
forty-two; in the afternoon, twenty-eight; but sixteen
years old at night, - under proper lighting conditions.
Never ask her though, she will swear with the extended
vocabulary of a drill sergeant, adding, “You shouldn’t
ask a questionlike that of a lady... You... %#$@#!!”. She
worked as a waitress in the restaurant downstairs, but,
most of the time in a real dining room called “The
Puszta”. She was good at the waiting profession, only
her faulty mouth caused her occasional unemployment.
On the side she loaned out money. Anything between
five and five hundred for a considerable, “friendly”
interest. She never had any problems collecting, rumours
were circulated that she had a “gorilla” on contract.
Nobody, but nobody, ever wanted to find out the
validity of the gossip. According to some, she created the
legend of the enforcer. It started to circulate when a
cabby named Marcus appeared in the restaurant with his
left leg
in a cast. He insisted that he had fallen off the
stairs, but somebody allegedly overheard Kati saying to
one of her clients... “Well, he owed a couple of hundred,
and I can’t afford to lose that kind of dough.” Her

3
reputation as a tough business woman was firmly
established. On the other hand she often tore up the
check of a stranger if she sensed that he or she needed a
free meal. - As they say, nobody’s perfect. The room in
the middle was occupied by the Martian. A strange and
mysterious character. Where he came from? Who knows.
He had, through the times a half a dozen versions
regarding his birth- place, none of them really checked
out. He spoke all the languages spoken west of Spadina,
without accent, or rather with the same accent, - and
that’s something. He sprang up a web of wires on the
roof saying it was for his short-wave radio which
nobody ever heard playing, and he was able to see
through walls and tell the identity of the caller when the
phone rang. One might say that the phone companies
got the idea for the gadget nowadays marketed as the
Caller I.D., from the Martian. He was weird all right, - a
vegetarian among a bunch of carnivorous savages and to
top it off, he couldn’t tolerate alcohol. Once, they say in
“The Puszta”, the flame went out prematurely on the
Crepe Suzette and from the trace amount of alcohol left
on it, he was in a coma-like state for twelve hours. He’s
from Mars all right, the verdict was announced and it’s
stuck. Maybe. Nobody really knows for sure. Back in the
smallest room lived Bertie the artist, smelling up the
whole house with his paints and turpentine in the
process of turning out one masterpiece after the other,
orthodox rabbis and purple sunsets in sofa sizes. That’s
what the public wants, - he said. Being home most of the
time, he was a kind of housekeeper, telephone secretary,
and supposedly, cleaning personnel. He was just coming
home as Mike turned to him.
“Have you seen Jano?”

4
 “He’s in the bathtub.” He answered as he peeked
into the simmering pot.
“Three-thirty in the afternoon?”
“He’s been sitting in there since ten in the
morning. He won’t let anybody in.”
- Lamented Bertie. - “I had to go to the service
station for a leak. Mrs Boros won’t let me use the
washroom in the restaurant anymore.”
“What the hell he is doing in there?”
“Beats me. He’s nuts. He got into a fight with Kati
because of it.”
Mike banged on the door with his fist.
“Jano, are you there?”
“Yah, What you want?”
“What are you doing in there all day. Get out of
there right away, I need you on the lot.”
“I can’t. I’m not ready yet.”
“Ready for what?” No answer. A little while later
Jano whispered from inside.
“Okay, I’ll let you in, but wait till I get back into
the water.” A click of the latch and Mike steps into the
bathroom and bursts out in loud litany.
“What the heck is this. Look at you. Your ass is
wrinkled like a frog and white... Bertie! Get away from
the door, this is between Jano and me.” Bertie tip-toed
away from the door, in the meantime trying to make out
the conversation from a safe distance.
“Mike, if you promise not to tell anybody...” -
Jano still talked in a hushed tone.
“I promise... Scout’s honour.” Replied Mike.
“I’ve got lice...” - As he slides deeper into the
water.
“You mean itchy, crawling crab lice? You’re
kidding. Where did you get them?”

5
 “I think, Mrs. Shlezak.”
“Mrs. Shlezak? The lady in the travel agency?”
“I think so. There was nobody else for a long
while... it must be from her.”
“Fantastic. The LADY from the travel agency.
Okay, you got pets in the bush, but
what has this got to do with the day long
toilette?”
“I tried to drown them.”
“What? You must be out of your mind. You want
to drown the lice?” - Mike was
laughing so hard his side started to hurt. This was
the time when Kati came home and confronted Bertie in
the kitchen.
“Hey, Bertie. Pretty boy is still in the tub?”
“Yah, guess what,” - giggled Bertie under his
moustache, - “He’s got lice and he wants to drown
them.”
“He wants to drown crab lice?” - They both
laughed uncontrollably. - “Where’d he
get them?”
“From Mrs. Shlezak. The lady at the travel
agency.” By the time Kati burst into the bathroom, to
have first hand view of the drowning ceremony, Jano
was gently smearing vaseline on his tender buttocks,
while Mike tried to dry up his tears.
(Later, downstairs in the restaurant, a lively
discussion went on, the opinions evenly split between
drowning, and shooting crab lice with a rifle, as an
effective alternative to Kawalda.)
“Get out of here!” Jano yelled at Kati and tried to
cover his loins with the vaseline jar but it was too late for
her surprising discovery. “Jano, I didn’t know that you
were Jewish...”

6
 “Kati, get the hell out of here, shame on you.”
Mike stepped in front of his naked friend, still trying to
control his amusement. Kati pulled the door shut, but
couldn’t resist not making further comments on her new
found target.
“I will never understand why people want to
waste any part of it, specially when it is so... little.”
“Cut it out...” Mike protested. “It’s shrunk... Over
cooked” “Yah, an overcooked cocktail winie, you want
some mustard on it?” Finally Kati left them alone
turning to Bertie in the kitchen who tried to clear off part
of the dinette table so he can sit down and have his late
lunch. “Jewish, Heh. He doesn’t look it.”
“He is one all right, specially lately. He found out
in Vienna that to be be Jewish is a definite asset and ever
since he’s carried a scullcap in his back pocket. He got
himself circumcised last October to complete his return
to the flock.”
“But why the sudden changeover?”
“Not for his spiritual need, that’s for sure.
Economics. He’s got generous support from “Joint” the
relief organization, but he got cut off a couple months
ago. They told him it’s time to get a job. He was
devastated, just when I got circumcised, - he said, - they
turn against me.”
Jano, Janos Somogyi according to his immigration
papers, was born in Hungary in 1935 into a prosperous
middle class Jewish family. His father was a respected
lawyer desperately trying to fit into society in a not too
promising age. He was not alone. A sizable segment of
the Jewish middle class had abandoned their
“Jewishness” for social acceptance of a very dubious
value. Soon after Jano wasborn the family “Hungarized”
their names and he, instead of Jeno Schwarcz, become

7
Janos Somogyi. The tragic twist of fate was that,
regardless of their efforts, in 1944 they were, as were all
Hungarian Jews, herded into walled-in ghettos and
shipped, in ever increasing numbers into the infamous
concentration camps. By some miracle, the Somogyi
family escaped the fate of so many and after the war
they tried, once again to compromise and fit in. Jano,
became a good little foot-soldier of the new regime, a
Pioneer with numerous badges of special achievements
and an enormous ambition to be an actor. He wouldn’t
be the first.
The Hungarian theatrical, literary and intellectual
life in general, was very rich with Jewish luminaries,
their contribution to the cultural life of the nation was
unmeasurable. He was missing only one thing to follow
into the footsteps of the great forefathers, - talent. That
was no deterrent though, he managed to convince the
State Radio Youth Department of his unwavering loyalty
to the cause of the working class which in those days
superseded the “talent” category and become a radio
announcer. Day after day, he was reading the “news”
about the great achievements of the youth brigades in
the factories and on the collective farms. “News” about
the rotting capitalistic world staggering on the verge of
collapse. “News” about the incredible wisdom of the
Beloved Leaders, Generalissimo Stalin and the
Hungarian clone, the mini wise man Matyas Rakosi.
In those days circulated the popular joke in
Budapest: “How’s the Jews in Hungary?” - Somebody
asks the new dissident in New York. - “Fifty-fifty, the
man answers.” “What do you mean fifty-fifty?” “Well,
fifty percent of the Jews want to get the hell out of the
country, the other fifty percent won’t let them to go.”

8
 Jano belonged to the latter fifty percent, until one
day a crack appeared in the iron curtain and without too
much of a risk taking, he could wiggle through and
enthusiasticly join the first fifty percent. In Vienna he
made a startling discovery. Being a Hungarian refugee,
after a while, became a liability, but, being a Jewish
refugee from Hungary made a big difference and his
long forgotten Jewishness suddenly took prominence
and he embarked on the road of transformation. At first
he hid his origins, only a decade later he refused to
remember his mother tongue, a language he had
cultivated and was so well educated in, a language in
which he excelled in his first twenty years.
Eventually he faked a British accent, “graduated”
from Oxford, and changed his name to John A.
Sommerville. But that came lot later, remember it is still
1958, broke and riding with Mike to pull another con on
an unsuspecting used car buyer.
“Mike, stop and let me get out. My ass hurts like
hell.” He almost cried. “I can’t. The sucker’s supposed to
be back by four o’clock. I’ve got to make this sale
otherwise we’re in trouble. You remember, your deal is
nine hundred and fifty. Okay? It’s a ‘52 Chevy. If I sell it
for eight, eight fifty, I can still collect two kilos. Don’t
screw it.”
Mike let Jano out from the car a block away from
the lot. In front of the trailer, that served as an office for
J.B. Crain Auto Sales Ltd. two Hungarians from Oshawa
were waiting for Mike.
“Good day... “
He greeted them in Hungarian. His clientele was
recruited through advertisements in Hungarian
publications. Being only one of the few salesman
targeting that particular market, he made an acceptable

9
living. His command of the English language was rather
limited, so in those days he depended almost entirely on
cunning, and exploiting his own country men. And he
was pretty good at it. “Good day Mister Kovacs.”
The buyer, the younger man returned the greeting
and introduced his companion.
“My uncle, he is a mechanic.” A strong emphasis
on the word, mechanic. Mike sensed trouble in the
making. The car he wanted to sell had passed her better
days. One thing he could do without was the scrutiny of
an expert.
Quickly he made an inventory in his mind of the
cars in that price range and found nothing. He was ready
to surrender to his failure when the two reached the
Chevy and he smiled. The uncle couldn’t open the hood
of the car. He was no mechanic, was the inescapable
conclusion, - an elevator mechanic perhaps, but a
stranger around cars. He helped him to open the hood,
stepped back and enjoyed the spectacle. The uncle poked
around the engine, pulled out the oil stick, felt the oil
between his fingers and whispered something to the
“buyer”.
“Burning oil.” He announced the findings.
“Of course she does.” Mike agreed. “Oil is cheap,
put in a dollar’s worth once an a while. What do you
want from an old car for nine hundred dollars?”
“Nine? We talked about eight-fifty before... But
my uncle said it’s not worth more than seven hundred...”
“No way... Sorry.” Mike noticed out of the corner
of his eye that Jano has arrived on que.
“Mister Kovacs!” Jano waved from a distance and
continued in English.
“Sorry, I couldn’t make it yesterday. I hope you
didn’t sell my car.”

10
 “Hi. I’m afraid you might be late, these folks have
just about made the deal final. I thought you were not
coming back.”
“You can’t do this to me. I’ve got the money. Nine
fifty as we agreed. Please.”
Jano put on a convincing performance and he
pulled out a wad of money from his pants pocket; a
bunch of newspaper cut to the size of bank notes
sandwiched between two tens; and held it up in front of
the Oshawa pair. Mike grabbed Jano by the arm and
pulled him aside out of the hearing range of the others.
After “heated” exchange Jano walked out of the lot, but
not before he spit in the direction of the confused
“buyers”.
“Stupid olah.”
Mike called Jano an “olah”, a derogatory name for
a Romanian. Hungarians like to address “inferior” ethnic
groups with special names, like olah for Romanian, swab
for German, ruski for Russians.
“What the heck he thinks? That I’ll sell out my
country men for a stinking one hundred dollars? I
promised the car to you for eight fifty and that’s what
I’m going to sell it to you for. Come on, let’s make out
the papers.”
He didn’t even looked back as he walked briskly
toward the trailer, he knew from experience that the
show was convincing and that the suckers bought the
story. Psychology, - he used to brag. In the meantime
Jano boarded the streetcar to head home. He was glad
not to have to sit in a car, - to sit anywhere, his bleached
behind was hurting beyond imagination. The lice? They
were okay, thanks. Clean as a whistle. The streetcar was
nearly empty, only a few people were sitting and staring
out of the windows without expressions on their faces.

11
 He watched one after the other, trying to imagine
who they were, where they were going this time of the
day. Jano had a vivid imagination and he was a good
observer all basic requirements for a writer, perhaps; but
the process of labouring over a story, to actually
compose it and write it word by word, frightened him.
Not because he never thought about it. He did, but
discarded the idea as a time consuming process, a poor
money making proposition.
He was hanging on an overhead strap and after
finishing with his travelling companions as a bunch of
ordinary, uninteresting John and Jean Does, his attention
was turned to the strip of eye level advertisements.
“Join the Pepsi generation”
“Wonder where the yellow went?... Pepsodent”
“...Westinghouse”
“Join the Pepsi generation.” That’s it!
He screamed from excitement, from the sudden
realization of the obvious. That’s it.
ADVERTISING ! How come he never thought
about it before? That is the perfect field for him.
Imagination. Creating a slogan, a sentence and no more.
Somebody will pay for it. A perfect profession, no sweat,
no backbreaking physical effort, just ideas and
somebody will labour over the actual execution.
“I’m a genius!”
Pronounced out loud, right there on the spot.
Nobody paid any attention to him talking to himself, just
a passing glance from the driver through his overhead
mirror. People were used to the fact that the world was
full of nuts and it’s inevitable that once an a while one of
them gets loose on the Toronto streetcar.

12
 2.
Miska Bacsi will explain...

Not far from "The Spot" on the south side

of the street, between a rundown hardware store and the
Icarus Travel Agency, was located a tiny store, a very
important establishment among the numerous ethnic
businesses. A proud, gold leafed sign on the window
panel proclaimed the presence of: "Mihaly Nagy,
Gentlemen's Taylor. Made to Measure from Fine
Imported English Materials. Est. 1945" A timid
handwritten sign was added to it later: "Alterations,
repairs of all kind of Mens' and Ladies' Garments."
Which considerably degraded the intended refinement
of the original pronouncement.
Mr. Nagy was a so-called "Old Canadian" to mark
the important difference between the three major waves
of immigrants. The "Old" usually referred to the pre-war
arrivals, legitimate immigrants, the "DP"s, or "displaced"
persons, the after war exiles; and finally the "New
Canadians" the rugged bunch of refugees who left the
motherland after the '56 revolution. Freedom fighters,
jailbirds, disillusioned party cadres and intellectuals:
doctors, engineers, artists, actors, has-beens and
wannabees. He was much older than his co-patriots and
he was a friend to everybody, probably that's why he
enjoyed the respectful title of Miska Bacsi. Miska is short
for Mihaly, and the "Bacsi" is an affectionate equal to
"Uncle".
After the war upon his return as a victorious
warrior in the rank of corporal, he took advantage of the
grateful nation and with a small veteran's loan he
opened his dream shop. Unfortunately that's what it
was, it remained just a dream. Nobody really wanted a

13
"made to measure" suit of the quality he could offer, or
rather nobody in the neighbourhood could afford it.
Besides the occasional hunchback or handicapped man
who needed special attention in tailoring, he depended
entirely on alterations and repairs. Oh, he still kept a
couple bolts of good quality cloths, - just in case, or as a
rather essential part of the decor. He refused to give in
and go to work in a garment factory, he was proud of his
trade and pretended to be happy with the state of his
affairs.
To supplement his income and keep a dedicated
audience for his daily philosophical lessons he kept a
few jugs of moonshine in his back room for sale by the
shot. The top quality plum brandy was regularly
supplied by a Croatian farmer from Welland. He had a
couple acre orchard of plum trees for the sole purpose of
brewing the legendary "Sligovica" or as the Hungarians
call it "Szilvorium". A 90 proof killer for a mere sixty
cents a generous shot, when everywhere else a 40 proof
lousy whisky cost a buck, buck twenty-five. To make the
speak-easy even more attractive, Miska Bacsi was open
for business eight in the morning.
When he arrived in his prized '54 Studebaker five
minutes to eight on the dot, usually a couple customers
were already hanging around the store entrance. Miska
Bacsi parked his car across the street on the Druggists
parking lot, - he paid seven-fifty a month for the
privilege. He walked around his car, checking it out for
any visible damage that might have occurred during the
twenty minute drive from his home behind High Park,
wiped off the occasional smears with his handkerchief,
tried the doors to see if they were locked properly and
leisurely walked across the street in the morning traffic
to greet his friends. Not customers, friends.

14
Bertie and a guy named Goldfinger were waiting at the
door arguing over some ancient soccer results. The game
in those days very seldom was played in Canada except
by amateur ethnic teams, bringing nationalistic rivalry
into the otherwise tolerant neighbourhood. Old
triumphs and painful defeats were relived in repeated
conversations providing hours and hours of belated
entertainment. This morning the great Hungarian
victory over the English was analyzed once more giving
Bertie an edge over Goldfinger, since he used to play
left-wing in his college team. His recall of the details of
the game was vivid and very visual, throwing his whole
body to make a point, demonstrating the brilliant pass of
the left-winger which by the way resulted in a goal. The
sporadic lone pedestrian made a wide detour to avoid
the dancing, mimicking nut in the morning sunshine.
"Morning boys..." Miska Bacsi acknowledged the
early clients as he unlocked the door of his shop.
"Morning, Miska Bacsi" Came the return greeting,
abruptly dropping the argument and politely waiting to
be invited in to the sanctuary. Miska Bacsi went through
the morning routine. Turned the "Closed" sign around,
switched the light and the radio on, changed his tweed
sport jacket to his working attire and from the pinewood
armoury standing in the corner of the back room, took
out the bottle of Szilvorium and poured a "stampedly",
roughly an ounce of the "appetizer" for the boys and a
half portion for himself.
"Prosit." They lifted their glasses and emptied them with
one big gulp. Just in time, the bell rang above the door
announcing the arrival of another thirsty customer, Dr.
Schlock the notary public dropped in for his morning
"usual" before he went to have his breakfast.

15
 "What's new boys?" Dr. Schlock inquired, more
like a "How are you" than a genuine question. After all
what could they tell him he that he didn't already know.
Dr. Schlock, Notary Public, insurance agent, card
carrying member of the Provincial Conservative party,
this pillar of society quickly emptied the shot glass... -
twice. He pulled out a large roll of paper money from his
pants pocket and pealed off a five dollar bill.
"Miska Bacsi here... take what the boys had too..."
"Dr. Schlock, I don't have change... too early yet."
Miska Bacsi apologized.
"Don't worry, you owe me... what? Two-sixty? I'll
see you tomorrow." And the pillar of society exited
himself from the shop.
"One day somebody will knock him over for the
money he always carries in his pocket." Bertie observed,
shaking his head.
"Don't give me ideas Bertie, unless you want a
split." Laughed Goldfinger. "That kind of cash would
improve my standard of living for a while..."
"Come on boys, I don't want to hear that kind of
talk here. Somebody might think you are serious." Miska
Bacsi cut into the conversation.
"Let's face it, he is quite stupid to brag about his
money like that. Has he ever heard of a bank?" Bertie
continued questioning the wisdom of the good Dr.
Schlock. "Is it true that he used to be a big-shot lawyer
back home?"
"Who knows? Maybe he is just another
St.Bernard." Goldfinger concluded.
When people moved from one continent to the
other, voluntarily or under duress, facts and fiction were
easily confused. An imposing past, impressive
qualifications were acquired from one day to another.

16
The title "ship doctor" became common, meaning the
person got his "degree" on the ship crossing the Atlantic.
Also a great deal of goodwill poured toward the
refugees in the wake of the defeated revolution, many
things otherwise frowned upon, were dismissed as
curiosities. A joke circulated those days, went like this:
"It's a well known fact that the Germans are very
orderly people, rules govern every aspect of their daily
lives. In Munich to extend the "order" to the canine
population, fire hydrants were strictly segregated, they
could be used only by authorized breeds. To make sure
everybody knows the ordinance, signs are posted on the
fixtures. One day a majestic St.Bernard walks up to his
designated fire hydrant and is shocked by an obscene
spectacle... a miserable looking little mutt empties his
bladder on it. The king of dogs barks at the intruder.
"Excuse me sir. Can't you read? This is for
St.Bernards only."
The mutt shakes his behind after he finishes his
business and answers with contempt.
"First of all I am a Hungarian refugee, second, at
home I used to be a St. Bernard."
There were many, many St. Bernards those days.
Besides who wants to be a mutt anyway.
Bob, the mailman arrived with the unwanted
telephone bill and a letter from the Credit Union. Miska
Bacsi put the phone bill aside, he knew exactly what to
expect from it, but looked at the other envelope with a
mixture of fear and curiosity. What do they want from
him? His mortgage renewal isn't due for another three
years and as far as the business account is concerned, -
well it is rather marginal. He hardly makes any deposits
or withdrawals from it. A business like his is practically
all cash, and once in a while somebody pays with a

17
cheque and that usually results in a nervous few days,
always waiting for a possible NSF note. But this time
there wasn't any deposit of that nature... Miska Bacsi was
truly puzzled. He put the envelopes into the drawer of
his sewing machine, which served as his business office,
and invited the mailman for a "morning prayer".
"Bob, how about it?" He pointed to the armoury.
"I don't mind if I do. My stomach is kind of shaky
this morning. I must have eaten something..." Word by
word Bob the mailman repeated his standard speech.
Same as every morning for about a year now, since
Miska Bacsi first offered him a shot of plum brandy.
Oh, that was a memorable event. The usual gang
of vagabonds were debating the world's affairs when
Bob, the new mail man on the beat stepped into the
store. Being born in Canada, an English speaking civil
servant, Bob looked at the bunch of foreigners with a
slight sense of suspicion and contempt. They were loud,
speaking a strange sounding language which hurt his
ears. He knew about immigrants living in some parts of
the city, but this was the first time in his life he had
encountered the uncomfortable closeness of a noisy
bunch of them. He was born and raised in rural Ontario,
far from the cosmopolitan big cities, and since he joined
the Post Office he walked the quiet, comfortable
suburban streets of Port Credit. They transferred him to
the new substation just a few days ago, and being the
youngest of the crew, he got the roughest
neighbourhood of them all. Strange names. Misspelled
street names, illegible handwriting, and a cacophony of
earsplitting foreign languages everywhere he went. He
put the mail on the front counter and was just about to
leave when the store owner, Miska Bacsi, called after
him.

18
 "Excuse me... You must be the new man. Welcome
to the neighbourhood. My name is Michael Nagy. Joe,
your predecessor used to come around since I opened
this store. I'm really sorry to see him retiring. But I think
he deserves a bit of a rest, after all those years..."
Bob, holding the door handle listened to this man,
speaking with an accent, but friendly and... likable. In
the background the chorus of strangers fell quiet.
"Yah, Joe retired. Well that's the way it is... You
work all your life... and one day. Retired."
"What is your name? We like to call people by
their names, you know."
"Bob."
"Well Bob, I know you are on duty, but to
celebrate your new assignment, how about a drink?"
"No, no... I can't. Nine in the morning?"
"Why not? This is the time when you need all the
encouragement, to face the gruelling day ahead of you.
It's good for the soul and the stomach."
"It's true, my stomach is kind of shaky this
morning, I must have eaten something." Bob answered.
Miska Bacsi invited him into the back room. He
felt very uncomfortable.
Everybody shaking his hand, - which he found
rather strange, while introducing himself. Miska Bacsi
poured a shotglass full of some stinking white liquid.
"Bob, this is the best plum brandy on this side of
the Atlantic Ocean you're ever going to taste. Bottoms
up."
Bob, held his breath and emptied the glass... and
choked. He never tasted anything like it. Like fire, and
more... He couldn't breathe, he couldn't swallow, tears
were running from his eyes... he would have liked to
curse but couldn't produce the slightest sound. He

19
grabbed the edge of the sewing machine, the bundle of
mail in his left hand flowed all over the floor and the
place jumped out of focus, faces and furniture become a
blurred kaleidoscope. And those morons were laughing
at his agony. The terrifying experience lasted about a
minute or so, and then, - suddenly a pleasant warmth
ran through his whole body, his head got very light and
his stomach growled; gimme food!!! They don't call it
appetizer for nothing.
A few days later, with considerable reluctance, he
tried it again, and some time later, again. Soon enough
he got converted to szilvoriun, and strangely, about the
same time made peace with the neighbourhood. A crazy
mixture of international renegades, poor but happy, and
above anything, optimistic people. In his leather bag, any
given day of the week, one could find much awaited
news from all around the world. He felt more important
in his trusted position than any time before. A tireless
carrier of smiles and tears, good or sad, but always
cherished tidings.
Since then, whenever mail is due for Miska Bacsi,
Bob gladly accepts the invitation for a stampedli
szilvorium with the repeated excuse:
"I don't mind if I do. My stomach is kind of shaky
this morning. I must have eaten something."
Down the hatch. And so many times, even when
there is no mail, Bob ventures in, just for a friendly chat
and he treats himself for a shot of the real thing.
"Hi, Bob. How are you?" The pair greets the
postie.
"Good morning guys... Bertie you got a letter from
your mom. Wait, let me find it". And he does. He
recognizes the stamp, and by the stamp the country of
origin.

20
 Bertie's face lights up. He hardly can wait for
some news from home, although his mother writes very
regularly, - a long letter every two weeks, on the dot. For
Bertie the familiar blue air mail envelope is always a
heart warming sight.
He walked up front to the window into the
morning light and opened the envelope.
In the back room another round of appetizer has
been served.
Bob excused himself, - duty calls, and popped a
spearmint gum into his mouth and went on his way.
Goldfinger, - some called him the "angel maker" paid his
buck twenty and said good bye to Miska Bacsi. Bertie
still read the letter, with a tiny smile in his eyes...
Mother's gossip about the family always occupied half
the pages.
Miska Bacsi spread out a pair of trousers on his
work table, marked the length with a white tailor's
marker, but his mind was on the letter from the Credit
Union laying in the drawer. What the heck they want?
Bertie finished reading the letter and felt the urge to
share the "good news - bad news" with Miska Bacsi.
"Guess what? My brother Alex, finally wrote to
Mom. He is in Australia. Son of a gun, it's almost a year
now, since he disappeared from the refugee camp in
Yugoslavia... He was supposed to come here."
"The main thing is that he's okay. Sometimes
plans are just that. Plans. I remember..." - Miska Bacsi
switched into memory gear, his voice changed a bit as he
settled into his chair with the pair of trousers, and while
he talked, his hands were busy like two automated
instruments doing a routine task. " In 1928, my brother
Joseph and I decided to emigrate to America. They were
real hard times. Joseph's work on the shipyard dried up,

21
I, myself worked in a fancy taylor shop downtown
making hardly enough to support both of us. We got the
papers from the American embassy and happy as a pair
of pigeons, we flew the coop, headed to Trieste. By the
time we set ourselves up for the journey, there was no
money left for tickets. We figured we just had to get to
the port, and something will happen. I don't know,
looking back, what we were hoping for. But let me tell
you, I was ready to swim the ocean just to get to
America. We had fifty-eight pengo between the two of
us. We were hanging around in the harbour, sleeping in
the shadows of the warehouses, and eating from the
knapsack while it lasted.
One day Joseph got acquainted with the Captain
of an old rusted boat, a German s.o.b. he promised to
take us to America for the money we had. We boarded
the ship... we were so tired, fell into the bunks and fell
asleep. When I finally woke up, it was night again... and
there was water all around.
The Captain came and he said, he is in trouble,
two of his crew took off, he was shorthanded, would we
consider helping him out.
"How much he would pay?" Joseph asked him.
We were willing to negotiate, since we needed the
money very badly. Joseph spoke a little German, he used
to work in Austria for awhile.
"Nothing!" He said.
"No money. No work." My brother said.
"Fine. I'll put you ashore in Africa." He said.
"It's not fair." I said. "We paid for the fare."
"So what? You can complain to the French in
Algeria." Laughed the damned schwab.
I told my brother: "Joe, we made a stupid deal, but
I take anything, long as we get to America." So, I became

22
a cook and Joseph a stoker on the boat of Captain
Hinschberger, I hope he burns eternally in hell. First
class! For over two months these two idiots were
working on that ship, sailing from one port to another,
hoping to get to America... eventually.
One day we were stretching our legs in a harbour
somewhere, just laying soaking in some sunshine when
we heard someone cursing... in Hungarian. A guy, - just
like ourselves, was chasing a young man and screaming
at the top on his lungs: Thief, thief... So we joined in and
we were running through the docks as fast as we could, -
but we lost the son of the bitch...
This is the way we meet Jani Balazs and we
became good friends, - we still are. He told us that the
boat we were sailing on, will never go to America. It's a
kind of a small ship just to travel back and forth between
Europe and North Africa. Needless to say, that night
nobody cooked dinner for the schwab. The kid we were
chasing stole Jani Balazs' money, we didn't have any,
and since the city we ended up in was the famous port
city in France, Marseilles, you don't have to be a genius
to guess, all three of us ended up in the Foreign Legion.
America? It suddenly got really, really far away."
Miska Bacsi poured himself another drink, offered
one to Bertie, - on the house.
"You see Bertie, it's not where you're heading, but
where you arrive... that's the important thing in life."
They both fell silent for a long while, what was
there to say? Bertie longed for the closeness of his big
brother, he always hoped one day he will show up at his
door, and now, all he got was a faraway address... and
lots of memories.

23
 "Where is your brother now?" Bertie asked. Miska
Bacsi fiddled with the trousers for a long while before he
quietly answered.
"My brother Joe? - he got killed in Normandy.
Two days before my battalion landed on the beaches."
"I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about, Bertie. We thought,
we owed something to this country... Nobody asked us,
we volunteered."
A generation apart, joined by a bond of emotions
the two men said good bye.
Bertie went back to his purple sunsets, - sofa size.
Miska Bacsi turned up the volume on the radio, not
because he paid any attention to it, but rather hoping
that the noise would wash over the rushing memories.

***

Oh, the letter from the Credit Union?

"Dear Sir, Mr. Nagy.

I'm delighted to inform you, that the Nominating
Committee placed your name on the list of candidates for the
Board of Directors of the West City Credit Union.
Election of the new board will take place at the next
General Meeting, August 15. 1958.
Your reputation as an honest and compassionate
citizen is a guarantee for a valuable contribution to the work of
our organization. I sincerely hope that you will accept the
nomination. Please advise us regarding you decision.

Yours truly
Moses Posonsky
Chairman

24
 "I'll accept... Long as I don't have to give up the
"u-know-what". Does that make me dishonest? Ah, I
don't think so."

***

3.
New York, New York....

The summer went by without too much

excitement. Nobody got rich, as originally was planned,
nobody get poorer either, - that probably would have
bordered the impossible. On the weekends the gang
piled into the few cars owned by the lucky ones and they
headed to Musselman Lake or to Crystal Beach on Lake
Erie. Plenty
of food and a couple cases of beer satisfied even
the most demanding member of the all inclusive club of
newcomers. Those were the carefree times. No matter
how hard life seemed to be, in relation to the miserable
existence just a couple of years ago, - it was a marked
improvement. Jano, - by the way got rid of the lice. He
realized the unfortunate truth. That, while his skin was
practically destroyed in the prolonged soaking, it didn't
do any harm to the sturdy crab lice. He overcame his
embarrassment and sought out the druggist, Mr. Szabo
the day after the drowning attempt.
"Hi, Jano. How can I help you?" The pharmacist
greeted his costumer.
"Mister Szabo, this is rather embarrassing, but I
need some ointment for... my friend Mike. He picked up
some lice. You know him. He jumps into bed with just

25
 anybody..." Jano lied with a straight face. (Born
advertising executive. wasn't he?)
"Lice, you say? Shouldn't be any problem." Mr.
Szabo offered his professional opinion, and while he
served Jano with the large bottle of Kawalda, in his mind
he run a quick check on his depleted inventory. In the
last week or so, he had sold almost his entire stock.
Those blessed lice get around, don't they? First, the store
manager from the supermarket, then the pretty cashier,
Mr. Shlezak the
travel agent, the Polish janitor from the Anglican
church, the cook from the Chinese restaurant... and now,
Jano Somogyi or Mike. These are the only the people he
knew personally but than, all those strangers had
ventured into his store seeking relief also. The great crab
lice connection. God bless the little creatures... ding
dong... ring the cash register, a sweet sound for the ears
of any store keeper.
Jano's decision to make it to the top in the
advertising field, hit a snag at the very beginning of his
chosen "career". Six months went by since he discovered
his calling and so far he couldn't get close to any of the
ad agencies. Like so many little Fort Knoxes, they were
impenetrable for the aspiring beginner. He made
inquiries about getting a job of any kind, but the answer
was unanimous; No hiring. He was determined though.
Somehow, someday he would make it. He spent his time
polishing up his English. To enrich his vocabulary, he
read the daily papers from the head piece to the last
classified ad. He sat in the filthiest movie houses for fifty
cent all afternoon to see through three old pictures, and
talking aloud with the actors to refine his accent. Like a
bulldog, he bit on the idea and he didn't let go.

26
 At the end of September he was ready with the
Big Plan. He didn't tell anybody about it, not even his
good buddy, Mike. They had hit a couple of Hungarians
real big with a sale. Mike's commission came to an
astronomical four hundred and thirty dollars.
Jano, took his hundred and fifty dollar share.
Then one morning, when nobody was around the house,
he packed a small suit case, he bought in a second hand
store for two-fifty and disappeared.
He left a short note to Mike:
"Sorry, I have to go somewhere for awhile. Will
call you, John."
Not Jano, but John. Mike hit the roof, he was so
angry,
"Where the hell I'm going to find a new partner?"
Somebody he can trust. The con worked so well,
and the s.o.b deserted him. He might have to write a
new scenario, find a new angle.
Jano boarded a bus and headed to New York. On
the east side lived a cousin of his, Rob Bertalan, - a quite
distant cousin. His mother had mentioned it to him in
her latest letter. He didn't like the guy, he was a fat slob.
He had dropped out of school and worked as a
purchasing agent for a state company in one of the
provincial towns in Eastern Hungary. A hustler with
shady reputation. Their families didn't keep close
contact, they belonged two rather different social classes,
- if there is anything like that, in a "classless society". (Bet
your sweet toots, there was.)
Mr.Somogyi was a dr. of law with close
connections in the Ministry of Justice while cousin
Bertalan was a former textile and notions merchant. His
tiny store was confiscated by the communist state in '49.
and he and his immediate family were branded as class

27
enemies. Now you can see the incompatibility. But Jano,
with a nobel gesture was willing to forget past
differences, - "after all we are in America now", and take
advantage of his kindred's geographical position: New
York.
The bus ride to New York was a terrible
experience. The Greyhound was full up to capacity.
Within a half an hour of the departure, the bus stank of
cigarette smoke, perspiration and fumes. After the first
rest stop, - the stink of onions, mustard and the heavy
smell of grease of a ton of french fries which were
consumed, was added to the orgie of odours. He got a
seat on the aisles, next to him at the window a fast
talking sizable woman was siting, talking non-stop and
fanning herself with a folded newspaper. It was an
unusually hot day to add to his misery.
"Are you going to New York, young man?"
Asked the woman, which of course was a stupid
question since they were sitting on a bus, Express, Non-
stop. Toronto to New York.
"Yes I am." He answered as short as possible,
hoping to end the inquiries.
"Staying or visiting?" The woman continued the
interrogation.
"Visiting."
"Me too. I'm going to see my daughter. She lives
in New York, actually in the Bronx. She is in show
business. That's what she says anyway. I want to see it
for myself. One can be never absolutely sure. Young
people now days... Hah. She just took off one day and I
got a letter from New York, Mom she wrote, I am in
show business. Would you believe it? I'm asking you... is
it possible that a girl just like that ends up in show
business? What kind of business is this show business?"

28
 And she went on and on and on... Jano tried to
block her yapping out by pretending to fall asleep,
humming and singing to himself but to no avail. He
learned everything about Lori, - that's the name of the
daughter allegedly in
show business in New York and lives in the
Bronx, about Mister Kowalsky or Art as he is known by
everybody including the Big Boss at the meat packing
plant, about his annoying habit of burping at the dinner
table, the main reason they don't socialize much lately...
no wonder Lori ran away and went bad...
"Show business? My foot..."
Mrs. Kowalsky came to the conclusion by the time
the bus rolled into the terminal in the city of New York
in the driving late September rain storm.
Jano, first thing found a souvenir shop and
bought a street map of the city with her boroughs. He sat
in the waiting room trying to figure out where the heck
East 38th street was, and how to get there. Finally he
decided, instead of taking chances of getting lost, he had
better take a taxi, whatever the cost was going to be.
Second, he went to a telephone booth and looked up the
name of his
cousin, one Robert Bertalan. He was surprised
and angry, to actually find his name in the book. The son
of a bitch, not only does he have an address, but his own
phone number... while Jano had none. He dropped a
dime into the slot, - Canadian dime, and it worked. He
dialled the number and a few seconds later a voice came
on...
"Hello, Yes. Who is it?...."
Jano hung up. That's him all right, Robie the fat
slob, he even sounds fat... He decided not to announce
himself, that would be bad strategy... to give him

29
advance notice, time to prepare for his arrival. Better if
he just showed up at the door, the element of surprise
will give him some advantage. He needed a place to stay
while in the city, he can't afford to rent anything... and
he need time to implement his Grand Plan. Robie's got
an apartment... after all he can't refuse... he is family. If
he tried to do just that, Jano had the argument prepared.
He will blame the chilly relationship in the past between
the two families, on his father. How he had felt the
Bertalans' standings with the regime might compromise
his career and how much he, Jano regretted the distance
between the cousins created by his father's paranoia. He
can't do all this on the phone, he needed to be inside his
opponent's space to argue effectively. He got into a cab
and told the address to the driver.
"First time in New York?" The cabby asked.
"Yes, just arrived from Canada." After a forty-five
minute ride Jano realized his fatal mistake, - a mistake
which cost him eighteen dollars to pay for a rainy sight
seeing tour of one way streets and boulevards. The
friendly driver let him out in front of an old five story
apartment building.
Fourth floor apartment B. read the address his
mother wrote in her letter. He found the name R.
Bertalan on the board and pushed the button next to it.
Without any verbal response, the buzzer sounded and he
yanked the front door open. As he rode the shaky old
elevator up he prepared himself mentally for the icy
reception and the well deserved rejection, but there was
no retreat. The elevator came to a noisy stop and Jano
found himself on the forth floor in a dimly lit hall. On
the right, the second door was open. Music and loud
conversation in Hungarian meant that he was in the

30
right place. It was an unexpected turn, he tried to
evaluate the situation.
A party. Is it to his advantage or had he better
retreat and come back later... He stood some distance
from the open door for a little while, trying to decide
what to do, when a young woman looked out from the
apartment. Glass in hand, seeing Jano she asked:
"Are you looking for somebody? Can I help?" In
English.
"I'm looking for Robert Bertalan."
"You are at the right place." The woman said
stepping closer to Jano.
"I am Mrs. Bertalan."
Jano's mouth dropped from the unexpected
revelation. What? The fat slob's got a beautiful young
wife? It took a long while for him to recover then he
stammered.
"My name is Janos Somogyi, from Toronto..."
The girl, called Mrs. Bertalan immediately
switched to Hungarian and yelled into the noisy room.
"Robie, look whom I found for you... It's Janos..."
Jano was totally caught off guard by the
reception. All his rehearsed dialogue became irrelevant.
He just stood there flabbergasted, speechless. First, Robie
hugged him with all his two hundred pounds, squeezing
the daylights out of his frail body. He called him:
"brother", "junior" and the one and only living relative on
this side of the ocean. He dragged him around in the
crowded, small living room and introducing him to the
guests, some Hungarians, some Americans.
When they finished the rounds and ended up in
the kitchen to offer Jano a drink, Robie looked at his
cousin with tears in his eyes and hugged him once more.

31
 "Boy, oh boy... Am I glad to see you Jano... How
did you find me?"
Jano, took a large gulp from the rum and coke
Robie mixed for him and slowly regained his
composure.
"Mother mentioned in her letter, that your mother
told her that you are living in New York. But she didn't
say anything about you're being married..."
"She couldn't have. We decided to get married
only last month. Julie and me, we were living together
since we got to the States."
"I'm glad for you."
He wasn't. He tried to hide his envy. Look at him.
Fat, with a slightly blemished complexion, no decent
education one could brag about... One year in America
and he is married to an attractive girl, having a decently
furnished apartment of his own... listed in the phone
book... Robie Bertalan. Go, figure.
"What's the celebration about?" Jano asked,
shifting to English.
"Well, you are not going to believe it." Robie
continued in Hungarian. "Last year, soon after we
arrived, I got a job through a Jewish relief agency, as a
warehouse man at a garment factory."
(Of course, what else. Thought Jano getting his
bruised sense of superiority restored.)
"It is a good job, I can't complain, but I told
myself, Hey... you are in America now, - I always
dreamed of being a writer. Comedy writer. It's okay to
stack bolts of fabrics during the day, but at night, on
your own, you can be anybody you want to be... And I
wanted to be a famous comedy writer. So, I started to
write monologues, sketches...and one day this summer
Julie, without me knowing about it, sent a package of my

32
scribbling to the "Night Owls" TV show... Guess what?
Last week, I got my first cheque... seventy-five dollars
for being funny. Isn't that great?"
(You fucking son of a bitch. Jano's eyes fogged
over and a grimace, intended to be a smile, distorted his
face.)
"It's fantastic... Congratulations... I drink to your
successes." And he buried his aggravation in the glass of
rum and coke.
The party went on into the wee hours, Jano was
tossed from one group to the other, listening to the
endless, sickening praise of his cousin the "comedy
writer". There was a Hungarian math professor, who
lectured at Columbia, with his middle-aged wife who
squeezed Jano into the corner of the sofa and with a
seductive smile she blew cigarette smoke into his face.
The warehouse manager, Robie's boss Mister Wallace, a
tall Jewish guy from Jersey laughed non-stop at
everything Robie said.
"Isn't he funny? It's killing me." Jano wished he
would drop dead. There was a young American couple,
Joe and Anne, apparently neighbours, anchored at the
buffet table and adoring Julie's Hungarian dishes,
making it sound equal to Robie's irresistible humour.
Julie's sister, Eszter a slender nineteen year old,
sat quietly in the corner with her date, a young black
dancer from some obscure all-black ballet company...
She, a dancer herself, used to be a member of the
Hungarian State Opera ballet, now out of work, out of
place. Both of them staring at the celebrating
congregation with envy, - perhaps dreaming about their
own big "first".
As the night progressed, Jano revised his plan a
half a dozen times. He explored the apartment, found a

33
spare room apparently not in any particular use, but
there was no bed in it. He can sleep on the floor, he
decided and get a bed later. He also learned that Julie
was working at a delicatessen somewhere in Manhattan,
between the two of them, they made enough money, - he
speculated so his prolonged stay shouldn't cause to
much of a strain on their finances. If he managed to earn
some money, he would contribute to their budget. The
main thing is, they, Julie and Robie should invite him to
stay. He decided to postpone the crucial conversation for
the next day, but not to wait too long so the euphoria
would still linger over the Bertalan's residence. He
concluded that the whole situation was definitely to his
advantage, and he should exploit it to the full extent.
Robie escorted his boss down to the front door,
waiting for a taxi. His booze handling limit was
considerably stretched, - in plain English he was stoned -
the boss of course. Julie packed a plate from the leftovers
for the neighbours, cabbage rolls, cold breaded chicken
and bits of this and a bits of that. She was very
appreciative of their praise, like all good cooks are, she
loved everybody
with a hearthy appetite the raison d'etre for her
labours in the kitchen. (Any attempt by Robie to loose
his fat image, seemed to be doomed.) They were the last
of the guest, when they finally left with the loot, Julie
started to clean up the mess, Jano helped her, piling the
dishes and glasses onto the kitchen counter while she
quickly passed them through hot soapy water. She kept
talking, - non stop.
"You have no idea how much we appreciate your
coming... When Robie heard the news, that you are in
Canada he completely went nuts. But we didn't have
your address or phone number, we didn't even know

34
what city you are in? Mama Bertalan's letters are not
exactly a good source of vital information. She starts to
write about one thing, then she switches to an other
subject before she would finish with the first. Otherwise
we would have looked you up a long time ago."
She looked very pretty, her reddish, curly hair
was falling in her face in disarray, tiny pearls of
perspiration appeared on her temple from the steaming
hot dishwater in the double sink. Jano, couldn't help, but
look at her the way a cousin was not supposed to look,
he new it, but his mind and hormones were moving on
different tracks.
"You'll stay with us for a while? Won't you...
Jano?" Julie looked at him with an irresistible smile.
"Well, I have some plans and I would like to look
around in New York, to see if I can gather some
information... I thought, I might stay with you people for
a
while..." Jano threw in the line, to see what the
reaction would be.
"Of course you could. Oh, Robie will be so
happy... I know he will be..."
Jano thought breaking the news to Julie, get her
on hisside before confronting Robie would be a good
idea. So far he felt, it was the right move. Julie was so
eager to nurture the kinship between the cousins, to
build a "family" around herself... A typical Jewish
mother candidate, - if there was one. Jano found her
rather naive, not very smart. How could she be? What a
girl as attractive as she was could see in a slob like
Robie? If he would be a celebrated writer already, that
would explain it, but he is not and according to Jano's
"gut feeling" he is

35
 not going to be one. This whole "success" story
regarding his writing being accepted by a TV show, was
just a freak incident. There will be no other. It can't be.
He could envision a career for him, if it depended on
Jano, - maybe a warehouse manager, even a rich
wholesaler, but definitely not a writer. That was obscene.
How could it be? While his mind pondered over this
puzzle... Julie,
Robie, success and fame...
Julie was chattering. How they met in Vienna, the
romantic trip on the Italian freighter... the scary
prospects in a strange, gigantic city, the help of the
goodnatured strangers, and the wedding... A traditional
Jewish wedding with a real rabbi...
Finally Robie came back. His boss deposited in a
cab, safely on his way to Jersey, now he could direct all
his attention to his beloved cousin.
"Jano, boy am I glad to see you." And another
bearhug.
"He is staying with us for a while..." Julie shared
the good news with Robie.
"We can fix up the guest room... Eszter's got a
spare bed, tomorrow you can pick it up. The only
problem is, how would you get it over here."
"That's not a problem, but tomorrow is Saturday
nobody is working in the shop. Monday I will ask
Mr.Wallace to get the truck driver to pick it up. It's only
a couple miles anyway. He'll do it for me, Am I his
favoured Hungarian comic, or what?" (He just won't let
it go, would he? Jano fumed.)
Robie kissed Julie and waltzed her around the
kitchen, they both laughed, seemingly enjoying each
other's happiness.

36
 They talked for a while about hardship, little joys
of discovery in the new world... "Have you tried a
chocolate milk- shake yet?" Robie inquired and in the
next minute offered to take Jano up to the top of the
Empire State Building.
"What a view!" It was almost five in the morning
when they called it quits... Julie made a bed on the sofa
for Jano, and after a giggling trip to the bathroom Robie
and Julie retired to the bedroom. Jano took out his
toilette bag from his suitcase, stripped to his underwear
and went to brush his teeth. He splashed his face with
cool water and looked in the mirror. He liked what he
saw. He flexed his muscles, turning to the left, to the
right and observed his nice tan... combed his hair and the
one on his chest. He concluded to his own satisfaction
that he, indeed was a very handsome man... He
promised himself to work on his biceps... could show a
little bit more bulge, but otherwise…
"I'm perfect."
He declared. As he brushed his teeth, his mind
wondered about Julie. Her petit, well rounded figure,
her hair... the frolicsome freckles on her tiny breasts
peeking out from her modest evening gown and her
eyes... He imagined her lying in bed with Robie, the fat
slob... embracing her and even... Oh boy. He tried to
erase the picture from his mind. He felt envy and
jealousy. The feeling surprised and disturbed him, but in
the mean- time a strange excitement got hold of him.
He went into bed, on the sofa of course, and tried
to concentrate on the task ahead of him, the reason he
came to New York... To Madison Avenue. The world of
advertising. Success, money, and power. Forget Julie, the
little grey mouse, the prospective Jewish housewife,
mother of a bunch of obnoxious kids...

37
 What he wants, are the glamorous models,
actresses will be the ones thet will fall at his feet... just
wait and see... Robie Bertalan, what real success is like.

***

4.
Pain and glory...

While Mike was laying in the Wellesley Hospital

in excruciating pain, the following headline appeared in
the afternoon tabloid's front page.

"Used Car Salesman Savagely

Beaten By Unhappy Customers"

ensued by a detailed account of the event started

out as a refund claim by a couple of new immigrants;
Beaters - over a junk sold to them by one super salesman
Mike Kovacs, the Beatee. An accompanying picture
showed the dealership's trailer before and after the
refund was refused by Mr. Kovacs who is known among
the used car salesmen on the strip as the "King of Junks".
According to reliable sources there was a jalopy to come
yet, for which Mike Kovacs couldn't find a customer. For
top price too.
In "The Spot" a quick vote was taken by the
current owner, nicknamed The Judge, about Mike
chances of salvaging his handsome facial features after
the beating
and so maintain his unchallenged superiority of a
Don Juan-in-residence. The Judge, was named for his
ability for quick and devastating judgment on any given
topic so happened to hit the floor of the popular hangout
of opinionated bums, drifters and curious "normal"

38
people gathered daily for the free entertainment of an
unquestionably one-of-a-kind quality. - The Judge
proclaimed with a sense of historical importance:
"I believe, if visible scars will remain after the
recovery, his sex appeal will be increased by ten fold..."
The crowd overwhelmingly agreed.
"On the other hand... - the Judge continued - if he
kicks the bucket, all the girls from Spadina to Danfort
can kiss good bye to his sex appeal and the dew worms
will take over."
A thunderous laughter indicated a vote of
approval. Well, Mike concentrated all his energy, not to
kick the bucket but pee in it. The fact that a gorgeous,
buxom nurse was holding his miserable, shrunken dicky
aiming for the bedpan, didn't help either, but both his
hands were bandaged to his elbows, due to the fact that
he desperately tried to hang on to the trailer's broken
window frame, while his irate countrymen were trying
to push him through it. The young intern in the ER
worked for a good hour collecting glass slivers from his
bleeding palms, while his colleague stitched his split
chin, cheek and brow.
"Well Mike, not a drop. Might as well use the
catheter." - you could detect a bit of a sadistic tone in her
voice as she dropped the crumped gown over the
bruised legend, called a master piece by Roza Bukowszki
the art teacher. She once tried to describe it to a group of
soul mates in the intimacy of a ladies room at the
Hungarian Cultural Centre.
"Yes, it's a masterpiece, alright, like the one which
graces David's body... Shapely, like the one carved by
Michelangelo and hard as marble...."

39
 When it was repeated in The Spot the next
morning, Berti laughed as hard as he could without
choking on his breakfast.
"Has anybody seen the picture of the David
statue? It is awful small for a man, as if standing naked
out in the cold"
Mike was known around Bloor and Spadina in
those days as a "lady's man" by some, a stud, or the
"village's bull" by others. Envied and despised, praised
or ridiculed, depending where you stood in the endless
maneuvering in the daily struggle by the young male
population, - to get lucky, to get laid. They kept score,
bragged, exaggerated and lied, trying to establish some
sort of dubious reputation, - all for one reason only: Male
ego. The unfortunate truth was and still is, you can't by
groceries with it.
This whole affair on the car lot happened
Wednesday at ten in the morning and the word got
around so fast about Mike's predicament that by
Thursday afternoon, the hospital administration placed a
security guard at Mike's door for crowd control. They
were coming like the Russians. Women out numbering
men by five to one, for obvious reasons. His poor room
mates, three unfortunate post operative patients couldn't
figure out what the big fuss was about, who is the
mysterious stranger under the bandages. The ear
splitting cacophony of a foreign language didn't offer
them any clue either.
Among the visitors Jonathan Craig showed up,
accompanied by his wife Louise. He was the owner of
the used car business, the scene of Mike's successes and
ultimate painful humiliation. Mister Craig, or as he was
known and addressed by everybody; J.B. burst into the
room with an unmistakable "used-car-salesman" look,

40
noise and smell. He was a short man, maybe five foot
eight, fat and bald. His plaid sport jacket and dangling
gold ID bracelet, most likely prescribed as compulsory
accessories for all used car salesmen, commanded
immediate attention, along with the abundant use of
aftershave lotion, which instantly overpowered the
hospital's ever present smell of disinfectants.
"Mike, Baby... I'm so sorry. Look at yourself, isn't
that terrible. What an age we are living in, - J.B.
addressed the captive audience in the room, - ...that an
honest working man can't conduct his business without
fear of vicious attack by these hooligans..."
Everybody, of course agreed.
"Louise! Look at this poor man." Grabbed his wife
by her arms, she was standing at the door. - "Say
something damn it... don't just stand there."
"I'm sorry Mister Kovacs, I'm really sorry, I
brought some fine liquor for you."
She carefully placed a bottle of whiskey, wrapped
in brown paper on Mike's stomach.
The Martian who faithfully guarded Mike's bed
since the orderlies brought him up from the Emergency
Room dedicated himself to be collector and safe keeper
of all the goodies brought by the visitors. So far six pot of
deliciously smelling chicken soup, a big pile of Wiener
Schnitzel, four trays of poppy seed, cottage cheese and
apple strudel, two large and three small bottle of
moonshine, six bottle of selected Hungarian wines, like
Bull's Blood, Grey Friar and Szekszardi Voros and now a
bottle of J&B scotch whiskey. (This is what Mister Craig
drank to match his initials. J.B.)
Mrs. Louise Craig stepped to the background as
soon as she did her spousal duty, as always she
surrendered the stage to her overpowering and

41
obnoxious husband. As visible as he was with his
repulsive wardrobe, and loud demeanour, she was the
absolute opposite. Shy, very quiet, dressed in
inexpensive, nickel and dime fashion and yet managed
to be somewhat stylish in her grey existence. J.B. had
never taken her anywhere in his business outings, so
many of his acquaintance and business friends never
even meet her. Occasional family gatherings and the
Sunday morning church service at a small Presbyterian
Church on the west end was the only joint escapade of
the Craigs. While J.B. patiently sat through the boring
service and lecture of Reverend Hobson and generously
contributed to the collection plate he didn't participate in
any of the church activities at all. That was Louise's
domain. He felt deep in his soul that his whole life,
somewhat hovered on the edge of Christian
acceptability. In plain English he was a bit of a crook. He
accepted that and apart from the hour and a half every
Sunday he lived with the burden quite comfortably. He
let Louise practice an innocent life of a housewife,
involved in charitable affairs and sheltered, or rather
isolated existence and let her pray for her husband's
salvation.
He kept busy being a businessman, buying and
selling, cheating and trying hard not to be cheated. He
spent his leisure time in restaurants and bars, once a
week playing poker with a bunch of "business men" and
occasionally going to Woodbine to drop a bundle on the
ponies. He was faithful to his wife, among all the vices
he practiced,
infidelity was not among them. Once, under the
influence, - he confided to Mike:
"I don't fool around. If some broad hangs herself
on me, I know it's for money... I can get it at home for

42
free and Baby, I'm telling you it is GOOD. Capital G,
capital double O and D. GOOD. Mike, she is wrapped in
plain brown paper and that's the way I like it so nobody,
but nobody in the whole world knows, that under that
plain cover a terrific body is hidden, hidden from the
vultures like you. Hehehe. She doesn't know herself and
I beg you not to tell her ever, she might get carried away.
She is a so-so housekeeper, a lousy cook but in bed... she
is fantastic."
The conversation stuck in Mike's memory. Any
story about women had a special compartment in his
brain, stored for later references. It was months later that
he had a chance to take a closer look at Mrs. Craig, while
he went to pick up a car at the house. The terrific body
described by J.B was wrapped in a light duster, loosely
tied at her waist, her hair braided into a tiny ponytail.
Barefoot she was, as she opened the door and handed
the car keys to Mike with a shy greeting. Well, he
concluded after a inquisitive, penetrating look, - let J.B.
have her. In Mike's assessment, she was a "dog".
The hospital room fell silent for a few short
minutes, the visitors, some of Mike's friends and
acquaintances stood uncomfortably in the presence of
the "Boss". Mike desperately tried to give them a sign
with his one visible eye, kind of a "Good bye" but
nobody noticed or understood it. J.B. sat on the edge of
the bed, nudging Mike to move over and bent over to
talk to him, looking for some sort of opening on his head
bandage around his ears.
"Do you hear me? Mike Baby?"
Mike made a slight move with his shoulder, it
could mean either way, yes or no.
J.B. turned to the visitors.

43
 "Do you mind, people... I got to talk to Mike.
Visiting hour is over. You come some other time. Bye-
bye!" He motioned to them to go away in such an
unmistakable manner that everybody understood it
would be impolite to hang around any longer. One by
one they said a quiet bye and left. The Martian just rolled
himself around the doorframe barely out of site, with
extended ears listened to the proceedings. Even the
patients in the room disconnected themselves pretending
to be sleeping. After J.B. was sure nobody listened he
placed himself closer to Mike and talked directly to his
head.
"Listen to me. Everything is taken care of. I bailed
out your friends and gave them the money back. They
can keep the car too. If the police come to talk to you,
this is what you're going to say. "It was all a
misunderstanding, in the heat of the argument you
tripped and fell" Understand what I'm saying?"
Mike tried to object, shaking his head. J.B. thought
he didn't hear him so he repeated his words a bit louder.
Soon he realised though, that Mike disagreed with
everything he said. He wanted them to pay dearly for his
pain and humiliation. Jail them both for a long period of
time. He wanted justice, revenge. Call it what you like it,
with every painful part of his tormented body he wanted
them to be prosecuted. J.B. gave their money back? And
the car too? What about the wrecked office? He is nuts?
His broken jaw and swollen tongue robbed him of his
greatest asset. Speech. He could talk a calf out of his
mother's womb not only in Hungarian but in his
newly and rapidly acquired street English too. J.B. put
his palm on Mike's bandaged forehead and firmly
pushed it
into the pillow.

44
 "Look Mister! You don't seem to get the picture.
Let me spell it out to you. I don't want them crafty
lawyers making a case in court against us. All the dealers
on the strip agree. There is too much talk is going on
about regulation, crooked used car sales practices and all
that baloney. You are not goanna press charges... get the
picture? If the police come, you say, - and J.B. repeated
the previous sentence with an strong emphasis: It was all
a misunderstanding. In the heat of the argument you
tripped and fell. End of story. Get it?"
Mike let out a desperate growl, shaking his aching
head which made J.B. inpatient.
"Don't make me fire you, Mike. You are to good a
salesman. Listen to me. The damned politicians goanna
use you and the whole damned story to squeeze some
sort of strait jacket on the whole business... regulation,
licences, complaints bureau, the heck knows what else..."
Louise tugged at J.B.'s coat sleeve.
"Tell him!"
"Tell him what?" - J.B. snapped at her.
"The Sales Manager." Louise whispered.
"Cut it out."
"You might got to..."
"I never had a Sales Manager," - addressed
himself to Louise with an irritable tone in his voice. -
"And I never needed a Sales Manager, it was a stupid
idea anyway."
J.B. raised his voice to an unacceptable level,
considering the solemn atmosphere of the temple of
medicine.
Mike's moaning suddenly stopped and the only
visible good eye lit up hearing the word Sales Manager.
The title even on the marginal small lot like J.B. Craig
Auto Sales meant something. Meant something for Mike

45
anyway. Prestige, advancement and career milestone. He
wanted it badly, a business card, the magic word printed
under his name: Sales Manager. Not to mention the extra
commission that might come with it. His good eye fixed
on Louise begged for more support,
and he got it.
"No, it is not a stupid idea, not at all. Beside, you
need a little more time away from the business. You've
promised." Louise pressed the matter.
J.B. never used obscenities in front of his wife, but
now the "f" word almost slipped out.
"Shit... I'll make you a ... (substituted the
forbidden word with the milder "damned") damned
Sales Manager. You look after Johny and Milo if I'm not
there, but don't expect any more money. You are making
more than I do as is."
The sudden promotion helped ease the pain and
Mike couldn't help but dream about the possibilities the
title : Sales Manager might bring to him. Ideas, new
scams and scenarios chased one an other in his throbbing
head. Johny was a young Canadian with strange
principles, not a good salesman material, he had to count
him out, but Milo a Serb from Subotica, who even spoke
a little Hungarian was a different story. Always broke,
borrowing a couple dollars almost every day for
cigarettes, coffee or lunch. By the time J.B. actually paid
the commissions his little brown envelope was nearly
empty except the numerous I.O.U.s. Yes, Milo was
definitely going to play the parts Mike designed for him.
He remembered J.B.s rankings: "don't expect any more
money..." Hah.
"Just leave it to me..." he concluded and with an
inner smile, - his wrecked face wasn't capable to perform
such ordinary task, - and went to sleep.

46
 Next Monday after the orderly removed some of
the bandage from his face and he finally could speak, the
nurse, as she was instructed called the 52nd Division and
reported to Sergeant McLeary that Mike could be
interviewed. A few hours later a policeman arrived and
while Mike, - the first time since the beating, - tried to eat
some solid food he, the policeman pulled up a chair and
with note pad in hand started the questioning.
First the routine identification questions, like
name and address, establishing the exact local of the
alleged crime, and all that was meticulously recorded in
the little black note book. Putting all that behind, the
police constable leaned back on his chair and posed the
Question;
"Now, Mister Kovacs,in your own words, please
tell me what happened."
Mike fixed his visible good eye on the ceiling and
started the pre rehearsed speech.
"Well, we had a little disagreement, I mean the
boys and I, nothing to it really..."
The policeman looked at him with disbelieve...
Crazy foreigners...
"Disagreement? You call this a disagreement?
Have you had a chance to look in
the mirror? How the hack you ended up like
this?"
"In the heat of the argument I fell and got bruised
a little."
"Mister Kovacs, don't forget that I was there... I
scraped you off the trailer's wall... you're trying to tell
me that nothing to it? You refuse to cooperate... You
don't wish to press charges?"
"Look officer. You might not understand, they are
my country men, I made a mistake, I supposed to give

47
their money back... They are poor people like me...
working hard for their money... If I can forgive them for
a couple punches, why can't you?"
"You people are crazy... I know I'm not suppose to
say such things... but you are nuts. It makes it very
difficult to protect you if you don't do your part. Are you
sure?"
"Yes officer, I'm a good Christian.. I can forgive
my fellow man..."
"What a crap!" - muttered the constable under his
moustache and put away his note book. " - But watch
out, next time if they put a knife between your ribs... we
might not be around."

****

Sixteen days after the so called "disagreement" on

the J.B. Craig Auto Sales lot, the limping and aching
Mike Kovacs Sales Manager, King of The Junks entered
The Spot to be greeted by the regulars with earsplitting
hurrahs. Mike graciously accepted the adoration and for
each and every member of the crowd he, personally
handed over one of his freshly printed business cards, a
tangible proof of his hard earned prominence. The Judge
himself made him a double espresso. The Spot wasn't
licensed to serve alcoholic beverages, but for a distinctive
patron, rules were broken and from under the counter a
generous splash of brandy topped off the cup.
Mike, with a motion of his left hand silenced the
celebrating congregation and lifted the tiny cup to his
trembling lips. With half closed eyes he sipped the
aromatic brew slowly, ceremoniously, enjoying every
drop of it. While in the hospital, as soon as the pain in
his battered body subsided about the fourth day after the

48
beating and well before his stupendous appetite
demanded satisfaction, - he craved his daily dosage of
espresso coffee more than anything else. The Martian
brought some in a thermos bottle one day, but it was a
total disappointment. Stale and flat tasteless black soup
without the customary bouquet, without the golden
froth holding up the spoonful of sugar what you can
watch slowly sinking under, indicating the true
goodness of the brew a final divine conclusion of the
labour of a long line of dedicated men and women.
If you want to know what goes into a good cup of
espresso coffee you might as well start with the tireless
field workers on the coffee plantation high on the sun
drenched Kenyan mountains and their distant cousins in
Costa Rica. The native Indians the distant descendants of
the proud Incas who tend the plantations up on the
northern slopes of the Andes in Columbia where the
climate is the best for the noble coffee shrub. The young
maidens who with their gentle hands wash and spread
the green beans to be dried under the gentle autumn
sun.
The eager dock hands who carry the heavy bags
on board of the rusty old boats which will sail to the
ports of faraway lands.
The blender who selects and mixes the best beans,
so much of this kind and so much of the other, to be
roasted with loving care by a wise old man in shiny
copper apparatus... and Mr. Rozsda, don't forget the
good old Bela Rozsda, who's always willing to give up
his sabbath if his beloved customer got short on the
"Mellowcup" the favoured blend of the Spot's patrons.
Willing to risk eternal condemnation drives to the city
with five pounds of the best.

49
 And last, but not least the ingenuity of the late
descendants of DaVinci who invented the whistling-
hissing contraption. An mighty expensive gadget which
might cost a couple thousand dollars to make a
puny cup of coffee? Why not?
All this, of course could be for nothing, wasted if
the last man or woman on the line screws up. Very few
people know, for example, that you're not suppose to
grind more coffee at a time than what you might use in
the next half hour. Did you know that the grinder has to
be adjusted regularly depending on the humidity of the
air? Coarser if humid, finer if the air is dry. It is a
misconception that the espresso coffee is made with
steam. Hahhh. No way. Filtered, softened hot water just
under the boiling point. Under no more, no less than 9.5
psi pressure. The steam produced by the machine is for
making frothed milk for the cappuccino, and cappuccino
is for the dilettante, real coffee connoisseur don't drink
cappuccino. Maybe for breakfast. Maybe. Oh, one more
thing. espresso should be drunk with sugar. Lots of
sugar.
Now you can see what a extraordinary
international co-operation goes into a perfect cup of
espresso coffee. Nobody, but nobody appreciated it more
in this minute than, Mike Kovacs, Sales Manager beaten
but not down, wounded but ready to do battle... Well he
rather surrendered that night than fight... and Betty
Tooth promised to be gentle. She kept her word. In the
Spot the celebration stretched well into the night, but
upstairs in the darkened room Mike had fallen asleep,
like a baby in the unlikely hour of ten. He was estatic to
be home, to

50
 be alive and sunk his aching head into his
friendly, long missed pillow with the unmistakable scent
of familiarity.
Before he drifted into dreamland, with his deep,
seductive voice he whispered into Betty's ear:
"Sugar, you got to do the laundry in the morning."

***

Sugar, aka Betty Tooth waited till Mike had fallen

asleep, and quietly dressed.
Berti just came up from the restaurant and he was
examining the fridge in the kitchen for some edible
substance when Betty carefully closed Mike's door
behind her.
"How's the patient?" Berti enquired.
"Oh, he is fine, same old jerk."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Good night Berti."
"Good night Betty, be careful."
"Well, a bit late for that, I guess."
And the night was over, so the unfortunate
episode of one Mike Kovacs and the unhappy customers.
The pain lasted for a while, but on the end it was worth
it.
Mike with his newly acquired title embarked on a
journey up the hill, as far up as nobody could foresee,
not even J.B. Craig, but more about him later.
Jano Somogyi missed the history making brawl,
he was gone for more than a year by now. Nobody really
knew what was happening to him, the occasional short
phone call to Mike, revealed very little about his life in
the Big Apple. Mike didn't pay to much attention to his
bragging. His credit, as far as truthfulness is concerned

51
was quite low... a definite asset in the ad business but a
disadvantage when it came to dealing with his friends.

***

5.
An other conspiracy theory...

It was an old cliché, used by friend and foe to

describe Toronto in the old days: that you can fire a
cannon Sunday on the Yonge Street without hitting a
single soul. Well, it was changing a great deal by the
time of our story, if not as much around Yonge Street but
definitely changing on the Bloor West. On street corners,
front of the drug store, the restaurants and cafes small
group of people were hanging around engaging in never
ending arguments or friendly discussions. There is no
topic was too trivial or pivotal to be off the agenda of
these impromptu symposiums, let it be the Middle East
crises or the latest vintage of sligovica at Uncle Miska's
speakeasy. Everything was analyzed in enthusiastic and
loud debate. Sunday was especially busy day for these
parliamentary sessions since so little was to do around
town.
At the front of The Spot, about a half a dozed man
was standing in a semi circle engaged in heated
argument about the latest medical procedure treating
duodenal ulcers. Little Schwarz, the watch peddler was
due to report in the hospital, Monday morning for
operation. His ulcer was acting up lately, affecting his
ability to make a living. Little Schwarz not to be
mistaken for Bald Schwarz the taxi driver. They were not
related except the fact that both were from Ferencvaros a

52
district in Budapest famous for their soccer team.
Anyway, according to the Judge a new method was
developed in the States, - he read about in a Medical
Journal, he said - which does away with drastic cutting
and stitching, simply turning the whole stomach inside
out. The good surface gets in ready for the ambush of the
acid, the punishing wear and tear of hot Hungarian
cuisine with all the garlic, pepper and murderous hot
paprika. The damaged part has a chance to heal in the
soothing environment of the abdomen ready for the
possible reversal next time. He, - the Judge was just
hoping that the doctors in the General read about it and
spare Little Schwarz from unnecessary suffering and loss
of valuable body mass. If somebody is hardly tip the
scale at hundred and twenty pound can't afford to give
up even an ounce. Little Schwarz put in a meek
objection, saying, he personally would leave it the
doctors to decide what to do and the Judge better stick to
the restaurant business, although some members of the
panel insisted that, he didn't know much about it either.
Across the street from the Spot an old Anglican
Church graced the view. Dark, built at the beginning of
the century by English immigrants. As the city went
through a gradual transformation, the well-to do
parishioners moved north into the suburbs and the
mixed new arrivals in the neighborhood were anything
but Anglicans. The congregation depleted in numbers,
although they tried very hard to keep up with the times
but the maintenance fund get leaner and leaner through
the years, it's effects started to shown on the valuable
real estate. Here and there a cracked pane, a missing
color wedge of the stained glass window, eavesdrops
hanging loose and of course the most visible neglect was
the rusting ornamental fence around the grounds. The

53
sizable grounds, which obviously was a garden some
time in the past, as the overgrown shrubbery,
degenerated rosebushes and some stubborn ivy clinging
to the crumbling walls, -like so many sad witnesses
reminded the passerby of a bygone glory.
It was one o'clock in the afternoon, a lazy, early
October Sunday afternoon. Berti came down from the
apartment and for a short while listened into the
discussion with an outsider's indifference. It was three
years since he arrived in Toronto and set up residence
above the Spot. Three years of trying to figure out, what
makes these people listen to each other's contrived
reasoning and absurd convictions. Three years of
renewed pledge that he won't get drawn into the circle of
fools, but the entertainment aspect was usually too great
to be missed. But today, somehow he could do without
the medical consultation of the would be surgeons and
casually strolled over to the other side of the street,
narrowly missed by a noisy tram.
He watched as the Martian got off the streetcar at
the corner of Brunswick and he sit down on the brick
base of the church's fence. It was the right height and
wide enough to offer a comfortable seating especially if
you could find the right longitude to place your spine
between the vertical bars. He wanted to be alone to sort
things out in his mind and upstairs was too much going
on. Mike and his admiring entourage playing blackjack
since last night and looks like they are not going to quit
for a while yet. The Judge just sent upstairs a pan full of
scrambled eggs, - five eggs for each of the players and
two pound of hot smoked Hungarian sausage cut into it.
The demijohn was still half full of home made red wine,
so one might imagine of the general atmosphere of the

54
residence. Certainly not suitable for meaningful
contemplation.
Sometimes, when the world is closing on, on him,
he gets on the streetcar to ride all the way to the High
Park for a little rendezvous with nature. - Poor substitute
for the real thing you might say, but without a car, how
far one can get away from the overbearing, cacophonous
city. Again, as so often, that Sunday afternoon, he was
longing for the serenity of the country with gentle hills
and distant horizons. Untamed trees and noble weed-
ruled meadows. Even the memory of the mud laden
boots he used to curse after a day out collecting
chamomile flowers for his mother medicine chest,
reminded him of an other world so painfully missed.
Sadly, very few people populated his nostalgic
reflections apart from his mother and brother... But
places, images and objects. Yes! Anything connected to
that forsaken landscape, he used to call home. Well, he
was a painter after all, a poet of the visual. And a
damned good one too.
But today he couldn't get away; he was expecting
Dusan the art dealer to come to pick up the weekly lot.
Not much. Eight canvasses. Five fourteen by eighteen
portraits and three twenty by twenty six landscapes. The
so-called sofa size. He should get at least eighty-five;
maybe a hundred bucks for them. He hoped. All
depended on Dusan's mood, which is in turn, was the
direct consequence of his luck or the lack of it, - on the
Saturday's run of the horses.
The Martian was standing in the doorway to the
apartment, like someone who doesn't decide yet the
direction of his next step. His attention was directed to
Berti who intensely examined the tip of his shoe. He was
waiting for him to look up, to have an eye contact,

55
perhaps giving some sign. He, the Martian was worried
about his neighbor lately. He was unusually withdrawn,
quiet and preoccupied. Apart from occasional, mostly of
art related discussions on a relative superficial level, the
communication between the two was quite limited. Even
around the kitchen, - both of them rather cooked their
own food than eat downstairs, - even in the kitchen they
didn't have too much in common. The Martian was
vegetarian and Berti considered a day without meat, the
end of the world, a starvation diet. At occasions, the
Martian offered some well thought opinion on Berti's
work. Not on the commercial canvasses he made for
Dusan, but the ones were standing turned to the wall in
Berti's room. The ones he worked on, in his spare time.
The ones were not for sale, or rather unsaleable.
After a long minute or so, Berti sensed that
someone watching him and looked up. You know that
uneasy feeling when you notice of someone's
penetrating stare? If that stare is originated from the man
called The Martian even more disturbing. Not because
Berti disliked him, not at all. It's the matter of fact,
among the roommates the Martian was the most
tolerable and that included even Kati whose got enough
bothersome peculiarities to rank right behind Mike
Kovacs. He knew the Martian wants to talk to him and
was no way out, although he would rather be left alone.
As their eyes meet, Berti waved an awkward
greeting with a silent Hello. The Martian, just like
somebody waiting for an invitation walked across the
street and set down next to Berti.
-"What's up Buddy?" With his usual line of
greetings, he tapped on Berti's shoulder. He called
everybody: Buddy, except people he disliked. He
addressed them as: Sir.

56
 -"Nothing to brag about. Nice day, eh?" answered
Berti.
-"Yes it is."
They sit side by side for a long while, still,
meticulously examining the tattered strip of grass
between the cracked sidewalk and the brickwork, as it
was the most important task on hand... Berti broke the
silence, like answering an unspoken question.
-"Waiting for Dusan, suppose' to be here long
ago."
-"He is not very reliable, isn't he?"
-"Well, if he is coming on the day he promised...
it's okay, several hours late, no big deal, but when he
doesn't show for a couple days, and you need the
dough... that's make me really pissed..."
The Martian tried to comfort Berti:
-"Let's hope he is coming."
-"Jah... I got to pay my rent yet."
-"The Judge knows that you good for it."
-"I think so." - Berti wasn't really worried about
the rent, but he was down to his last couple dollar and
was hardly anything in the fridge.
-"Kati moved out this morning, did you know?"
Berti announced the big news.
-"No kidding, Kati the original tenant? What
happened?"
-"It's a big mystery. She quit her job at the Puszta,
- they say, - and she rented a fancy apartment
somewhere around the Mount Pleasant Cemetery.
Allegedly she is hanging around with Peppi von Cherny
lately..." - among a couple minor weaknesses, gossiping
was the vice, Berti enjoyed the most.
-"Who is that character, that Peppi?" asked the
Martian.

57
 -"A Pollack, he lost his right leg in the war."
-"Oh..." was the Martian only reaction. After a few
seconds he added: "I wonder who is taking her room. I
wouldn't mind to change, but I hate moving with all the
junk I accumulated in the last two years."
-"Me too." said Berti and the subject was closed.
A street car vent by, the earth was shaking under
the monstrous red and beige contraption, some people
disembarked at the stop, a minute later she was gone, -
and was quiet again. At the front of the Spot the circle
was changing constantly, some was coming others were
leaving. A wide variety of subject was discussed with the
same impassioned manner, like Little Schwarz duodena
ulcer.
The Martian spoke again.
--"Look Buddy, I know something bothering you.
What is it? It's not a good idea to button up, problems
have a nasty habit, and they eat you from the inside.
Better let them out. What is it?"
Berti, looked at the Martian, smiled.
-"Nothing really... and everything." suddenly he
felt talk is good. To talk to somebody who willing to
listen... it's good.
-"Here am I, waiting for Dusan, The so called art
dealer. Worked all week on those damned pictures...
waiting for Dusan, the man I immensely dislike... Yes a
definitely don't like him. I don't hate him. Sometimes I
think I do, but I like to believe that I don't lower myself
to the gutter of hatred for such a trivial reason...He is a
crook, so what? After all he provides the means for some
sort of an existence, whatever meager it is. At least I
don't have to work in the supermarket, sorting rotten
vegetables... But, look what I do? Sometimes it makes me

58
puke, just to look at another seascape with purple
sunset."
Berti toke a deep breath and after a little while he
continued.
-"Back home, another Dusan was telling me that
the only canvas was worthy of consideration that was
painted in the official style of the almighty social-
realism. No sweating working hero, no money...
Landscape without giant hydro towers, or tractors... l'art
pour l'art... bourgeois decadence... I'm just as screwed
here as I was screwed back home... and the top of it... is
this a home?" Pointed at the house across the street.
-"I see what you mean." it was kind of a 'go ahead
talk'.
-"I hope to get enough money for my effort to pay
the rent of that miserable room and buy some food."
Berti made a submissive gesture and continued with
resignation is his voice:
-"A classic case of a starving artist. - You know I
probably wouldn't mind if my real work would be sold
for peanuts... but nobody wants those..." He paused for a
while and finally turned to the Martian.
-"Marcus..." Berti was one of the very few, who
know the Martian real name. Marcus Mindus-Sacasa. No
wonder everybody preferred the nickname, Martian.
Who the heck would remember it, Markus Mindus-
Sacasa.
-"Marcus, you have seen my work, tell me, it is
really worthless, as they say. Do I live in a vacuum, in a
false believe that I've got something, when everybody
telling me other wise? I reached the point when I
stopped to show them to anybody I'm so fed up with
rejections. I'm hurt, sometime I swore I don't want to
pick up another brush and just pour turpentine on the

59
whole God damned lot and set them on fire, myself
included."
-"Berti, you talk nonsense. You are an
exceptionally talented man. And you know it." Marcus
spoke with a hushed, but forceful voice.
-"That's not what every gallery owner was saying.
Look, when I got here and managed to buy a few yards
of canvas and put together a small selection, I picked a
Gallery just like that, out of the telephone book and with
the best two of my lot a walked into the Alison Grant
Gallery. First a man told me that they are not interested
in anybody's work, other than the few of they own
clients'. I insisted to talk to the owner, telling that I'm a
Hungarian freedom fighter, - it was a big thing in '57,
and everybody was a freedom fighter, so it just slipped
out in my desperate attempt to be listened to. And it
worked. Alison Grant seen me in her office or more like
in her boudoir. There she was an ageless, prune faced
woman. The place smelled like a cross between a French
perfumery and a cheap tavern. It was ten in the morning
and she was already stoned or she never sobered up
from the night before. She hugged me, kissed me on both
my cheeks and she told me how sorry she was that the
revolution was lost. She kept pouring some kind of
whiskey for me, and after I declined to accept it she
drank it all herself. One glass after the other. She looked
at the canvases and with deep sorrow in her voice, same
tone as she expressed her sorrow about the lost
revolution, she told me that I definitely have talent, but I
lived behind the iron curtain so long, that I missed the
incredible progress the art world experienced. My
pictures are passé, that was she told, passé. Not in
vogue. Reminded her of Emily Carr, definitely an Emily
Carr repro. She said. In that time I didn't even know who

60
Emily Carr was, never mind copying her style. And than
she told me to go and learn, see what is going on in the
art world. Find myself, come up with something fresh
and new. Look at shows and exhibitions. See what others
do. But most important be different and forget about
what I'm doing now. I was devastated. She was the first,
but many others were telling me since the same thing.
Come with something new."
He glanced at his wristwatch.
-"Where the hell is that God damned Dusan." with
the same breath he continued his tirade. - "I've looked
the showrooms, galleries and I got more and more
depressed. I can't understand what is out there.
Something is wrong with my eyes, tell me Marcus am I
an ignorant moron? Why everybody is raving about
those abstracts and I can't see anything, but meaningless
gibberish. The titles aren't help either... I've been
painting to Dusan's order for so long, that I lost my sense
of direction?" Berti jumped to his feet.
-"Okay, okay... stop right there. Sit down and
relax. Don't get so exited. You have asked so many
questions in the last few minutes, it would fill the
curriculum of couple semester of Art 101. Sit down,
please." Marcus grabbed Berti by his arms and pulled
him back on the ledge.
- "First of all, I wouldn't put down of those
pictures, you produce for Dusan by the dozen. While
they hardly qualify for the Venice Biennale, a./ painted
with professional know-how. I couldn't do it, the Judge,
Little Schwarz and millions of others couldn't paint any
of those. It takes talent and technique what you have.
B./Non of those ever will be hanged in the National
Gallery for sure, but would you be proud of it anyway
see it on the same wall as your contemporaries' abstract

61
gibberish is blocking the view of a nice white wall? Most
of your work, you so apprehensive about will be
enjoyed, appreciated and cherished more than most of
the moderns hidden in eccentric collectors' vaults. Look
at that girl, what's her name?" Pointed Marcus across the
street where the young men were standing and just
joined by a pretty girl in her Sunday best.
-"Susan, I don't know her last name either. She
works in Szabo's drug store."
-"Doesn't matter. Look at her isn't she pretty?"
-"What she has to do with my problem?" Berti
objected.
-"Plenty." Marcus continues. "Pleasant to look at
her. No question about that. A work of art, if you ask me,
yet if you look closer you can tell that the dress she is
wearing coming from the Eaton's basement, the jewel
ninety nine cent glass beads from Kresge's. Shoes,
handbag the same class. This is Bloor West, my friend,
not Rosedale. Your Susan graces the scenery with her
crisp, scrubbed, innocent beauty, as your twenty five
dollar, assembly line pictures are decorating a modest
living room somewhere in this land of new beginnings."
With a joyous giggle he motioned to the other
side. –
"Look the impudent bums how they instantly turn
into so many Southern gentlemen. Isn't that something."
then he continues "I bet the man who is buying your
painting from Dusan's van on some parking lot is very
proud of his purchase, and hardly can wait for the
cousin to come for a visit, so he can show off with the
luxurious addition to his humble household. Not a three
ninety five nativity print under glass, but a real oil
painting signed by a real artist." Marcus looks at the
puzzled Berti and proceeds. –

62
 "So, be careful when you put Dusan down. He is
not so bad, he is serving a noble need, need for beauty
on an affordable scale."
-"I never thought about that..." Berti mused and
after a little while he added.
-"Maybe I should put a little more care into those
paintings... I never thought where they going to end up,
except Dusan's van."
-"I'm glad, you see it in the different light."
Marcus stood up and stretched his arms above his head.
" Come on Buddy, I'm dying to have a coffee, I'm
buying."
And he sprinted across the street with Berni in
tow. It was dark and cool in the restaurant. In the back of
the room, they called the pit, was the chess table. Now
two older men were silently staring on the board with no
more than a half a dozen figures still standing. The pit
sunken, about a half a foot below the rest of the
restaurant was like a separate world of its own. Here,
apart from the rest of the room different rules applied.
Voices were seldom raised, gentlemanly manners were
compulsory. In around the middle of the room in one of
the boots a young couple were holding hands,
whispering in each others ears... not because they
wanted to keep their secretes for prying strangers, but
more likely the subject matter required nothing, but
gentle whispers.
At the staff table, right under the espresso
machine sat Margo the waitress with her sun Steve, a
smart ten years old doing his homework. Every
afternoon, when the place was relative quiet, mother and
son were deeply involved with scholarly business. It was
hard to say, who coached whom, but the grammar, far

63
superior then any of the so-called new Canadians who
were hanging around Bloor and Spadina at those days.
Somebody, you can bet it was the whispering
young man feed quite few quarters into the jukebox and
Frank Sinatra crooned one hit song one after the other.
In contrast of the near idyllic ambience a hell of
the commotion was coming out from the kitchen. Only
the occasional crash of a dinner plate or fatal meeting of
a frying pan and the stovetop interrupted the steady
flow of colorful litany of profanity. No other tribes on
the face of the earth are capable to swear as fancy,
innovative and insulting as the Hungarians. A well-
enlightened Hungarian can swear for a half an hour
without repeating the same word twice. And the Judge
found a worthy match in Missus Bogar, the cook. They
let it all out, but the people in the front didn't even blink,
they did what they did in holy ignorance. The quarrel
rooted in a fateful oversight on the part of the Judge. He
forget to supply the daily mickey of dark rum, as the
contractual fringe benefit to Missus Bogar and as a result
she was painfully sober and when the Judge refused to
pay five dollar to the bootlegger for the dollar ninety five
bottle of booze, the hell broke loose. The fact that the
dishwasher didn't show up for work in the morning and
Missus Bogar had to wash the leftover dishes from the
night before, didn't help either. When the Judge called
his cherished cook a drunken slut, she throws a bowl full
of nokedly, the essential part of a real chicken paprikash
at the Judge and she walked out of the kitchen.
Quit.
Exactly this point the Martian called Margo with
his usual polite manner:
-"Margo, my little Buddy, can we have a couple
small espressos?"

64
 -"Just a minute, I'm coming." rubbed Steve head
and she concluded. "You are right, that's my boy."
The Judge appeared in the kitchen door, wiping
his face, bits and pieces of small dumplings stuck into his
balding head, now unstuck, slowly one by one... and he
screamed.
-"Get me a damned cook..."
And Frankie sung, "...strangers in the night."
"So, as I was saying that part, about your and
Dusan business was easy. You have nothing to be
ashamed, after all prostitution the oldest profession on
earth. Your problem is that you are a cheap whore when
you can be a high class one, for big money too. But more
about that later. Let’s talk about you and the current
state of the arts." The coffee arrived, hot and aromatic
with Margo's ever-pleasant smile.
-"Oh, by the way, I almost forget." She turned to
Berti. "There is a message for you Berti, Dusan called. He
said he can't make it today, trouble with his van, but he
is coming tomorrow morning."
-"Thanks Margo." But under his moustache he
murmured a brief curse, directed toward the absentee art
dealer.

***

65