XVII. Don’t Mess with Mom
Dave “the Dude” Devoran, free‑market ambassador, came to Budapest several weeks ago to make his fortune. Since then, Dave has been roped into the gun running business, had a member of Parliament attacked in his kitchen and discovered that the couple who raised him were not his real parents. What follows is Episode XVII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
I hate children. I was never one myself, not really: I was never a person who expected everything for nothing. I never desired unnecessary attention. I was never confused about my role in the world. I never needed to believe the gentle lies of my parents nor wanted to believe the vicious lies of my schoolmates. And I never made up my own lies to hide my youthful ignorance. "Kinga, you are such a serious little girl," everyone used to tell me. I would deny it. I was a serious girl, but I wasn't little.
If I could be that way since birth, why must so many others spend so much of their lives being children? And why—now that I have achieved a gracefully mature 55—should I suddenly be forced to have a child?
My child's name is David Devoran. I gave him life more than 20 years ago and I gave him away eight months after that. Now he's back, and I'm sure he wants me to give him something else. I have nothing for him.
Some will say I am heartless to have sold my baby to another couple, but I am just practical. The Devorans got the son they'd been longing for and my husband and I got rid of the financial and emotional burden that was tearing us apart. At the time I thought my action was more humane than an abortion but just as effective. I now see I was wrong. No one ever got a phone call from an aborted fetus.
When he rings up from Budapest and introduces himself I feel years younger. I hate that feeling. My life was hell when I was young. I don't know what he looks like, but as soon as I hear his voice on the phone I can picture him: He's probably lying on the floor of some dirty one‑room apartment with water stains on the wall. His hair is messy, his clothes are dirty, he needs a shave and he smells bad.
I know why he's calling: He wants money. He's just found out that we are his real parents and he's decided to put the touch on us. He even tells me he's got "business" to discuss with my husband. But before he gets a chance to elaborate on the subject, I distract him: I tell him I'm happy he called and that I want him to come live with us. I act like I’m ready to love him and he gets nervous. Children don’t want love; they want attention. They want someone to coddle them and give them everything they need. He is so horrified at the thought of my love that he forgets to say anything about money before he hangs up. But this is not the end. I know he’ll be back. He’ll decide that he can put up with love if he gets money for it.
So right now I’m looking out of the window of a plane flying from Cleveland to Budapest. I’m going to see this Dave Devoran and put an end to this whole mess. I haven’t even told my husband why I’m going. He wouldn’t know how to handle this. I will get the abortion I should have had years ago, when we were poor, stupidly religious exiles from Hungary.
It will be an interesting trip—I haven’t visited that miserable city I used to call “home” for about 10 years. I’ll see all the old friends: Zsuzsa, who never thanked me for the clothes I sent her; Béla, the man I thought I still loved until I saw how badly he had aged; István and Kriszta, the drunk and the spineless cow; bitter Ildi; stupid Támas; greedy Atilla. And then there’s the special atmosphere of Hungary: useless telephones, workers who don’t know what the word service means—a whole country stuck in the last century. Oh, I can hardly wait.
And I suppose it will be an experience to see my boy. I must admit, over the years I have been curiuos about how he turned out. Once, when he was 12, I had a fit of sentimentality and even asked my husband if we could buy him back. Of course, later, I was glad the Devorans wouldn’t agree to such a deal.
But I still do wonder sometimes what he’s like. After all, he came from me, he can’t be too childish. I’m sure any son of mine will be independent, practical, proud. The sort of young man you might even enjoy meeting, maybe the sort of young man you could love.
Damn it. I am a woman, and this child came from my flesh. How could I not love him? I know I will see him and I will have to embrace him. I will have to touch him and talk to him and find out what he thinks about the world. Then I will have to crush him.
Such a chore. I hate children.