XXXIII. A Chancey Encounter
Dave “the Dude” Devoran came to Budapest to find his fortune, but things have not worked out exactly as he planned. What follows is Episode XXXIII.
By Berger Bronte
(© Tom Popper)
“What’s the definitive conjunctive tense of the verb “to weedle?”
“I don’t care.”
“Why can’t I say: ‘I have had been having a dog?’”
“Because that’s a stupid thing to say.”
“Do you dislike dogs?”
I believe that physical violence is under‑rated as a teaching tool, and with all the dumb questions I got this afternoon, I was about to put my theory to test. As I walk home from another hard day of “consulting” — which really involves teaching English to dimwitted bureaucrats — I can’t stop thinking about how boring my life is. God, I hate this job. I could probably use a drink. Before my head has even decided, my feet take a detour and steer my body toward the local Gösser Bar.
I turn a corner and a lime‑green Audi four‑door — covered with those goofy decals that are supposed to look like paint splotches — pulls up on the sidewalk right in front of me and practically makes me one with a building. When are these idiots gonna learn how to park? Budapest is the most pedestrian unfriendly town I’ve ever seen. I slip around the front bumper and this young guy with long black hair in a pony tail and a shark‑skin suit gets out from the passenger’s side of the car and stands in my way.
“Hey haver!” he says, pointing at me. Then, spitting out more Hungarian per second than I could translate in an hour, this mildly creepy‑looking guy tugs at my elbow.
“No. No. Nem. No change money!” I say loudly, trying to wave him away. Damn. The pesky small‑time crooks in this town can spot a foreigner a mile away. This one is making me kind of nervous, because he’s obviously into a hard sell.
When I yank my arm out of his grip, my head spins a little to the side. That’s when I notice that the driver of the car has gotten out and is standing behind me. He’s about 40 with a short crew‑cut and big ears that stick way out. His suit, shirt and tie are all black, he has broad shoulders, a nose that bends a little sideways and an overall appearance that makes me take a step back — right onto the toes of the guy with the pony tail.
I say “bocsanot” as pleasantly as I can, bow apologetically and step sideways, to walk around the shark‑skin suit. But the big guy in black drops a hand on my shoulder and says, “Duhveed Devoran?”
Oh my God, how do they know my name? It must be the secret police. They’re probably keeping tabs on all the successful, foreign businessmen here. I’m not successful yet, but I bet they can tell I’m gonna hit it big soon. I knew it was risky coming to this country before all the commies were flushed out.
“Ve must talk to you about ze guns that were in your home,” the older one says.
Shit! It’s the gun runners! I thought they were scared off by the mob. Why do they come bother me? “Look friend, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say in voice tough enough to intimidate Mike Tyson. “And if there were any guns in my apartment, they would have been stolen by Lithuanian gangsters.”
“Ve know zis. Ve are Lithuanian gangsters,” the man says. He hands me a card with the name “Grigory,” and no last name. In smaller type, printed in four languages including English, is his title: “Senior Lithuanian Gangster.”
I re‑read the card, and consider the appropriate reaction. I’m too horrified to think very clearly, but I’m wondering whether it would only be polite to give him one of my own business cards when I hear this loud POP! POP! sound and see holes appear in the bricks of the building next to us. Suddenly, Grigory and the shark‑skin take guns out of their jackets and start shooting at a long, black Lada sedan passing slowly down the street.
I’m not fully aware of what happens for the next few seconds, but when I get a grip on reality again, I’m turning the corner, running as fast as I can. I wave down a taxi and get in.
I figure they must know where I live, so I head for my friend Erszébet’s house. She opens the door and I zoom past her before she has a chance to speak. That’s when I notice that there’s some young guy sitting on the couch.
“Erszébet. Listen, I’m sorry to barge in on you this way, but it’s an emergency.”
“Oh David, I’m glad you came,” she says. “This is my new friend Öcsi. He was explaining to me that you might be having a problem with the Lithuanian mob.”