No Place in the Sun (25 page)

‘Come, that is the place, let us have a drink.’ The brunette now had hold of one of his arms and the blonde was clinging to the other.

‘Just a minute.’ Tom was buying time, the street was quiet and he felt that he was being led into a trap.

‘Why are you stopping? Let us all have a drink together.’ The blonde was pleading, almost whining. He was sure now that he was being set up; maybe going to be mugged as soon as he entered the bar. They were pulling at his elbows now but Tom had seen enough; he broke free and retreated back down the street, the swearing of the two women echoed after him as he sprinted around the corner on to Vaci ut and back to his hotel.

He was panting as he entered the lobby.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ the concierge was concerned about his guest.

Tom told the man of his experience; the older man smiled sadly.

‘Every night they do this, always to men on their own. The police move them along but it not illegal, they are breaking no law.’

‘But surely if they rob you, then that is against the law.’

‘No they do not rob you exactly, just you buy them a drink maybe and one for yourself, then they bring the bill, maybe five hundred euros each drink, fifteen hundred euros for the bill.’

‘And this is legal?’ Tom was incredulous.

‘Yes, is on the menu, very small print on the wall, anyway most foreigners do not easily convert the prices from forint, they think they are making mistake themselves, until bill comes.’

‘And what if I didn’t pay?’

‘Always they pay; the barmen are big and strong. Yes, always they pay.’

Tom shuddered at the thought; the doorman had indeed been a huge man, broad shoulders and no neck, thick muscular arms straining the material of his suit. Yes, he could imagine it; you would probably have to pay right enough.

He headed for the lifts. ‘Thanks for the information; I should have talked to you before I went out.’

The elderly concierge smiled. ‘You are welcome, sir, and I hope that you have a good stay in Budapest. Please do not judge us all by the behaviour of these mafia types.’

‘Of course not, and thank you.’

‘Good night, sir.’

The morning was bright and sunny and the stroll to the coffee house was agreeable; the events of the previous evening were just an unpleasant memory. He pushed open the door of Gerbeaud’s and looked for Amir Mamzer.

He wasn’t hard to find. At first it looked as if a small fire had broken out in the bay window in the smoking section. The small fat man had spread himself out around a table with his coat and briefcase occupying several chairs; a cigarette smouldered in the ashtray and another burned smokily between his lips. His eyes squinted from the column of smoke that rose in front of his face. ‘Mr. Murphy?’

Tom extended his hand. ‘Mr. Mamzer? Yes, I’m Tom Murphy, nice to meet you.’

‘Sit down, sit down. You like maybe some coffee?’

‘Thanks, I’ll have a coffee please.’

The fat man dropped heavily to his chair and lit another cigarette from the last one. ‘Welcome, welcome. I hope we can do much business together.’

A smiling waitress placed two coffees on the table; he pushed one cup over to Tom. ‘You like some cakes maybe? Good cakes here, but damn fucking expensive, is better in my local coffee house but it is hard to find and I don’t want that you get lost.’

The hotel breakfast had been good, but the cakes behind the glass looked appetizing. ‘Have they got apple pie? I fancy an apple pie.’

Mamzer waved back the waitress. ‘Bring one angle amlet.’ He turned to Tom, ‘that’s English apple pie, that’s what they call it, no idea why, stupid fuck Ungarians.’

‘You don’t like Hungarians?’

‘Stupid lazy fuck bastards. Can’t do nothing for themselves, first the Russians have to do everything for them, now the Israelis.’ He pronounced it ‘Es-roy-elish’

‘So are there many Israeli developers in Budapest?’

The little man lit another cigarette and looked at Tom in amazement. ‘All Es-roy-elish, no Ungarian developers, stupid lazy fuck bastards.’

‘So what kind of project have you got to show to me? Is it near here?’ Tom wondered if this guy was for real.

Amir lit another cigarette, ignoring the one that smouldered in the ashtray. ‘No, not near here, is in eight district; I make a nice small development, maybe one hundred apartments, but I make you very good price.’

‘What’s a good price?’ Tom peered at the man through the smoke cloud.

‘How much you want to pay, we can make any price, make smaller or bigger, depend on what your buyers want to pay.’

‘But does the planning permission not stipulate the size of apartments in the development?’

The small man laughed loudly, coughing with the cigarette smoke. He tapped ash into the ashtray and sucked in smoke from the cigarette. ‘Stupid fuck bastards do what I tell them, I bring jobs and work to their district; no, don’t worry about small details, I sort out small details. How much your buyers want to pay?’

Tom pondered for a moment. Walter had said that they were going to sell high end apartments in the city centre for about a hundred thousand, so probably a cheaper area might be sold at sixty or seventy thousand. He decided to pitch low.

‘Maybe forty thousand? Depends on the project.’

The match flared and he took another deep drag. ‘Ok, we can make a project for forty thousand euros, no problem.’

Tom was surprised. If that was the case, and if Irish buyers were going to behave as they did in Spain, it might be possible to sell these apartments for twice as much, or at least for sixty or seventy thousand. The possibilities were limitless.

‘So what commission would you pay us?’

‘Commission? You want commission? Make your own commission, put up the price of the apartments to make your commission.’

Tom was surprised at the way business was done in Budapest; Walter hadn’t mentioned such a system. Still, this way might be better, a chance to make some serious money.

‘So, can we go to the project? I’d like to see it.’

The Israeli laughed again. ‘There is not already any project, only some land where they park cars, but I have the project design in my office, not far to walk, Falk Miksa Street.’

He threw some notes and coins on the table and gathered up his coat and briefcase, moving with surprising agility for a fat man with such a smoking habit. He propelled his stout frame along the sidewalk with enough speed to cause Tom to walk briskly to keep up, although the flow of his forward progress was interrupted by occasional pauses to light another cigarette.

He stopped at a corner and pointed out a magnificent gothic style building that filled the view on the left across an open area. It reminded Tom of the English houses of parliament; a huge dome topped off the impressive structure.

‘Is the parliament palace, where stupid fuck Ungarian government works. Bastards!’

‘Beautiful building.’ Tom was impressed.

“You know why is on top a, how you say, cupola?’

‘A dome?’

‘Yes, a dome. You know why is on top a dome?’

Tom smiled; this was obviously a local joke. ‘No, why is there a dome up there?’

‘Because every circus must have big top.’ The little man laughed loudly at his own joke.

Tom laughed along with him. ‘Yes, every country has its clowns in power; we certainly have enough of them in government in Ireland. I suppose you have the same problem in Israel, in the Knesset?’

The Israeli’s demeanour changed immediately; his face darkened with anger. ‘No, in my country the parliament is serious business, no clowns; we live in a tough neighbourhood, mister.’

They waited in silence for the lights to change; Tom resolved not to make any more jokes about Israeli politicians, it was obviously a sore point.

Across the street Tom did his best to keep up with his guide as he scampered along. The little man pointed to the building on their right. "Here is fuck museum, appear many times in movies, very famous.’

‘Fuck museum?’ Tom was astounded; maybe this meant something else in Hungary. That’s what they call it?’

‘Yes, fuck museum, in very many films it appears.’

The building was an impressive structure, tall stone columns adorned the fagade and the huge ornate entrance doors were approached by wide and elegant stone steps.

‘What kind of films? Porno films?’ Tom was having difficulty getting his head around the concept of a ‘fuck museum.’

‘No, no porno films, don’t be stupid, you young guys have sex in the brains. Hollywood movies mostly, of course also films about fuck lure.’

‘Fuck lure?’

‘Exact. Fuck lure, from the villages of Ungaria.’

Tom suddenly realised what the fat man was talking about. ‘Folklore museum, of course.’

‘Yes, how many times I have to tell you, fuck lure museum, is no charge to enter also, some day you have time you enter, but not today, we have work to do.’

They crossed another busy junction and entered a quieter street. ‘This is Falk Miksa, not far now.’ He stopped and lit a cigarette.

‘Safest street in Ungaria, my office is across road from ministry of spies.’ He pointed to a large concrete office block.

‘They still have spies in Hungary? I thought that was all in the past.’

‘Maybe not spies any more, but the building is still here and many many people work there, maybe they spy on each other.’ He laughed and clapped Tom on the shoulder. ‘Anyway, always plenty policemen taking care of the building, safest street in Ungaria.’

A large door was set back slightly from the pavement, beside a sign that read ‘ANTIK.’ The half-basements of these buildings seemed to be made up almost entirely of antique shops, their low ground-level windows packed with small items of glass and brass-ware. Amir opened the door and Tom followed him into the tiled hallway, past a bank of mailboxes on the left hand wall. A few steps led up to an old fashioned lift that ran in an open cage. The fat man punched the button impatiently several times and the lift dropped to the ground floor.

‘We go up, to the top.’ He slid the gate aside and motioned Tom to enter the lift cage. The lift was small, and Tom felt overpowered by the closeness of the fat man and the reek of cigarette smoke from him. Mamzer pressed the top button and the lift creaked upwards.

Through the mesh cage Tom could see the layout of the building clearly. The lift rose at the end of an internal courtyard, with iron-railed open-air balconies running right around each floor. The floors of the balconies and the ground floor of the building were tiled with small black and white tiles in a chequerboard pattern, and the balcony railings were ornate and capped with hardwood handrails from which a lot of colourful flower baskets were suspended. The occasional sound of a radio came through an open window, but this inner core of the building was quiet and peaceful in comparison with the noise and bustle of the street outside.

The lift came to a sudden stop and Amir slid the gate back, holding it against its return spring to allow Tom to exit. They walked through the doors on to the balcony and Tom looked down; it was quite a dizzying drop into the courtyard below.

‘Not a place to bring up kids. Hard to watch them on the balconies.’

The small man nodded. ‘Not exactly balconies, corridors, the corridors are outside in Ungaria. Is the same all over Budapest, all buildings the same as this one.’

‘Even the new ones?’ Tom liked the layout, but couldn’t see it working with a new building.

‘Sometimes with new buildings also, but usually now we make with internal corridors. Es-roy-elish show stupid fuck Ungarians how to build good buildings, good as Tel Aviv.’

Tom could see no sign of an office, but the Israeli motioned him to an almost hidden staircase in the corner. ‘Up, up one more floor, to the attika.’

He followed the man up the narrow flight of stairs to a cramped landing and through a door with a small sign for Kover Ember Developments. If this was the nerve centre for the developer’s operations in Hungary, Tom wasn’t too impressed; he had expected a more high-profile place.

The office was surprisingly spacious and bright; it was obviously an apartment that had been converted for office use, and the interior was clean and well fitted out. The parquet floor shone and two desks faced each other across the room. The larger desk was piled with papers and architectural drawings; a pretty dark haired girl was working at a computer at the desk near the window.

‘Monika, this is Mr. Murphy, Mr. Tom Murphy, he is our partner from Ireland.’

The girl stood up in welcome and shook his hand.

‘You like some coffee?’

‘That would be good, yes please.’ Tom didn’t see any coffee machine, but maybe it was in the next room.

‘The older man pulled some notes from his wallet and thrust them at Monika. ‘Go, bring us coffees, and some cakes also, nice ones from The Europa, not from the jerk at the corner.’ He motioned to the couch. ‘Sit down, Tom, sit down.’

‘Great office, nice and quiet.’

‘Yes, it is good for me, near everything, but the rent cost me very little. You like my secretary?’

‘Pretty girl, yes. Is she Hungarian?’

‘Yes, they are stupid girls, but ok for just do what they are told. Make nice decoration for the office also.’ He leered at Tom. ‘You like Ungarian girls?’