The Unforgiving Minute (19 page)

adventurous period seemed to be fading into a vast black abyss,

never to return again. To have put Laura, who as it turned out

was merely my adventure of the moment just before I embarked on

my odyssey, in the same class as Julie and Ann Marie was

indicative of the aberration my incessant romances had become. I

felt that the trip had been therapeutic after all. I would give

it a little more time and then go home … if I had a home.

I thought more and more about how I could make this up to

the people I loved. Would my children ever look upon me again in

the same way they had before? Would I still have a wife when I

returned? Would my relationship with Ann Marie ever be the same?

After walking a cold several miles I came upon a large,

bleak-looking castle. The sign, in several languages, told me it

was a national museum. I entered, more to get warm than anything

else, and spent some time looking at art and artifacts. Finally,

I came to a room which housed an exhibition of posters. The

colorful posters attracted me from afar and I looked forward to

pursuing them. When I got closer, I could see that they were all

political posters, either by amateurs or budding artists. I was

shocked when I saw the content of the posters. The underlying

theme was anti-American. Some posters showed American soldiers

killing and maiming Oriental children. Others showed blacks

being lynched, beaten and murdered. Several depicted rich

American businessmen stepping upon the common worker. There were

others that were supremely pro-Russian and pro-Cuban. I couldn’t

read the text, which was in Hungarian, but I could imagine what

it said.

I found myself so angry that I scowled at the elderly

museum guards as I left in a huff. I had been treated well by

everyone I ran into in Hungary, yet here was the evidence that it

was still a Communist country under the influence of the Soviet

Union, which was at that time still “The Evil Empire.” All one

had to do to further realize it was to look out my hotel window

at the parliament building across the river with its imposing red

star on the roof.

I left the museum in disgust. My patriotism was burning

in my belly. It sounds corny, but when I’m away from America my

sense of nationalism is magnified tenfold. When I pass an

American embassy and see the flag flying, I actually get a lump

in my throat. I was more angry than I might have been had I read

about the exhibition in a newspaper back home in America. If I

was depressed before, I was doubly depressed now. As I walked

back to the hotel, I all but scowled at every Hungarian I passed.

Adjacent to the hotel, I stopped at the Fisherman’s

Bastion, the picturesque little fort overlooking the river which

makes a wonderful observation post. I stared out at the choppy,

muddy Danube and wondered what in the world I was doing here. I

came so close at that point to taking a cab to the Budapest

Airport and catching the Pan Am flight to New York. I found

myself needing a drink, a woman, or both. I had such a great

understanding of myself now. I knew that I turned to liquor and

women when I was in periods of depression or anxiety.

I knew that if I ever was to recover from these

addictions, I must fight them vigorously. I also knew that I was

weak when it came to really doing it. I had no liquor and there

didn’t seem to be a plethora of available women around, so it was

easy to be noble. I also hadn’t the foggiest idea how to get

decent booze in this country. Compound that with the fact that I

didn’t speak one single word of the language, which precluded me

from liaisons with the locals. Last but not least, single

tourist women seemed to be non-existent.

Just adjacent to the lobby of the hotel was a small store

that sold Soviet goods exclusively. I walked into it and browsed

the merchandise. I was amazed at the junk I saw before me. The

goods, especially the small appliances, looked homemade, as if

they were built in someone’s basement workshop. As I walked up

and down the display cases, I saw a rather portly Slavic-looking

gentleman looking at me and smiling. Several stainless steel

teeth glinted in the artificial light. He was the stereotypical

Russian and his national origin was glaringly obvious. His grin

was annoying me and I gave him a dirty look and turned away. I

walked out the door of the shop into the hotel lobby and could

feel his presence following me. I felt his hand on my shoulder

and turned angrily.

“Please to excuse me, my American friend, but I would like

to talk for moment to you.”

At this point, I hadn’t had a direct conversation with

another human being for God knows how long, so I actually

welcomed his attempt to make conversation.

He offered a large, meaty hand that was damp and sweaty as

he vigorously shook mine.

“Will you please to join me for drink in hotel bar?” he

said in a gruff manner. I couldn’t figure out whether a command

or a request was being proffered.

“Why not?” I said. “I could use a drink just about now.”

I found myself following this Russian whose short legs

were speeding down the corridor at a breakneck pace.

We sat at a table in the cocktail lounge and without

asking my preference ordered an iced bottle of vodka, which was

served in a silver tub with two fluted glasses which were also

chilled. He filled both glasses and, muttering an unintelligible

Russian toast, downed his in one gulp.

“Here’s mud in your eye,” I said and did the same,

bringing tears to my eyes and fire to my throat.

He smiled that steel-toothed smile and said, “I am called

Semyon Antonovich Gorodsky and am Soviet citizen who has seen you

in museum looking at posters with great how you say mads?”

“Damn right I’m mad,” I said as I stared down his blurry

image through my tearing eyes. “Who the hell do you guys think

you are? You’ve got half the goddamn world enslaved and your own

people are standing in line for bread. You hypocritical bastards

show posters of Americans killing children and oppressing blacks.

Well, you’re full of shit, all of you. We’ve fed half the world

and sent money to the other half, including you jokers, so don’t

knock America, because you don’t know what the hell you’re

talking about.” With that I gulped down the second glass of

chilled vodka defiantly. This time there was nary a cough but I

felt as if I were personally fighting the cold war and it felt

good.

He looked across the table at me and spoke to me as if I

were an errant child. His smile was avuncular and his manner

gentle.

“Please, my friend, is not personal. Is political. You

understand, no … Political?”

“Political, shit,” I said in my most bellicose manner.

He smiled again. “My good friend, I did not paint

posters. I also think posters are funny. I spend eight years in

your Washington, D.C. America is great country. Soviet Union

also great country. Two great countries. Is all political, no?

Is all big game and we are the players. Drink, my friend, to

friendship.”

What could I say? I downed another vodka and another and

another. After forty minutes we were Bobby and Semyon as we

staggered out to his car, a Lada that sounded like a percolator

and was probably made in neighboring Czechoslovakia.

We weaved dangerously through the narrow streets of Buda

singing songs from America, like Home on the Range” and “The

Wabash Cannonball” and songs from the Soviet Union, like “Moscow

Nights” and “Those Were the Days.” I didn’t know where he was

taking me and I didn’t care. I was totally relaxed, totally

drunk, and having a great time. We crossed one of the bridges

over the Danube into Pest and in contrast to quiet, residential

Buda the city was alive and animated. He was a most skillful

drunken driver. He never missed a traffic light or a stop sign

and, aside from his frequent incursions onto the wrong side of

the road when no one was coming the other way, I felt strangely

safe. I was, of course, as drunk as he was and was probably

incapable of being afraid.

Finally, after about half an hour, we stopped at a

beautiful house on the far side of Pest. The house resembled a

New York brownstone. It was reddish-brown in color and the

magnificent architecture and carved columns and arches told me it

was of pre-World War II vintage. The two of us exited the car

and teetered up the front steps. I had absolutely no idea where

I was going, but at that point in time Semyon was my best friend

and I would have followed him anywhere.

A dowdy-looking woman opened the door and instantly

recognized Gorodsky. She hugged him and he hugged her and for

about five minutes they babbled unintelligibly in Hungarian.

During the conversation he pointed to me and the woman, who was

equally as heavy as he, hugged me in a bearlike embrace. She

smelled of sweat and cheap perfume and her scent made me slightly

dizzy. In my inebriated state I slipped off the top step,

ripping my suit pants and skinning my knee.

I was so anesthetized by the vodka that I felt no pain

even though my shin was bleeding.

The woman ushered us into a baroque sitting room with

burgundy plush cushions on an ample sofa. The upholstery was

piped with worn, imitation gold and looked at least twenty-five

years old. Semyon sat in a matching chair, looking florid and

sweating from the short walk up the steps. He was noticeably

panting.

For the first time, I really observed him. He was about

five feet six inches tall with a ruddy complexion and thick,

tightly curled grey hair. He wore a grey suit with pinstripes

that had a decidedly cheap look. His shirt collar was without

stays and pointed in several directions. His overly wide tie was

stained and worn-looking. He smiled frequently, exposing those

awful stainless steel teeth to view.

“Semyon, old buddy, just where in the hell are we and what

happens next?” I was frankly puzzled and thought perhaps I was

in the waiting room of a dentist or physician.

Suddenly, a door opened and four women walked in. They

were all attired similarly. They wore garter belts and stockings

with no panties, exposing their buttocks and pubic area. Over

their breasts, they wore skimpy bras that were meant to show

their charges twice as large as life. Each of the girls wore

high-heeled shoes. I knew where I was now. I was in a bordello.

I had never until this night availed myself of the

services of ladies of the night. I loved the conquest at least

as much as the act and there was certainly no conquest here. I

was, however, strangely turned on by this scene.

The girls slowly paraded around the small room like models

on a runway. It was obvious that we were to select from this

group.

The girls ranged in age from about eighteen to about

forty. They each had a professional, glued-on smile and an

almost believable come-on look in their eyes. I looked them over

to make my choice. In 1985 no one thought AIDS was a

heterosexual disease, so the only thing I was afraid of was

gonorrhea. Penicillin could take care of that, so I approached

it as a fun evening which I needed a hell of a lot.

The youngest of the girls was definitely the prettiest but

she was younger than my own daughter and that would give me the

creeps. The oldest was on the flabby side so I eliminated her.

Of the remaining two, one was a blonde and one was a brunette.

Really, if one inspected the pubic area, they were both

brunettes. I pointed to the “blonde” because she had the most

beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. She was in her late

thirties, tall, with a great derri´ere. She had a face that was

far from intelligent-looking with a weak chin but was more than

passable-looking.

I pointed to her, not knowing the procedure, and instantly

Semyon spoke in Hungarian to the women and the one I had selected

and the young one remained. Semyon looked relieved that I had

not selected the young one and I realized that he had politely

waited for me to make my choice before he made his. My choice

took my hand and led me down a dimly lit hall. I could hear

Semyon and his nymphet conversing in Hungarian and giggling

behind me. I was expecting to be led to a bedroom, but instead

was shown through a double oak door of prodigious thickness into

a room which resembled a western saloon in 1930’s “B” movies.

There was a bartender, complete with handlebar moustache, upon an

eastern bloc visage. There were four round oak tables with

oilcloth tablecloths and comfortable, if badly worn, armchairs.

A jukebox stocked with seventy-eight RPM records that were very

old and scratched played big band music from the forties. At

this moment the strains of Harry James’ “You Made Me Love You”

wafted through the room. There were two other gentlemen in the