into the linguistic cracks between the two of them. A syllable or two splintered off and lodged in the Hungarian's ear. Mark saw him wrestle with the words and was pleased he had confused this arrogant foreigner, had forced him to acknowledge his lack of what he probably valued most: English fluency.
"All or most of the rest?"
"Yeah. That's right," Mark replied. "Mostly all of rest or not within."
The Hungarian nodded and looked back at the book he was balancing open. He sipped his tea. "What else you learn from your book of Hungarian?"
And as quickly as it had come, it left. Mark softened and answered with a proud smile, "Legyen szives, uram, kerek szepen egy kdvet."
"Man, you go and do it again, fuck Jesus. You want a coffee, just ask it. You say please fifteen times first the waiter gonna be asleep. Kdvet kerek. That's it,
PRAGUE I 59
man." He examined the author's biography on the inside back cover of Piqued in Darien.
"Yeah, but why should I trust you, Laszlo? What if everyone in Hungary thinks you're the rudest guy in the country and I learn how to speak Hungarian from you and then I'm the second rudest guy in the country, even though actually I was polite at home, even for a Canadian? Suddenly polite Mark becomes rude Mark and I never even know it."
"Big fuck. Who's cared?"
"I'm not scared. I'm just saying—"
"Nobody's cared."
"Okay, some people are scared, but so what?"
"So, fine, one guy's cared, but just be different and new. Be rude, man, if that's what life and Hungary make you."
"You're not Hungary, Laszlo. You're just you. You're just—"
"Yes, nice working. You catch me. I trick you. The secret police pay me to make foreign men act rude. You're a genius from reading all your books." He tossed the book on the bed, kicked his jeans up off the floor and into his hands.
Mark saw in the collection of the jeans the clear first step to the door. Thinking only slightly, he stood up, placed his tea on the table, took off his own jeans, and lay back down on the sofa bed. "Hey, don't go. Tell me about the new, about what the new Hungarians will be like. Tell me about that." The words crowded their way out of Mark's mouth, but Laszlo kept dressing.
The Hungarian pulled on his Rolling Stones concert tour T-shirt and slumped into the chair to put on his socks and Nikes. "What the hell, man? What is that—a question for some study book? I just say we aren't British or German or old Communists. We will just be people now. You are not understanding what I mean, but"— he stood and put on his varsity-style letter jacket as Mark lifted his own hips and slid off his boxer shorts—"but that's your thing, I think. Ciao."
"Ciao," said Mark quietly, naked. Laszlo turned away: 1972 FREE MY VALUE TIGERS it said in English on the back of his jacket in the swooping sewn-on typeface of American high school sports teams. The door closed and Mark listened to Laszlo walk past the window, alongside the courtyard, down the steps.
Mark Payton lay on his back, and though he cried until the pillow collected two wet spots on either side of his head, he also had to admit that he found the whole thing very, very funny. He struggled to remember the exact wording of the ludicrous jacket; that would be essential for retelling.
BY THE END OF JUNE, HIS PRIMARY REASON FOR HAVING MOVED TO BUDA-
pest growing increasingly unattainable and more and more ridiculous to him anyhow, John Price had developed a habit of saying good night to his wife and child before bed. Sober or drunk, he would stop to visit with them at their permanent positions atop the cable box and on the bedside table. He would kiss his fingers and place them on their lips or brows. When he was sober, the entire ritual was, of course, a comedy. "Sleep well and dream of me, doll face," he would say to the woman in the dress. "Tomorrow is another day,
"All or most of the rest?"
"Yeah. That's right," Mark replied. "Mostly all of rest or not within."
The Hungarian nodded and looked back at the book he was balancing open. He sipped his tea. "What else you learn from your book of Hungarian?"
And as quickly as it had come, it left. Mark softened and answered with a proud smile, "Legyen szives, uram, kerek szepen egy kdvet."
"Man, you go and do it again, fuck Jesus. You want a coffee, just ask it. You say please fifteen times first the waiter gonna be asleep. Kdvet kerek. That's it,
PRAGUE I 59
man." He examined the author's biography on the inside back cover of Piqued in Darien.
"Yeah, but why should I trust you, Laszlo? What if everyone in Hungary thinks you're the rudest guy in the country and I learn how to speak Hungarian from you and then I'm the second rudest guy in the country, even though actually I was polite at home, even for a Canadian? Suddenly polite Mark becomes rude Mark and I never even know it."
"Big fuck. Who's cared?"
"I'm not scared. I'm just saying—"
"Nobody's cared."
"Okay, some people are scared, but so what?"
"So, fine, one guy's cared, but just be different and new. Be rude, man, if that's what life and Hungary make you."
"You're not Hungary, Laszlo. You're just you. You're just—"
"Yes, nice working. You catch me. I trick you. The secret police pay me to make foreign men act rude. You're a genius from reading all your books." He tossed the book on the bed, kicked his jeans up off the floor and into his hands.
Mark saw in the collection of the jeans the clear first step to the door. Thinking only slightly, he stood up, placed his tea on the table, took off his own jeans, and lay back down on the sofa bed. "Hey, don't go. Tell me about the new, about what the new Hungarians will be like. Tell me about that." The words crowded their way out of Mark's mouth, but Laszlo kept dressing.
The Hungarian pulled on his Rolling Stones concert tour T-shirt and slumped into the chair to put on his socks and Nikes. "What the hell, man? What is that—a question for some study book? I just say we aren't British or German or old Communists. We will just be people now. You are not understanding what I mean, but"— he stood and put on his varsity-style letter jacket as Mark lifted his own hips and slid off his boxer shorts—"but that's your thing, I think. Ciao."
"Ciao," said Mark quietly, naked. Laszlo turned away: 1972 FREE MY VALUE TIGERS it said in English on the back of his jacket in the swooping sewn-on typeface of American high school sports teams. The door closed and Mark listened to Laszlo walk past the window, alongside the courtyard, down the steps.
Mark Payton lay on his back, and though he cried until the pillow collected two wet spots on either side of his head, he also had to admit that he found the whole thing very, very funny. He struggled to remember the exact wording of the ludicrous jacket; that would be essential for retelling.
BY THE END OF JUNE, HIS PRIMARY REASON FOR HAVING MOVED TO BUDA-
pest growing increasingly unattainable and more and more ridiculous to him anyhow, John Price had developed a habit of saying good night to his wife and child before bed. Sober or drunk, he would stop to visit with them at their permanent positions atop the cable box and on the bedside table. He would kiss his fingers and place them on their lips or brows. When he was sober, the entire ritual was, of course, a comedy. "Sleep well and dream of me, doll face," he would say to the woman in the dress. "Tomorrow is another day,
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