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Saturday, January 20, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Friday, January 12, 2007
F.
I sat on a bench at the Ferihegy airport in Budapest talking to a young woman from London when I spotted him. He was pushing his way through to the front of the very long check-in line at the gate. I knew he had a business class ticket, he told me repeatedly that he only travels business, and when I saw the nice looking woman with him, I immediately thought that he got himself an older girlfriend.
Four years passed since I saw F.. He was in his late 70s then and had trouble with his lower back after a terrible skiing accident. Several operations later, he still could not sit still for a long time and had trouble walking. Now, in Budapest, he used a cane and I realized only much later, in the airplane, that the woman with him is probably his wife, who I never saw before, not even on a picture.
F. was recommended to me when I moved to New York. I wrote to him. We met on Park Avenue, close to his apartment on a weekday morning, in a small café. He sat outside, frail and skinny, rather short, as Hungarian men often are, with his white hair combed back and a cigarette trembling in his hand. He wore glasses. His profile was sharp. His nose came out of his face in an arrogant, aggressive way. This profile and the funny walk was how I recognized him instantly at the airport.
He still lives, I thought.
At first, F. was helping me make my CV look more suited for potential American employers. Later, he became a sort of a consultant in every area of life. I liked spending time with him, because he was very knowledgeable in politics and history, and all things US. Or so I thought at the time. He used to work for the CIA, spying on the Communist government, he said, and showed me documents supporting this claim. His brother was a famous inventor and the Times ran an obit on him when he died – I looked it up online; it was true.
F. was born in Budapest and went to schools there. He fled in 1956. His diploma in economics helped him get a job in a company that specialized in building industrial parks in the developing world. F. spent many years in these countries before he joined his father in New York in the 1970s. His first wife died in a car accident and he met his second in Manhattan. He got a corporate job and never missed a day of work, he said often with pride. He had enough money to retire and considered himself successful. “I write you letters of recommendation, if you want. My Park Avenue address will impress people,” he said early in our friendship.
It should have been a warning, when on our second meeting, he said: “I think you should change your name into something more American.” I didn’t pay attention at first, but later I realized that F.’ father was Jewish and F. was bothered by the fact that some might consider him a Jew too.
Now I know that not only has he been anti-Semitic, but also racist, sexist and homophobic. We walked through Washington Square Park one afternoon, when F. referred to leftist demonstrators from a few days ago as “a bunch of hooligans”. He thought blacks lazy but had respect for Asians as they were hard-working. When I explained that the red ribbon on my coat collar shows support to those with HIV/AIDS, he said I should take it off.
When we first met, Irina, F.’ girlfriend of a few months just broke up with him. She was a 35 years old Russian, who supported her family in Russia and needed a green card. “I can’t do it to my wife. I owe her so much,” F. said when I asked why he does not marry Irina. He would often dial the number of the guy Irina now lived with, and hang up, just to hear her voice.
Except when he was away, we met once a week. He treated me to a lunch and we sat somewhere and talked or he showed me something interesting in the city. In about four months into our friendship, I felt sick on the day we were supposed to meet. When I email him, canceling our meeting, he called immediately and said he would come over. I said no. He would not take no for an answer again, when I declined his invitation to the Metropolitan Opera.
In some way, F. was certain that I will be his new Irina. It did not matter that I explained very clearly at the beginning – I will never be his lover. He wanted to give me gifts, later he offered to “help me with my rent” or my tuition for a kiss or something more, but I always said no. Once he described to me how he and Irina used to make love in his son’s office, on the floor, which I took as a hint and started loosening my ties with him.
I started feeling uneasy around him. He wanted to control my life. He expected me to follow his every advice even when he was wrong. He insisted that the word “cleanliness” does not exist in English. He insisted on many things I knew were incorrect and he would never admit that he was wrong. I stopped returning his calls and after a while he stopped emailing as well.
And there we were - both on the same plane to New York not saying hello to each other. I was tempted to walk up to him and just ask how he was. He had obviously a hard time walking and his eye sight seemed worse too, but he was out and about just as well. I looked at his wife, a kind looking woman in her 70s and wondered if F. has a new, young girlfriend. I am glad I don’t know the answer, and I am glad it’s not me.
I sat on a bench at the Ferihegy airport in Budapest talking to a young woman from London when I spotted him. He was pushing his way through to the front of the very long check-in line at the gate. I knew he had a business class ticket, he told me repeatedly that he only travels business, and when I saw the nice looking woman with him, I immediately thought that he got himself an older girlfriend.
Four years passed since I saw F.. He was in his late 70s then and had trouble with his lower back after a terrible skiing accident. Several operations later, he still could not sit still for a long time and had trouble walking. Now, in Budapest, he used a cane and I realized only much later, in the airplane, that the woman with him is probably his wife, who I never saw before, not even on a picture.
F. was recommended to me when I moved to New York. I wrote to him. We met on Park Avenue, close to his apartment on a weekday morning, in a small café. He sat outside, frail and skinny, rather short, as Hungarian men often are, with his white hair combed back and a cigarette trembling in his hand. He wore glasses. His profile was sharp. His nose came out of his face in an arrogant, aggressive way. This profile and the funny walk was how I recognized him instantly at the airport.
He still lives, I thought.
At first, F. was helping me make my CV look more suited for potential American employers. Later, he became a sort of a consultant in every area of life. I liked spending time with him, because he was very knowledgeable in politics and history, and all things US. Or so I thought at the time. He used to work for the CIA, spying on the Communist government, he said, and showed me documents supporting this claim. His brother was a famous inventor and the Times ran an obit on him when he died – I looked it up online; it was true.
F. was born in Budapest and went to schools there. He fled in 1956. His diploma in economics helped him get a job in a company that specialized in building industrial parks in the developing world. F. spent many years in these countries before he joined his father in New York in the 1970s. His first wife died in a car accident and he met his second in Manhattan. He got a corporate job and never missed a day of work, he said often with pride. He had enough money to retire and considered himself successful. “I write you letters of recommendation, if you want. My Park Avenue address will impress people,” he said early in our friendship.
It should have been a warning, when on our second meeting, he said: “I think you should change your name into something more American.” I didn’t pay attention at first, but later I realized that F.’ father was Jewish and F. was bothered by the fact that some might consider him a Jew too.
Now I know that not only has he been anti-Semitic, but also racist, sexist and homophobic. We walked through Washington Square Park one afternoon, when F. referred to leftist demonstrators from a few days ago as “a bunch of hooligans”. He thought blacks lazy but had respect for Asians as they were hard-working. When I explained that the red ribbon on my coat collar shows support to those with HIV/AIDS, he said I should take it off.
When we first met, Irina, F.’ girlfriend of a few months just broke up with him. She was a 35 years old Russian, who supported her family in Russia and needed a green card. “I can’t do it to my wife. I owe her so much,” F. said when I asked why he does not marry Irina. He would often dial the number of the guy Irina now lived with, and hang up, just to hear her voice.
Except when he was away, we met once a week. He treated me to a lunch and we sat somewhere and talked or he showed me something interesting in the city. In about four months into our friendship, I felt sick on the day we were supposed to meet. When I email him, canceling our meeting, he called immediately and said he would come over. I said no. He would not take no for an answer again, when I declined his invitation to the Metropolitan Opera.
In some way, F. was certain that I will be his new Irina. It did not matter that I explained very clearly at the beginning – I will never be his lover. He wanted to give me gifts, later he offered to “help me with my rent” or my tuition for a kiss or something more, but I always said no. Once he described to me how he and Irina used to make love in his son’s office, on the floor, which I took as a hint and started loosening my ties with him.
I started feeling uneasy around him. He wanted to control my life. He expected me to follow his every advice even when he was wrong. He insisted that the word “cleanliness” does not exist in English. He insisted on many things I knew were incorrect and he would never admit that he was wrong. I stopped returning his calls and after a while he stopped emailing as well.
And there we were - both on the same plane to New York not saying hello to each other. I was tempted to walk up to him and just ask how he was. He had obviously a hard time walking and his eye sight seemed worse too, but he was out and about just as well. I looked at his wife, a kind looking woman in her 70s and wondered if F. has a new, young girlfriend. I am glad I don’t know the answer, and I am glad it’s not me.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Kristina
It was a very small place with a few tables upstairs and only two bar tables downstairs by the counter. We liked it there very much. It was one of the first places in
Kristina was one of the regular waiters in the Club, but she was much more than just a waitress. When she was there, she was in charge not only of the kitchen and the tables, but also, it seemed, of the guests.
The restaurant opened at noon. Kristina would come two minutes before noon, change quickly in the small room downstairs into a clingy white T-Shirt, black mini skirt and black shoes. Her hair was light brown with blond highlights, wavy with lots of hairspray in it. She used makeup at all times, but not excessively. She went to the tanning salon every week, and always looked like someone who just returned from an exotic vacation, but it also made people speculate about her being Roma. Her light green eyes and her professional smile were ready for the costumers at about 12.15.
Kristina knew she was very sexy and made great advantage of it. Both men and women tippet her gladly for she made them feel special. Guests who came in the Club just for her, sat at the counter. There were three seats, at other times empty, but when Kristina was there, they were taken, sometimes by the same people, for hours. She liked to entertain them, play music for them, dance to the music when downstairs was not crowded and to flirt.
At busy nights, and weekend afternoons, there were two waiters taking care of costumers. Kristina would take the upstairs tables, so she could get away from the other waiter and the kitchen and talk to her friends. She had many friends she liked to talk to. Time was not of great concern of hers, neither were hungry costumers, who, if they came at the wrong time, waited for their orders forever. The cook, Magdika, would sometimes lose her patience, and come look for Kristina or simply shut the music and scream Kristina’s name as long as it took for her to come down. Even in this case, Kristina made sure her descending the spiral staircase was something that turned all heads. Magdika, a plump woman in her late 50s, was not very fond of Kristina. She did not approve of the loud music, of the dancing, joking and above all, flirting with guests of either gender. Magdika also resented Kristina for her big tips and her refusing to take a burned pizza to a costumer. In the kitchen, Magdika was the boss. Or so she thought.
After moving to
Many months passed until Kristina realized that she will not be able to support her boyfriend, her disabled younger brother in a special ed school and her mother in the countryside. She moved out and Peti miraculously found a job the week after.
But the relationship was over, mostly because Kristina fell in love with a young woman, Viki, who hung out with her friends at the Club. Falling for the charming waitress who looked a little like Madonna, Viki started going to the club on her own. She started sitting at the counter at lunchtime, when the place was empty, so they can talk. On weekends, she came back at midnight to go with Kristina to a gay club. A few weeks passed and Kristina moved in with Viki.
Being a young professional with a 9-5 job, Viki was quite comfortable in her life. She was out to her family, but not her colleagues, partly because she wanted to progress in her carrier. To be with woman in a relationship was new to Kristina. She had a hard time telling her ex-boyfriend, who she was still friends with and her family, but eventually, she did. She and Viki visited Kristina’s brother often, taking him out for dinner and movies, for which Viki paid. The couple seemed happy.
After a year, Kristina started complaining to her friends in the Club, “Viki is like a zombie. She comes home and sits in front of the TV all the time. She doesn’t want to go anywhere.” Viki started complaining to her friends, “Kristina always wants to go to dance or to dinner or to visit her mother, or movies, but has no money to do all these things. She expects me to pay for everything. I am tired of it!”
There were scenes at the Club. Viki was jealous, Kristina was even more flirtatious. They broke up in the afternoon and got back together by closing time. Due to their schedules, they were hardly ever home at the same time, so their love life happened in the Club. Tears, begging, screaming, dramatic leaving of Viki with Kristina running after her, neglecting her costumers; or Viki coming back the next day with a huge bouquet of flowers – this was our favorite soap opera. It went on for weeks, until one day, Viki did not come, did not call and Kristina did not smile. Viki stopped coming altogether and we, the audience, had to go back to our own pity lives. Until, Kristina’s green eyes fell on another costumer….
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
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