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.