EVELYN, KATJA, AND ADAM were sitting in a little corner café on Népstadion út, about halfway between the embassies of the GDR and the Federal Republic.
Katja pushed her empty cup away. “All this coffee is putting me to sleep.”
“I think it’s funny we’re sitting here guzzling coffee at their expense,” Evelyn said.
“What do you mean? I have to pay the embassy back,” Adam said.
“Damn, and here I thought you’d finally stopped footing my bill,” Katja said.
“That’s what money’s for, to spend.”
“No reason to throw it out the window, Adam. We can’t even pay for a night at a hotel or a decent meal.”
“Anything you guys are doing without? I don’t feel like I’m having to cut corners. We couldn’t have it much better than this.”
“You don’t even notice anymore just how degrading it is.”
“If you’d be happier at the Hilton, go ahead. But you won’t experience anything like last night, that’s for sure.”
“You mean our soused countrymen? I can do without them.”
“They’re all just standing and waiting in the exit line, as you yourself heard.”
The waiter arrived, exchanged ashtrays, and removed empty plates.
“I’m ashamed to say it,” Katja remarked, “but I feel better with papers.”
“Perfectly normal.” Adam pulled out another cigar. “Will this bother you?”
“Not me.”
“Wait till we’re outside. Shall we pay?”
“I wouldn’t mind something else to drink. Some juice maybe.”
“But the really awful thing is …” Katja propped her elbows on the table and hid her face in her hands.
“What?” Adam asked, the cigar already in his mouth, and shook the box of matches.
“You’ll think I’ve lost all my marbles, but once I was outside again, I was on the verge of tears—”
“What amazed me,” Evelyn said, “was that you were even willing to give it a try.”
“I thought I might need diapers.”
“That close to fudgin’ your undies?” Adam said and lit his cigar.
“Well, the main thing is it went all right,” Evelyn said.
“I was on the verge of tears—that same old familiar smell.” Katja shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re right, somehow it reminded me of … school or something.”
“Lunchboxes,” Katja said. “As if they’d all just opened their lunchboxes. And then the way they tried to buck us up.”
“They weren’t unpleasant,” Adam said.
“No wonder, now that everybody’s running away from them. They’re tickled pink if somebody says they want to go back. Wait and see, once you’re home, just how nice they are to you. For twenty years now they’ve forbidden you to sing the words to their own national anthem.”
“Good God, I don’t want to go back!” Katja said.
“I didn’t mean you.”
“And then all at once that smell. Suddenly it seemed I’d been away for years.”
Adam laughed and then had to cough. “I could sell my provisional travel pass. To the highest bidder.”
“Nobody can ever take you seriously, Adam.”
“Just wait. I bet there’s a pack of people who’d be interested. Like those guys who were counting out their dollar bills for everybody to see. If I asked them—”
“That was Michael!” Katja jumped up and ran outside.
“Do me a favor, Evi? On the way back, sit up front with me?”
“But you’ll have to put that thing out.”
Adam laid the cigar in the ashtray and looked around for the waiter.
Katja appeared at the door.
“We need to come outside, he’s got something he has to say to us, something’s happened.”
“Bad?”
“I don’t think so.”
Evelyn followed Katja. Adam took the cigar from the ashtray, puffed until it was glowing again, and walked to the counter. He watched the waiter’s ballpoint move across the pad, and then stared at the amount, underlined twice. He counted out the currency and laid it on the bill with a soft “Viszontlátásra.” The waiter thanked him with a slight bow.
As he reached the door Adam took another puff on his cigar and blew the smoke into the milky blue September sky.
“He’s arranged pleasant quarters for you in the embassy, has he?” Adam asked, as Katja and Evelyn finally stopped hugging.
“Make all the jokes you want, but in a few days the border will be open,” Michael said. “That’s certain.”
“As certain as immortality.”
“They’re opening the border!” Michael said.
“Bull,” Adam said. “Who’s been telling you fairy tales?”
“It may not suit you, but in a couple of days—”
“Why shouldn’t it suit me? I may actually make some money on my travel pass.”
“From here on, I’m footing the bill for everything,” Michael said. “And this evening we’re going to live it up.”
Adam blew one little cloud of smoke after another into the air and led the way to the car. He unlocked it and opened the doors from inside. Michael held the door open first for Katja, then for Evelyn.
“Can I sit up front?” Evelyn asked.
Michael nodded and stepped aside so she could get in.
It took them three-quarters of an hour to find their way out of Budapest. Adam had given Evelyn the map, but she very quickly fell asleep. And Katja had closed her eyes too. Only Michael was sitting up and staring out the window as if not to miss a detail.
They left the autobahn at Székesfehérvár. In Veszprém Adam didn’t take the exit for Balatonfüred, but instead, hoping to see something of the landscape, drove parallel to the north shore of the lake in the direction of Tapolca. But only a few kilometers beyond the bypass around Veszprém, the motor had started to stutter—and now at last it fell silent. Suddenly everyone was wide awake.
“No problem,” Adam said, letting the car roll onto the shoulder, “it’s just the spark plugs.”
He took out the tools stored in the trunk, released the hood, and smiled. He reminded Evelyn of a magician about to begin his act. He raised the hood. He had shown her a couple of times before how to pull the plug caps, unscrew the plugs, and clean them with a wire brush. But when Evelyn got out of the car, she saw that he wasn’t doing anything, just standing there with his hands on the fender and his eyes closed.
“Adam,” she said softly. “Is something wrong?”