Tainted Tokay by Jean-Pierre Alaux Page B

quaint cafés.”
    â€œWhat did you find?”
    â€œI went to the G erbeaud first.”
    â€œHow was it?”
    â€œToo much like the Café de Flore and Les Deux Magots in Paris—spoiled by writers and intellectuals who used to gather there to brag and promote their latest pack of lies. They’re tourist haunts now. I managed to stay half an hour. Then enou gh was enough.”
    A Hungarian friend who worked in film had told him to check out the café Spinoza and the Eckermann, but he had only walked by them, not bothering to stop and taste the mousse or the famous coffee. These meccas of the Budapest intelligentsia had modernized, which bothered Claude enormously. The Internet had woven its web everywhere. Computer screens had replaced the chessboards and decks of cards. Claude missed the days when cafés smelled of absinthe and patrons pondered their moves in a cloud of smoke.
    â€œI finally found salvation at the New York Café, a space so ornate, it almost seems magical. I wish you had been with me, Benjamin. You would have loved it—the crystal chandeliers and the ceiling adorned with Gustav Mannheimer and Franz Eisenhut paintings. The brass banisters are covered with red velvet that match the upholstery on the chairs. I’ve never seen a ca fé as elegant.”
    While Claude was detailing his explorations, Consuela was busy showing off her purchases. Benjamin glanced at Elisabeth and could see boredom written all over her face. His wife enjoyed shopping as much as anyone else, but it didn ’t consume her.
    Zoltán was taking it all in with an almost silly smile. Elisabeth, realizing that she hadn’t introduced their tour guide, interrupted the separ ate narratives.
    Claude had an amused expression on his face as he appraised the man, whose jogging suit clashed with the posh ambiance of the Astoria. Consuela, meanwhile, was sizing him up the way a woman of experience might scrutinize her prey. Then, turning to Claude, she said in her native tongue, “ ¡Cuerpo de los dioses con ojos asesinos! ”
    Benjamin’s rudimentary Spanish allowed him to sense the brute sexuality that Consuela saw in this boy. He was sensual and dangerous at the same time. Benjamin was a bit wary, and he noticed that Claude was giving their guide a su spicious look.
    Yet Zoltán had impressed Benjamin with historical and architectural information that an ordinary person wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t studied somewhere. He had a rustic simplicity that appealed to the winemaker and even more so to his wife. His smile was warm, and his teeth were straight, and although Benjamin was no style expert, he was aware that Zoltán’s goate e was on trend.
    Benjamin was becoming convinced that Zoltán was not a city boy. His mannerisms betrayed him. He was almost certainly one of those kids from the countryside who came to Budapest—or Prague, Bucharest, or Warsaw—to seek a better life. Ironically, it was hardly an admirable life. They were ready to deal drugs, fleece tourists, and beg and prostitut e themselves.
    The day had been exhausting. The Cookers wanted to dine alone in a restaurant in town. Claude and Consuela planned to do the same. That left Zoltán, and it was time to say good-bye.
    â€œI’ll come back tomorrow. Take you to Gellért baths.”
    Benjamin hesitated but finally agreed to the guide’s proposition. They would meet at ten the next morning. He was about to send Zoltán off, but Consuela didn’t seem ready to see him go. In fact, she hadn’t taken he r eyes off him.
    â€œClaude, why don’t we have a glass of Champagne with the tour guide? He might tell us something we don’t know a bout Budapest.”
    Claude exchanged a glance with Benjamin, and the winemaker read the resignation in his eyes. Faced with this fait accompli , Cla ude acquiesced.
    â€œBenjamin, before you head up to your room, could you spare