crooned in the background. A heavy set man with a shaved head raised his hand in greeting. The room seemed to breathe again, and the conversations restarted. Alex smiled at the barmaid and ordered a coffee. She filled a brass pot with water, spooned in some finely-ground Turkish coffee and put it on to boil. The rich, burnt aroma filled the room. The café’s owner appeared as the thick mix bubbled up.
“Alex, my friend. Come, sit down,” he said, leading Alex to the back of the room.
Mubarak Fonseca was a half-Palestinian, half Cuban leftover from Hungary’s communist era. His father and mother were engineering students, who had met and fallen in love at Budapest University in the 1960s, when Hungary was carrying out its fraternal internationalist duty, educating students from the developing world. His parents had long since divorced, and gone home, but Mubarak had stayed. He had inherited coffeecoloured skin from his father, dark curly hair from his mother and engaging brown eyes from both. Someone along the line of ancestral Palestinians and Cubans had passed him down a business sense as sharp as his dress sense was atrocious. He was wearing pink flared trousers, a tight black shirt, and a maroon velvet jacket.
Mubarak was also a former national karate champion, which had proved useful in his struggle to remain king of Budapest’s black market money changers. Mubarak’s rate was always better than any bank. He never short-changed his customers and always paid off the police on time, which was why they let him stay open. Even the Russians used him, once a peace agreement was drawn up after an unsuccessful attempt to muscle in that ended in several of their foot soldiers returning to Moscow for lengthy periods of convalescence. Very little of significance took place within Hungary’s black economy, and its darker criminal offshoots, without Mubarak’s knowledge. The two men sat down at a corner table.
“Alex, firstly my sincere condolences on the death of your grandfather,” said Mubarak. The barmaid brought a plate of pistachios and coffee in tiny cups. “It is a terrible tragedy.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. He took out his mobile telephone and showed that he was removing the battery. Mubarak followed suit, and reached into the plate of nuts. He cracked one open with his teeth and dropped the shell into the ashtray. He was an addict and usually ate a bag a day.
“I had us swept for bugs yesterday,” he said, gesturing at the ceiling. “But soon they will find a way to listen to us, even without the battery in, you know.”
“Perhaps they already have.”
“You know, you are probably right,” said Mubarak, shaking his head wearily at the difficult ways of the world. They chatted for a while, exchanging pleasantries, as ritual demanded.
“You said you may have some news for me,” said Alex, sipping his coffee.
Mubarak sat up straight, scooping up a handful of pistachios. “I hear things, that money is moving. A lot of money, coming from the west. From Austria, and from Germany especially. Old friends, coming home to where they always felt comfortable, bringing lots of old money, money that nobody even knew they had. Hungary is a democracy now, of course. But still a young one, impressionable. Like a teenager, easily swayed by fast cars and rolls of money. Follow the money trail, my friend,” he said, offering the plate of pistachios to Alex.
Alex took several. “If you know something about my grandfather’s death...”
“Nothing concrete, just my intuition. Something is happening. I just wonder if it is connected,” Mubarak said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and crinkling his nostrils. “I know I am a black marketeer, but people need euros and dollars. They don’t want to fill in lots of forms and papers. Who knows on what desk they will land? My rates are reasonable, generous even. And I hand over real money, not rolls of Yugoslav dinars or toilet paper. Of course, the
“Alex, my friend. Come, sit down,” he said, leading Alex to the back of the room.
Mubarak Fonseca was a half-Palestinian, half Cuban leftover from Hungary’s communist era. His father and mother were engineering students, who had met and fallen in love at Budapest University in the 1960s, when Hungary was carrying out its fraternal internationalist duty, educating students from the developing world. His parents had long since divorced, and gone home, but Mubarak had stayed. He had inherited coffeecoloured skin from his father, dark curly hair from his mother and engaging brown eyes from both. Someone along the line of ancestral Palestinians and Cubans had passed him down a business sense as sharp as his dress sense was atrocious. He was wearing pink flared trousers, a tight black shirt, and a maroon velvet jacket.
Mubarak was also a former national karate champion, which had proved useful in his struggle to remain king of Budapest’s black market money changers. Mubarak’s rate was always better than any bank. He never short-changed his customers and always paid off the police on time, which was why they let him stay open. Even the Russians used him, once a peace agreement was drawn up after an unsuccessful attempt to muscle in that ended in several of their foot soldiers returning to Moscow for lengthy periods of convalescence. Very little of significance took place within Hungary’s black economy, and its darker criminal offshoots, without Mubarak’s knowledge. The two men sat down at a corner table.
“Alex, firstly my sincere condolences on the death of your grandfather,” said Mubarak. The barmaid brought a plate of pistachios and coffee in tiny cups. “It is a terrible tragedy.”
“Thank you,” said Alex. He took out his mobile telephone and showed that he was removing the battery. Mubarak followed suit, and reached into the plate of nuts. He cracked one open with his teeth and dropped the shell into the ashtray. He was an addict and usually ate a bag a day.
“I had us swept for bugs yesterday,” he said, gesturing at the ceiling. “But soon they will find a way to listen to us, even without the battery in, you know.”
“Perhaps they already have.”
“You know, you are probably right,” said Mubarak, shaking his head wearily at the difficult ways of the world. They chatted for a while, exchanging pleasantries, as ritual demanded.
“You said you may have some news for me,” said Alex, sipping his coffee.
Mubarak sat up straight, scooping up a handful of pistachios. “I hear things, that money is moving. A lot of money, coming from the west. From Austria, and from Germany especially. Old friends, coming home to where they always felt comfortable, bringing lots of old money, money that nobody even knew they had. Hungary is a democracy now, of course. But still a young one, impressionable. Like a teenager, easily swayed by fast cars and rolls of money. Follow the money trail, my friend,” he said, offering the plate of pistachios to Alex.
Alex took several. “If you know something about my grandfather’s death...”
“Nothing concrete, just my intuition. Something is happening. I just wonder if it is connected,” Mubarak said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together and crinkling his nostrils. “I know I am a black marketeer, but people need euros and dollars. They don’t want to fill in lots of forms and papers. Who knows on what desk they will land? My rates are reasonable, generous even. And I hand over real money, not rolls of Yugoslav dinars or toilet paper. Of course, the
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