authorities know about me. We have a modus vivendi. I meet a social need. Like George Soros, I am a capitalist building a free market society.”
“And you bribe people,” said Alex, amused at Mubarak’s remodelling of himself as a social philanthropist.
“Well, yes – that as well. But recently my contacts, those who permit me to operate for a percentage, have become so greedy. These people do not think for the future, only what they can get immediately. My margins are terrible. The Socialists were cleverer. They had a long-term view. All those five-year plans give you a perspective. Maybe I will relocate to Cuba. Listen to Buena Vista Social Club, drink rum and smoke cigars with Fidel. They are still communists there, they need dollars.”
Mubarak leaned back, lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He laid his hand on Alex’s arm and his voice turned serious. “Be careful, my friend.”
FOUR
Peter Feher knew he looked his age. He walked with a stoop and his skin sagged on his bones, as though he had been wrapped in a casing of soft parchment one size too large. His face was pale, and thin white hair lay in carefully-combed strands over his pink scalp. His huge beak of a nose seemed to precede him by several seconds. Over-exertion triggered a watery rattle in his chest. But his pale blue eyes missed nothing, and the years had not dulled his lawyer’s brain. He scanned the rows of black-clad, sombre-faced mourners, crowded around the grave at Budapest’s Jewish cemetery. The turn-out was impressive: MPs from all the mainstream parties, former dissidents who had landed comfortable posts teaching at the Central European University, the theatre crowd, and numerous journalists, some come to pay their respects, others to report. Even Csintori’s Minister of Culture had turned up. Miklos, you would be proud, Feher thought.
The cemetery was near Budapest’s Keleti, the city’s eastern station. The clatter of the carriages as they trundled along the railway lines, north towards Poland, was a faint murmur in the funeral’s background, carrying over the Rabbi’s prayers as he recited the
Kaddish
, the prayer for the dead. The Rabbi was young and confident, with a clear baritone voice. Feher joined in, carefully reciting the Aramaic words with which Jews have mourned their dead for thousands of years.
“
Yisgadal, veyiskadash
,
shemey rabo
, May his illustrious name become great and holy,” he intoned, and the liturgy still came easily to him. Eight-two years on this earth and how long before it’s my turn, he mused. He watched the Rabbi hand Alex the shovel. Alex took it firmly in his hand. He dug it hard into a pile of earth, before lifting it over the grave and dropping the soil over the coffin. It landed with a quiet thump, spilling over the sides. Alex wiped his eyes. Others followed, until it was Feher’s turn. One by one the mourners thanked the Rabbi, and filed out of the cemetery. Alex and Feher were the last to leave. They stood together by the grave for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, and walked back together into the clamour of the lunchtime city. Alex shook Feher’s hand and said goodbye.
“Alex, no, surely you’re not leaving already,” Feher protested. “What’s the hurry? Come and take a coffee, perhaps even something stronger. Of course, if you have the time,” he said, hailing a taxi which stopped a few metres away. Alex followed him to the car.
* * *
The Margaret Patisserie stood at the bottom of St Stephen’s Boulevard, near the Danube. Named after the nearby bridge, it offered not just drinks and snacks, but time travel back to the socialist era. Ranks of brightly coloured cakes were displayed in glass cases, all topped with artificial cream, a brilliant, impossible white. The coffee was thick and tepid, a burst of high-calibre caffeine, fired out of an ancient steam-driven contraption into short, stumpy glasses. Blowsy waitresses smoked
“And you bribe people,” said Alex, amused at Mubarak’s remodelling of himself as a social philanthropist.
“Well, yes – that as well. But recently my contacts, those who permit me to operate for a percentage, have become so greedy. These people do not think for the future, only what they can get immediately. My margins are terrible. The Socialists were cleverer. They had a long-term view. All those five-year plans give you a perspective. Maybe I will relocate to Cuba. Listen to Buena Vista Social Club, drink rum and smoke cigars with Fidel. They are still communists there, they need dollars.”
Mubarak leaned back, lit a cigarette and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. He laid his hand on Alex’s arm and his voice turned serious. “Be careful, my friend.”
FOUR
Peter Feher knew he looked his age. He walked with a stoop and his skin sagged on his bones, as though he had been wrapped in a casing of soft parchment one size too large. His face was pale, and thin white hair lay in carefully-combed strands over his pink scalp. His huge beak of a nose seemed to precede him by several seconds. Over-exertion triggered a watery rattle in his chest. But his pale blue eyes missed nothing, and the years had not dulled his lawyer’s brain. He scanned the rows of black-clad, sombre-faced mourners, crowded around the grave at Budapest’s Jewish cemetery. The turn-out was impressive: MPs from all the mainstream parties, former dissidents who had landed comfortable posts teaching at the Central European University, the theatre crowd, and numerous journalists, some come to pay their respects, others to report. Even Csintori’s Minister of Culture had turned up. Miklos, you would be proud, Feher thought.
The cemetery was near Budapest’s Keleti, the city’s eastern station. The clatter of the carriages as they trundled along the railway lines, north towards Poland, was a faint murmur in the funeral’s background, carrying over the Rabbi’s prayers as he recited the
Kaddish
, the prayer for the dead. The Rabbi was young and confident, with a clear baritone voice. Feher joined in, carefully reciting the Aramaic words with which Jews have mourned their dead for thousands of years.
“
Yisgadal, veyiskadash
,
shemey rabo
, May his illustrious name become great and holy,” he intoned, and the liturgy still came easily to him. Eight-two years on this earth and how long before it’s my turn, he mused. He watched the Rabbi hand Alex the shovel. Alex took it firmly in his hand. He dug it hard into a pile of earth, before lifting it over the grave and dropping the soil over the coffin. It landed with a quiet thump, spilling over the sides. Alex wiped his eyes. Others followed, until it was Feher’s turn. One by one the mourners thanked the Rabbi, and filed out of the cemetery. Alex and Feher were the last to leave. They stood together by the grave for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts, and walked back together into the clamour of the lunchtime city. Alex shook Feher’s hand and said goodbye.
“Alex, no, surely you’re not leaving already,” Feher protested. “What’s the hurry? Come and take a coffee, perhaps even something stronger. Of course, if you have the time,” he said, hailing a taxi which stopped a few metres away. Alex followed him to the car.
* * *
The Margaret Patisserie stood at the bottom of St Stephen’s Boulevard, near the Danube. Named after the nearby bridge, it offered not just drinks and snacks, but time travel back to the socialist era. Ranks of brightly coloured cakes were displayed in glass cases, all topped with artificial cream, a brilliant, impossible white. The coffee was thick and tepid, a burst of high-calibre caffeine, fired out of an ancient steam-driven contraption into short, stumpy glasses. Blowsy waitresses smoked
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