Short Fiction Mack Reynolds (best ereader for pdf and epub .txt) 📖

was confusion upon confusion, since Budapest was the center of sovism and the languages of Indochina, Outer Mongolia, Latvia, Bulgaria, Karelia, or Albania were as apt to be heard on street or in restaurant, as was Hungarian.

But Joe Mauser was in no hurry. His instructions were to take the long view. To take his time. To feel his way. Somewhere along the line, a door would open and he would find that for which he sought.

In a way, Max Mainz seemed to acclimate himself faster than either Nadine or Joe. The little man, completely without language other than Anglo-American, the lingua franca of the West, whilst Joe had both French and Spanish, and Nadine French and German, was still of such persistent social aggressiveness that in a week’s time he knew every Hungarian of proletarian rank within a wide neighborhood of where they lived or worked. Within a month he had managed to acquire present tense, almost verbless, jargon with which he was able to conduct all necessary transactions pertaining to his household duties, and to get into surprisingly complicated arguments as well. Joe had to give up attempting to persuade him that discretion was called for in discussing the relative merits of West-world and Sov-world.

In fact, it was through Max that Joe Mauser made his breakthrough in his assignment to learn the inner workings of the Sov-world.

XVII

It was a free evening for Joe, but one that Nadine had found necessary to devote to her medical duties. Max had been gushing about a cabaret in Buda, a place named the Bécsikapu where the wine flowed as wine can flow only in the Balkans and where the gypsy music was as only gypsy music can be. Max had developed a tolerance for wine after only two or three attempts at what they locally called Sot and which he didn’t consider exactly beer.

Joe said, only half interested, “For proletarians, Party members, or what?”

Max said, “Well, gee, I guess it’s most proletarians, but in these little places, like, you can see almost anybody. Couple of nights ago when I took off I even seen a Russkie field marshal there. And was he drenched.”

Joe was at loose ends. Besides, this was a facet of Budapest life he had yet to investigate. The intimate night spots, frequented by all strata of Sov society.

He came to a quick decision. “OK, Max. Let’s give it a look. Possibly it’ll turn out to be a place I can take Nadine. She’s a bit weary of the overgrown glamour spots they have here. They’re more ostentatious than anything you find even in Greater Washington.”

Max said, in his fiesty belligerence, “Does that mean better?”

Joe grunted amusement at the little man, even as he took up his jacket. “No, it doesn’t,” he said, “and take the chip off your shoulder. When you were back home you were continually beefing about what a rugged go you had being a Mid-Lower in the West-world. Now that you’re over here the merest suggestion that all is not peaches at home and you’re ready to fight.”

Max said, his ugly face twisted in a grimace, even as he helped Joe with the jacket. “Well, all these characters over here are up to their tonsils in curd about the West. They think everybody’s starving over there because they’re unemployed. And they think the Lowers are, like, ground down, and all. And that there’s lots of race troubles, and all.”

Even as they left the apartment, Joe was realizing how much closer Max had already got to the actual people, than either he or Nadine. But he was still amused. He said, “And wasn’t that largely what you used to think about things over here, when you were back home? How many starving have you seen?”

Max grunted. “Well, you know, that’s right. They’re not as bad off as I thought. Some of those Telly shows I used to watch was kind of exaggerated, like.”

Joe said absently, “If international fracases would be won by newspapers and Telly reporters, the Sovs would have lost the Frigid Fracas as far back as when they still called it the Cold War.”

The Bécsikapu turned out to be largely what Max had reported and Joe expected. A rather small cellar cabaret, specializing in Hungarian wines and such nibbling delicacies as túrós csusza, the cheese gnocchis; but specializing as well or even more so in romantic atmosphere dominated by heartstring touching of gypsy violins, as musicians strolled about quietly, pausing at this table or that to lean so close to a feminine ear that the lady was all but caressed. It came to Joe that there was more of this in the Sov world than at home. The Sov proletarians evidently spent less time at their Telly sets than did the Lowers in the West-world.

They found a table, crowded though the nightspot was, and ordered a bottle of chilled Feteasca. It wasn’t until the waiter had recorded the order against Joe’s international credit identification, that it was realized he and Max were of the West. So many non-Hungarians, from all over the Sov-world, were about Budapest that the foreigner was an accepted large percentage of the man-in-the street.

Max said, making as usual no attempt to lower his voice. “Well, look there. There’s a sample of them not being as advanced, like, as the West-world. A waiter! Imagine using waiters in a beer joint. How come they don’t have auto-bars and all?”

“Sure, sure, sure,” Joe said dryly. “And canned music, and a big Telly screen, instead of a live show. Maybe they prefer it this way, Max. You can possibly carry automation too far.”

“Naw,” Max protested, taking a full half glass of his wine down in one gulp. “Don’t you see how this takes up people’s time? All these waiters and musicians and all could be home, relaxing, like.”

“And watching Telly and sucking on tranks,” Joe said, not really interested and largely arguing for the sake of conversation.

A voice from the next table