Avagy a középosztálybeli élet kis vigaszai…

The heat haze shimmered ahead, tantalisingly out of reach like the rainbow’s end as the Hungarian expertly dodged the potholes, the uneven road testing the suspension more effectively than any manufacturer-devised simulation.  The yellow trams trundled sedately along their parallel tracks, even the prefabricated high rises seemed benign as they observed the frantic scurry below with their grey, unblinking satellite dish eyes. 

Past the melon stands, the plump wares of which were described without poetic licence as honey sweet.  Beyond the suburbs to the green-clad hills, away from the buildings which still bear the scars of the longing for freedom.  Pilisvörösvár, Pilisszentiván, heart-shaped black granite headstones on display in the gravel-strewn yards waiting patiently for the inscriptions to give them purpose.  Past the gleaming-eyed tramp foraging in the orange bins for any scraps of food near the pancake kiosk, stuffing half rotted hamburger discards into his mouth with the voracity of desperation, poignant symbol of the shift from the insidious cosseting of Állam Bácsi, the state that provided a modicum of existential security for the masses in return for ideological conformity and the obscene prospering of a small elite to capitalism in its most brutal and unalloyed manifestation where the elderly and the vulnerable are faced with the stark choice between eating or paying the utility bills.  Where many look back on oppression with the fond glow of nostalgia (at least they can complain without fear of reprisal), when the forint went further, when only the work-shy were ostracised, when the Party told you whom to applaud and who to turn away from, when you were expected to go through the motions.  Now the prevailing mood is envy and (justified) suspicion, the nouveau riche merely the most conspicuously successful asset-strippers in their unapologetic vulgarity and contempt for the less unscrupulous.  This is the country where a bank robber demanded the modest amount of five million (about £13,000) before being shot down like a dog.  His motive was not personal gain: the money was to have been spent on paying off his disabled father’s debts and preventing his forcible eviction.  One of the officers at the crime scene opportunistically pocketed 200,000 forints (about £500) of the would-be haul.  This is the country where a woman driving home alone in the small hours was pulled over on the pretext of allegedly not having fastened her seatbelt.  She was ordered down a side street and raped by two of the policemen whilst the remaining three looked on.  Having accompanied her back to her flat they threatened her with dire retribution if she dared to open her mouth (nobody will believe you anyway, you slut, it’s your word against ours), stealing 20,000 forint (£50) into the bargain (the equivalent of half a month’s worth of old age pension payments).  The incident has already become embedded in the public consciousness as demonstrated by the joke: A woman is hurrying down the street in a rough area, clutching her handbag defensively when a tall, burly man steps out of the shadows blocking her path.  “Madam, please allow me to escort you home.  This is a very dangerous part of town; it’s crawling with police”.

The streets softened by lime-green acacia drifts, a moth’s tongue sipping nectar.  Neighbours who know each other’s business, the seasonal abundance of vegetable patches and branches laden with cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, a church tower in the distance.  I notice my sun-sleeves in the shower, where the rays have conspired to join the dots, blurring one freckle into another.  I discard the duvet and the blankets, aware of the perspiration on the back of my neck and drift into oblivion to the soothing sound of his snores.

 View from the terrace

 The garden

 Garden fence