In Buda, along a misty, leaf-dappled avenue, is the small Tropicana Bar. There is barely room for four tables. We proclaim the only empty one, by the door. I order a korso (pint) of locally brewed Dreher beer, while my companion is given a pohar (glass) measure. The woman behind the bar brings the beer on a tray to us and then pours out the first shower. She is an arresting sight, combining an ensemble of blond, fulsome hair, a rich smile that counters itself readily to the light in her eyes, and a body that expresses its commendations in the right proportions. To our right, a table of card players plays out a scene of time immemorial. The cards are slapped down onto the wood with the felling of a giant tree in a single swipe of an axe, the concentration is of the knife-edge kind, and the air is dense with the smoke of cigarettes. This is deadly serious stuff, and the drinks are there only to whet the gaming appetite. At another table, a fat man in shorts and sandals, with a bandanna on the top of his head and a full beard on the bottom, holds court with his companions. The fat man can’t decide whether it is more important to grasp a glass of beer or his mobile phone. The fourth table is occupied by a nondescript lukewarm man with two equally nondescript lukewarm women; the latter sit quietly while the man disappears through a door to visit the bathroom. It appears to be the moment he has been waiting for. Not much happens while he’s there and even less so once he has gone. Outside, on the street, a grub-like Trabbant taxi revs its engine, metering the time. In another few weeks the autumn leaves will start to fall. The middle-aged cabbie sports a short ponytail. He steers us into the heart of the Buda hills, proudly pointing out the city sights and immediately delving into their historical origins – which is fine in its own right. However, if one gets too caught up in sorting out the past, it leaves little illumination for the present, let alone the future.

[1995]