Café Hungaria-2
Giorgio tossed the copy of the Film Arts Review into a corner of his office. It fluttered across the room like a drunken sea gull, hit the closed door, then bounced to nestle into the crevice of an over-stuffed sofa. As it landed, there was a knock on his door, and without waiting for a response, his assistant Tom entered the office. He noted the tossed journal with barely a raised eyebrow.
“Well, what do you want?” Giorgio growled.
Ignoring his boss’s surly tone, Tom crossed to Giorgio’s TV. “Justice Franklin is going to review Call on Channel 7,” he said matter-of-factly, turning on the television.
“Ah,” Giorgio said ironically, “the last word.”
Tom shrugged. “If he likes it, means at least another ten million, easy,” he said, leaning over to pick up the Film Arts Review. “Who reads this rag anyway?” he asked as a commercial faded out to the image of a balding, middle-aged man, slightly rotund, cheeks flushed pink with cherubic enthusiasm. Giorgio closed his eyes to listen to the thin, nasal voice.
“Last night I went to the press screening of Giorgio Remenyí’s latest film, The Call of History…” came the voice.
Giorgio started to muse. “I wonder how much he’s paid to do this?”
“What can I say?” continued Justice. “The color. The costumes. Absolutely breathtaking scenery and photography. Friends of mine sometimes ask me, ‘Justice, what makes a film a work of art?’ Well, Giorgio Remenyí has made that easy to answer. Now, I can just say, ‘See The Call of History, and you’ll know.’ It’s a mega-ten plus, Oscar City…”
“Hey, not bad,” Tom said, turning off the TV. Giorgio tossed his head back against the back of his chair. He felt dizzy and nauseated. “Looks like you got it made,” “Oh yeah, by the way, we got a phone call from UCLA about tonight…” Tom said.
Giorgio stood up suddenly. “I need some air,” he said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door.
“But what if…”
“Take a message,” was all he could manage. Just one more word, he felt, and he’d choke.
The Santa Anas had come up since the morning, and he almost reeled with the wall of heat that greeted him as he stepped out of the air-conditioned building. A pretty young secretary, with smiling, Asian features passed by, and noticing his distress, offered him her arm. “Are you all right, Mr. Remenyi?” she asked.
Who was she? Did he know her? Of course not, but then everyone knew him, or at least pretended to, and now that he had a hit, even more “everyones” would be his friend. Still dizzy from the heat, he begged her in his imagination not to follow her question with praise for his movie. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s just the heat.”
“I guess they don’t have Santa Anas in Budapest,” she said, still smiling. He was taken aback slightly. The average Hollywood insider seemed to think that Hungary referred only to the stomachs of the poor and those trying to get into film, which was more or less the same thing. If they knew it was a country, they didn’t know where it was; if they knew where it was, they didn’t know Budapest was in it, and if they knew Budapest was in it, it was only because they were film school graduates and had seen a Lubitsch movie. He was about to say something to the woman, but she had already turned away to go inside.
≈
Across town, in the flat lands of the San Fernando Valley, Gustáv Zerffi rolled down the windows of his ancient economy sedan in his struggle with the heat. The car was so old that whatever savings he might enjoy from driving a paid-for antique were eaten up by repair bills. Air conditioning was out of the question, and thus only the dusty, smog-laden Santa Anas could provide any relief, even though they were the very cause of his misery.
His car stuttered and wheezed after each traffic-induced stop. It then stopped completely, its ancient motor exhaling a cloud of metallic steam, accompanied by a pathetic wheeze.
“Szar!” Gustáv yelled, reverting to his native tongue as he only did in moments of stress. As he repeatedly, senselessly and hopelessly tried to make the engine turn over, a gust of wind whipped down the boulevard, momentarily blinding him with grit, while around him ever-sympathetic Angelenos honked, cursed, threatened him with bodily injury and risked higher insurance premiums by cutting around him into the active lanes to either side.
Two hours and a two hundred dollar towing fee later, Gustáv sat waiting in his neighborhood garage as his mechanic Mustapha, grizzled from years of keeping wrecks like Gustáv’s on the road, wiped his hands repeatedly in a greasy rag, picked up a pen and started to itemize the bill. After going through it once, he looked it over to make sure he had everything, then shook his head. “You really make me feel guilty,” he said, handing the bill to Gustáv. “You should send Matilda to the great auto graveyard in the sky.”
“Not everything new is better,” Gustáv said, inevitably thinking of his conversation with his editor.
“Hell, no need to argue,” Mustapha said. “I’d be losing my best customer. But sooner or later, she’s going to give out…” he said, trailing off meaningfully.
After settling the bill with the help of plastic, Gustáv limped home to his third-floor, concrete and stucco apartment that faced one of the wider Valley boulevards. As usual, he had to park nearly two blocks away as there were no spaces available on the street. “I just want to collapse,” he said as he rounded the corner near his building. “No review of Batman is Baadass tonight, despite what his nibs wants. I’ve earned oblivion.”
The elevator was out, so as he climbed the stairs, he fantasized about a tall, cool glass of gin and tonic, but as he opened the door to his apartment, even hotter air knocked him over. Knowing that he had left the air conditioning on before leaving for work, he went immediately to the thermostat. It was broken.
“Perfect,” he said, dropping his bags to the floor.
≈
The prospect of watching his own film was bad enough, but the fact that Giorgio would soon have to sit through it with an audience of film students and faculty sent his stomach into somersaults. He half hoped the traffic would be so bad that he could use it as an excuse for not attending. The fates were not with him, however, for the traffic moved smoothly. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be an earthquake,” he mused out loud.
He turned on the radio. It was definitely not his lucky night, for he tuned in just as the “theme song” from The Call of History twanged on.
“It doesn’t matter what we said.
I don’t care that you’re a Red…
I only know you from our bed.
I love you.
In love there is no East or West…
Our hearts tell us what is best…
My sore heart says to confess…
I love you.”
“Clearly the whole world is trying to assure I have one fucked evening.” But even as he said it, Giorgio found himself tapping his foot to the song’s 4/4 backbeat. Realizing what he was doing, he shouted “Jesus H. Christ!” and leaned over to turn off the radio.
≈
Giorgio tossed the copy of the Film Arts Review into a corner of his office. It fluttered across the room like a drunken sea gull, hit the closed door, then bounced to nestle into the crevice of an over-stuffed sofa. As it landed, there was a knock on his door, and without waiting for a response, his assistant Tom entered the office. He noted the tossed journal with barely a raised eyebrow.
“Well, what do you want?” Giorgio growled.
Ignoring his boss’s surly tone, Tom crossed to Giorgio’s TV. “Justice Franklin is going to review Call on Channel 7,” he said matter-of-factly, turning on the television.
“Ah,” Giorgio said ironically, “the last word.”
Tom shrugged. “If he likes it, means at least another ten million, easy,” he said, leaning over to pick up the Film Arts Review. “Who reads this rag anyway?” he asked as a commercial faded out to the image of a balding, middle-aged man, slightly rotund, cheeks flushed pink with cherubic enthusiasm. Giorgio closed his eyes to listen to the thin, nasal voice.
“Last night I went to the press screening of Giorgio Remenyí’s latest film, The Call of History…” came the voice.
Giorgio started to muse. “I wonder how much he’s paid to do this?”
“What can I say?” continued Justice. “The color. The costumes. Absolutely breathtaking scenery and photography. Friends of mine sometimes ask me, ‘Justice, what makes a film a work of art?’ Well, Giorgio Remenyí has made that easy to answer. Now, I can just say, ‘See The Call of History, and you’ll know.’ It’s a mega-ten plus, Oscar City…”
“Hey, not bad,” Tom said, turning off the TV. Giorgio tossed his head back against the back of his chair. He felt dizzy and nauseated. “Looks like you got it made,” “Oh yeah, by the way, we got a phone call from UCLA about tonight…” Tom said.
Giorgio stood up suddenly. “I need some air,” he said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door.
“But what if…”
“Take a message,” was all he could manage. Just one more word, he felt, and he’d choke.
The Santa Anas had come up since the morning, and he almost reeled with the wall of heat that greeted him as he stepped out of the air-conditioned building. A pretty young secretary, with smiling, Asian features passed by, and noticing his distress, offered him her arm. “Are you all right, Mr. Remenyi?” she asked.
Who was she? Did he know her? Of course not, but then everyone knew him, or at least pretended to, and now that he had a hit, even more “everyones” would be his friend. Still dizzy from the heat, he begged her in his imagination not to follow her question with praise for his movie. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s just the heat.”
“I guess they don’t have Santa Anas in Budapest,” she said, still smiling. He was taken aback slightly. The average Hollywood insider seemed to think that Hungary referred only to the stomachs of the poor and those trying to get into film, which was more or less the same thing. If they knew it was a country, they didn’t know where it was; if they knew where it was, they didn’t know Budapest was in it, and if they knew Budapest was in it, it was only because they were film school graduates and had seen a Lubitsch movie. He was about to say something to the woman, but she had already turned away to go inside.
≈
Across town, in the flat lands of the San Fernando Valley, Gustáv Zerffi rolled down the windows of his ancient economy sedan in his struggle with the heat. The car was so old that whatever savings he might enjoy from driving a paid-for antique were eaten up by repair bills. Air conditioning was out of the question, and thus only the dusty, smog-laden Santa Anas could provide any relief, even though they were the very cause of his misery.
His car stuttered and wheezed after each traffic-induced stop. It then stopped completely, its ancient motor exhaling a cloud of metallic steam, accompanied by a pathetic wheeze.
“Szar!” Gustáv yelled, reverting to his native tongue as he only did in moments of stress. As he repeatedly, senselessly and hopelessly tried to make the engine turn over, a gust of wind whipped down the boulevard, momentarily blinding him with grit, while around him ever-sympathetic Angelenos honked, cursed, threatened him with bodily injury and risked higher insurance premiums by cutting around him into the active lanes to either side.
Two hours and a two hundred dollar towing fee later, Gustáv sat waiting in his neighborhood garage as his mechanic Mustapha, grizzled from years of keeping wrecks like Gustáv’s on the road, wiped his hands repeatedly in a greasy rag, picked up a pen and started to itemize the bill. After going through it once, he looked it over to make sure he had everything, then shook his head. “You really make me feel guilty,” he said, handing the bill to Gustáv. “You should send Matilda to the great auto graveyard in the sky.”
“Not everything new is better,” Gustáv said, inevitably thinking of his conversation with his editor.
“Hell, no need to argue,” Mustapha said. “I’d be losing my best customer. But sooner or later, she’s going to give out…” he said, trailing off meaningfully.
After settling the bill with the help of plastic, Gustáv limped home to his third-floor, concrete and stucco apartment that faced one of the wider Valley boulevards. As usual, he had to park nearly two blocks away as there were no spaces available on the street. “I just want to collapse,” he said as he rounded the corner near his building. “No review of Batman is Baadass tonight, despite what his nibs wants. I’ve earned oblivion.”
The elevator was out, so as he climbed the stairs, he fantasized about a tall, cool glass of gin and tonic, but as he opened the door to his apartment, even hotter air knocked him over. Knowing that he had left the air conditioning on before leaving for work, he went immediately to the thermostat. It was broken.
“Perfect,” he said, dropping his bags to the floor.
≈
The prospect of watching his own film was bad enough, but the fact that Giorgio would soon have to sit through it with an audience of film students and faculty sent his stomach into somersaults. He half hoped the traffic would be so bad that he could use it as an excuse for not attending. The fates were not with him, however, for the traffic moved smoothly. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be an earthquake,” he mused out loud.
He turned on the radio. It was definitely not his lucky night, for he tuned in just as the “theme song” from The Call of History twanged on.
“It doesn’t matter what we said.
I don’t care that you’re a Red…
I only know you from our bed.
I love you.
In love there is no East or West…
Our hearts tell us what is best…
My sore heart says to confess…
I love you.”
“Clearly the whole world is trying to assure I have one fucked evening.” But even as he said it, Giorgio found himself tapping his foot to the song’s 4/4 backbeat. Realizing what he was doing, he shouted “Jesus H. Christ!” and leaned over to turn off the radio.
≈