A commonplace

It’s a Sunday morning in Budapest. You have to be out of the bnb by 10am, but your flight is late afternoon. Why not pass the hours in a cosy café?

Tucked away in a quiet street in Jewish quarter, District VII. Past the street art of 2 Hungarian Nobel Prize winners, you see a long line of hungry tourists before the smell of pastries reminds you of your half-eaten breakfast. Not that café. Hold your breath and turn right. Alas, there it is. At 10am in the morning, the entrance is stripped of its usual crowd. Look up, or you just might walk past it.

The inside is exactly as you’d pictured it, yet it still manages to fascinate you. Book shelves lined with books written in English. Quirky bookmarks. Budapest postcards. There’s plenty to feast your eyes on for hours. It’s quiet, but not empty. A man is sat by the window taking pictures, he too can’t believe his eyes. Ah, must be another tourist. There’s a lady placing her order at the coffee bar. You could wait, but as every traveller knows- the seating is more important than the coffee. You wander through to the back, making sure to say your courteous hello while walking past the barista. It’s no ordinary hello, it’s a greeting to relieve you of your guilt. What it really means is: I’m just going to find a seat before I order, I promise I’m not trying to sit here for free.

There’s a disappointing couch in the back but it’ll do. You place your things, trying to take up as much space as possible to ward off other customers, whilst being somewhat discreet. Everyone does it, why do you still feel the need to bother with these antics? That’s a problem for another day, you think to yourself. Then as soon as you’ve marked your territory, its many small annoyances are immediately apparent. It doesn’t have a good view. That couple is being a little too loud and inconsiderate. Yes, they were here first. Yes, it’s a café not a library. But you can’t help but be irritated. Through the corridor, there’s a man standing over a table for two, slipping into his coat. That is undoubtedly a much better seat. It was an obvious decision to move- is what you tell yourself now that a mother and her son sink into the disappointing couch behind you.

One lactose-free latte, and one latte with normal milk please. The tension eases as she nods and points to the card machine, you still can’t get over the fact that the cafés in Budapest cater to your kind: the lactose intolerant.

You could sit and read. There’s only 106 pages left in your books. But you’re stalling. You don’t want to know how it ends. Not yet at least. It also feels a waste to sit with your head buried in a book today, when the world is unfolding before you. Restless, you get up to look through the shelves and take it all in. You’re scanning through the second shelf in the corner, keeping an acceptable distance from another customer who’s doing the same. You make eye contact and exchange a polite smile. He looks to be in his 60s. He has a tweed hat on and he’s slightly shorter than you so there’s a shadow over his eyes. There are some gems here, he says. You smile in response, thinking to yourself – this is what it feels like to be seen as a reader. He speaks again, offering to help you find a book. Why not, you think to yourself. Yes, you should be careful talking to strangers; but you’re in a public space in a different country, and you’re flying home today. What could possibly go wrong?

He’s read half the bookshop. And, he remembers details. You’re drawn to his mind. You want this for yourself- for the books you read to stay with you. In time, you hope. He’s committed to finding you a book, even asking for your style. You’re new to this reading thing, and you have no shame in admitting that. Now he’s determined to find what style of writing draws you in. He flips through the pages pointing out clear differences- this writer uses long sentences, that one throws you in from page 1. You’re listening, yes. But you can’t help but examine him. You notice the nails on his left hand are yellowing, thickened and lifting from the nail bed. Fungal infection? You bring your mind back to the present, nodding passively to mask your absent-mindedness. Then you notice the nails on his right hand are normal, and his gait is rather unusual. You are struggling to keep up with his dense commentary, on books you are unlikely to read. You don’t tell him this, of course, that would be rude. Instead, you watch as a stack of 5 books grows on your palms.

What is his story? He is a retired professor who moved from Paris a year ago. Finally, something more exciting. A chance to learn about a world very different from yours. This man with the tweed hat is French-Canadian, from Montréal. He moved to Paris where he worked as a professor. What brought him to Budapest? He tells you he is Hungarian Jewish, and he came here to reclaim his cultural identity. How fitting that you met him here, in Jewish quarter. You walk with this man, and talk for two hours. About books. About his life, and about yours. You find his quiet return to his origins, admirable. You wish that for your parents. You wish that for your mum. To go out in pursuit of something, for herself. To defy maternal sacrifice. There it is. What connects you to this man in his 60s. You wish to know his secret, to take it away and give it to your mother. You long for her freedom because yours is tied with hers.

You thank him for sharing his world, and politely take your leave. He smiles and rests his hand on your arm. This makes you slightly uncomfortable but you try not to think too much of it. You don’t want to ruin the memory of this beautiful encounter. Then he offers his right hand and you take it in goodwill- it was nice meeting you Daniel. Before you realise, he brings your hand to his lips. His eyes hidden underneath his hat whilst his head lowers, resurface with excitement. It didn’t feel like much, his kiss, but your body tenses. Why did he stain this innocent exchange. You walk away, with a wider perspective, but you can’t help but feel a little disgusted. Maybe you shouldn’t talk to strangers? Or maybe strangers should know not to kiss your hand?

By Oona James