wouldn't pull down their mandatory go-go boots with the same liberating fervor they had demonstrated in pulling down their tyrannical government. In any event, even the dullest novice to the game would have realized that a man writing a popular history of nostalgia, who had seen cheerleaders and style-free Canadians wearing boots just like that all his life, was probably not going to "warm up" to the look in this context.
And yet there was Emily Oliver wagging her head back and forth, trying to decide whether to believe him. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and was examining Mark with visible mental energy, even said, "Hmmm." Finally, she seemed to realize (quite transparently) that she was being quite transparent, and she went to some effort to compose her features. Everyone watched this transformation, and they all smiled with her in their communal struggle not to laugh.
"You are a master of deception, my girl."
"Stop it, you! You came up with this weirdo game, so excuse me if I need a little practice. Normal people were raised to tell the truth, you know." She set her jaw, inhaled, and prepared herself to lie.
And John Price fell in love, five-fifteen one Friday evening in May 1990.
Emily cocked one eyebrow in an unwitting parody of conspiracy and confessed, "I struggle with serious depression all the time. I mean, very dark periods, where I feel totally hopeless."
After a momentary hush, frank hilarity burst from Mark and Scott. Even Charles smiled broadly, though he tried to show the game more respect. Emily herself was forced to look at her lap. "I'll get the hang of this," she said. "You watch."
John, however, was not laughing. He was watching his life unfold at last. He was watching a woman incapable of lying, and he told himself this was one
of life's rare treasures. He saw that Emily—as her lie revealed—had never known neurotic depression and therefore lived close to the surface of life, found the soggy and eternally multiplying layers of self-consciousness and identity an easy burden to strip away. He felt a strange contraction of the muscles around his eyes, and he scraped his lower teeth against his upper lip.
John did not savor the moment for long as, with a winning smile, Scott took his turn: "I'm really glad John tracked me down here in Budapest ." Emily nodded happily at the warm fraternal sentiment. Mark and Charles looked at their hands. "Really. Like a dream come true."
A gloomy waitress passed tantalizingly close to the table, and John made a hopeful wave and managed to snag her flickering attention, but he spoke not a word of Hungarian. Scott, having spent five and a half months teaching English, spoke almost as little. Mark had been submitting to private Hungarian lessons for a month, to no avail. Emily admitted that she was only able to sound out written words and carry on excruciatingly simple conversations, thanks to her daily classes at the embassy, so John turned for help to Charles Gabor, the bilingual son of Hungarians who had fled to the U.S. in 1956.
"6 ker egy rumkoldt," Gabor said to the stone-faced waitress. Unresponsive, she walked off.
"Jesus. What did you say to her?"
"Nothing." Gabor shrugged. "I said you wanted another rum-and-Coke." "Well, she looks pissed off," John said with a sigh. "It's probably because I'm so obviously a Jew."
While physically his self-assessment was undeniably true, his grim assessment, of anti-Semitism in Hungarian waitresses killed the mood at the table. His blond, blue-eyed, pug-nosed brother grudgingly consoled him, "No, waiters and waitresses here are all like that. They do it to me, too."
"Well, one way or the other, that's my turn," said John, and Gabor let out a small and condescending whistle of appreciation at an excellent play, for a beginner.
Sincerity seemed to have sprung fully formed from Charles Gabor's head, and among the younger Americans, Canadians,
And yet there was Emily Oliver wagging her head back and forth, trying to decide whether to believe him. She trapped her bottom lip between her teeth and was examining Mark with visible mental energy, even said, "Hmmm." Finally, she seemed to realize (quite transparently) that she was being quite transparent, and she went to some effort to compose her features. Everyone watched this transformation, and they all smiled with her in their communal struggle not to laugh.
"You are a master of deception, my girl."
"Stop it, you! You came up with this weirdo game, so excuse me if I need a little practice. Normal people were raised to tell the truth, you know." She set her jaw, inhaled, and prepared herself to lie.
And John Price fell in love, five-fifteen one Friday evening in May 1990.
Emily cocked one eyebrow in an unwitting parody of conspiracy and confessed, "I struggle with serious depression all the time. I mean, very dark periods, where I feel totally hopeless."
After a momentary hush, frank hilarity burst from Mark and Scott. Even Charles smiled broadly, though he tried to show the game more respect. Emily herself was forced to look at her lap. "I'll get the hang of this," she said. "You watch."
John, however, was not laughing. He was watching his life unfold at last. He was watching a woman incapable of lying, and he told himself this was one
of life's rare treasures. He saw that Emily—as her lie revealed—had never known neurotic depression and therefore lived close to the surface of life, found the soggy and eternally multiplying layers of self-consciousness and identity an easy burden to strip away. He felt a strange contraction of the muscles around his eyes, and he scraped his lower teeth against his upper lip.
John did not savor the moment for long as, with a winning smile, Scott took his turn: "I'm really glad John tracked me down here in Budapest ." Emily nodded happily at the warm fraternal sentiment. Mark and Charles looked at their hands. "Really. Like a dream come true."
A gloomy waitress passed tantalizingly close to the table, and John made a hopeful wave and managed to snag her flickering attention, but he spoke not a word of Hungarian. Scott, having spent five and a half months teaching English, spoke almost as little. Mark had been submitting to private Hungarian lessons for a month, to no avail. Emily admitted that she was only able to sound out written words and carry on excruciatingly simple conversations, thanks to her daily classes at the embassy, so John turned for help to Charles Gabor, the bilingual son of Hungarians who had fled to the U.S. in 1956.
"6 ker egy rumkoldt," Gabor said to the stone-faced waitress. Unresponsive, she walked off.
"Jesus. What did you say to her?"
"Nothing." Gabor shrugged. "I said you wanted another rum-and-Coke." "Well, she looks pissed off," John said with a sigh. "It's probably because I'm so obviously a Jew."
While physically his self-assessment was undeniably true, his grim assessment, of anti-Semitism in Hungarian waitresses killed the mood at the table. His blond, blue-eyed, pug-nosed brother grudgingly consoled him, "No, waiters and waitresses here are all like that. They do it to me, too."
"Well, one way or the other, that's my turn," said John, and Gabor let out a small and condescending whistle of appreciation at an excellent play, for a beginner.
Sincerity seemed to have sprung fully formed from Charles Gabor's head, and among the younger Americans, Canadians,
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