Mack Reynolds: After Utopia

The boy said, “Do not call me Comrade. We now call each other Friend. Who are you?”

“We are American journalists,” Tracy said easily. “We have come to learn the true facts of the revolution for the American people, Friend.”

“It is a privilege to assist you, Friend,” the boy said. “The Duna Hotel is to the right, perhaps three hundred meters. There are many other western journalists there, from many countries.” And then he added the international ending of all directions. “You can’t miss it.”

Tracy and Dan turned right and drove the indicated distance, along the edge of the river. The hotel soon loomed before them. It was a swank hotel, with a beautiful terrace restaurant out on the side overlooking the river. The medieval part of Buda was directly across the stream, and it was unbelievably attractive in the fading light. To their surprise, the restaurant was getting a good play. The tables were packed and there was even a gypsy trio playing away as though half of the patrons didn’t have firearms leaning against the tables.

“Jesus,” Tracy said.

They parked the car before the entrance and got out. There was no doorman, no bellhops.

Dan said, “Think we ought to leave our bags in the car, with nobody around?”

Tracy said, even as he headed for the door, “You know something? I’ve never heard of anything being stolen during a revolution. Looting stores and so forth, yes. But nothing personal.”

Dan grunted and said, “You better wait until you get the message on what happens when Fidel’s boys take Havana.”

Tracy looked at him from the side of his eyes. “I didn’t know you were in Cuba.” They entered the hotel. The lobby was a bit decrepit, but comfortable looking.

“I was up in the hills with them for a while,” Dan said. “The organization sent me in to size them up. They aren’t our people. Fidel thinks of himself as an idealist and liberal, but his brother Raul and Che are commies and sooner or later their faction will take over, especially after the United States lands on them like a ton of bricks, and the only place they have to turn is Russia.”

The Ibusz tourist reception desk was immediately to the right of the entry. Tracy and Dan approached it.

Behind it was the most beautiful girl Tracy had ever seen. She looked like Hedy Lamarr, back when Hedy was in her prime. Her hair was so black as to seem dyed, but it obviously wasn’t; it had too much healthy glisten.

She smiled, took one good look at them, and said in English, “What can I do for you? I am afraid that there are no more accommodations. Reservations are a thing of the past… even if you had them. Everything is rather confused. You might try the Gellert Hotel, on the Buda side, but I suspect that they are overflowing as well.”

Tracy said, not sure that this was the right receptionist, “Franz Zieglar sent us from Vienna. We are to contact Gyula Rajk.”

Her eyes widened and then darted left and right, checking the lobby to see if anyone was within earshot.

She said, hesitantly, “Then you are from the organization?”

“Yes,” Dan said laconically. “Did anyone ever tell you that you looked like Hedy Lamarr?”

“I don’t know who Hedy Lamarr is,” she said, rapidly scanning a ledger before her. She picked up her phone and said something into it rapidly in Hungarian, put it down, and turned back to them. “I have instructed the desk to put you into a suite that had been reserved for… for a committee of friends from Pec who are coming to confer with the local committees of the worker’s councils.”

Tracy said, “I am afraid the organization is in no financial position to—”

“There will be no charge, Friend,” the girl said simply. “I am afraid there are no… bellhops.”

“We’ll get our bags,” Dan said, already heading for the door.

Tracy paused for a moment and said, “When will it be possible for us to meet Gyula Rajk?”

“He has been checking in about every two hours.” she told him. “It has been hoped that the organization would send some trained representatives.”

“Good.”

Tracy and Dan went back to the car to get their two bags and their supply of food. For the time, they decided to leave the Mercedes where it was. There were no other cars around. They’d have to ask the girl where to park it inside. Street demonstrators sometimes had a tendency to burn automobiles just for the hell of it, though the Austrian license plates might give some protection.

Back inside, the girl herself led them up to their appropriated suite. The elevator was not operating.

After she was gone, having promised to send Gyula Rajk up as soon as he made an appearance, Dan looked after her. “I wish the hell all organization members looked like that,” he said.

“Yeah,” Tracy said, looking about the over-sized suite. “I suppose it’s just as well we have a place this size. We might have occasion to hold some meetings.”

He went over to the French windows which led out onto a small balcony overlooking the river.

He let himself out and looked down. Dan Whiteley joined him.

Dan said consideringly, “If we have to make a quick get, we could drop from here down to that next terrace, then from there to that awning above the restaurant.”

“Ummm,” Tracy said. “We’d probably rip right on through the awning, but at least it would slow the drop.”

They went on back into the suite and spent the next quarter of an hour cleaning up.

There came a knock at the door. Dan stood to one side against the wall. He unbuttoned the flap on the military holster so that his P.38 Walther was available for a quick draw.

Tracy opened up.

In the hall was a young man of possibly twenty-five, sensitive face, very blue eyes, slight build, his suit on the shabby side. He wore a beret and held a leash in his right hand. On the end of the leash was a moderately large bitch dog.

The newcomer said, “Gyula Rajk.”

Tracy opened up, let him in, and closed the door behind them. He said, in German, “I’m Tracy Cogswell, and this is Daniel Whiteley. What in the world are you doing with a dog along?”

The other grinned as they shook hands. He said, “Protective covering. Even with chaos in the streets, who would think to stop a man walking his dog? Give the friends a wag, Plotz.”

Plotz gave them a double wag. She was a beautiful dog, reddish in color, her nose red, her eyes golden. Her tail had been bobbed so that it was only about three inches long.

Tracy and Dan looked down at her. “I’ve never seen the breed,” Tracy said.

The newcomer said, “Plotz is a Vizsla. I guess you could call them the Hungarian national dog. They came with the Magyars all the way from Siberia.” He put a bottle down on the table in the center of the suite’s living room. “Barack,” he said.

While Dan went over to a buffet to get glasses, Tracy said, “What’s barack?”

The young fellow released the dog from the leash and took a chair at the table. “Hungarian national spirits,” he said. “Distilled from apricots.”

Tracy Cogswell didn’t particularly like liqueurs. “Sweet, eh?” he said. But he didn’t refuse it. You must not refuse to drink with a man under these circumstances. It would make for a bad start.

“I’ve had it before,” Dan said. “It’s not sweet. It’s distilled down until you can just barely recognize the apricot flavor. Strong as vodka.”

The three of them knocked back the spirits. After that ceremony was performed, the boy said, “You’ve heard the latest news?”

Tracy looked at him. “Probably not. We just got in.”

“Imre Nagy, supposedly the head of our new government, has invited in the Russian tanks to put down the demonstrations.”