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glorious life beginning on this balcony. He saw himself savoring harsh local cigarettes, his first nibbling notion that he was going to take up smoking. He was engaged in some professional exploit—the nature of which was hazy—that would win him tastefully lavish renown. In his new home, the center of concentric, electric social circles, he would wittily, intriguingly host artists, society figures, spies, stage actors, statesmen, the dissipated scions of ancient or fraudulent noble families, and Emily Oliver. She would stay after the other guests had left. "Come out to the balcony," he would say. "Come in from the balcony," she would say.
     
    "He wants to know if you'll pay in dollars or pengo." Charles leaned against the wall just inside the French doors.
     
    "Pengo?" John stepped inside. "Which are... ?"
     
    "Hungarian currency before the forint, until about 1945, I think." Charles smiled as if at a common question, a natural topic of apartment rental negotiations.
     
    "And I would have pengo why?"
     
    "Excellent point. You seem to have a real head for business." Charles raised his flowered paper cup at the old man, then generously refilled all three drinks. He returned to John. "Okay, first the bad news. Mr. Szabo is looking forward to returning to the countryside with me. He's missed me. Doesn't have many people to talk to anymore. Also, he's very glad you and the army have finally arrived. He always knew the Americans would come to kill the Russians and he thanks you. This puts us in about 1956, I'd say, when the Americans most definitely did not turn up. Let's see, what else ..." Charles straightened his shirt cuffs. "Oh yes, he was a Communist Party member, but he wants you to know that everyone was, and now that the fighting is over, he's looking forward to the Americans installing a democratic government. And he wants to cooperate as much as possible. As you'll be influential in this."
     
    "From this studio apartment."
     
    "Right. The good news is the TV has cable, though mostly German channels and two versions of CNN. He also says the apartment's plumbing is very good and that the sofa bed is pretty new."
     
    Szabo interrupted with another croaking soliloquy. Charles translated: 'And some more good news. He has no problem at all with Jews living here."
     
    " That's a great relief," John said. "Can you just get him to think about rent in a current currency?"
     
    After just one more minute of foreign dialogue, Szabo rose, shook John's hand, and embraced Charles warmly, kissing both cheeks several times. "Very good news, John. Your landlord has offered marvelous terms and you've just accepted after haggling only briefly." He named a figure in forints.
     
    "Per week?"
     
    "Of course not. Per month."
     
    "That's ridiculous. That's nothing. Offer him more."
     
    Szabo was refilling the paper cups to seal the contract, but Charles's expression was dissolving quickly toward disgust. "Offer him more? Oh, Christ. Please don't be silly. That's twice what he's paying the city to live here. He's obviously happy with the deal. Don't be condescend—"
     
    "Happy with the deal? He thinks I'm Elsenhower's aide-de-camp."
     
    "That's your competitive advantage," Charles explained with a grueling effort to be patient. "That's not something you just throw away." "I don't think it's condes—"
     
    The old man spoke, his expression troubled. He looked at Charles but pointed at John.
     
    "Nem, nem. Nagyon jol van. Nagyon," Charles reassured him. "Look happy, John. He's worried he's offended you."
     
    John smiled reflexively, not wishing to be rude. They touched cups and drank.
     
    Szabo collected the empty paper cups and put them in the sink, ran some water over them for his new tenant, and replaced the brandy under the TV cart. He rubbed his hands together and began to recite in a businesslike tone. Charles's simultaneous translation was much improved: John was free to move in the following day, this was how the heat