followed along in the swath she cut, Nadinebeing Nadine, and the woman he loved, to boot.
His being raised in caste to Upper through the easy efforts of PhilipHolland, had made no observable difference in his relationship withNadine. Of course, she was Mid-Upper, he told himself, while he wasLow-Upper. Still it was far from unknown for romances to cross suchcomparatively little boundary. He couldn't quite figure out why sheseemed to hold him at arm's length. Months had passed since she hadtold him, that day, she would marry him, even though he be a Middle.But now, when he tried to get her off by herself, for a moment ofintimacy between them, she avoided the situation. When he broughttheir personal relationship into the conversation, she switchedsubjects. Joe, wedded for too long to his grim profession,inexperienced in the world of the lover, was out of his element.
His Upper caste rating also made little impression on the otherembassy personnel, largely because it was the prevalent rank. Indealing with the Sovs, they came into contact almost exclusively withParty members and policy was that West-world officials never be put inthe position to have to work with Sovs who ranked them. Only routineoffice workers were drawn from Middle caste, and largely they kept tothemselves except during working hours.
Joe's immediate superior turned out to be a General George Armstrong,with whom Joe had once served some years earlier when the general hadcommanded a fracas between two labor unions fighting out ajurisdictional squabble. Although Joe hadn't particularlydistinguished himself in that fray, the general remembered him wellenough. Joe, recognized as the old pro he was, was taken in with openarms, somewhat to the surprise of older embassy military attaches whoranked him in caste, or seniority.
At the first, getting organized in apartment and office, getting hisfeeling of Budapest, its transportation system, its geographicallayout, its offerings in entertainment, he came little in contact witheither the Hungarians or the other officials of the Sov world, whoteemed the city. In a way it was confusion upon confusion, sinceBudapest was the center of sovism and the languages of Indo-China,Outer Mongolia, Latvia, Bulgaria, Karelia, or Albania were as apt tobe heard on street or in restaurant, as was Hungarian.
But Joe Mauser was in no hurry. His instructions were to take the longview. To take his time. To feel his way. Somewhere along the line, adoor would open and he would find that for which he sought.
In a way, Max Mainz seemed to acclimate himself faster than eitherNadine or Joe. The little man, completely without language other thanAnglo-American, the lingua franca of the West, whilst Joe had bothFrench and Spanish, and Nadine French and German, was still of suchpersistent social aggressiveness that in a week's time he knew everyHungarian of proletarian rank within a wide neighborhood of where theylived or worked. Within a month he had managed to acquire presenttense, almost verbless, jargon with which he was able to conduct allnecessary transactions pertaining to his household duties, and to getinto surprisingly complicated arguments as well. Joe had to give upattempting to persuade him that discretion was called for indiscussing the relative merits of West-world and Sov-world.
In fact, it was through Max that Joe Mauser made his breakthrough inhis assignment to learn the inner workings of the Sov-world.
XVII
It was a free evening for Joe, but one that Nadine had found necessaryto devote to her medical duties. Max had been gushing about a cabaretin Buda, a place named the Becsikapu where the wine flowed as wine canflow only in the Balkans and where the gypsy music was as only gypsymusic can be. Max had developed a tolerance for wine after only two orthree attempts at what they locally called Sot and which he didn'tconsider exactly beer.
Joe said, only half interested, "For proletarians, Party members, orwhat?"
Max said, "Well, gee, I guess it's most proletarians, but in theselittle places, like, you can see almost anybody. Couple of nights agowhen I took off I even seen a Russkie field marshal there. And was hedrenched."
Joe was at loose ends. Besides, this was a facet of Budapest life hehad yet to investigate. The intimate night spots, frequented by allstrata of Sov society.
He came to a quick decision. "O.K., Max. Let's give it a look.Possibly it'll turn out to be a place I can take Nadine. She's a bitweary of the overgrown glamour spots they have here. They're moreostentatious than anything you find even in Greater Washington."
Max said, in his fiesty belligerence, "Does that mean better?"
Joe grunted amusement at the little man, even as he took up hisjacket. "No, it doesn't," he said, "and take the chip off yourshoulder. When you were back home you were continually beefing aboutwhat a rugged go you had being a Mid-Lower in the West-world. Now thatyou're over here the merest suggestion that all is not peaches at homeand you're ready to fight."
Max said, his ugly face twisted in a grimace, even as he helped Joewith the jacket. "Well, all these characters over here are up to theirtonsils in curd about the West. They think everybody's starving overthere because they're unemployed. And they think the Lowers are, like,ground down, and all. And that there's lots of race troubles, andall."
Even as they left the apartment, Joe was realizing how much closer Maxhad already got to the actual people, than either he or Nadine. But hewas still amused. He said, "And wasn't that largely what you used tothink about things over here, when you were back home? How manystarving have you seen?"
Max grunted. "Well, you know, that's right. They're not as bad off asI thought. Some of those Telly shows I used to watch was kind ofexaggerated, like."
Joe said absently, "If international fracases would be won bynewspapers and Telly reporters, the Sovs would have lost the FrigidFracas as far back as when they still called it the Cold War."
The Becsikapu turned out to be largely what Max had reported and Joeexpected. A rather small cellar cabaret, specializing in Hungarianwines and such nibbling delicacies as turos csusza, the cheesegnocchis; but specializing as well or even more so in romanticatmosphere dominated by heartstring touching of gypsy violins, asmusicians strolled about quietly, pausing at this table or that tolean so close to a feminine ear that the lady was all but caressed. Itcame to Joe that there was more of this in the Sov world than at home.The Sov proletarians evidently spent less time at their Telly setsthan did the Lowers in the West-world.
They found a table, crowded though the nightspot was, and ordered abottle of chilled Feteasca. It wasn't until the waiter had recordedthe order against Joe's international credit identification, that itwas realized he and Max were of the West. So many non-Hungarians, fromall over the Sov-world, were about Budapest that the foreigner was anaccepted large percentage of the man-in-the street.
Max said, making as usual no attempt to lower his voice. "Well, lookthere. There's a sample of them not being as advanced, like, as theWest-world. A waiter! Imagine using waiters in a beer joint. How comethey don't have auto-bars and all?"
"Sure, sure, sure," Joe said dryly. "And canned music, and a big Tellyscreen, instead of a live show. Maybe they prefer it this way, Max.You can possibly carry automation too far."
"Naw," Max protested, taking a full half glass of his wine down in onegulp. "Don't you see how this takes up people's time? All thesewaiters and musicians and all could be home, relaxing, like."
"And watching Telly and sucking on tranks," Joe said, not reallyinterested and largely arguing for the sake of conversation.
A voice from the next table said coldly in accented Anglo-American,"You don't seem to appreciate our entertainment, gentlemen of thewest."
Joe looked at the source of the words. There were three officers, onlyone in the distinctive pinch-waisted uniform of the Hungarians, acaptain. The other two wore the Sov epaulets which proclaimed themmajors, but Joe didn't place the nationality of the uniforms. Therewere several bottles upon the table, largely empty.
Joe said carefully. "To the contrary, we find it most enjoyable, sir."
But Max had had two full glasses of the potent Feteasca and besideswas feeling pleased and effervescent over his success in getting Joe
Mauser, his idol, to spend a night on the town with him. He'd wantedto impress his superior with the extent to which he had get to knowBudapest. Max said now, "We got places just as good as this in theWest, and bigger too. Lots bigger. This joint wouldn't hold more thenfifty people."
The one who had spoken, one of the majors who wore the boots of thecavalryman, said, nastily, "Indeed? I recognize now that when Iaddressed you both as gentlemen, I failed to realize that in the Westgentlemen are not selective of their company and allow themselves towallow in the gutter with the dregs of their society."
The Hungarian captain said lazily, "Are you sure, Frol, that _either_of them are gentlemen? There seems to be a distinctive _odor_ aboutthe lower classes whether in the West-world or our