“You are visiting from America? Many fine museums in Budapest. And farther west, there are show villages. Very picturesque. Made just for people like you, American tourists. I think this is not such a nice place to visit. I have no postcards for you. Americans, I think, do not like places that do not have postcards.”

“Not all Americans,” Janson said.

“All Americans like to think they are different,” the man said sourly. “One of the many, many ways in which they are all the same.”

“That’s a very Hungarian observation,” Janson said.

The man gave a half smile and nodded. “Touché. But the people around here have suffered too much to be good company. That is the truth. We are not even good company to ourselves. Once upon a time, people would spend the winters staring into their fireplaces. Now we have television sets, and stare into those.”

“The electronic hearth.”

“Exactly. We can even get CNN and MTV. You Americans complain about drug traffickers in Asia, and meanwhile you flood the world with the electronic equivalent. Our children know the names of your rappers and movie stars, and nothing about the heroes of their own people. Maybe they know who Stephen King is, but they don’t know who our King Stephen was—the founder of our nation!” A petulant head shake: “It’s an invisible conquest, with satellites and broadcast transmitters instead of artillery. And now you come here because—because why? Because you are bored with the sameness of your lives. You come in search of your roots, because you want to be exotic. But everywhere you go, you find your own spoor. The slime of the serpent is over all.”

“Mister,” Jessie said. “Are you drunk?”

“I have a graduate degree in English from Debrecen University,” he said. “Perhaps it comes to the same.” He smiled bitterly. “You are surprised? Tavernkeeper’s son can go to university: the glories of communism. University-educated son cannot find job: glories of capitalism. Son works for father: glories of Magyar family.”

Jessie turned to Janson and whispered, “Where I come from, people say that if you don’t know who the mark is at the table after ten minutes, it’s you.”

Janson’s expression did not change. “This was your dad’s place?” he asked the big-bellied man.

“Still is,” the man said warily.

“I wonder if he’d have any recollections … .”

“Ah, the wizened old Magyar, swilling brandy and spinning sepia pictures like an old nickelodeon? My father is not a local tourist attraction, to be wheeled out for your entertainment.”