The BuddhaPest

By Trudy Chun

Alone.

When his mother is deployed to the Middle East with the US Army, Marc Gomez finds himself alone in Central Europe. Abandoned in a "Hungarian hellhole of a boarding school," his only friends are a small assortment of cross-cultural misfits with whom he has nothing in common--except the English language.

When things couldn't get any worse, Marc's roommate commits suicide, at least that's what the police say. But Marc's odd group of friends see something else. Can you see what they see? And will their unique ability to pick up on clues prove more costly than anyone imagined?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trudy Chun
• Release date: Nov 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301824649

Trudy Chun

Trudy Chun has been a writer for more than 20 years. She and her family live in Eastern Hungary and work with orphans in that region. She has served as a magazine editor in Washington, DC and has contributed to many magazines including Chuck Coleson's Breakpoint. Her opinion pieces have appeared in newspapers across the nation.

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theBUDDHApest

trudy chun

Copyright 2012 Trudy Chun

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is available in print at most online retailers.

Dedicated to my three third-culture kids

Andrea Noelani

Nikoletta Kalohelani

Levente Kekoa

and to my husband, Russell, who makes our lives an endless adventure.

Acknowledgments

A special thanks to Gyorgyi Marjai for her cultural insights and Mary Pearce and Lisa Prins for their proofing skills. Without you this book would not be possible. And thanks to Kara Fulop and Lidia Isaac for storming brains with me when I needed it!

Hungary

This story takes place in a city called Miskolc, Hungary in the heart of central Europe. Although many of the locations actually exist, the characters and storyline are a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental.

Contents

1 Hungarian Hellhole of a Boarding School

2 Like a Prison

3 Party Time

4 Castle Dreams and Nightmares

5 If Buddhas Could Talk

6 Sketchy Evidence

7 Budapest

8 For Antal

9 Village Life

10 A Little Turkish Charm

11 Outsiders

12 Racist of Responsible

13 Some Sort of Karate

14 With Knowledge Comes Responsibility

15 Peril

16 Heroes

17 Misfits

About the Author

-- 1 --

HUNGARIAN HELLHOLE

of a boarding school

Does anybody here speak English? Marc yelled in frustration as he wandered through Kossuth square. This morning his mother abandoned him in this Hungarian hell hole of a boarding school as he called it. Tomorrow she would be on her way to Iraq. But he could not think about military deployments and such things right now. He had painstakingly made it through registration—with the help of a few English speaking teachers, now he was on his own to find the dorm.

The commie condos pressed in on him from all sides—endless gray ugliness punctuated by graffiti in a language he did not understand. The only attractive building for miles was the Reformed Church Chapel—the solitary image gracing all the school’s promotional brochures. Why did his mom have to befriend that Hungarian Major at the NATO school in Germany? Why did he have to mention this boarding school in the conversation? If only that short meeting had never occurred, he would be, well, in truth, he did not know where he would be during her year-long deployment. But anything would be better than this! How could my mom have done this to me? he wondered.

Kossuth Kollégium building, Marc read it off the paper again with an aggravated sigh. A dull ache radiated up his arm and into his spine. He had been lugging his huge footlocker around for an hour trying to find this place. Every time he moved toward a group of people to ask questions they moved away. He did not know where to go or what to do. If only his mother had sent him to a Spanish speaking country, then at least he could communicate on some basic level. Here everyone already seemed to hate him.

He ran his fingers through his black hair. Students kept passing him, going in all directions. They all seemed to know where they were going. But they were all Hungarian. What kind of international boarding school is this? he thought to himself. Finally he yelled again at the top of his lungs: DOES ANYONE HERE SPEAK ENGLISH?!?!

I do, came back a strong, yet feminine voice in a distinctive British accent. Though, there are some who would question whether you speak proper English. The girl giggled a little as she adjusted her backpack. You are American, aren’t you? I heard there would be some Americans here this year.

Marc did not mind the British accent. After all, she spoke some form of English and she seemed willing to help. Besides, she was cute. Uh, yeah, he responded, realizing what an idiot he must have looked like standing there yelling. I was just… I mean, I couldn’t find, uhm… He shifted his weight from side to side as he stammered and finally blurted out in frustration, Nobody here speaks English!

Well we are in Hungary, she pointed out.

Yeah, but this is supposed to be an international school. Where are the internationals? he protested.

Well, the school just opened the international section this semester, so there aren’t very many international students right now. I’ve studied in the school’s bilingual program for the past two years, the girl explained. I’m Krisztina Jones. She reached out her hand to shake his.

I’m Marc, Marc Gomez. He responded. Can you help me find my dorm? He looked at her with big, brown puppy dog eyes. He appeared to be flirting, and maybe he was just a little, but he also needed help desperately. It’s supposed to be in Kossuth Building, but everything here is called Kossuth. Look, it’s on this statue, this park, and on that building over there. I went into that building, but it’s not a dorm, it’s a bank.

Krisztina began laughing so hard she could scarcely speak. That sign on the building is the street sign, not the building name. It’s Kossuth Street. She regained her composure. And, yes, a lot of things are named after Kossuth Lajos. He was a famous Hungarian hero—led the 1848 revolution.

Yeah, whatever. Marc could care less about Hungarian history—or Hungarian anything at this point. A boy walking down the sidewalk bumped into Marc and then glared at him.

Hungary isn't the friendliest place, is it? he commented.

They think you're gyspy, she explained. Most people in Hungary who are as dark skinned as you are gypsy.

So everyone's racist! he exclaimed.

It's complicated, Krisztina said. Once everyone hears you speaking English, they'll relax.

Marc was sure his mom had banished him to the very pit of hell. He wondered how he would survive. But then he looked at Krisztina. She seemed nice enough and pretty too.

So do you think you can you help me find this place?

Krisztina smiled at him as she shepherded him in the right direction and briefed him on more school details than he ever wanted to know. The dormitory here is called a ‘kollégium.’ Yours is just around the corner …

…

Marc dragged his footlocker through the front door of the ugly gray building. The teachers at registration assured him his room was on the first floor so he knew he would have no trouble finding it. He looked at the room number listed on his paper: 105. Okay I can do this, he said to himself. But as he looked around the first floor, all he found was a lobby furnished with shabby, stained furniture, and an antique TV set.

He watched as adolescent boys ran up and down the stairway and in and out of the building. They eyed him suspiciously. Uh, excuse me! he tried to catch one, but the kid rushed by as if he did not even see Marc.

Hey! he tried to catch the next one that came by. I’m looking for …

Nem beszélek angolul. The obscure gibberish flew back at him before he could even finish the question.

Errrgggh! The tension in his muscles wrenched up another notch. Strangled by the tentacles of his own frustration, he sat down on his footlocker and wanted to cry. But he was a ‘man’ and the son of a US Colonel. He could not let himself cry. With his elbows grinding into his knees, he despondently threw his head into his hands.

Segíthetek? More gibberish. Marc peeked through his fingers and saw a pair of brown shoes pointed at him. He looked up and said, seething with aggravation, I can’t find my dorm room!

The boy standing next him cocked his head slightly to the right. He looked a little confused for a moment, but then smiled slightly. I help you. The English was awkward, but Marc seized upon it the way a drowning man would grab a life preserver thrown to him in an angry sea. He jumped to his feet quickly.

Really? he responded, almost in disbelief. Then he shuffled through his papers. Here, I am supposed to be in room 105—on the first floor. He pointed to his registration papers. But there are no rooms down here.

The Hungarian teen thought to himself for a moment, as if he were translating what Marc said in his head. Then he looked at Marc somewhat puzzled. This ground floor. First floor upstairs, he finally said.

What? That makes no sense, Marc complained. Everything is backwards in this country.

The young Hungarian student looked at the room number on the paper. Ah, százötös. You in room with me. Come, I show you. He moved toward the stairs.

Uh, where’s the elevator? Marc asked.

Eleva– micsoda?

Marc tried to panomime.

Oh, lift! the boy said. No lift. Stairs.

This is totally uncivilized, Marc murmured under his breath as he dragged the large footlocker toward the stairs.

I help you, Marc’s new roommate took hold of the other side and helped him carry it up the stairs. I am Antal, the brown-haired boy smiled in a friendly way as he directed Marc to the room.

I’m Marc, Marc replied still grumbling.

You American, yes? Antal inquired.

Yeah, came the muttered reply.

Sorry I no speak good English, Antal apologized as they entered the room.

Your English is fine, Marc remarked. I wish everyone around here spoke it as good as you do.

Maybe you help me learn English t’is year? Antal asked as he unlocked the door.

Sure. Marc smiled slightly. I might not know much, but I can speak English.

They lugged the footlocker into a medium-sized room with two sets of bunk beds. A large, dingy window specked with mold stood on the opposite wall between the bunks. Marc tried to peer out the window, but thick iron bars flaking with white paint obstructed his view. I think I’ve entered Alcatraz, Marc muttered.

Choose bed, Antal directed. Others come soon.

Others?

Yes, Szilárd and György, Antal explained.

Lizard and who? Could those really be names? Marc wondered.

Szilárd and György. They crazy guys, Antal laughed as he thought about them. You will like them.

Marc shoved his footlocker under the bottom bunk and lay down on the bed. As soon as he got comfortable, a ruckus broke out in the hallway. Antal stuck his head out to see what was happening. Then he looked back at Marc with a wide smile. Szilárd and György. They come.

Antal yelled down the hallway a series of unintelligible sounds Marc could not hope to make out. Then the other two boys emerged into the room, laughing and pushing each other. Antal pointed to Marc in the midst of the ongoing gibberish and he kept hearing his name alongside Amerikai.

Finally Antal turned to Marc. T’is is György, he said pointing to the short, stocky kid with a pimpled face. And t’is is Szilárd. Szilárd looked like a flagpole, so long and lanky that Marc wondered how he fit in the normal sized bunks.

Szia! the two said in unison.

Uh, hi, Marc said to the teens. I'm Marc Gomez.

Gomez? the boys eyes lit up. Selena Gomez! They broke into the teen idol's songs using pronunciation that almost made the lyrics unintelligible.

When the free concert came to a welcome close, Antal asked Marc if he were related to Selena.

Don't be ridiculous. Do you know how many Gomezes there are in the world? Marc snipped.

Well it make good rumor, Antal smiled impishly. Everyone believe it.

Marc rolled his eyes. Don't they speak any English? He pointed to Szilárd and György.

I don't know, Antal said. He asked them in Hungarian. They responded by breaking into another Selena Gomez song.

They speak Selena English, Antal laughed. But they speak other languages. György complete intermediate exam in German, and Szilárd study Spanish three years. Antal's eye's brightened. You and Szilárd speak Spanish together! Of course, you speak Spanish, yes?"

Of course, Marc said sarcastically, but Antal did not pick up on the sarcasm. Truth was Marc spoke very little Spanish. He grew up around it so he could say a few things but that was about it.

Hablas español? Szilárd said and then broke into a diatribe that sounded something like the chaos he had always experienced at his grandparents' house. Marc just nodded and said sí as he remembered all those times his mother nagged him to start learning Spanish. He fell back on his bunk. I don’t think I can survive this year! he groaned to himself.

-- 2 --

Like a PRISON

The next morning Antal helped Marc find his way to orientation. The campus sprawled out like a maze with its classrooms tucked in obscure, unmarked buildings speckled throughout several neighbor-hoods. It was a wonder anyone found anything without a detailed map. But today’s meeting convened in the one building easy for everyone to identify—the large Hungarian Reformed Church Chapel. With majestic spires towering above the surrounding ugliness, the church made a statement, a relic of faith that had survived even 50 years of communism. Now 20 years after the fall of the Soviet empire, the edifice had been restored to its original splendor, making its Soviet-styled surround-ings appear all the more gray and dismal.

When Marc and Antal arrived, the students had already assembled and found seats on the wooden pews. Antal directed Marc to the area on one side where international students should sit and then left him to his own devices. Relieved to see Krisztina had already arrived, Marc edged his way forward and took a seat behind her. Beside her sat an Asian girl who studiously organized her papers and notebooks in her backpack. She pulled out a small notebook and a