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Our train pulled into the huge vault of the station on the Pest side of Budapest.Bai Ganyo and I went into the station restaurant.Since I knew we had a whole hour to kill, I made myself comfortable at a table and ordered some snacks and beer. The crowd swarmed around me, and it was a goodlooking crowd at that. You know, I’m not crazy about Hungarians, but I’ve got nothing against Hungarian girls. Distracted by the noise, I didn’t notice Bai Ganyo slipping out of the restaurant taking his disagi, his woven cloth saddlebags, with him. Where did Bai Ganyo go? His glass was empty. I looked all over, peered into every corner of the restaurant, but he was nowhere to be found. I went outside onto the platform, I looked in all directions ; not a sign of Bai Ganyo, nothing at all. What a strange business! I thought that maybe he’d gone into the train car to make sure someone didn’t swipe his small traveling rug, his kilim. I went back to the restaurant. There was still more than half an hour till the train’s departure. I sat there drinking my beer and staring around. The stationmaster would strike a bell every five minutes and announce the directions of the trains in a listless, lazy voice,“Hö-gösh-fö-kö-tö-he-gi, Kish-kör ösh, Se-ge-din, Uy-ve-dek.”3 A few English tourists gaped at him, and he, apparently used to the attention he attracted with his peculiar language, grinned from ear to ear and with an even louder and huskier voice kept on going,“Uy-ve-dek, Kish-kö-rösh, Hö-gösh-fö-kö-tö-he-gi,” emphasizing each individual syllable.  Bai Ganyo Sets Off  3. The towns in Hungarian are Horgos, Feketehegy (Visegrad), Kiskörös, Szeged (Segedin in Serbian), Újvidék (Novi Sad, now in Serbia). We still had about ten minutes before the train was supposed to leave. I paid my bill, and I paid for Bai Ganyo’s beer as well, and then I went out onto the platform to look for him. At that moment a train came slowly into the station, and just picture it, in one of the cars, hanging halfway out the window, Bai Ganyo came into view. He caught sight of me and began to wave to me with his lamb’s-wool cap, his kalpak, from far away, saying something I couldn’t hear over the locomotive whistle, but I understood what had happened. When the train stopped, he jumped down and came running up to me and told me—with a healthy dose of energetic swearing, which, with your permission, I won’t repeat—the following story: “Don’t even ask, pal; I’m worn out from running.” “What running, Bai Ganyo?” “What do you mean, what running? Weren’t you just hanging out at the restaurant staring all around?” “So?” I responded. “So! At that moment, y’know, that guy by the door rang the bell and I heard the engine whistle and I went out—I couldn’t catch your eye—and I see our train pulling out. Hey, my kilim! I make a mad dash for it, running as fast as my legs could carry me—but never mind. Finally, at one point I see that the train has stopped and so, upsy-daisy, I jump on and go inside. I startled some guy and he shouted something at me in Hungarian—heke meke4 —and me, you know, I don’t put up with any nonsense. I opened my eyes wide and stared right back at him and showed him my kilim. No big deal, the guy was sensible and went away. He even laughed a little. How could anyone know that we would be coming back? These Magyars!” Sinner that I am, I had a good laugh at Bai Ganyo’s adventure. Poor guy. The train was maneuvering to come in on another track, and Bai Ganyo, poor fellow, ran three whole kilometers to catch up to it—after all, his kilim was inside. “But in your haste you forgot to pay for your beer, Bai Ganyo.” “Big deal.As if they don’t fleece us enough,”answered Bai Ganyo in a tone that did not brook contradiction. “I paid for it.” “You had plenty of money, apparently, so you paid for it. Come on, get in...

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