Naked Angels. Judi James

      ‘Maybe,’ Evangeline replied, but she didn’t sound convinced. She wanted to be neat. She wanted to be perfect. Then her parents could be proud of her and Grandma Klippel would go on smiling the way she was now.

       8

       Budapest 1983

      Mikhail had decisions to make. He had lived on the streets for over a year and the truth was he was not a natural survivor. Lots of boys were. He thought of them as corks, floating along on the surface of all deprivation while he was sinking, slowly but consistently going under.

      He ate but he was still starving. In the winter he froze and in the summer he was ill. He felt unwell all the time. Sometimes he even thought he was dying. The idea terrified him, but after a while things got so bad that he thought it was what he wanted, after all.

      He had not spoken to anyone properly since Andreas’s death, although sometimes he addressed himself to Andreas personally. At first the lack of companionship was the hardest thing to suffer but before long he almost relished it. He was a dark shadow on the streets; in a way it was rather romantic.

      He had grown a lot in the last couple of years, despite the lack of proper food, and his brother’s coat was no longer too big for him. Although he was still only fourteen people had stopped reacting to him as though he was a child, which made him feel safer. A child alone got relentless hassle from the police. A young man, though, was largely ignored, as long as he broke none of the laws.

      Despite his deprivations, Mikhail was methodical about reading a newspaper. Sometimes he stole them and often he just took them from litter bins, but always he read as many as he could lay his hands on, as they were his only link with the proper world. When you stopped knowing what was happening in the world you were no longer a part of it. Andreas had read a lot. It was he who had taught Mikhail that.

      Mikhail was doubly pleased if he could get the Daily News since he could still read a little English as well as Hungarian. Andreas had learnt English at school and he had taught Mikhail too, for he said it was the language of America, where he was bound when he became famous. These things were important, Mikhail could see that. Keeping in touch was important and so was speaking another language. Their mother had made Andreas learn English and, although Mikhail spoke it badly, he needed to remember what it was he had learnt, otherwise he would know he had given up. Giving up was like waiting to die.

      When he caught sight of himself in mirrors he was always shocked. His hair was longer and darker. He asked one of the other boys he met to cut it with his knife but the boy turned on him and stole fifty filler from him instead.

      Sometimes he did make friends of a kind. There was a boy with the nickname of Tincan he sometimes met down in the metro. Tincan had given him useful advice about where to sleep without being bothered too much. And then there were the men.

      Mikhail was approached on average twice a week in winter and as much as three times a day in the summer. They all wanted to help him and they all wanted to be friends. It was Tincan who told him to be careful. The religious ones were the worst, he said, the ones who said they’d pray for you and show you a warm hostel where you could sleep the night for nothing.

      ‘Nothing is for nothing,’ Tincan told him, though even he had a couple of regular men friends he would disappear with now and again.

      There was one man Mikhail saw a lot, around and about the city streets. Sometimes he would find Mikhail on a bench in the park and just sit chatting, and sometimes he would pass him in the street and nod his head as though they were old acquaintances. The man seemed pleasant enough and even Tincan appeared to like the look of him. He was shortish and middle-aged but smart and well-dressed, like an ordinary businessman.

      The man’s worst fault was that he appeared to be a little shy, which made him rather boring at times. Mikhail felt safe enough with him, though – the man had never tried propositioning him. The most he had ever done was to share his sandwiches one day when Mikhail was too hungry to refuse them.

      Tincan told him the man was wealthy.

      ‘How can you tell?’ Mikhail asked.

      Tincan shrugged. ‘His haircut. The cologne he wears. And did you see his watch? Tell me it’s not real gold and then let me tell you you’re a fool.’

      ‘I wonder where he lives?’ Mikhail asked.

      ‘Dunno,’ Tincan said. ‘Why don’t you follow him if you’re so interested?’

      That winter the sleeve of Andreas’s coat split open and Mikhail grew still more depressed. Too dispirited even to steal food or new clothing, he would often mooch up to Castle Hill and look down on the city and its river and dream of hot pork stew and chocolate and nut pancakes.

      Tincan grew desperate at the state he was in.

      ‘You must get money, Mikhail, or you’ll starve! Look at you – you don’t wash, you don’t eat. What’s the matter, don’t you want to live?’

      Mikhail did not have the words to explain how he felt. To Tincan existence was all; the good life lay in the future, and if he could just get through the winter then things would pick up by spring. He told Mikhail he was going to become a famous actor and he never voiced any doubts over the possibility of a sparkling career.

      ‘Take money where you can get it, Mikhail,’ he said. ‘Don’t be a fool. Stupid men die, you know – it’s the clever ones that survive.’

      Tincan survived by meeting men under the iron bridge in the park.

      ‘You just have to wait there, that’s all. They give you money, Mikhail, it’s OK. Some give a lot – look.’ He held some notes out for Mikhail’s perusal.

      ‘I don’t want to get money like that,’ Mikhail said.

      ‘But you don’t argue when I offer you food it has paid for,’ Tincan said.

      ‘I don’t need your food.’

      ‘Don’t be stupid!’ Tincan grabbed him by the arm. He had hair the colour of linen and a line of matching fuzz across his pale top lip. His eyelashes were nearly white. ‘Look, Mikhail,’ he said, ‘it’s not that bad, you know, what I do. What do you think? You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it. Tell me, do you masturbate? Ever? Eh? Of course you do. Well, do you hate yourself so much for that? No. Well think of this as being similar, only with someone else, that’s all. I do it only to live, Mikhail. It’s not so important – life is what counts. One day I’ll be working in the film studios in Hollywood and I’ll look back at all this and laugh and be glad I was so crafty. Then I’ll remember my poor stupid friend Mikhail who died of cold and starvation because he was so foolish and stubborn. That’s how it is, you know, that’s what will happen.’

      Tincan took Mikhail to the park the following evening. At first it was half-light and there were children around, so they smoked a cigarette and shared stale cake until it got darker, and then the children were gone and the whole park fell silent.

      Tincan went off for a piss and Mikhail almost bolted. There was a wind hissing through the trees and the branches creaked overhead. He was afraid of ghosts and glad when Tincan got back. Then he saw that his friend was followed and his heart leapt with a greater fear.

      The man kept his head down. He wore a knitted cap and his hands were firmly stuffed into the pockets of a greatcoat. He cleared his throat a lot but didn’t speak.

      ‘This is Pepe,’ Tincan whispered, ‘I call him that because of the moustache. He’s a policeman but I’m not supposed to know that. He comes here once a week when his wife visits her mother. He’s a bit shy of the bathroom so try not to breathe in too much, but apart from that he’s not bad. He won’t speak in case anyone recognizes his voice.’

      Mikhail stared across at the man, who was hopping from one foot to the other