Walking by a flea market in Pest.Walking by its table of late Eighties Soviet chic, in pieces.Some old movies begin as a cheesy mapgone up in flames to quick-startreal people talking, in trouble, if-in-fact.True or false, the backstory all over again. Yes, we backstory,you backstory, I backstory….Russian medals, insignia,
military whatnots, uniform caps for sale—memorabilia = cherished, no matter what. No matterthat soldiers too young on their gladdesperate way out of history stripped downright on the streets of Budapest.After all, worth a few HUFs, that stuff, said one of usalive and well, his childhood staringwide-eyed straight at me.I could see the ten-year-old he’d been, shrunk downto bigger now.Netherworld
come closer. The scattering—worn passports on that table too, covers ragged, bent—blue, maroon, black. Bulgaria, Albania,Romania, Czechoslovakia. . .. So forth and…