Having been wandering aimlessly for hours, it occurred to Mark that he had no clue of where he was. After some difficultly finding a corner street sign, he surprisedly realized that he was back amid the jumble of slender lanes and somber gray buildings of District V, somewhere between Szabadság Square and Nyugati, not far from where his afternoon began. “Can’t go back to that bar… fuggin’ glass ain’t strong enough to be slammed on a table, it’s shouldn’t be in a fuggin’ bar,” he declared, examining his finger wrapped in blood-soaked toilet paper. With his other hand he aimed the Dreher bottle towards his mouth and struck his left front tooth with the round glass lip – “awww, nooo…”, almost crying – but to his relief, after straining to focus, he could see in the nearest rearview mirror that he hadn’t chipped the incisor… although if he had, it might’ve better matched the next tooth.
Feeling only fleeting shame after causing a mother in a tank-top to veer her pram left and right on the sidewalk as she nervously avoided his oncoming lurching, Mark scanned the street and saw only dust-coated apartment-building entryways and a few shuttered storefronts – but a faint light was visible in one tiny nonstop shop. “Don’t rememmer that one… must be new,” he thought while thoroughly draining the last drops of his Dreher and tossing the bottle into an almost-empty trash can, ignoring the sound of glass shattering glass. Walking across dirty cobblestones and negotiating the curb, Mark felt a flash of joy while spotting the “NYITVA” sign and stepped inside, using the swinging door’s handle for support.
“Whoa – serious retro shop here,” he thought, hazily admiring the carefully carved wooden shelves and marble countertop, all illuminated by a dim light bulb that could’ve come from Edison’s lab. “Must be some fuggin’ vintage place.” But where were the refrigerators? A plump old lady in a simple yellow dress and white apron stood behind the counter the whole time, calmly watching Mark swirl around in disbelief – “Elll-nezest… uh, hol a hideg sör?” he managed to blurt.
“Hideg sör? Nincs,” she replied curtly. “De van sör,” pointing to the row of Soproni 1895 bottles on the shelf next to the counter. “Awww man… nincs Dreher?” “Nincs.” “O-ké.” Mark dug into his pocket to pull out a 500-forint bill, realizing it was his last one. “At least Soproni 1895 has 5.3 percent…” he thought, although at this point it really wouldn’t’ve mattered what type of beer it was.
Mark emerged back onto the sidewalk with one bottle in each hand, soon realizing that it would be difficult to open either bottle cap with his hands both occupied (especially the wounded one), and so he found a nearby filthy apartment-building stairway and plopped down to sit and lean on the chipped stucco. Gingerly placing one beer on the step behind him, Mark used his lighter to crack open the Soproni on the third try, and guzzled the first long warm sip. “Guess people had to drink beer warm for most of history… guess things were simpler back then… still weird that shop had no fridges… fuggin’ Budapest.”
Comfortably splayed on the stairway, Mark drank the entire beer in a series of chugs while looking around at the dingy street and its crumbling buildings, their façades full of chipped statues and bumpily rusted wrought iron. “I think this is it, man… I think you’ve just about had it in this fuggin’ town… it’s been a good run, but Budapest ain’t what it used to be, at least for me… I just don’t fuggin’ belong here anymore; maybe I never did…” he muttered, or maybe just thought; there was nobody around to hear him anyway. Gulping down the last of his first Soproni 1895, the slightly higher alcohol content enhanced his drowsiness, and so he leaned back on the steps – careful not to knock over his second bottle – and stared up at the once-beautiful motifs painted onto the stairway-alcove ceiling, now coated in a decades-thick layer of once-airborne dirt, and he soon passed out.
The loud clip-clop of horse’s hooves resonated along the building walls and seemed amplified in Mark’s alcove as the carriage passed by, stirring him from drunken dreamland. Kind of awake but not ready to rise, he opened his eyes upward toward the ceiling fresco, until his slightly more sober perception discerned something strange – “But… wow, who cleaned it? How? While I was here?” Illuminated by a dim light shining through the front-door window, the motifs on the alcove ceiling were now absolutely clean, almost gleaming, with its angels and dragons and ribbons and flowers looking like the decoration for a museum entryway. Slowly sitting up to take in the now-darkened street scene – “really dark… where’s a streetlight?” – he remembered his other beer and quickly turned around, relieved to see the unopened Soproni 1895 still on the step behind him… but the stucco was no longer chipped, and the stairs no longer filthy, even beneath where he sat. “But how could they clean the fuggin’ steps I’m sittin’ on?”
Puzzled but unconcerned, Mark pulled himself up with the help of the stairway’s smooth wrought-iron railing, grabbing his other beer just before the door opened, and a dapper young fellow with a thick waxed moustache, black felt hat, bow tie, and trim black jacket stepped out, startled to see Mark standing there examining him with a bottle in hand. The gentleman stepped around him and hurriedly walked off down the street (“fuggin’ hipster”), which seemed vaguely different to Mark now… were those façade statues new? Had all the buildings been repainted? Why were so many windows shining with the dim glow of candlelight?
Confused, Mark stumbled along down the lane until getting his footing and walking more steadily; he could see a busy cross-street ahead, where a gaslight burned on the corner and a stream of horse-drawn carriages passed by in both directions (“must be some kinda old-fashioned parade…”), as another lady pushing a big-wheeled pram – this time wearing a flowing white dress and huge-brimmed hat – headed towards him, again swerving left and right to avoid the approaching drunk… but now Mark was too befuddled by the scene surrounding him to feel any shame anymore.
At the intersection with the busy street, Mark was afraid there might be a lot of cops guarding the retro parade, but up and down the main thoroughfare he only saw more dapper people casually strolling and riding past the rows of young trees lining the sidewalks. “Wait a minute… ‘s this Alkotmány?” Stepping out into the street (careful to avoid the piles of horse poop), he could make out the façade of the Parliament building a few blocks down… but something seemed off… “where’s the fuggin’ dome?”
Hurriedly staggering toward it, Mark noticed a lot of construction going on around him; wooden scaffolding in front of some half-finished buildings, the others bright and colorful as though they were new… but he was transfixed by the ever-closer Parliament façade, and the piles of stone and wood discernable below it… “but they just renovated this place a year or two ago…” and almost bumping into fellows all wearing button-up shirts and black ties and jackets, some carrying thin walking sticks, he finally reached the corner in front of Parliament – and saw only the central part was completed, the dome still nonexistent, the two wings only foundations and more wooden scaffolding, all punctuated by relatively elegant-looking construction workers still diligently laboring into the night by the light of flaming torches.
Mark stood in shock, looking around in fright; the entire neighborhood was a mess of construction, and he could only stand with his mouth agape and wonder what was happening. A fellow in a derby hat was walking toward him and followed Mark’s dumbstruck gaze toward the tall arched doorway of the neo-Gothic government palace. “Szép lesz, ugye?” asked the gentleman of Mark, who needed a moment before he realized he was being addressed. “Ahhhuuh, bocs, nem beszélek Magyarul,” he replied. “Ah, so then you speak English?” said the gentleman with a proper British accent. “I studied in London for two glorious years – how delightful to have the opportunity to speak English again. From where do you come?” “Umm, the States.” “America? My, you don’t meet many of your countrypeople here. Anyway, what I was saying is that this new Parliament building will be beautiful, whenever they can manage to finish it… but certainly not in time for next year’s Millennium Celebrations, what a pity. Well, good evening to you, sir!”
The gentleman continued on his way, and Mark stood there on that corner for at least a couple minutes, trying to break through his besotted state to get a grip on what was happening. It dawned on him that he still had another Soproni 1895 in hand, and slowly he cracked it open and took a long sip, but not a chug this time. At a loss for thoughts, he started walking around the humongous construction site to the right toward the river, winding his way past the hand-painted signs and rough wooden barricades surrounding deep foundation pits, until reaching the Pest riverbank and looking across the dusky Danube – and to his amazement, instead of seeing the Buda Hills covered in their usual crisscross of orange streetlamps and brightly lit villas, many of the slopes were almost completely bare and dark, and only a few flickering gaslights lit the Castle District buildings.
The Chain Bridge looked darker but fairly normal to the left, and Margaret Bridge was to the right, and so he walked away from the incomplete Parliament on more cobblestones toward Jászai Mári Square past a row of unfamiliar buildings (“Wasn’t there a park here? Where did Culinaris go?”), until reaching the bridgehead, where a steady stream of horses and carriages came and went toward Buda and into Pest. There was no more McDonald’s or OTP Bank flanking the entrance to Szent István körút, but a bustling newsstand stood where Mark knew there should be a flower booth; he rushed over to scan the huge array of papers and strained to focus on the date of a fresh edition of Magyar Hírlap – “1895 Június 26”.
Mark staggered over to the nearest bench, more out of bewilderment than drunkenness, gave up trying to figure it all out, and just absorbed the scene around him. Gleaming wooden carriages and people on clunky bicycles passed by amid a cacophony of wooden wheels rolling on cobblestones and whinnying horses, and there was not an electric light to be seen in any window. “Am I really back in time? It can’t be… what’s fuggin’ in this stuff?” He peered at his last bottle of Soproni 1895, its label still designed with modern fonts. “Sure as hell something stronger than 5.3…”
He took another big gulp, and soon got up to meander along Szent István Boulevard toward Nyugati Station (“at least that’s still here… err, or, I guess, already here…”), visible in the distance past the young trees lining the boulevard surrounded by familiar-but-new buildings, housing darkened shops and an occasional lively borozó pub filled with cigar smoke and lit by flickering lamps. Passing the Vígszínház, where a crowd of graceful theatergoers stood out front, Mark noticed that there was no Szeráj Turkish restaurant across the street; “too bad, I could really go for a gyros right now… but oh yeah, I have no money… would my money even work here now?”, he inquired in his head while passing a small flower stall where a gentleman was paying for a bouquet with a colorful oversized bill.
Nyugati Station looked beautiful with no overpass blocking the view, and no giant boxy modern buildings around it, with no underpass area below. “It’s all so clean…”, and Mark realized that now he wasn’t too far from his home near City Park, and so he stumbled steadier with a purpose toward Podmaniczky Street, dodging horses and carriages while crossing the darkened Grand Boulevard. “I go home, I go to bed, pull the covers over my head until I pass out, and I’ll wake up back in 2017,” he told himself while steadily sipping his beer, looking for the trolleybus stop that he then remembered did not yet exist, before heading on with renewed resolve.
After a few blocks he turned right on Rózsa Street, but after several meters he realized something was wrong – leaving behind the newish buildings lining Podmaniczky, the cobblestones turned to dirt, and the concrete jungle faded away into an almost rustic scene of orchards, gardens, and small cottages. After walking a few more blocks he reached what he thought would be his corner at Székely Bertalan Street, but there was no sign, there were no buildings. As a steam whistle blew around Nyugati, Mark felt as though he were standing in a countryside village; a humble farm filled the space where his apartment building should (and would) be.
To the right, there was a row of large buildings visible a block or so up the street – “Must be Andrássy!” – and in a state of near panic he rushed towards the familiar boulevard. Passing stately untarnished gates and stone walls protecting the grand new mansions on both sides of the street, Mark emerged onto Andrássy Avenue, only to see the entire center of the road completely dug up and surrounded by more wooden blockades; work crews were digging with shovels to the light of gas lanterns and piling the dirt up into huge mounds on both sides of the street; “ah, yeah, the yellow metro.” He took another slug of beer and walked briskly towards Oktogon, until reaching a point where Andrássy was covered again; at the center of the freshly paved road, he looked back toward City Park across the long wide trench, with freshly laid rails in the pit below, Mark saw no illuminated column in the distance; Heroes’ Square was yet another construction site.
But Oktogon looked fairly familiar, bustling with horse-drawn trams and candlelit pubs and Gypsy music floating from a nearby restaurant with red-and-white checkered tablecloths. Mark took a left onto the boulevard and walked a block alongside familiar but pristine buildings and more baby trees until he reached Király Street, appearing just as packed with pedestrians as ever, even if the crowds were dressed more elegantly than usual. Turning right he could see the familiar yellow steeple of the church at the corner of Nagymező, but instead of the surrounding pizza-slice joints, interior-design stores, and Office Depot, Király was lined by a diverse collection of small shops with quaint wordless signs hanging out over the sidewalk: a giant shoe, a giant key, a giant pen, and so on.
Király was crowded with all sorts of passersby, but while sipping what remained of his Soproni 1895, Mark realized he blended in fairly well with his chinos, button-down white shirt, and blue blazer, the only thing he found clean-ish before beginning that bad future morning; nonetheless, quite a few people were astounded by his sunglassses and velcro sneakers. Mark didn’t really care – now immersed in drunken fascination with his incredible circumstances and surroundings, he admired every horse and waistcoat-wearing waiter, every gaslight and wooden cobblestone, every elaborately dressed woman obviously wearing a tight corset beneath her frilly corsage. “Am I gonna be here forever? What am I fuggin’ gonna do?”
Emerging onto Deák Square, its center filled with ramshackle vendors’ huts as more horse-drawn trams and wagons passed by, Mark was struck with the thought of returning to the riverfront; “that can’t be changed too much.” He wound through the side streets toward the Danube, but when crossing Váci Street, he stopped dumbstruck once again – instead of the usual crowds of tourists and overpriced souvenir stands, this was a scene of elegance and luxury, as aristocrats strolled along on their evening walks while window-shopping to admire the graceful dresses on wooden mannequins; nearby, the violin-playing busker remained a familiar sight.
After continuing to the Danube Promenade – no longer lined with modern hotel buildings, and instead piled high with wooden barrels and boxes – and rushing past more passing strollers (most of whom gave Mark wide leeway), he came to the railing and looked again toward the river. Atop Gellért Hill he could discern the Citadel, but the Liberation Monument wasn’t there reaching skyward; the Royal Palace looked familiar, but its dome was different, now dotted with small windows and more statuesque details; the riverfront was lined with floating pools, with Rudas Bath still standing as an antiquated soaking site across the street; and the Elizabeth Bridge was simply not there.
“What am I gonna do?” Mark repeated to himself, exhausted from the frantic ramble through 1895 Budapest, stumbling his way to a riverfront quay and drinking the dregs of his Soproni. He watched a ferryboat putter along with huge clouds puffing from its smokestack, and saw a young couple furtively sneaking to an isolated stretch of the riverbank to share kisses in the reflected moonlight. He looked over to the Chain Bridge and the dark silhouette of hills without glowing-red radio towers atop them, just a few faint lights scattered in small clusters here and there on the forested slopes, Castle Hill shining before them in a state of manicured grace, a city booming in its golden age, a city that could not know of the tragedy and destruction that lay ahead of it. “Maybe I can help somehow… maybe I can warn these people about World War I and World War II and 1956 and so much else… but then, if I could stop these things, would I even be here now? And what if I’m stuck here? Could I actually live here and be happy in a time where I don’t belong? Maybe I could be… could I?” Amid this swirl of paradoxical questions and exhaustion and overall shock, Mark lay back on the quay and began sliding back into subconsciousness, leaning and knocking over his empty bottle, which rolled off the side and onto the rocks below – once more he ignored the sound of shattering glass, and was soon fast asleep.
The sound of screeching tires jarred him; a loud honk made him sit upright, but soon these noises were lost amid the low rumbling of heavy traffic overhead – now Mark was in the shade directly below Elizabeth Bridge, cars passing on the road close behind him, a “rendőrség” speedboat zipping by on the river, the Royal Palace dome again smooth and green, the Buda Hills covered with houses limned by the early dawn. Mark looked around in disbelief – “am I really back?” – and stood up before realizing the severity of his hangover, his stomach on fire and his head pierced with pain, but excitement overwhelmed the discomfort. He looked down from the quay and saw the shattered remains of his bottle on the rocks, the Soproni 1895 label still visible, and it seemed so obvious now – “it must’ve been that beer! But was it all in my head? How could it be?!”
Disregarding the pain, Mark staggered back up to the Danube Promenade and rushed past the well-to-do tourists with their digital cameras and smartphones strolling from the modern-ish hotels, winding past the freshly renovated Vigadó and the kitschy Tropicana casino and the H&M and the Citibank of Vörösmarty Square, past the fancy restaurants near the Basilica and the shiny glass-walled Bank Center by Szabadság Square, past the Art Nouveau buildings and the Parliament dome visible in the distance, and soon back to the small District V side streets to find the mysterious little ABC where he’d purchased the magic suds.
But when he recognized the same dingy street and his again-filthy alcove where he’d awoken over a century before, and then saw the spot where the little shop had been, there was nothing but a boarded-over storefront in its place, obviously out of business for many, many years, no plump cashier lady in a yellow dress and white apron to be seen anywhere. “Was it all just a dream? How could it be? It was all so real…”
And while slowly walking along the asphalt-paved streets back to his home (which he could only hope existed once again), the hangover now really making its presence known and his problems from the day before now sneaking back into his mind, Mark alternated between thoughts of checking himself into a psychiatric ward or giving up drinking altogether… but from time to time he spotted a façade he remembered as brand-new from the night before, now chipped and crumbling but still beautiful, and the young trees that lined the boulevard now grown into huge shade-providing greenery, and the bustling people in colorful clothes spreading the same energy as their counterparts did in 1895 – and he was a part of this present time, he knew he did belong. “And I can be happy living here now… yeah, I fuggin’ know I can.”
