I nearly didn't spot it. It was tucked away in the corner of the square, not even a table or two outside to tell the world it was there. That was what drew me to it. The tourist in me would have called it quaint or charming, but what it said to the rest of me was Authentic. Not a great tourist trap like the Gerbeaud cafe, full of people spending more money than they feel happy with just so they can say they've been there; no, this was a modest, unassuming authentic Hungarian restaurant. I could hear how full it was from five yards away and as I stepped through the low wooden doorway and peered through the gloom I knew I had chosen just right. The tables were small - most seemed to be individual, taking no more than two people - and the room was full of Budapesters, eating, talking, reading the newspaper, some still with their coats on, some having a quick read of a novel in their lunch hour.
At the back of the room I could see two men in poorly-chosen ties engaged in a business discussion, beers in their hands and their lunch plates sitting on top of a pile of papers as they peered at a small laptop. The restaurant owner, a tubby man in a yellow shirt and a moustache that filled the lower half of his round face, came towards me and scanned the room. I thought at first my luck was out, but he held a finger up to me to be patient and then bent it towards a table by the window. Two women were getting their things together and leaving their tip. The owner gave me a satisfied smile as if to ask how I could ever have doubted him and ushered me towards the table. I was seated at the table before the women had left the restaurant; the owner had cleared the table in what seemed like a single movement before I had had time to take off my coat, and suddenly the menu was in my hand. He bustled off, I glanced round at the room, very pleased with what I saw - yes, this was clearly where the people of Budapest actually came to eat - and suddenly she was sitting down across the table from me.
She had dark, straight hair, dark brown eyes, and she was wearing a very smart raincoat, which she did not take off, over what looked like a very elegant navy blue dress and a large silver necklace which hung down and covered her upper chest, like something from ancient Egypt. She sat down so naturally, not even glancing at me, not indicating by so much as a smile or an inclination of the head "Do you mind if I sit here?", that for a moment I thought I had made a mistake. Was this table reserved after all? Had the owner thought we were together? My confusion must have shown in my face because she noticed and said something. I guessed she was asking if I minded. I smiled and shook my head and returned to the menu.
The owner came over. She ordered without even looking; more hesitantly, I chose something whose name I recognised and ordered. She was looking past me, into the middle distance; I reached into my bag and took out my book. And that was when she noticed and looked at me properly.
"You're English?" she asked - in English.
"Yes."
"You don't mind me sitting here, I hope? It's how this place works."
"Not at all. Is that what you asked?"
"Yes." And she smiled. I smiled back.
A brief pause. The ice had been broken. We could resume - she eating, me reading - and we would say a brief goodbye when she finished and got up to go and we would never see each other again. Or we could talk.
I caught her eye. I saw a hint of a question in it. A moment of understanding. She was thinking the same thoughts as me.
We talked.
"Are you here on holiday?" she asked.
"Yes. I'm having a week here. I've never been to Budapest and I thought it was time I did."
"And how do you like it?"
"It's a beautiful city."
The usual stuff.
And so I learned: a) she worked for a fashion company; b) she was not from Budapest but from Szeged, to the south, but she had moved to Budapest six years ago and liked it; c) She had never been to England but she did once spend a holiday in Ireland; d) she appreciated art, she was interested in history, but most of all she loved music, particularly opera.
And with that, she got up to go. I stood up and we shook hands. She smiled, she turned, she went. She didn't look back. I made a mental note to remember her as a beautiful woman I once had lunch with in Budapest. Another little incident to add to my experiences. And I put her out of my mind. I took out my Rough Guide and had another check of how to get up to Buda Castle Hill, finished my lunch, paid and headed out to the metro. I forgot her. Yes, really. I spent the afternoon in the old royal palace, now turned into museums, and I lost myself exploring the Budapest History Museum. By the time I took the funicular down the hill and headed back to my hotel for a shower she had completely passed from my head. I had forgotten her. Yes, really. Well, all right: almost.
And then I met her again.
It was the next morning. I had spent the morning visiting the splendidly ornate Parliament building and I wanted to sit down over a leisurely cup of something warm. It took a bit of searching but I found exactly the sort of cafe I was looking for: small, fin de siècle style, not too crowded, and, to my delight - books! The place was virtually furnished with books: on the walls, on the window seats, books to pick up, to browse through, to read. Possibly even to buy? I was in love! This was the sort of place I had been looking for since I arrived. I went in and stood for a moment, taking in the scene, almost drinking it in. I chose a small table, sat down and immediately twisted round to scan the bookshelf behind me. They books were mostly in Magyar but I saw a couple of German titles and then I spotted some French ones. I picked out a copy of Maupassant stories and was just getting into them when I sensed the waitress had come over. I looked up and it took a moment to register what I was seeing. Gone was the smart dress and raincoat; she was in a plain black top and jeans. But it was her.
"I thought it was you", she said. "When you came in, I thought it was you."
"Yes. It is. What are you doing here?"
"I work part-time at the office. The owner here is an old school friend. I often help her out on my day off. It all helps with the rent." She smiled. "What can I get you?"
"I'd really like a cup of tea."
"You're not in England now. In Hungary you drink coffee."
"So I have noticed. So what would you advise for someone who has never much liked coffee?"
"Really? You've never liked it?"
"Too bitter."
"Leave it to me."
She disappeared and I returned to the Maupassant. Then she came back, with two cups on a tray.
"This is free. On the home."
I smiled.
"On the house", I said, correcting her. "That's very kind of you."
"It's to welcome you to Budapest. You cannot visit Budapest and not drink our coffee." And she sat down in the chair opposite me. "So, tell me: where will you visit this afternoon?"
We talked. We talked of history, of Europe, of university days (she had read law; I had read history), of holidays, of travel, of things we hadn't done but dreamed of doing, places we dreamed of going, things we longed to see. And then I thought it, and then I hesitated, and I thought No, I couldn't possibly, and then I said it.
"What time do you finish? Would you like to come to the National Gallery with me?"
She looked me straight in the eye. She had understood. She didn't even pause before saying:
"Yes. Yes, I would."
And she did.
She came through from the back, a green and orange silk scarf tied very stylishly round her neck and wearing a very chic black leather jacket. To my surprise, she took my arm and led me out of the cafe and down to the metro. I glanced at her; she looked straight ahead. This could turn interesting.
How to describe it? It felt almost light-headed as we entered the metro and sat in the train - not crowded at 2.30 in the afternoon. She was smiling and quizzing me about my life. What history did I like? Did I know anything about Hungarian history? (yes, a bit) What books did I like? She had noticed me reading the Maupassant - did I like his work? So did she.
Her name was Frijda. A Norwegian name - her mother was Norwegian. Yes, she had been to Norway: she had relatives there. Here we are - we get off here.
Why did it feel gloriously as if we were playing truant from school? Why did it feel as if we shared a secret? Why had she come? Why was I so glad she had come? Well, that last one was obvious.
The gallery was another of the museums in the old royal palace. It was built on a grand scale - large marble staircases and high, vaulted ceilings. I dutifully admired some landscapes and seventeenth century portraits before we headed towards the impressionists. But to get there we passed through a gallery lined with dramatic portraits of Hungarian Magyars in armour or on horseback. It didn't seem to be Frijda's cup of tea (cup of coffee?) but somehow we both ended up standing in front of a rather dashing portrait of a hussar with a twinkle in his eye, as if he was checking out anyone who might be looking at him. We were standing side by side in front of the picture, the right, comfortable distance apart - personal space and all that - and then she said it. She didn't move her head, she didn't even glance towards me, but she said it.
"John, you are probably wondering if we can spend more time together after this. You hope we can get a drink. You hardly dare think that we might spend the evening together. And you are convincing yourself even now that spending the night together is just a silly dream. But it's not. If you would like to, you can stay with me all night. And just so you know, I would like that. I would like that very much indeed."
She never moved her head as she said it. Nor did I. Then, still looking at the painting, I nodded slowly. "I would like that too", I said. And she reached out and squeezed my hand. We headed for the museum cafe. She chose a different type of coffee; it wasn't quite as nice as the first one. She seemed to be watching the waitresses with a professional eye, noting how well they attended to the customers. That was when I thought to look (a woman would have looked long before now): she wore no ring, but the faint indentation of one was there: she had once worn one. Divorced, then, or separated. She noticed me looking and raised an amused eyebrow.
"You're divorced?" I asked.
"Nearly. The papers are coming through."
"Has it been difficult?"
"Not as bad as it could have been. He's been very good about it really."
She leaned forward, looking into my eyes.
