Dear Old Brian;

Well - a number of years have slipped by since we first met. And started drinking together, eating as well, collaborating on anthologies and other less dire endeavours. I shan't keep track; we share the same memories. One has but to mention the word Makarska or rashniki to bring to the fore recollections of warmer climes, better times.

And you will remember Budapest as well. Our mad friend Sammy actually put photographs of us - eating and drinking for a change - on the cover of his magazine. I wrote a little short story to go with it. And there you are, bigger than life in the photograph, opening up the story as well.

Here is the story in English for the first time - so the world can share its heady glory with the Swedes. And here is the magazine that started the whole thing. Internal evidence proves that the story was dedicated to you all along.

Now it is official.

With fondest friendship.

Harry Harrison

LUNCHEON IN BUDAPEST
By Harry Harrison

The sun hung warmly in the blue Hungarian sky, the chatter of apes sounded from the zoo nearby - chatter of many tongues around us as well, as the garden of Gundel's restaurant began to fill.

"Your turn, Harry," Brian Aldiss said, waving the waiter towards me. "See if the Tokai has gone off."

"As good as ever," I said sniffing and smacking.

"We can use some down here if you are through crapping around," Norman Spinrad said, holding out his glass. Sam Lundwall, with a longer and more aggressive Swedish arm, made sure that his was poured first. The ladies were having white Balatoni Reisling so were aloof from this vulgar vinous display. Glasses were raised, clinked, drunk.

"There is more news about the space vehicle that landed in Szeged," our host Peter said as he hurried to our table. "It was piloted by an alien who even now is being rushed to Budapest."

"Very civilised, you Hungarians," Brian said. "Not only do you host this meeting of World SF - but you lay on an alien spacecraft for afters."

The words hung in the air for Peter was gone, had hurried away the instant after his announcement. Norman brooded after his vanishing back. "They say that the Hungarians are the only race on earth that can get into a revolving door behind you and come out ahead of you."

"And," Margaret Aldiss said, "how does the recipe for Chicken Paprikash begin?"

"Steal one chicken!" we all chorused having memorised this ethnic eccentricity by now. Having cleansed our minds of jest we grabbed up the menus and turned to the serious matter of food.

"Shall I have the caviar pancakes again?" Brian asked. Again was the operative word; we ate at this magnificent restaurant as often as we could.

"Try the game blinis this time," my wife, Joan, said. Being half-Hungarian we looked to her for learned guidance in these matters.

"Goulasch soup, roast duck, noodles, red cabbage, potatoes, black bread, cucumber and sourcream salad," Sam said in his abstemious way.

"Must be recommended today the mixed fishes fried," the waiter said and, despite his grammatical eccentricities, many at the table opted for this.

"But I will start with the champagne paté," Sam added, fearful that he might leave the table hungry.

"The vehicle carrying the alien pilot is in Budapest now," Peter gasped out as he hurried by.

"Here's to Hungarian hospitality," Brian said as he raised his glass. "Everything is laid on for us. Food, drink, East Germans, Bulgars, Russians, aliens - a man could ask for no more."

We clashed glasses and drank our hearty agreement. Then food began to arrive and silence reigned as we tucked in. Gypsy violinists appeared, their flashing bows perilously close to our ears, the sound of their sweet music barely audible above the clashing of our silverware, the chomping of our jaws. Luncheon in Budapest, paradise enow.

"Tragedy!" Peter cried out, hurrying by. "The lorry with alien has been lost in Budapest traffic." The grim words hung in the air and he was gone.

"I can understand that," Norman said gloomily. "The dork drivers here are out to kill you."

There was equally unhappy nodded assent. If the vehicles didn't get you the exhaust fumes would. The arrival of more food - and wine -alleviated the depression.

"I like this Budapest schtick," Norman said. "The whole World SF idea is a winner, meeting of the minds of international SF pros. Where else has World SF met before this?"

"Dublin. Stockholm. Stresa. Vancouver. Fanano. Tokyo. Brighton," we chorused.

"You guys really get around."

"Inherent in the name," Sam said humbly. Or mumbly, around a mouthful of food.

"Worst news still!" Peter gasped, stumbling up and leaning weakly on our table. "Worse..." Wine was pressed upon him, he drank deep, recovered. "Traffic, a mix-up, the lorries, a puncture, confusion, tragedy."

"That may make sense in Hungarian," Brian said with linguistic understanding, "Yet it contains very little meaning in English."

Peter's stammered apologies were interrupted by the hurried arrival of one of his associates. They spoke rapidly in Magyar, incomprehensible tongue, paled shivered, gasped for air, looked about with rolling eyes.

"Something wrong?" Norman asked.

"Wrong!" Peter choked and vibrated as he spoke. "Is tragedy! Mistake! The alien was water breather, not air breather, was travelling in tank of water. Should have gone to scientific institute in zoo there. Instead was delivered to restaurant here."

"Easily rectified," I suggested scientifically. "Transship."

"Too late!" Peter gurgled, his pale skin turning green as he looked down at the table. "Tentacles, tail, fish-like alien. Seized by cooks - and cooked!"

Silence descended as we stared at our empty plates, the few discarded fish bones that were the only remains of our lunch. And of the alien. We looked up as Brian speared the last chunk, put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, smiled.

"Bloody marvellous, too."

In silence, Sam passed the bread so we could mop up the rest of the gravy.

_________________________

© Harry Harrison, 1989. Unauthorised reproduction prohibited.
First published in Swedish in Jules Verne Magasinet #433, February 1989. Published by Sam J. Lundwall Fakta & Fantasi. Translated by Sam J. Lundwall.