We had begun to doubt the value of our two-line classified ad in the Uppsala local paper last Saturday morning. Ads were too anonymous. If we were to be at all successful in finding somewhere else to live by the end of next month, or even by the end of 1974, we would have to be more proactive and register with the housing agency.
Almost four months had passed since I moved in with Lena, my stunning, smart Swedish girlfriend and fellow student at the university, and almost four weeks since her landlord Herr Blomqvist left us in no doubt he didn't approve of us living on the cheap. "Rules are rules and this tiny apartment was never intended for more than one person," he remonstrated with us, citing the original contract. We were splitting the rent fifty-fifty, and I had unwittingly put my foot in it by asking for my name to be displayed in the entrance hall alongside Lena's, which Herr Blomqvist feared would set a bad precedent for other students in the block.
Late that evening, I was sitting on the edge of the bed sipping hot chocolate and lost in reveries when a sudden burst of phone-ringing killed the quiet of the hour, causing me to jump up and spill half the contents of my mug down the front of my pajamas. I staggered into the kitchen to dry myself off, while the phone carried on ringing as if nothing were amiss. "Can't you take it, Steve?" Lena called out from the bathroom. I eventually grabbed the receiver and was greeted by a husky male voice most definitely not Swedish.
He said it was about the ad, apologized for calling so late, and on being told we still hadn’t found suitable accommodation expressed some heartwarming concern for our plight. This he followed up with an offer simply too good to dismiss out of hand: a two-bedroom apartment in the suburb of Eriksberg that was not only relatively modern but also fully furnished and equipped. The rent would be a mere seven hundred krona per month, and for this modest sum everything from crockery to a vacuum cleaner would be placed at our disposal. The man spoke of his tempting package deal much as a child might of Christmas Eve, so with rekindled optimism I promised him a visit the following evening.
* * *
On the number 7 bus out to Eriksberg I did my best to convince Lena that even if it all sounded too good to be true we had nothing to lose by showing some healthy interest. The Swedes with their cool Nordic temperament are apt to distrust the easygoing spontaneity of people from more southerly climes. I at least felt we should give the guy a chance.
We arrived at the agreed time, rang the doorbell and waited. And we waited and waited. Had we come to the right address? I gave the doorbell a second, prolonged push and took one step backward in anticipation of the door swinging outward. Then there were footsteps in the hallway, followed by the opening of an inner door. A bright dot of light in the door lens momentarily went black before a gentleman of mature age appeared, wrapped in a long crimson dressing gown with a tasseled sash around the middle. He confirmed our identity and with obvious enthusiasm beckoned us inside. Rather thin and straight-faced, with a freckled bald head and tufts of white hair at the sides, he looked well into his sixties.
"How good of you to come so soon," said our prospective subletter. "Sorry I didn't hear you ring the first time...I was just watching the news." It beats me how he knew we rang a first time if he didn't hear it. His handshake was firm but clammy, and he introduced himself as Eduárd Varga, a retired sailor from Hungary and resident of Sweden since the mid-1950s uprising in his homeland. Instead of shaking Lena's outstretched hand he planted a kiss on it, before jokingly asking for a lock of her long blonde hair.
Lena, laughing off his unwarranted attentions, wished to confirm that this was the apartment for rent. "Why, of course, my dear! Just let me show you around. I'm sure you will both find everything to your satisfaction.” And without further ado Eduárd led us into his spacious, brightly lit kitchen.
"So when will you be moving out, Herr Varga?" I wondered.
"Now then, what do you think of that?" he went on, apparently unaware of the feeler I'd just put out. "Here you have everything! Take a look at that shiny new sink unit and large, sturdy table. This electric stove was installed only last year, the oven heats up in no time. The freezer-refrigerator and the dishwasher are also Electrolux. Within easy reach you have your toaster, the coffee maker, the blender, the mixer—"
"Most impressive. Er, Herr Varga, we were just wondering—"
"And then there's your storage space...three wall cabinets and a spacious pantry. I've just repainted the doors green as you can see, lime green. I do adore bright, cheerful colors.
"Well, it certainly beats what we have at the moment, Herr Varga. So when had you intended to—"
"You see — Stephen, isn't it? — I am by nature a happy man! Of course, there are those who prefer more somber tones, but isn’t it nice to have a splash or two of color about the place? Creates such a positive mood, don't you think?"
"Oh, definitely," Lena concurred.
"They do say hospital patients in colorful wards recover a hundred times faster," I chimed in. "So tell us, Herr Varga, when will the apartment be empty?"
Well, first impressions are always important and I believe you two are just the kind of tenants I had in mind. You are welcome to move in as soon as we've signed the contract. Tomorrow, next week, next month...it's up to you!"
Eduárd Varga still hadn't answered my question. He now turned to open the refrigerator door behind him and slowly extracted a long, narrow polythene bag. "Look," he said, "you simply must try some of my genuine Hungarian salami sausage. It has a most distinctive taste, almost buttery, very Hungarian!" So as not to hurt the man's feelings, Lena accepted a thin slice of the pinkish-red, garlic-smelling, fat-speckled produce. I for my part had no such inhibitions and politely declined, while at the same time assuring him it would be the very first thing I went looking for if ever I got hungry in Hungary.
"So now, where were we?” he resumed. “Yes, in those cabinets up there you'll find all the glasses, cups, saucers, plates and bowls you are ever likely to need, not forgetting pots and pans. There's cutlery in the drawers, of course."
So much for the copious storage space he had promised. Where were we going to put all our own stuff? Lena tried to get in a few words edgeways: "Actually, we already have a lot of kitchenware and —"
"Now you two, accompany me into the living room…you haven't seen anything yet!" Lena turned and grinned at me as we were ushered on to our next port of call.
"Let me get this crystal clear, Herr Varga. You are offering all this for just seven hundred krona per month?" I needed reassuring after we had been shown a 27-inch Sony Trinitron color TV, a sleek Danish audio system, a Hungarian typewriter, an English antique mahogany bureau, a German musical box, and not just one but two Swiss cuckoo clocks.
"But of course! Of course! That is what I said on the phone, isn't it?"
"Unbelievable,” said Lena.
"You know you can always trust old Eduárd!"
"Then please show us the contract and—"
"Just seven hundred krona a month,” he repeated. “That's what many youngsters these days are having to fork out for a single room with no proper kitchen!"
"They are indeed," I replied, reminded of our own situation. "If we could just have a peep at the contract and—"
"All that I ask is that you both look after the place. No cats, no dogs, no partying, you understand? And you'll have to agree to vacuum clean at least twice a week." Eying Lena’s waistline he asked, “No baby on the way, I suppose?"
We put his mind to rest on that score, althogh the temptation to shove that final foot of sausage down his gullet was considerable. I now insisted he tell us what plans he'd made for himself the day we moved into his apartment.
"I shall soon be making one of my regular trips to spend time with my folks back in Hungary," he explained. "I want peace of mind knowing this place will be in good hands." And now came the punch line: "For those happy occasions I still spend in Uppsala, I am thinking of holding on to the small bedroom — only for short spells at a time, mind you. I'll be as quiet as a mouse. You'll hardly notice me drifting in and drifting out..." Lena's eyes met mine once again as if to say: "I told you so, you crazy, naive Englishman!" So this was the catch; we should have guessed it all along. "Oh, and given my planned absences," Herr Varga continued, "I'm sure you won't mind my asking you for a few months' rent in advance ... my, such beautiful hair you have, my dear!"
My thoughts were already elsewhere. I was transfixed by the translucent glass panel in the bedroom door.
"Stephen, are you quite sure you wouldn't like to try the salami?"
"Thank you, not today, Herr Varga," I replied. "But you've certainly given us food for thought. May we get back to you about the apartment?"
"By all means do, but don't leave it too long. I am making you this very handsome offer before I myself place an ad in the paper. And you know now you can always trust old Eduárd. Ask my brother Benedek — he's a priest down in old Budapest, devoted to his calling he is, God bless him! All his working life he has been telling me: “Eduárd, whatever you say, and wherever you say it, the good Lord is up there listening. So never tell a man a lie. Never tell a man a lie!"
That was the first time and last time we saw him.
