CHAPTER 2 – How we smoked cigarettes in Ugocsa utca

The cigarettes were brought by Dénes Szalai.

Dénes Szalai was four years older than me and lived in the third entrance, on the first floor. His hands were always a bit greasy, even when he wasn't repairing anything, and he walked with his shoulders slightly hunched forward, as if he were used to walking through low doors. We didn't talk to him much, because older boys didn't talk much to younger ones, except when they wanted to show off something or wanted something from us.

This time he wanted to show off something.

He was standing on the second-floor gallery and calling down to the courtyard where the three of us were sitting by the tree roots. It was a week after the fluff, or a little more. The fluff had almost disappeared and the tree looked like a tree again.

"Hey."

I didn't look up right away because I didn't know if he was calling us.

“Hey, you three.”

I looked. Dénes Szalai was leaning against the railing, holding a pack of cigarettes in his hand. Small, white, slightly crushed at the corner. He held it so it was obvious what it was.

Márty Németh got up before me. We went straight up the stairs. Gyözö Cserdi went last; I was afraid he'd say something to anyone, but he went too.

Dénes Szalai didn't show us the pack up close. He opened it, pulled out one cigarette, and inspected it as if evaluating it.

“Can you smoke?”

“Yeah,” Márty Németh said.

Gyözö Cserdi didn't say anything.

“Yeah,” I said too, even though it wasn't true.

Dénes Szalai looked at Márty Németh.

“Were you smoking?”

„Jednou.“

„Where?“

Márty Németh hesitated for a moment.

“At grandma's.”

Dénes Szalai looked at him the way older kids look at younger ones who are lying. But he didn't say anything. He pulled out three cigarettes and handed one to each. Then he took the fourth for himself.

“Not here,” he said. “The adults will smell it right away.”

I knew what she was talking about. From some of the windows, the whole courtyard was visible. And the adults mostly saw what a person didn't want them to.

„We're going to Ugocsa.“

Ugocsa utca was a short way from us. Not far, but a different street. The sidewalk there was a bit different from ours, the walls older, and in the middle there was a bend and also a tree where you could hide a little bit. Kids didn't go there much because there was no reason to. It wasn't a forbidden place. It was just a place where there weren't many people or they didn't care much. And people also went there to buy cigarettes at the tobacco shop, so it was normal to smoke there.

We walked. Dénes Szalai in front, the three of us behind him.

I was carrying the cigarette in my right hand, my fingers slightly curved around it, the way I'd seen adults do it. It was lighter than I expected. The paper was a bit slimy, or maybe it just seemed that way because my hands were sweaty. The tobacco was visible at both ends. At one end a little more, at the other the paper was still straight and untouched.

Now that I was holding it in my hand, it seemed it would be weird not to try it.

Márty Németh carried his cigarette in front of him like a small stick and looked at it from the side.

“Mine is shorter than yours,” he said to me.

“They're all the same.”

“Mine looks shorter.”

“They're from the same packet.”

Gyözö Cserdi walked beside us with a cigarette in his pocket. He didn't mind and kept his usual expression.

Ugocsa utca smelled different from our street. Or rather, it smelled in different places. Back home in Chlapci z Brassai Sámuel utca there was always that damp smell of the building and the courtyard, mixed with various other scents depending on where you walked. The houses opposite us had small gardens with the smell of flowers. Here on Ugocsa there were tall buildings on both sides, it was shady, and you could smell lots of trees and a bit of the tobacco shop, though it's quite possible we were smelling books from the library rather than cigarettes.

We didn't stop at the tobacco shop. Dénes Szalai walked straight to the low wall past the curving part of the street and stopped there.

It was a good corner, but the vendor came out in front of the newsagent, so in the end we decided on a recess a little way off. For anyone to see us, they would have had to walk right up to us.

Dénes Szalai took out a lighter. Orange, transparent, with a little gas inside.

„Well,“ he said. „Will you light it yourselves, or do you want help?“

“Alone,” said Márty Németh.

Gyözö Cserdi took a cigarette out of his pocket.

Dénes Szalai handed the lighter to Márty Németh. Márty Németh took it, brought the flame to the cigarette and puckered his lips. The fire moved. Márty Németh swallowed air and the cigarette did nothing.

"You have to pull," said Dénes Szalai.

"I am pulling."

"You're not pulling. Like this."

He demonstrated with his fingers.

"You draw in and pull."

Márty Németh tried again. This time the end of the cigarette glowed red and smoke came out. Small, thin, slightly bluish.

Márty Németh let it out.

"So," said Dénes Szalai. "Now you."

I took the lighter. It was warm from Márty's hand. I brought the flame close and tried to pull, the way Dénes Szalai said. To draw in and drag.

The smoke was different from how it looked.

It looked light. It floated. It seemed like something distant.

But it was hot, bitter, and jumped straight down my throat as if going somewhere else than I expected. As if looking for a place to hide. I instantly wanted to cough, but Dénes Szalai was standing nearby and Márty Németh was watching, so I swallowed it. I swallowed so fast my eyes started to water.

Not crying.

Just watering.

The smoke got into my eyes too, even though I didn't understand how.

Gyözö Cserdi lit up by himself, without help. He held up the lighter, took a drag, and blew the smoke straight ahead.

“Good,” said Dénes Szalai.

Gyözö Cserdi didn't say anything.

We stood by the wall and smoked.

I didn't inhale much. Always just a little, so the cigarette stayed lit and smoke came out, but not enough to go inside. I held the smoke in my mouth for a moment and blew it out, just like I saw Dénes Szalai do. It stung my tongue, and behind my teeth I had a taste as if I'd bitten into burnt paper.

Márty Németh inhaled more.

I could see it on him. He inhaled and swallowed the smoke, or tried to, because Dénes Szalai said that's how it's done. He stretched his neck and throat as if he were swallowing a pill. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the muscles in his neck tense up.

Then he started to cough.

Not right away. He waited a moment. He bit his lip, tilted his head slightly to the side as if his ear hurt, and then it got to him. He coughed. He covered his mouth. He coughed again. His eyes watered.

"Something got in my throat," he said as soon as he stopped.

"Smoke," Dénes Szalai said.

"Not smoke. Something else."

"What else?"

"I don't know. A piece of tobacco or something."

Dénes Szalai looked at him, but didn't say anything.

Gyözö Cserdi took an even drag. Neither too much nor too little. He blew out the smoke in small puffs downwards, not forward. As he did so, he looked at the wall opposite as if it were something interesting, even though the wall wasn't interesting. It was that way of his where he acted as if he wasn't doing the thing he was doing.

“Have you smoked before?” Dénes Szalai asked him.

“Yeah.”

„Where?“

“Here. Once.”

„With whom?“

“With Péter.” Gyözö Cserdi looked at him. “He lives on Böszörményi út.”

Dénes Szalai nodded as if he knew Péter, but perhaps he didn't. It didn't matter.

I went back to my cigar. It was about halfway down. The ash at the end was grey and brittle and shook a little when I moved the cigar. I tapped it off with my finger, the way I'd seen adults do, but the ash fell onto my sleeve.

I brushed it off, but a small grey smudge remained on my sleeve.

I stared at it.

Mom will see it. I knew that for sure. Mom saw things on clothes that were almost invisible. She saw grass stains that I couldn't see. Once she saw a spot on my T-shirt where I'd leaned against a wall, even though the wall was the exact same color as my T-shirt.

He'll definitely see the ash.

"What is it?" asked Gyözö Cserdi.

„Nothing.“

"You're looking at your sleeve."

"There's a bit of ash on it."

"Well, brush it off."

I tried with my hand. It was harder than I wanted. The stain lightened, but didn't disappear.

"I'll run it under water at home," I said.

Gyözö Cserdi nodded, as if that were sensible.

Maybe it was sensible.

Dénes Szalai was finishing his cigarette. He was a lot faster than us. He was nearly down to the filter and smoking naturally, without thinking about how he was dragging or where the smoke was. You could see he didn't care about it the way we did.

„Do you have to finish those?“ he asked.

I looked at my cigarette. I was roughly halfway through.

„No,“ said Márty Németh. He was only at the halfway mark, too.

„Then on the ground.“

Dénes Szalai dropped his butt on the ground and stepped on it. His sole made a small, pathetic sound.

I didn't finish my cigarette. I brought it down to the ground, rubbed it against the paving stones, and tossed it behind a protrusion by the wall so it wouldn't be seen. I don't know why. It felt like I was suddenly a bit less visible.

Márty Németh threw it next to mine.

Gyözö Cserdi smoked almost all of his. Then he stepped on the butt just like Dénes Szalai.

Dénes Szalai shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Well,” he said. “How was it?”

“Good,” Márty Németh said immediately.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Good.”

Dénes Szalai looked at him.

“Didn't you cough?”

„It got a bit into my throat. I told you. A piece of tobacco.“

„Yeah,“ Dénes Szalai said and rolled his eyes.

He looked at Gyözö Cserdi.

„Ty?“

Gyözö Cserdi shrugged.

„It was alright.“

„And you?“ He looked at me.

„Yeah,“ I said. „It was good.“

Dénes Szalai picked up the lighter, shoved the pack into his pocket, and walked off. He didn't stop. He just went around the corner and was gone.

Three of us stood against the wall.

My fingers stank. I smelled it as soon as I raised my hand to my face. Tobacco and burnt wood. I sniffed my other hand.

Same.

"My hands stink," I said.

"Me too," said Márty Németh. He sniffed his own and frowned. "They stink a lot."

"They'll smell it at home."

Márty Németh looked at me.

"You think?"

“Yeah.”

Gyözö Cserdi sniffed his fingers.

"Soap and water," he said. "Twice."

"And chewing gum," said Márty Németh. "Chewing gum covers it up."

"It covers up your breath, not your hands," Gyözö Cserdi said.

Márty Németh looked at his hands with an expression as if it hadn't quite dawned on him yet that hands and breath are two different things.

"Yeah, but your breath too," he said. "Mostly your breath."

"Both," I admitted.

We walked back.

On the way, I wondered what could be washed off and what couldn't. Hands, definitely. A sleeve perhaps, if there was only a small stain. Breath with chewing gum, if we had any chewing gum. But hair? I sniffed my shoulder. The stench sat there like a pigeon on a wall. It doesn't coo, but you know it's there.

In front of the main gate to the house, I stopped.

“Wait.”

Gyözö Cserdi and Márty Németh turned around.

“We need to get straight what we'll say.”

“Nobody's going to ask us,” said Gyözö Cserdi.

“But what if they do.”

“What would we say?”

"That we were in Ugocsa."

"We know that."

"And what we did there."

Gyözö Cserdi thought about it. Márty Németh thought about it too, or at least looked like he was thinking, but mostly he was just sniffing his fingers and quietly shaking his head.

"We didn't do anything there," Gyözö Cserdi said. "We were just there."

"That's weird."

"It isn't. Kids are everywhere for no reason."

That was true. Grown-ups don't ask why you go this way instead of that way either. They ask when something about you is different. When you stutter, or look the other way, or have red ears.

Márty Németh had red ears.

„Márty.“

"What."

“Your ears are red.”

He touched them.

“Are they?”

“Yeah.”

„Why?“

"I don't know."

He looked at Gyözö Cserdi as if waiting for expert confirmation. Gyözö Cserdi shrugged.

“Smoke can do various things.”

"Like what?"

"I don't know."

“You don't know?”

“I don't know everything.”

That was unpleasant to hear, because Gyözö Cserdi usually looked like he knew at least enough for us not to have to worry more than we already were.

Márty Németh covered his ears with his palms, as if that would help.

"We can't stand here all day," Gyözö Cserdi said.

"I know, but—"

"Nobody's checking your ears."

Márty Németh dropped his hands.

"And what about the stench?" He shoved his hands under my nose.

I pulled back.

"Do you stink more, or do I?"

"The same," said Gyözö Cserdi. "Are you going straight home, or not?"

I didn't go straight there. I stopped by the courtyard outhouse, where there was a cold water tap. I wet my hands, took a piece of soap that someone had left on a stone—it was green, hard, and had a very strong mint scent, but that was a good thing now—and washed my hands. Twice.

Then I took a sniff.

A little better.

I sniffed again. The odor was fainter, but it was still there, hiding beneath the soap. Like covering a dirty carpet with a clean towel. The towel smells clean, but there's still something underneath it.

I wiped my hands on the grass by the wall, because grass overpowers everything. Rósza once said that when someone asked her why her hands were stained with grass. I don't know if she said it because of cigarettes or something else, but it came in handy now.

I sniffed again.

Grass, soap, and a little smoke.

It was more acceptable.

Then I went home.

Mamá was in the kitchen, cooking. I could hear the cutlery and dishes, and the crackle the pan made when a drop of water hit it. I took off my shoes in the hallway and went straight to my room without stopping by the kitchen.

"Bencík?"

I stopped.

“Yeah.”

„Where have you been?“

"Out."

"Where out?"

Gyözö Cserdi was right. Asking where was normal. There was no trap in it.

“In Ugocsa.”

“Why in Ugocsa?”

“That’s just where we went.”

For a moment there was silence.

“Okay,” mamá said. “Did you wash your hands?”

“Yeah.”

“Come in a minute. We’re about to eat.”

I went to my room. I sat on the bed and smelled my sleeves. The tobacco was still there a little bit. I pulled my t-shirt up over my nose and sniffed the fabric from the inside. It smelled stronger from the inside.

I took off the t-shirt and threw it behind the bed.

A clean t-shirt that I’d taken off that morning was lying on the floor. I put it on.

I sniffed my fingers again. Soap and grass and a little of that suspicious something underneath. I went to the bathroom and washed my hands a second time, this time with that fragrant soap in the soap dish that was for guests and that I normally wasn't allowed to use. It was white and smelled like someone going to the theater.

I took a sniff.

Better.

Then I looked in the mirror.

Tongue.

Gyözö Cserdi never said anything about the tongue, but it seemed to me that the tongue should show whether someone had been smoking. I stuck it out.

It was normal. Pink, a little wet like always.

I tucked it back in.

Then I thought of my teeth. I got closer to the mirror and showed them to myself. They were normal too. Neither yellow, nor black, nor otherwise marked by a cigar.

I walked away from the mirror.

I hardly said a word during dinner because I kept sniffing my sleeves under the table. Mamá asked me what we’d been doing, and I told her we were playing. That was true, just not the whole truth. Mamá nodded and ate, and once she glanced at my sleeve, but then she looked back at her plate.

After dinner I went to the window and looked down into the courtyard.

Gyözö Cserdi wasn't there. Márty Németh wasn't there either. Just Rósza on her bench. She was swinging her leg. You could hear it creaking all the way up here.

I wondered if Dénes Szalai would have cigarettes again tomorrow and if he'd invite us back.

Probably not.

Dénes Szalai wasn't the type to invite you twice. He was the type who puts on a show once and then goes off to show off somewhere else.

Then I wondered if it would be different the third time. If it would sting less once you knew what to expect. Gyözö Cserdi handled it well. He smoked like someone who had smoked many times before. Maybe it just came naturally after a few tries, and then you stopped gagging and your eyes stopped watering.

Then I remembered that bitter taste behind my teeth and didn't think about it anymore.

I felt a smear of soap behind my ear from washing myself there.

Right where the fuzz had been last time.

The next day I ran into Márty Németh on the stairs.

He was down in the entryway taking off his shoes. That was strange.

„What are you doing?“ I asked.

„I'm going home.“

He took off a shoe and sniffed it.

„You're sniffing your shoe?“

“My mom is looking at them.”

“She's looking at your shoes?”

“She said there's some kind of smell coming off them.”

I looked at his shoes. They were normal, worn out, the left one had the sole a bit torn off at the tip.

“And is there?”

Márty Németh shoved the shoe under my nose.

“A little,” he admitted.

“From those cigars?”

“Not from cigars. From where we were standing. There was an old ash tray or something.”

“An ash tray on the street?”

“Or a place like that. Where the cigarettes are. Those butts.” He hesitated. “Our butts there.”

„Ah.“

He put his shoe back on. He began to lace it.

“Didn't mamá ask anything?”

“She asked what I had on my shoes.”

"And you?"

“That I stepped in ash.”

I was silent for a moment.

„And did she believe it?“

„I don't know.“ He stood up. „I can't lie when something actually happened.“

„What happened?“

„Smoking.“ He looked at me. „It really happened, you know. It's easier to lie about things that didn't happen.“

I thought about that. There was something to it. When a thing didn't happen, a person can make the whole thing up. When it did happen, it's always there and a person has to lie, and that's harder.

„Did you tell the truth?“ I asked.

„No.“ A pause. „I said I stepped in the ashes. That's not a lie either.“

„It's a half-lie.“

Márty Németh thought about it.

“Half a lie is better than a whole lie.”

“Or the whole truth.”

He looked at me with an expression that said the whole truth wouldn't help now.

“Yeah,” he said. “Or the whole truth.”

He walked up the stairs. Then he turned around.

„Nothing happened to you?“

„No.“

„Nothing for Mama?“

„She asked where I was.“

„And?“

"I said in Ugocsa."

“Was that enough for you?”

I nodded.

Márty Németh thought about it.

"You're more skilled."

"Or I got lucky."

„Yeah. Or that.“

He turned around.

„Shall we see Gyözö Cserdi tomorrow?“

„I guess so.“

“Fine.”

And he went home.

Gyözö Cserdi was down in the courtyard the next day with his old camera. He acted as if he were photographing a tree, but the tree happened to be uninteresting, so it was clear he was just standing there.

We came to him.

“How did it go?” asked Márty Németh.

He meant at home.

“Fine,” said Gyözö Cserdi. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

"Not at all."

Márty Németh looked a little offended.

“How is that possible?”

Gyözö Cserdi shrugged.

“I'm airing out the room.”

„And?“

“And I like to keep my hands clean. I washed them three times.”

"Twice," I said.

"Once," Márty Németh said quietly.

For a moment there was silence.

"Once isn't enough," Gyözö Cserdi said, but without mockery. More like stating a fact.

"I knew it wasn't enough, but then I forgot."

"You forgot to wash your hands."

"I came home and I was hungry, so I went straight to eat."

Gyözö Cserdi looked at him.

"You went to eat with your hands smelling of cigarettes."

“Yeah.”

„And didn't mother notice during dinner?“

Márty Németh frowned.

„A little bit, maybe. She said I was smudged. But she meant more overall.“

„You're smudged overall?“

„Not more than usual.“

The camera clicked because Gyözö Cserdi had accidentally pressed the shutter. He looked at him with mild displeasure and lowered it.

„And next time?“ asked Márty Németh.

„What next time?“

"Are we going to smoke again?"

Gyözö Cserdi looked at the tree. Then at the yard. Then at Márty Németh.

"I don't know. You?"

Márty Németh was silent for a moment.

"Probably not right away," he said.

„Why?“

"Because I didn't really enjoy it."

Gyözö Cserdi nodded, as if that were sensible.

"And you?" Márty Németh looked at me.

I thought about it. The bitter taste on my tongue. The burning in my throat. Smoke in my eyes. A stain on my sleeve. A t-shirt tossed behind the bed. Hands that smelled even though I washed them. That feeling in front of the mirror when I stuck out my tongue and waited to see if it looked any different.

„Probably not right away either,“ I said.

Gyözö Cserdi nodded a second time.

„Right.“

We stood by the tree for a moment. The fluff was almost gone. A few pieces were still clinging to the roots and in the cracks in the wall, but there was significantly less of it. The tree was just a tree again.

„You know what,“ Márty Németh said, „I think Dénes Szalai smoked a cigarette so well that it wasn't even interesting.“

„What?“

„Well. He came, he showed off the cigarettes like it was a big deal. But he really knew how. He smoked well. So he knew his stuff.“

“Yeah,” I said.

„So it's not cool because nobody knows how. It's cool because Dénes Szalai knew how and we don't.“ He thought about it. „But once we know how too, it'll just be a cigarette again.“

Gyözö Cserdi looked at him.

„That's surprisingly deep.“

Márty Németh made a face as if he didn't know what a compliment was.

"Yeah?"

“Yeah.”

Gyözö Cserdi raised his camera and pointed it at Márty Németh.

"I'll take a picture of you."

„Why?“

"To remember this moment."

"What moment?"

"When you were deep."

Márty Németh wanted to protest, but Gyözö Cserdi pressed the shutter.

It clicked.

"It's going to turn out bad," said Márty Németh.

„Možná.“

„I'll go out there with a stupid look on my face.“

„Maybe so.“

I stood between them and felt at ease. The stench of tobacco was gone. Or almost gone. Or I had stopped thinking about it, which was pretty much the same result. The T-shirt was gone behind the bed. My hands smelled of mint soap and grass.

Nic se nestalo.

Or actually: something happened, but none of the things we were afraid of.

A cigarette was a cigarette. It tasted like burnt paper with a bitterness that lingers behind your teeth long after you stop. The smoke got into your eyes and throat and a bit into your hair. Your fingers stank of it.

Adults do it every day.

I didn't understand why. But adults do a lot of things that neither children understand, nor perhaps they themselves.

And a cigarette was probably one of them.