Uncle Arthúr put his hand on my knee.
I raised my hand, but was ignored. My uncle stood up and said loudly, “No. I am sorry. Entschuldigen Sie.”
I let what was left of my cigarette drop into the bottle of Budweiser and stood up with my uncle, without giving a crap about the president’s continuous gavel. Persons sitting next to Friedrich pulled him down, so my uncle sat down, leaving me the only one standing.
“The league recognizes the Hungarian Hunters.”
I hesitated. Friedrich and the Romanians and Anna were looking at me.
“Go ahead, use the mike,” Uncle Arthúr said. Then with his signature lopsided smile he said: “You’re a big boy now. You have a sexy voice.”
I unraveled the paper with shaky fingers. I couldn’t go up the middle anymore because of my goddamn English. “The Hungarian H
