Anyway, it stopped by a small pub on a side street for a shot of brandy, then walked along the Danube and crossed over to Margaret Island. Some people thought they’d seen it enter a book shop, but they may have mistaken it for someone else. It engaged in some window shopping, then it stopped in front of a florist. Meanwhile, the bus pulled up, the people disappeared into its belly, and the phone booth continued its leisurely stroll down Rákóczi Road. In this part of the world nothing causes a sensation unless it is natural. The people watched it go, but nobody said anything. When it reached the corner the light had just turned red, so it stopped and waited. Some people swore that the door was wired for high voltage, while others said the corpulent woman in the large floral print dress must have had an accomplice, and were trying to steal the coins from the booth, but were caught red handed.įor a while the phone booth listened to their confused accusations in silence, then it turned around and began walking down Rákóczi Road at its leisure. Meanwhile, quite a crowd had gathered around the booth, making comments on it, the post office, and the woman in the large floral print dress. A man with a briefcase – someone, clearly, to be reckoned with – tried to open the door, but it slammed into him with such force, he fell flat on his back on the hard pavement. The people waiting at the bus stop crowded around her. The woman reeled back and fell against a nearby mail box. When she tried again, the door did something to her that could best be described as a kick. But when it did, it flew open with such vehemence, the woman was veritably propelled back onto the sidewalk. She had an exceptionally heave frame and ample breasts, and she was clothed in a light cotton dress with large floral print. He put the receiver back in its cradle and left the booth.įor a while no one came, and the phone booth stood empty.
The poet tried to reason with him, but in vain. “That’s depressing,” his editor said, “rewrite it. He next read the four lines of poetry from a soiled sheet of paper. “ I have the last four lines,” he announced. He picked up the phone and called his editor. Then on a sunny summer afternoon, a poet entered the booth.
Once when an elderly lady hung up, she leaned against the phone and cried. Its door opened and closed at regular intervals as people conducted their daily affairs, tried to clear up their petty affairs, called the electric company, made dates for the night, asked friends for a quick loan, or tortured their loved ones with their jealousy. The telephone booth stood on Grand Boulevard.