Autumn Song

He was there again tonight. Seated at the last table of the small, dark bar, a lighted cigar in his hand, looking at me intently, almost unmoving. He must be around sixty, a bit on the heavy side, his Caucasian features blurred in the sparsely-lit atmosphere, and always dressed in a dark coat and tie.

For the past two weeks, this same man sat at the same place every night, asking for no more than a gin and tonic, nursing it until my last song. For fourteen days in a row, too, he often asked the waiter to bring me the title of a requested song, “Autumn Leaves,” which I always included in my repertoire because it made me think of home, wherever that was.

Here in this out-of-the-way bar in Budapest where I had been working for almost twenty-five years, it was rare to see the same faces each night. It had been raining the whole day, and I came early for my gig, and found only the cleaning boy dozing at one of the tables near the radiator. The autumn cold had seeped in through the cracks of the curtained window of the small jazz bar, and the place was almost freezing. It was only six in the afternoon, but the sun had gone down early; the place was covered in gray light, and the bright chintz curtains barely cheered up the dreary bar. I could smell the stale beer, the unwashed rags and mops. Very few customers tonight, I said to myself, with dark weather like this, as I went up to my small changing room after a flight of stairs.

I was ready in an hour, a habit I developed through the years: heavy make-up, a tight-fitting red sparkly gown, and five-inch stiletto heels. When I went down, József, the elderly Hungarian pianist was already there, in his shirt sleeves, practicing some nocturnes, filling the place with such melancholy that seemed so right for the night.

At seven I went up the small, lighted stage, sat on the stool, and peered out at the eight tables that made up our “Happy Place Bar.” And I saw him again, seated at the last table, holding his cigar. Without even waiting for his request, I arranged with the pianist to sing the often-asked-for song, and as I segued into the refrain, I saw him smiling broadly, his chin resting on his left hand. I returned his smile; I, who seldom interacted with the audience because I knew they would all be gone when the night was over.

Both József and the waiter were surprised to see me leave with Mario, for that was the name he had written on the piece of paper the waiter handed me, with the words, “May I take you home tonight?”

He was from Buenos Aires, he said, and had been working in Budapest for almost thirty years as a banker, after his country’s economy collapsed. No family. No children. I told him I was from the Philippines, and worked initially as a nanny to two children of an American couple. When the children were all grown, the family went back to Virginia, and I stayed. I had always loved singing, and I found this job not too taxing, the earning adequate. The conversation was easy, both of us speaking in accented English.

We crossed the Széchenyi Chain Bridge, and reached the Buda side of the city. The Parliament Building was all lit, and its golden reflection on the Danube River still gave me goosebumps after all these years. We lingered on the grassy slope and walked slowly, savoring the cold air. I shivered as an icy blast from the river reached us, and Mario quietly put his arms around my shoulder.

I bent down and removed my stilettos.

ALICE M. SUN-CUA is a practicing obstetrician-gynecologist, poet, travel narrative writer, literary translator, and xigong practitioner. She recently launched her eleventh book, Iloilo City on My Mind, a collection of memory essays; and together with Dr. Isidoro Cruz, edited a poetry anthology, Endless Black Ink on Rice Paper. Both books were published by Sirena Books in April, 2025.