The cabdriver had a moustache and looked friendly. He wore a brown leather jacket and a neat white shirt underneath. I like friendly cabdrivers, and so we talked, and his accent was soft and lyrical and full of warmth. It sounded familiar, and I asked him where he came from. He must have been over sixty, his hair was gray, and his body seemed too small for the car seat. “Budapest”, he said and a cautious smile showed on his face. “You know it?” We talked about Buda and Pest and the public baths and one particular coffee house, the Ruszwurm. We agreed it was the best. I mentioned my favorite Hungarian authors. “Oh! Hungarian writers are very melancholy, and their books are sad”, he said. “It’s because we are depressive.” We had to wait at a crossing, and I hoped the lights would never go green. “Hungarians have the highest suicide rate. Mind you, last year the Ukrainians beat us. Only the men, though.” He seemed to know the statistics, but I intended to check the facts later. When we crossed lanes it felt as if an invisible hand nudged the car from outside, the cabdriver barely moved the wheel. “In the old days, we had lost all our wars, so our soldiers would rather kill themselves than to leave their homes and fight. Suicide engraved itself in our genes …” I didn’t know whether I liked that theory, but he told it so convincingly that I didn’t want to argue. The cab came to a halt, and we said goodbye, and when I opened the door, I saw the book that was tucked in the storage space there. It was a worn out copy and it looked old. I couldn’t read the title, but I saw the author’s name.