Dancing Down the Danube by Pat Browning

A native Oklahoman and award-winning newspaper reporter, Pat Browning set  her first mystery, ABSINTHE OF MALICE (original title: FULL CIRCLE) in California's Central San Joaquin Valley, where she has lived for many years. After an 8-year sojourn in Oklahoma, she’s back in the Valley and is still working on her second mystery, METAPHOR FOR MURDER.

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Kaye, thank you for another chance to ramble down memory lane. Since I never know when to shut up and sit down, I will do it in three parts – my visits to the three jewels of the Danube River – Vienna, Budapest and Belgrade. I’m also including a brief look at mysteries set in those locales.

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"I've Danced With A Man, Who's Danced With A Girl, Who's Danced With The Prince Of Wales."

Well ... not exactly. I’ve talked to a woman who met Tom Brokaw in an elevator but it seemed like a big deal at the time.

The line from a 1927 song keeps coming back when I read gossipy news about Prince George of Cambridge, grandchild of the late Princess Diana and third in line to be King of England. The king-in-waiting, Charles, Prince of Wales, is now old enough to draw his pension even though he has never been a king. A TV documentary a few years ago revealed that Charles told Diana he didn’t intend to be the first Prince of Wales who didn’t have a mistress. It would be hilarious if it weren’t somehow so sad.

But back to Tom Brokaw and Vienna in June, 1979.

Tom Brokaw and I were both staying in the Vienna Hilton, but the closest I got to him was the lady who met him in the elevator. I was a tourist. He was covering the Salt II talks between U.S. President Carter and Soviet General Secretary Brezhnev. I skulked around the hotel lobby for a little while, hoping for a glimpse of the famous newsman. No luck. Went up to the mezzanine where the press handouts were. Nobody there.

And so I left Vienna without dancing with the Prince of Wales, but not before I came face to face, so to speak, with Carter and Austrian Chancellor Bruno Kreisky. Pastry chefs at Demel, Vienna’s famous coffee house, sculpted Carter and Kreisky out of dough, life-size and in living color, and put them in a front window. Truly, an amazing sight.

What can I say about Vienna that hasn’t been said over and over again? It’s a beautiful, historic city. It also has its dark side. A classic movie, “The Third Man,” about black marketers, is set in occupied Vienna at the close of World War II.  It was a spooky movie and the zither music is haunting. The original soundtrack, with Anton Karas playing the zither, can be heard on You Tube at

http://tinyurl.com/lz8nnbo

Historical note: After Germany’s surrender in World War II, Russia, the United States, England and France divided Austria into four military zones, keeping a tight grip from 1945 to 1955. Graham Greene’s depiction of Vienna’s black market had its basis in fact, and the book was a “treatment” for the film. The New York Times of March 19, 1950 quotes Graham Greene as saying: “The Third Man was never written to be read but only to be seen.”

And perhaps Vienna itself is mainly meant to be seen. A colorful example is the burial of the late Otto con Habsburg, who died in 2011. Quoting the UK's Daily Mail newspaper, "His death brings to a close 640 years of European history."

Von Habsburg's body was buried in Vienna but his heart was buried in Budapest, and both cities pulled out all the stops. There are scads of photos and they are stunning. Do yourself a favor and go to the Daily Mail article at

http://tinyurl.com/3ls9svy

And you thought the Brits had a lock on pomp and ceremony, right?

 

 It’s about 150 miles from Vienna to Budapest and you can make the trip by boat, by train or by car. Hungary has an old and checkered past. Russia claimed it after World War II, and rolled tanks into Budapest to crush a 1956 uprising. When I was there, Hungary operated under a kind of “goulash communism.” Shell holes still pocked the Citadella, an old fortress overlooking the Danube, and a Russian statue stood on the roof.

The Citadella is on the Buda side of the Danube, with a sweeping view of the river, its eight bridges and the city. One balmy evening our group had dinner there and afterward walked outside to enjoy the city lights. “It looks like Oakland,” someone said. Well, maybe, if you could forget the bullet holes in the walls behind us.

Budapest was beautiful but the people seemed tense, happy to have tourists but wary. It wasn’t surprising, considering the terrors they lived through at the hands of the Nazis, followed by the Communists. Out in the countryside people were freer and more talkative. Still, there were remnants of the past.

In one small town our tour bus passed through there were still loudspeakers on telephone phones, only now Hungary’s storks were building nests there. I got one of my all-time favorite travel photos by pressing my camera against a window and snapping a stork on the nest.

The stork is a good luck symbol in Hungary, bringing babies and preventing house fires. Year after year, storks fly in from Africa to spend the summer. Through Hungary’s darkest years the storks returned to nest on telephone poles. In this rapidly changing world, that’s nice to know.

For a fact-based fictional look at Budapest past and present read William S. Shepard’s MURDER ON THE DANUBE. Surviving Freedom Fighters of the 1956 revolution became politicians, bankers and bureaucrats, still uneasy about their pasts. The author alternates past and present, picking up stories of known survivors as they prepare to meet again at a Parliament reception. The novel’s protagonist is "Robbie" Cutler, Political Officer for the American Embassy.

The pace quickens when a Freedom Fighter who emigrated to New Jersey arrives in Budapest to see about building a memorial to the 1956 Revolution. He wants a statuary group of Freedom Fighters similar to the Korean Memorial in Washington D.C. Before he can meet with Robbie to discuss his plans, he is murdered.

The American ambassador asks Robbie to look into the murder. The investigation takes on aspects of a traditional police procedural—ferreting out friends and relatives who might know something about the victim's movements and his murder. Everyone remembers the Revolution and Robbie surmises that "nostalgia would be a leading Hungarian product."

The diplomatic world as painted here is a small, gossipy one, almost a closed society, with most of the action taking place at social functions or in cafes, over coffee. The ending would fit an Agatha Christie "Poirot" novel, with interested parties gathered in the private dining room of a secluded restaurant for a review of the investigation and unmasking of the murderer.

Author William S. Shepard is a former career diplomat who served as Consul and Political Officer at the American Embassy in Budapest. He was made an Honorary Hungarian Freedom Fighter at the 25th anniversary of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution.

If you like black humor and are in an experimental mood, you might try UNDER THE FROG by Tibor Fischer, published in the UK by Polygon in 1992 and in the U.S. by Picador in 2001. It’s available in paperback at Amazon. The title is from a Hungarian expression meaning the worst possible place to be is "under a frog's arse at the bottom of a coal mine.”

The story follows a Hungarian basketball team on the payroll of the Hungarian railroad. They travel naked around the country, thinking mostly about sex and escaping from Communist Hungary. The story ends with the 1956 revolution.

The author is a British-born Hungarian who spoke at the 2012 Hay Festival in Budapest. An article in The Telegraph newspaper quotes him as saying, “My father really was a basketball player and really did travel round the country in a railway carriage with his fellow players, naked for some of the time...” The article and a good photo of Fischer are at

http://tinyurl.com/mklfq4x

Photos: Stork photo © 1979-2014 Patricia Cokely Browning; Budapest photo from Hilton Budapest Hotel web site; 1956 Uprising photo from NATO web site.

  

Because of Yugoslavia—Land of the South Slavs—I never got to Ireland. I never got to Egypt. I never got to Australia. I just kept going back to Yugoslavia, surely one of the most beautiful and historic places on Planet Earth.

I traveled through Yugoslavia both during Tito's time and after he died. It was rugged terrain, 70 percent mountains and a prime region for hunting and fishing. Consider this: there were 40 miles of paved road in the entire country when WWII broke out.

The Nazis came in blowing up bridges and villages; their fighter planes strafed people in the streets of Belgrade and there were concentration camps outside of town. With no roads to speak of, Nazi tanks weren't much use. The people just went up into the hills and lived with the Partisans, or guerrillas, and the Nazis couldn't get to them there unless they wanted to go on foot.

In the 1970s, after Tito broke with Russia and decided to open the country to tourists, the Yugoslavs started building roads and hotels and doing everything they could to encourage Westerners to come. The Yugoslavs were going great guns with their expansion when I was there the last time, in November, 1982. Something I will never forget: I was in a tour bus rolling through a rural area on a brand new road—built in such a hurry that it sliced a little steepled church in half. The half that was left still stood beside the road.

In 1999, during Yugoslavia’s war in Kosovo, NATO forces bombed Belgrade. Three downed U.S. Army soldiers were captured and held for a month. The Rev. Jesse Jackson led a religious delegation to Belgrade and the soldiers were turned over to him. When TV news announced that Jackson's party would take the three Americans by bus from Belgrade to Zagreb, I thought, yeah, I was there when they were building that highway.

It’s 196 miles from Budapest to Belgrade, where the Danube meets the Sava River on its way to the Black Sea.

I loved Belgrade, although I never heard anyone else say a good word for it. One of my favorite memories is of a winter night in Skadarlija, Belgrade’s lamplit Bohemian quarter. Packed cafés, everyone eating, singing, slugging down plum brandy. When the clock struck nine, rolling blackouts kicked in and waiters brought candles. Nobody missed a note or a drop. The blackouts were scheduled power shutdowns, section by section throughout the city, due to an energy crisis.

According to Wikipedia, Skadarlija was a gypsy settlement before it became the main bohemian quarter of Belgrade. The guest list is impressive, everyone from Alfred Hitchcock to George H.W. Bush. 

The Times of London reported that Europe's best nightlife can be found in Belgrade. In the Lonely Planet’s "1000 Ultimate Experiences" guide of 2009, Belgrade was placed at the first spot among the top 10 party cities in the world.

Yugoslavia didn’t survive Tito. It’s a lot of separate republics now. The Republic of Macedonia is still in a “silent war” with Greece; you can stand in Greece and look across a field at the disputed territory. Serbia wants to join the 28-nation European Union, a process expected to take several years. They’ll make it. The South Slavs have staying power and they are a feisty lot.

Further south, on the Adriatic Coast, is the city of Split, a famous seaport in what is now the Republic of Croatia. It’s early evening. Our tour group checks into a hotel overlooking the seaside promenade and I decide to stroll into town. I’m part of an exotic mix that includes sailors who might have stepped right out of Gilbert and Sullivan’s “The Mikado.” Along the way I pass a building with a huge painting of Tito on the street-side façade. In the back, on a pavilion over the water, young Slavs are dancing to “Boogie Shoes.” I still laugh when I think about it.

A Google search turned up some crime fiction titles but I can’t honestly recommend any of them. They’re too grim for my taste, especially those set in Sarajevo. What I can recommend is a You Tube video of a Belgrade dance troupe doing a traditional dance. Be advised, it’s loud. They really whoop it up, and the costumes are gorgeous. It’s at http://tinyurl.com/ojhqf25

You might also rent or buy the DVD of  “The Yellow Rolls Royce,”  a 1984 movie that follows the ownership of a 1930s yellow Rolls Royce Phantom ll during the years up to and including the start of World War ll. Its third owner is a wealthy American socialite played by Ingrid Bergman.

Time and place: 1941, Trieste on the Yugoslavia border. Enter Omar Sharif, a partisan hero with a price on his head. Over Bergman’s objections, he smuggles himself into Yugoslavia in the trunk of the yellow Rolls Royce. Bergman’s elegant, imperious manner at the border checkpoint is a delight. The scenery is breathtaking. How close the movie comes to reality I can’t say, but some of it was filmed on location and it’s great entertainment.

*Photo of Skadarlija from Wikipedia.

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Too Good to Throw Away by Pat Browning

I was born and raised in Oklahoma, graduated from Oklahoma A&M College-Stillwater (Class of ’49), and taught English and Journalism in Oklahoma high schools before moving to California.

A longtime resident of California's San Joaquin Valley before moving back to Oklahoma in 2005, my professional writing credits go back to the 1960s, when I was a stringer for The Fresno Bee while working full time in a Hanford law office.

I’m a veteran traveler. My globetrotting in the 1970s led me into the travel business, first as a travel agent, then as a correspondent for TravelAge West, a trade journal published in San Francisco. In the 1990s, I signed on fulltime as a newspaper reporter and columnist, first at The Selma Enterprise and then at The Hanford Sentinel.

While at the Enterprise, my lifestyle coverage placed first two years in a row in the California Newspaper Publishers Association Better Newspapers Contest. I was also a finalist for the 1993 George F. Gruner Award for Meritorious Public Service in Journalism. At the Sentinel, my feature story on the Japanese- American "Yankee Samurais" of World War II, placed second in the CNPA contest.

I published FULL CIRCLE, a mystery novel in 2001. Revised and reissued as ABSINTHE 0F MALICE by Krill Press Dec. 1, 2008.
I have a work-in-progress, METAPHOR FOR MURDER.
My memoir WHITE PETUNIAS, about growing up in Oklahoma, appeared in 2009 in the RED DIRT BOOK FESTIVAL ANTHOLOGY, OKLAHOMA CHARACTER. An earlier version won second place in its category in Frontiers in Writing 2007, sponsored by Panhandle Professional Writers, Amarillo, TX.

My articles on writing have appeared in The SouthWest Sage, the monthly journal of SouthWest Writers:
“White Noise” appeared in SW Sage June 2007; “Charming An Audience” in SW Sage August 2007; “A Little Erotica Music, Please” in SW Sage March 2008; “What’s That Smell?” in SW Sage September 2008.

The first three chapters of ABSINTHE OF MALICE can be read at Google Books --
http://tinyurl.com/23pojdm

I started METAPHOR FOR MURDER, my work-in-progress, eight years ago and am now on page 118. What can I tell you? I’m a slow writer. I hope to have it finished in time for Christmas. That’s a rush but not impossible. As Lawrence Sanders’ long-running character Archy McNally likes to say, One never knows, do one?

TOO GOOD TO THROW AWAY
By Pat Browning

The country preachers of my growing-up days had a way with words. My sister and I still laugh about the preacher who claimed a man opened his oven door and saw God sitting on a biscuit.

I used that years later in my first mystery, FULL CIRCLE (now revised and republished as ABSINTHE OF MALICE).

In the Oklahoma boonies in those days a Sunday night church service was the main form of socializing and entertainment. The preachers worked up a real sweat describing the Hell that awaited non-believers.

By the 1960s I had moved to California. I wrote a sketch of one of those old Sunday night services, pounding it out on my portable Smith Corona. I meant to use it in a book I would call SWEETER DAY, a title inspired by my memory of country preachers who promised a sweet life in Heaven, and a neighbor who talked constantly about going to California, where every yard had a tree decorated with big juicy oranges.

The memory was triggered by a big clay pot of white petunias. In the dusk of a summer evening in California, the petunias reminded me of boys in white shirts who congregated under the hickory trees across from the long-ago country church in Oklahoma. I never wrote the book but managed somehow to hang onto the sketch.  It was just too good to throw away. I spent the next 40 years looking for a place to use it. Every few years I dragged it out of my filing cabinet and rewrote it.

In 1999 I tried to slip it into my working manuscript of FULL CIRCLE. I thought it was so clever, turning that old memoir into a chapter where a character dredges up her memories for an adult writing class. The chapter stuck out like a sore thumb, so I took it out of the manuscript and filed it away again.

About 2002, I got it out and rewrote it with a different angle. Didn't like it, but it was too good to throw away. I put it back in the file folder.

In 2007 I was scrolling through My Documents and there was the almost-forgotten "White Petunias." I rewrote it and entered it in the Nostalgia category of a contest sponsored Panhandle Professional Writers in Amarillo, Texas. It won second place and $50.

Sometimes a piece of writing is like an old house -- all it needs is a fresh coat of paint.  I completely rewrote “White Petunias” and submitted it to the Red Dirt Book Festival Committee. In the winter of 2009 my memoir appeared in the RED DIRT BOOK FESTIVAL ANTHOLOGY, OKLAHOMA CHARACTER. 

I’m satisfied with the final version and happy to see it finally in print. It’s nothing earth-shattering. It’s simply about a summer night in 1939, on the eve of World War II, but the ending summarizes so many things for me. It reads:

“Like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s play, “Our Town,” I sometimes wish to go back again, just for a day, any ordinary summer day with the sun shining and the wind blowing and puffs of white cloud drifting across a blazing blue sky. I might nab a piece of cold fried chicken and spend the afternoon sitting under a pear tree, reading A Tale of Two Cities.

“It wouldn’t work, even if it were possible. Like Emily, I would be heartbroken by the carelessness of love, the transience of youth. There’s an invisible line between past and present. Memory is the only bridge where we can cross in safety.

“The world seems to pause before a cataclysmic event, as if gathering itself for what is to come. So it was that summer, in that small rural community, before the boys in their Sunday clothes scattered to fight a global war in places they had never heard of.

“The Sunday nights are gone, and everything with them, the church, the friends and neighbors, even the hickory trees. All gone, except for that pause in time and the boys in the shadows, where white shirts gleam and laughter lingers, brought back to me now in the twilight of a summer day, by a pot of white petunias.”

The entire piece is on my personal web site, Morning’s At Noon:
http://tinyurl.com/2ga6hbm

Introducing - - Ta DA! Pat Browning

Pat Browning was born and raised in Oklahoma. She is a graduate of Oklahoma State University, and taught high school English before moving to California.

She was a longtime resident of the San Joaquin Valley before returning to her native Oklahoma.

Ms. Browning is a veteran traveler. Her globetrotting in the 1970s led her into the travel business, first as a travel agent, then as a correspondent for TravelAge West, a trade journal published in San Francisco. In the 1980s, her travel articles bore such exotic datelines as Tangier, Bombay, Budapest, Vienna, Dubrovnik, and Shanghai.

In the 1990s, Browning signed on full time as a newspaper reporter and columnist, first at The Selma Enterprise and then at The Hanford Sentinel. While at the Enterprise, her lifestyle coverage placed first two years in a row in the California Newspaper Publishers Association Better Newspapers Contest. She was also a finalist for the 1993 George F. Gruner Award for Meritorious Public Service in Journalism. At the Sentinel, her feature story on the
Japanese-American "Yankee Samurais" of WorId War II, placed second in the CNPA contest.

ABSINTHE OF MALICE is a reissue of FULL CIRCLE (published in 2001), and introduces the Penny Mackenzie mystery series. Browning is currently at work on the second book in the series.


LOOKING LIKE AUDREY HEPBURN
By Pat Browning

Agatha Raisin is Miss Marple in a garter belt. She’s feeling arthritic twinges that make her think of a hip replacement, but in LOVE, LIES AND LIQUOR (2006) she’s wearing flimsy knickers “in the hope of a hot date.”

What’s going on here? Forget that nonsense about 70 being the new 50 and 60 being the new 40. Sixty is what it is, and so is 70.

What’s going on is that some of our female amateur sleuths are getting older, if not always slower. M.C. Beaton’s Agatha Raisin hasn’t mellowed a whit. She’s dealing with murder, jewel thievery and romantic entanglements when her hip starts to hurt. For a moment she feels old and sick. But not too old or sick to face someone holding a gun and snarl, “Fry in hell, you bastard.”

Agatha’s polar opposite is the 70-something Charlotte Graham of Stefanie Matteson’s 10-book series. A retired but still glamorous actress, Charlotte is aging gracefully and philosophically. In MURDER UNDER THE PALMS (1997) she’s visiting friends in Palm Beach when fate reunites her with a man she fell in love with more than 50 years earlier.

Their shipboard romance had lasted four days. He went on to become a famous bandleader. They find the old attraction is still there and it’s easy to pick up where they left off.

Quoting: “She had reached the point in life where now was what mattered. Because the next day, the next week, the next year, either or both of them might not be around. Maybe this was what Ponce de Leon had discovered when he’d come to Florida seeking the fountain of youth … (T)hat only by coming to terms with death can you really find life.”

Charlotte and her old flame work together to solve a couple of murders and a mystery dating back to World War II.

In DEAD MAN’S ISLAND (1993) Carolyn Hart introduced her 70-something sleuth, Henrie O, who is more cosmopolitan than Agatha Raisin, more driven than Charlotte Graham. Henrie O has “dark eyes that have seen much and remembered much …” She is, in the best old-fashioned sense of the word, a dame. Think Lauren Bacall.

When the TV movie of DEAD MAN’S ISLAND was cast in 1996, the top roles went to Barbara Eden and William Shatner. Now, Eden is cute and perky; Shatner is a good old boy; but really … Henrie O, a former foreign correspondent, and her first love, publishing tycoon Chase Prescott, are right out of an Agatha Christie novel or a dark 1940s movie.

Henrie O’s description of their meeting 40 years after the end of the affair:
“He still moved with that commanding grace, the easy, confident, predatory swagger of a panther – beautiful, dark, fascinating, and infinitely dangerous …

“I knew what he saw. A slender, intense woman whose fire for life has not been quenched, a woman who still loves to laugh but who knows the world is bathed in tears.”

These two attractive senior citizens are at the heart of a ripping good murder mystery, set on a remote island off the South Carolina coast – with a hurricane on the way. Hart really piles it on, and adds a couple of neat twists at the end.

There are other female sleuths on the shady side of 60, but these are three of my favorites. They seem to age in real time without turning into cartoons. They’re still the women they’ve always been, they’re just getting older, right along with the rest of the population.

In fact, coming on strong are the baby boomers, hovering between middle age and seniority. One example is my own character, Penny Mackenzie, who’s staring down 50. In my work-in-rogress Penny catches a glimpse of herself in a mirror and wonders: “When did I stop looking like Audrey Hepburn? What’s next? Hot flashes? Chin whiskers?”

What’s next is a shower and a hot night in the sack, but this is about cozies. We take you only so far, then slam the bedroom door.

Cue Sam the Sham and The Pharoahs … “Matty told Hatty about a thing she saw ...
Had two big horns and a wooly jaw … WOO-LY BUL-LY, WOO-LY BUL-LY …”