On the Road to Prague, in Budapest (Part I)

Of all the clichés about living abroad - the loneliness, the boozing, the tax-dodging and wife-swapping - perhaps the most illustrious is that of expat life as literary salon.

This is certainly true for us Yanks, who seldom choose exile in foreign countries and are thus suckers for myth-making by publishers hoping to make their goods sound more glamorous. After all, how many books would Ernest Hemingway still sell if he hadn't spent all that time in Cuba, or at Gertrude Stein's Paris apartment? Or Paul Bowles, without the debauched exile in Morocco? Not to mention the loathsome but still living Gore Vidal (that's why his name is boldfaced), who built a career sodomizing his way up and down the Amalfi coast.

But like most successful literary devices, the expat novelist is mostly, well, fiction. In reality, a vastly disproportionate number of English-language novelists spend their lives in or near New York, London and other centers of the publishing industry, where they can be close to the agents and editors who decide which books and writers actually get published. This is especially the case now that many big publishers are cutting back on what are known as "midlist" authors, in favor of a smaller number of better-paid writers willing and able to do television and exhaustive promotional tours. As with any business, it pays to be near the action.

For every rule, though, there is an exception, and by strange coincidence one of them is Budapest, or, more accurately, Prague. In June of 2002, Random House released the cleverly-titled debut novel by longtime expat Arthur Phillips, which focused on life in the Hungarian capital in the first years after the changes. (The title referred to the longing felt by many of the story's characters for the supposed bohemian paradise of the Czech capital.) In part because of the eyepopping $500,000+ advance Phillips bagged, the book got enough publicity to make some think Budapest would be the next Mecca for expatriate English-language writers in continental Europe, the latest to reclaim the mantle first grabbed by Paris after World War I.

The only problem with the notion of Budapest in the '90s as Paris in the '20s was that its most famous expat novelist was actually living in Paris, having resided in Hungary quite anonymously for just a couple of years at the beginning of the decade. (By a strange coincidence, the first person I had dinner with after arriving on my maiden visit to Hungary in June 1990 was one of the characters Phillips worked for and later fictionalized in his book. I seem to recall a restless 20-something at the table, but maybe that was me.) Then there is the weltschmerz that hangs over mitteleuropa like a pall of coal dust, the industrial-grade world-weariness that eventually overpowers and suffocates anyone who settles in the region. No wonder the great Central European novel was written in Paris.

But if Budapest isn't Paris in the '20s - or even Prague in the '90s - it still plays host to a small collection of expat English-language writers beavering away at what they hope will be the next great novel of their generation, or genre. This week and next we'll take a look at a few of them, some of whom even lead lives worthy of Hemingway, Bowles or Vidal, complete with spectacular sexual indiscretions, venomous feuds with fellow writers, royalty checks squandered away on overpriced drinks, and long nights lying awake wondering who am I kidding, and what the hell am I doing in this godforsaken place?

Name: Olen Steinhauer
DOB: 21/06/70
From: Various parts of the US.
Got Here: August 2002, via Florence, New York and Romania, where he spent a grant-funded year writing an "epic failed novel" featuring a 100-page narrative from the perspective of Nicolae Ceauşescu in the hours leading up to the crackpot dictator's Christmas day execution.
Working On: The third instalment of a five-part series of atmospheric crime novels set in an unnamed country in the region and stretching over five decades. Steinhauer recently cemented his claim to local top-dog status by receiving a nomination for an Edgar – the Oscars for mystery writers – for the first volume in the series, The Bridge of Sighs, and numerous rave reviews for the just-released follow-up, The Confession.
Where/How: Works mostly at his flat in the second district. Keeps his pages close to his chest, only on occasion showing unpublished work to other writers. Likewise hangs out with a limited number of other fabululists, including Robin Hunt (see below), with whom he took a research trip last year, accompanied by Stink, to inspect decrepit oil installations in Southern Poland.
Praguenosis: Hasn't read the allegedly seminal Budapest novel, and claims no interest in doing so. "But anyone reading this will assume it is some sort of insecurity I have," Steinhauer adds, somewhat insecurely.
Lifestyle: Tentatively domestic. Divorced; living with a sultry Serb. Known to start on the wine before each sundown, and enjoy a cigarette or two packs a day, but has scaled back the all-night partying that characterized his first year in Hungary.

Name: Adam LeBor
DOB: 05/08/61
From: London
Got Here: In June 1991, with lengthy detours to Berlin, Paris and the Balkans.
Working On: Just finished Imperium, a thriller set during the election campaign for the first president of Europe, with flashbacks to 1944. "Imagine the Odessa File meets Enemy of the State, with a troubled journalist hero and gorgeous long-legged heroine," he says. Better known as the author of four non-fiction books, including a recent biography of Slobodan Milosevic, and as a correspondent for the Times of London and a columnist for the Budapest Sun. LeBor is currently awaiting comments on Imperium from a reportedly hesitant agent - reps are notoriously wary of successful non-fiction authors dabbling in pulpish fiction - and thinking fondly of Hollywood: "Mr. Spielberg, I'm waiting for your call."
Where/How: Works almost exclusively in the Budapest International Press Centre, a den of sometimes feuding foreign hacks in downtown Pest. Generally focuses on journalism from ten in the morning until around five, "when the muse kicks in" and he shifts to fiction. Circulated pages of Imperium to a "chosen few," including Steinhauer and local Financial Times reporter Chris Condon, who vetted details of the novel's complex financial conspiracy.
Praguenosis: "I read half of it. It had great atmosphere and scene-setting, but cold and unengaging characters."
Lifestyle: "Happily married, but sill social."

Name: Robin Hunt
DOB: 23/11/58
From: London
Got Here: In fall 2002, from New York and London, where he worked as a branding consultant, dot-com impresario and journalist for the Guardian, the Independent and Wired, among others.
Working On: A satirical novel tentatively entitled Not Everything that Flies Can Be Eaten, apparently a Bulgarian proverb. About a plot to kill the leaders of each of the EU accession countries, the book is set partly in Budapest, and includes such familiar landmarks as the Budapest International Press Centre. Is also seeking a publisher for a manuscript he finished last year, a send-up of success and alienation in New York titled Self-Help and the Civil War that had Stink alternating between peels of laughter and powerful suicidal urges.
Where/How: Often found planted in the one well-lit booth of Café Eklektika on Semmelweis utca. Happy to talk shop and compare pages, especially over a coffee, drink or cig.
Praguenosis: "When I arrived in Budapest, everyone hated it, but hadn't read it," Hunt recalls, judging the book "quite good, with a horrible middle."
Lifestyle:Outlandish. Spent much of the past year travelling in the region, gathering atmosphere and lurid anecdotes for his book, in the process apparently creating a fair amount of both himself. Claims to have spent the first royalty check from Retailisation, a business tome he co-authored, on martinis in Amalfi earlier this month. Known to feast, vampire-like, on youthful naïfs snowed by his piercing wit and blue eyes, while retaining an almost touching innocence. In other words, the perfect cocktail party guest.

To be continued...