COTTON CANDY

Introduction

At first glance, “Cotton Candy,” with its uncomplicated writing style, might seem like a simple little story. But as we read on, the layers slowly peel back, and underneath its façade we find a more complex issue: cotton candy, a seemingly delicious and supposedly sweet and beautiful thing, turns out to be a tasteless sticky mess. Just like socialism, thought the budding prose writer back in the seventies, hoping that contemporary readers would get the message. They did. Readers had grown accustomed to writers using figures of speech to avoid censorship, which was part of everyday life back then in socialist Hungary.

– Ági Bori

*

One summer evening, he took his son for a stroll in Városliget Park. Near the last subway station, under curved tree crowns, a strange machine was emitting a humming sound. A lanky man was holding a wooden roasting stick inside the tin rim of the machine, which was wider on top than on the bottom. Tiny clouds seemed to gather around the stick, gradually thickening with each rotation.

“What’s that, Dad?”

“Cotton candy. Haven’t you seen it before?”

His son shook his head. They stepped closer to it.

The cotton candy vendor had no customers. The surrounding area was deserted, engulfed in stillness and soft warmth. Yet the machine was on, and cotton candy was being made.

The procedure is as follows: Toss a pinch of sugar on the hot inner rim that spins around and hold the aforementioned wooden roasting stick inside it. The machine does the rest.

“Dad, how is it made? What makes it white?”

He didn’t know because he never thought about it before. Therefore, he replied:

“The machine! The machine whitens it.”

“Look, how strange!”

They both watched. Then they bought two. It cost one forint a piece.

They moved on. The son got all sticky. He smeared the sugary mess on his face and hands. 

The father showed him how to eat cotton candy properly. He even shared an anecdote:

“You know, when I was young, I used to eat a lot of cotton candy. If it didn’t rain, we’d come out to this park every Sunday. Always on May Day. With flags, maypoles, and flowers. We were full of cheer.

“Dad, this is bad!”

“What?”

“It’s a little bitter. It doesn’t taste like anything else.”

They were both quiet.

The boy spoke again:

“Did Mom use to come here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Did she buy cotton candy, too?” 

“She did.”

“That’s strange. Mom was willing to spend money on something so stupid?” (She’d often say that money didn’t grow on trees.)

“But this cotton candy is nasty!” the boy said. 

“It is,” the father agreed, after some initial hesitation.

“Then why did you buy it?”

The father shrugged:

“We loved it back then.”

His son wasn’t satisfied with this answer at all:

“And what else did you use to do here?”

“We ate hot dogs, we sang, we walked around, then…then we bought cotton candy, but I already told you that…and we met up with lots of friends.”

“Nothing else?” His son’s voice somehow bothered him.

“Nothing else!” he said, putting an end to the conversation.

The gravel crunched under their steps. They stopped and looked back. Six people stood in line for cotton candy. 

The boy furrowed his eyebrows:

“We should tell them!”

“Tell them what?”

“Not to buy it. Because the whole thing is a hoax. It has no taste!”

“They know it too.”

His son felt utterly confused:

“But then why is it that they’re lining up for it?”

It’s difficult to explain.