Under the frog (17 page)

‘That’s
not carp, is it?’ asked Gyurkovics.

‘No, it’s
perch,’ was the terse response.

‘Oh,’
said Gyurkovics walking out of the kitchen, ‘I didn’t know you could make fish
soup with perch.’

When
Hepp came in and asked about the potatoes, Pataki calmly replaced on the
cutting board the perch he had been considering, and enunciated forcefully: ‘I
know what’s going on. I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get me
worked up, but,’ he continued in a determined but un-irate tone, ‘I’m not going
to let you.’

‘Okay,’
said Hepp, ‘but where are the potatoes?’

It was
Demeter who won the bottle of reserve pálinka, when Pataki, at the fifteenth
questioning, answered by attacking Demeter with a brace of perch. Having fired-off his perch at the swiftly retreating Demeter, Pataki stormed off into the
countryside.

When
Pataki returned to the camp (some hours later, Gyuri noticed; too late to make
another stab at the fish soup) he found everyone gathering in the marquee as if
for a fish soup soiree.

‘Come
on,’ said Katona, ‘you’ve got to see this. I’ve managed to persuade Wu to do
it.’

‘Do
what?’ asked Pataki puzzled.

‘His
numbers. It’s quite amazing, I caught him playing along with the radio the
other day.’ Pataki followed Katona into the marquee where the entire camp
seemed to be in attendance. Katona appointed himself master of ceremonies:

‘Ladies
and gentlemen, we are very privileged tonight to witness a performer who has
travelled thousands of kilometres to be with us. First of all, can I ask for
some discreet lighting.’ The flaps of the marquee were closed to produce a fair
penumbra. A stretcher was carried in with a figure hidden under a blanket. The
blanket was lifted up to reveal a pair of Chinese buttocks. ‘Secondly, may I
ask you to maintain absolute silence during the recital. Over to you, Mr Wu.’

The
sounds commenced and though it took a few moments for the audience to latch on,
they soon realised that Wu was farting out the Internationale. The audience,
distinguished by its ideological unsoundness, despite the recent injunction for
quiet, burst into spontaneous applause. Wu’s phrasing and stamina were
astonishing and the Internationale was only the beginning. As the audience
wondered what on earth he had been eating, Wu launched into a medley of tunes,
concluding with ‘The Blue Danube’. There was a standing ovation.

Then
the fish soup was served. Gyuri and the others could see that Pataki was
itching to remonstrate about the salination or some other aspect of the soup,
but he realised that his reputation could be irrevocably marred and he had to
sit and take it. ‘It’s really rather good, considering where it came from,’
remarked Hepp to Gyuri. The origins of the soup were never revealed to Pataki:
it had been tinned at the behest of an official at the Ministry of Agriculture
who thought it would make a good export product to Britain, until someone
reminded him that Britain was a capitalist country and as such couldn’t be the
recipient of Hungarian fish soup. Indeed it transpired that all the countries
likely to pay for tins of fish soup were capitalist, whereas their trading
partners, the socialist countries, wouldn’t cough up a mouldy kopek. It was decided
to divvy up the fish soup within the Ministry, so all the families of the staff
experienced a fish soup bonanza. István had dumped ten tins with Elek, who
would eat anything – except fish.

Playing
for the railways had some benefits, including free deliveries.

* * *

Gyuri
was looking forward to the end of the camp, since he was becoming preoccupied
with seeing Zsuzsa again, and he was also looking forward to the end of the
camp because Pataki wasn’t. Pataki wasn’t because he knew he had promised Hepp
that Locomotive would win the match against the National team. Pataki didn’t
show this, but his exuberance was steadily deflating as the day drew nearer.

As the
Locomotive players sparred with them, it was a constant reminder to Pataki that
the National team was the National team because it had the best players, drawn
from the Army and the Technical University. Thoughtfulness clouded Pataki’s
brow as he studied the opportunities for winning. The others had been quite
content for Pataki to parley a truce with Hepp, for while losing the match
would bring a certain general retribution, for Pataki it was going to bring
intensely specific retaliation from Hepp, of whom it was said he bore grudges
thirty years old.

Worrying
about things wasn’t Pataki’s forte, so after a couple of introspections which
didn’t hand over a solution, he chose to leave the action to the day.

The
only thing in Locomotive’s favour was that the National team didn’t have much
to lose. Although the supremos of the sports world would be at hand, no one was
going to pay any attention to the result. In the outside world it wouldn’t
count. ‘Why aren’t any of the buggers injured?’ Pataki lamented as he changed
for the match, clearly having prayed for some disability since nothing else
could provide victory.

The
first half went well for Locomotive. At half-time, they were in the lead 32 to
26. It had been a lively session, played with one of Locomotive’s favourite
leather balls, Vladimir. As one of the National team remarked to the referee, ‘Couldn’t
we have another ball please? Pataki won’t let us play with this one.’ Gyuri had
never seen Pataki run around court like that before. It was as if he were
playing on his own, charging after the ball like a lunatic, in top gear all the
time. His relentless acceleration paid dividends – he got the ball where others
wouldn’t have, but Gyuri could see it was at a cost. Pataki was looking fully
drained when the half time whistle blew.

‘Angyal!’
Pataki called out to Gyuri’s co-worker in Locomotive’s dirty tricks department.
Angyal, who had been sitting it out on the bench, trotted over. His talent was
to neutralise players in the opposing teams who demonstrated too great a
facility at scoring baskets, by using a variety of techniques, never
recommended by coaches, but extraordinarily effective – the backhand
testicle-grab or the airborne elbow-jab to the face. Angyal was injured, he had
sprained his ankle after administering a particularly devastating elbow to
Demeny, Hungary’s leading scorer, turning on the crimson nostril-taps. Leaning
close, Pataki poured some words into Angyal’s ear, who then sauntered off.

‘What
are we going to do?’ Gyuri asked Pataki. ‘You look a wreck. You’re not going to
last the second half.’

Pataki
smiled. ‘We just have to soldier on.’

The
second half showed that Pataki had expended his fuel and lost his magical
ability to corner the ball. Hepp remained impassively on the bench, aware as
anyone else that the points were starting to snub Locomotive. The score was 33
to 32 to Locomotive when the shouts of ‘Fire’ were heard and someone ran in to
call for help in carrying buckets of water to put out the blaze that was
consuming the quarters of the National team. Hearing this, the National team to
a man dashed out to save their hard-earned toiletries. They had been due to
leave the camp that afternoon, and what with sifting through the ashes to find
French shampoo and Italian soap, the match never resumed.

Hepp
didn’t look happy about this, but more importantly, to everyone’s relief, he
didn’t look very unhappy; he did also look as if he wouldn’t be listening to
Pataki much in the future.

Boarding
the bus that was to take them to the railway station, Pataki and Gyuri noticed
Wu sitting beside the running track, looking as affable and out of touch as
ever. ‘I don’t suppose anyone has told him the camp is over, or if they have, I
don’t suppose he knows,’ Gyuri said. They collected Wu, since, if nothing else,
they knew exactly where to leave him in Budapest…

* * *

He had
met Zsuzsa a fortnight before the camp. She represented a change of tactic for
Gyuri. He had been pursuing a number of attractive women, who far from
considering docking had recoiled from his greetings as if his hello were a
wielded knife. ‘Communism
and
celibacy, that’s too much,’ Gyuri had moaned. Rather
like an injured player seeking a fixture in the division below to repair his
pride, Gyuri had met Zsuzsa at a dance. Gangs of hormones, supported by a sense
of desperation, had unearthed beauty from an unpromising surface. Even though
they had only met three times, Gyuri had been unpacking the equipment, setting
up the furnishings of affection and a good part of his time in Tatabánya was
spent contemplating the ransacking of her fleshy treasures.

Gyuri
went back home only long enough to spruce up and to verify his summered,
youthful looks in the mirror. Staring at himself, he really couldn’t understand
why women weren’t climbing in through the windows. He didn’t mind about
totalitarianism at all as he sauntered over to Zsuzsa. ‘All you need is
something to look forward to,’ he said to himself.

Zsuzsa’s
flat had a phone but he felt like reappearing in person.

Zsuzsa
was in, but was showing out a guest. In his initial shock, Gyuri couldn’t
decide which was worse, that the caller was a strapping gentleman, the holder,
probably, of a jaunty dong, or that he was also owner of a blue-flash AVO
uniform. A professional, not like the poor green sods conscripted to tramp
around the borders and shoot any decamping capitalists, foreign spies or
general bad lots seeking to flee the gains of the people. Even without the blue
uniform, they would still have looked at each other as if they were being
introduced to a dog log.

What
further incensed Gyuri was that Zsuzsa was unaware of the monstrosity of
inviting a blueboy home, even when he pointed it out to her. ‘Elemér is sweet,’
was about all Zsuzsa would say as Gyuri fulminated about the iniquities of the
AVO. Under interrogation, Zsuzsa explained that Elemér had entered the scene by
apprehending Bodri, Zsuzsa’s dog, when Bodri had inexplicably succumbed to the
call of the wild in the park and spurned Zsuzsa’s implorings to return. ‘He
ought to be good at collaring,’ riposted Gyuri.

The
other great disappointment he suffered that evening was the realisation that
Zsuzsa was heavily involved with stupidity. Her occupation (florist) should
have warned him but Zsusza, although she inhabited Hungary, didn’t seem to live
there. She didn’t understand what was going on, she hadn’t noticed what was
going on and couldn’t grasp what Gyuri was saying. Gyuri also noticed that her
nose was looking too large that evening but on the other hand he couldn’t help
being envious of her total lack of contact with 1950. She had an airtight
insulation of dimness.

‘Have
some tea,’ Zsuzsa insisted. She was still pleased to see Gyuri and didn’t pay
any heed to his ravings and didn’t comprehend what upset him on either the
masculine or ethical plane. Gyuri enumerated the AVO’s privileges, their
special supplies.

‘That’s
not true, Elemér was just saying he has to work very long hours and he needs to
earn extra money by translating articles from
Pravda
to help look after his mother.’
Gyuri realised it was like trying to demolish a house by throwing a glass of
water at it and a strong sense of familiar futility descended on him like a
cage. He had a good look at what was on his plate and he didn’t find his
appetite stirred. This was going to be, he sensed, another fine addition to his
collection of failures. He could see the title of his autobiography:
Women I almost slept with.
Not kissing and telling. ‘1950
was a good year, I almost slept with four women: a heroic production increase,
under strict Marxist-Leninist principles, from 1949, when I almost slept with
two women.’

He had
an expired affair on his hands, but he was going to have to prop up the
cadaver, as troops might do in a trench with fallen comrades to dupe their
enemy into thinking they still had greater numbers to fight. The complication
was that the following Friday, Locomotive was having its annual party, the
summit of its social gatherings, and Gyuri knew that he would sooner face a
firing squad than attend without a companion, and unfortunately Zsuzsa was the
only representative of her sex willing to even talk with Gyuri. If Zsuzsa didn’t
go with him, no one would.

Elemér
was removed from the conversation but this eviscerated their badinage severely
and with a reminder about the Locomotive festivity, Gyuri took his leave and
reflected deeply on the absurdity of living in a country more than half full of
women (demography being on his side since the erasure of the Hungarian Second
Army in 1944) and being unable to transact some romantic commerce. Standing in
the tram, with the passengers packed as tightly as cigarettes in a carton,
centuplets in the oblong womb of the tram, even with the backs of three other
citizens coupling with him, Gyuri felt sappingly lonely. Crushed, but lonely.
How do you find people you can talk to? There should be a shop. And once you’ve
found people you can talk to, how do you hang on to them?

He
devoted a lot of his spare time over the next few days to internal lamentation
and some deft self-pity, cassandraing about the flat, looking at himself in the
mirror and asking: ‘Ever had one of those lives where nothing goes right?’ But
on the Tuesday night he found himself awake. Mental eructations growled up
clearly from the cerebral digestion. It was three o’ clock in the morning, the
hour favoured by the back-seat drivers in his cranium for interrupting his
sleep. Whatever was bothering him would be thrust up, and although he couldn’t
name the issue, a strong discontent was emanating from his cerebral colon.

Switching
on the light, Gyuri referred to his watch. Three minutes after three. Why was
it when he wanted to wake up with punctuality he couldn’t but the seething rage
inside always popped out at its self-appointed seething hour and why was it
that when he wanted to feel awakened in the mornings he could never feel as
fresh as he did now? He switched off the light and hoped for sleep to creep up
on him. His freshness was undiminished when he heard the doorbell ring. His
first thought was Hepp, but it was too early and too outrageous even for Hepp
and he was in the clear with Hepp so there could be no justification for a dawn
raid. Such a ring could only herald a really interesting misfortune amongst the
neighbours. Murder? Rape? Cardiac arrest? Or was it the AVO? he thought
sarcastically. His curiosity rubbing its hands with glee, Gyuri went to the
door to find four plainclothes AVO men there. The plainclothes usually made
them stick out as much as the uniforms since no one but the AVO could get
proper clothes.