Predestination was not something to which Hepp subscribed. He was out to humble and humiliate Hármati’s National team and he had a suitcase full of plans to bring this about. ‘You’re probably too young to understand this,’ said Hepp addressing the team, ‘but the real tragedy of life, the most appalling fact you will have to face in this existence is that there is no substitute for hard work’ – and flourishing rolls of documents – ‘and using the right plan.’
The sight of Hepp threatening a Stalin shift of training threw a panic through the team – they had been counting on a month of sunbathing and exploring the plentiful cuisine prepared for the sportsmen and women representing the Hungarian nation. Pataki took Hepp aside: ‘Look, we get the message: you want to do the National boys?’ ‘Yes,’ conceded Hepp. ‘Okay, here’s the proposition,’ urged Pataki, ‘We’ll train hard, but, and the boys have asked me to approach you on their behalf, but if we can forego the above-the-call-of-duty stuff, we guarantee, I guarantee that at the last match of the camp, at the display when all the big cheeses are there, I guarantee that we’ll beat them. But, believe me, the team will fray if we overdo it. Remember what the water-polo player said at the brothel after he paid for eight girls, but only employed five, “This is ridiculous. I managed all eight this morning.’”
To universal surprise, Hepp entered into the Pataki pact. Pataki could be persuasive, of course. Aside from the effortlessness of his lying, he knew which key could open which person; he was the master locksmith of character. Take the way he had wriggled out of the copper wire fiasco at Ganz by claiming he had been borrowing some for a Lieutenant-Colonel in the AVO who had discreetly asked him to acquire some for various secret projects. ‘They’re conducting electrical experiments.’ The security people might well have caught a whiff of bullshit but who was going to take the risk of vexing a Lieutenant-Colonel, however infinitesimal the risk, over a bit of rotten wire? Pataki had walked away with a stern injunction to stick to proper channels.
Gyuri suspected that Hepp may have had other reasons, apart from Pataki’s cajolery, for acquiescing but Pataki had unwound Hepp, and given the rest of the team a summary level of activity (except for Gyuri who couldn’t afford to let any hour pass without exploiting it).
Gyuri was ushered out of sleep’s antechamber by a procession of loud bumps, which his ejected senses slowly situated as emanating from the bunk above him. Craning out of his bed, he realised that unless Pataki had suddenly developed a brilliant ventriloquist act and grown a large pale bottom, he had enticed some female company back to their hut. It was outrageous – here they were in a Communist dictatorship, on the verge of World War Three, in the middle of the night and Pataki had the gall to enjoy himself and invade his sleep.
‘God’s dick,’ was about all Gyuri could think of in his irate daze, not fully reconnected to his imaginative facilities.
‘There’s really no need to be polite,’ insisted Pataki, not missing a beat. ‘Don’t pay the slightest attention to us. Pretend we aren’t here. Feel free to carry on with your sleep.’
Not confident in the resilience of the bunkbeds in the face of love’s vibrations Gyuri threw his mattress onto the floor, where he would be a safe distance from any collapsing reposery. ‘If you tie a torch to it, you’ll be able to see what you’re doing,’ he counselled.
At dawn’s entry, Gyuri awoke, feeling more sleepy than when he had started. It was a morning he immediately recognised as one he wanted nothing to do with, a day that revealed itself, that flagrantly exposed itself as a day which wouldn’t allow him to get anywhere. Gyuri found himself thinking, without any side-dish of shame, about why he hadn’t joined the Communist Party. That was where his life had taken the wrong turn, he decided. Deciding where his life had gone wrong was something that took up a lot of his leisure time and he was convinced that he had pinpointed the chairman of the error board. If only he could send back a message to his younger self to sign up, if only he had accidentally walked into a Party office and inadvertently dropped his signature on an application form.
Now, of course, apart from the bad taste it would leave in his soul, his participation in the Communist movement would be as welcome as a bonfire in an ammunition dump. He had as much chance of joining as a blue whale had, assuming it could make its way to Budapest. But back in ’45 or ’
46, things were different. Hitler could have got a membership card then- the more the merrier. He could have got in, denounced his family background, vituperating Elek as a decadent bourgeois (which would have been fun), and with a bit of Lenin-spouting, the odd weekend being chummy with coal miners down a pit somewhere, he could have ended up with a comfortable, well-paid workfree job as a funksh somewhere, and with the accelerating rate of arrests and hangings, promotion couldn’t be avoided.
* * *
The Chinaman had stunned them all.
Gyuri had tried to get to know him, still curious about Red China. This was shortly after the thwarted visit to the Chinese Embassy. The visit to the Chinese Embassy had come a few weeks after the thwarted visit to the Ministry of the Interior, where he and Pataki had tried to get into the police. Getting into the police had originally been Pataki’s idea, but Gyuri warmed to it, thinking about all the people he could be rude to while in uniform. The police had a second-division basketball team and Pataki had the belief they could work themselves a niche there. All those policeman jokes were a deterrent but after deliberation, Gyuri felt the list of people he had prepared for harassment was worth it, and the prime factor was dodging military service, since they had got wind of a rumour that suggested Ganz’s workforce would no longer qualify for strategic exemption. No one had spelled out why they were turned down; they could only guess the police had found another source of first-division players or maybe the crippled and deformed status of their moral credentials had done in their prospects.
While he and Pataki were negotiating their transfer to Locomotive and wangling their places in the evening classes at the College of Accountancy, Gyuri, reviewing the options in case of severe emergency, had managed to find something preferable to self-mutilation to stay out of the Army: going Chinese. He had been thinking about Ladányi. He never had the chance to see Ladányi again after the feeding frenzy in Hálás, but he heard that he had been posted to China as predicted, just before the Communists had come into their own there. The only bulletin after that was that Ladányi was in Shanghai. He couldn’t have been there for long. The Chinese had got a bad case of socialism, but at least they didn’t have too many Russians. Not enough rice to go around.
Reviewing the state of China and speculating on Ladányi’s whereabouts (celebrating one-man mass in gaol, running a restaurant, correcting some mandarin’s ideograms?) Gyuri lighted on the idea of going to China. Red China was the first stop for the journalistic imagination; it was always getting slapped on the back every time you opened a paper or switched on the radio.
‘Let’s go con the Chinese,’ Gyuri proposed to Pataki. ‘If we get out there, it might lead to other things. And if it’s awful, well, it’s awful here and at least it’ll be Chinese misery.’ Anything seemed superior to homegrown misery. Gyuri argued they should go along in the guise of ardent admirers of the Chinese Revolution, avid to learn more about the achievements of people’s power in China and eager to start Chinese lessons. ‘With a border that big, it’ll be no problem walking out,’ Gyuri reasoned. Pataki had a look that alluded to the excellent rowing weather, but why not roll the dice?
The Chinese Embassy was in a quiet, elegant street just off Andrássy út, in what was the diplomatic quarter. Huge, ornate, opulent buildings that spoke of an unhurried lifestyle. How do you enlist for the diplomatic game? Gyuri wondered as he inspected the serenity and evident absence of work in the embassies. They had ruled out writing a letter or phoning: that left space for prevarication or refusal. The best would be to go along and put their feet in the door. The time of their approach had also been intensely debated, and they came to
the conclusion that early afternoon would be most suitable.
The Embassy’s door was black and enormous and didn’t look like the sort of door that cared to be disturbed. It was a door that was meant to be seen but not knocked on, a door you walked past at a path’s distance. Unlike the Western embassies there wasn’t a policeman on guard outside, but the whole tenor of the facade was discouragement.
A sizeable bell was on duty at the side of the door. Gyuri pushed it once, manfully, for a very polite duration but didn’t hear any corresponding ringing inside. He waited for a very polite duration, hoping for signs of life. This process was repeated twice as passers-by passed by wondering what two young, smartly-dressed Hungarians were doing outside the Chinese Embassy. The bell obviously hadn’t been designed to be rung, so Gyuri gave a curt rap on the door, stinging his finger joints (there was no knocker provided). He continued lengthy intervals of polite waiting with painful knocking bouts. They were beginning to infer that the building was abandoned, when they noticed, from a first-floor window, an oriental visage peering out at them, having shunted aside a substantial lace curtain. Pataki and Gyuri acknowledged the watcher by switching on exemplarily polite and radiant smiles.
Nothing happened after this first contact for several minutes. ‘They’re busy learning Hungarian,’ offered Pataki, free to amuse himself since it hadn’t been his idea. ‘They’re scanning the phrase book for “Drop dead”.’ After an unreasonable length of time, the door was opened by a young Chinese man in a wearied suit, who greeted them in mechanical but correct Hungarian. ‘We’re fans of the Chinese Revolution,’ said Gyuri, ‘my friend and I have been stunned by the feats of the Communist Party of China. Could we come in to express our admiration?’
They were escorted to a luxurious reception room which only confirmed Gyuri’s respect for the diplomatic life. Another Chinese official joined them. He seemed to have rudimentary or no knowledge of Hungarian, since the door-opener kept handing him chunks of the conversation in Chinese. ‘We have been inspired by the example of the Chinese Revolution,’ proclaimed Gyuri, ‘as Mao Tse-Tung has said: “the Communist Party of China has brought a new style of work to the Chinese people, a style of work which essentially entails integrating theory with practice, forging close links with the masses and practising self-criticism.” It is this new style that in an internationalist, fraternal and scientific spirit we would like to study, first-hand for ourselves, in order to aid the development of a peace-loving socialism on a global basis.’
Oddly enough, no one laughed when Gyuri finished – Pataki must have been biting the insides of his mouth. Gyuri had done his homework. Pataki hadn’t. But this didn’t stop him: ‘Yes, as Comrade Mao said, “ Hungary and China are closely bound by common interests and common ideals.’” The good thing about Mao, like Marx, and in particular Lenin and Stalin, was that at some point or other, he had written or said everything from ‘I ordered the steak medium rare’ to ‘Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’ to ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’. Everything had passed their lips, so you couldn’t go wrong quoting from imagination.
Gyuri took the ball again, and reiterated their fervent desire to go to China, learn the language and study the newing of China. The two Chinese listened very soberly to the proposal, then the non-Hungarian-speaking one who exuded an air of seniority, spoke to the other briefly, and his words stumbled out through the other in clunking Hungarian:
‘Comrades, your ardour is highly commendable and we are greatly touched that our achievements in China have proved such an example to you. But as Comrade Mao has also said, as he has so aptly phrased it, building socialism must start in front of your neighbours, and it is better for you to carry on the struggle here in Hungary in your own way.’ There could be no doubt that in China the science of horseshit detection was not neglected or unknown.
Gyuri and Pataki were given a copy each of Mao’s poetry on their way out. They thanked their hosts profusely. They had spent no more than twenty minutes on Chinese soil. ‘I suppose if nothing else I can say I’ve been to China,’ Gyuri said. Out but in.
The Korean War had seemed promising too. Pataki actually phoned the Ministry of Defence, pseudonymously, from a public phone, to inquire whether there was any chance of being able to ‘go and fight those imperialist bastards’. The authorities, guessing the magnitude of these volunteers’ numbers, deduced that they would most likely be the fastest-surrendering soldiers in the history of warfare. Pataki was carefully given details of an anti-American demonstration where, he was assured, he would be allowed to uncork his righteous wrath.
‘Why are they fighting Communism in Korea, but not here?’ asked Pataki irascibly. ‘Are the hotels much better in Korea? Is it the superiority of the local cuisine? My only objection to the war is that it should be here and not in some rice-paddy in Korea. What have we done not to be invaded by the Americans?’
With this background in Far Eastern Studies, they were intrigued by the arrival of a Chinese basketball player at the camp. Hármati had presented him with great fanfare and to bursts of admiring applause. This first period of Hungarian-Chinese basketballing relations went well, but after that, despite the undeniable warmth, cordiality and curiosity on both sides, things slowed down somewhat, because whoever had arranged for him to attend the camp had either overlooked or forgotten that Wu, as he seemed to be called, spoke no Hungarian, no English, no German, no Russian or any other language of which anyone in the camp had a smattering. No one, of course, spoke any Chinese.
‘He probably thinks he’s in Moscow,’ observed Róka as Wu trotted about dribbling the ball respectably but unbrilliantly. No one had seen him arrive, and the purpose of his presence remained rather mysterious. Hármati, under questioning, denied having any foreknowledge of Wu’s provenance. ‘He’s Chinese, right? Or maybe Korean. Can you tell the difference? Or maybe he’s a Cambodian who likes long walks. Anyway, if he’s Chinese, we salute him as a member of the heroic Chinese people. If he’s Korean, we salute him as a member of the heroic Korean people. This is a sports camp, blown by the breeze of progress, we fraternally give him a basketball and let him run around in a correct, scientific and socialist manner on our court. If nothing else he’s going to learn that you’ve got to be a bit taller to play basketball.’ Wu could have easily fitted into five foot six.
Everyone liked Wu because, despite his virtually trappist existence, he was extraordinarily polite and cheery. He was the only person in the camp who energetically thanked the cooks for the meals they provided, giving vigorous bows of gratitude every time. ‘Things must be really bad back home,’ Gyuri remarked, since the only thing you could say in favour of the camp food was that it was there, and you could have as much as you wanted. Wu’s courtesy extended to the basketball court, where on those rare occasions when he unwittingly managed to get hold of the ball, he was too civil to refuse to hand it over to whoever approached him.
The sportswomen had invited all the sportsmen over to their half of the camp for an egg and nokedli evening. Despite the more important attractions, Pataki spent most of the evening launching strictures on the texture of the nokedli, how the wrong kind of flour had been used (which was strange since Pataki knew as well as anyone there was only one kind of flour available, flour flour, since Hungarian shops had adopted a philosophy of not taxing their customers with choice), that the water temperature had wavered, that the nokedli had been swimming for too long and the eggs applied at an inappropriate point, and generally indulging in a molecular appraisal of the method. Sensing scepticism at his culinary authority, Pataki then promulgated loudly that he would return the sportswomen’s hospitality by preparing a true fish soup, a genuine fish soup, the following week.
‘Why a genuine fish soup?’ queried Róka, ‘why not a sham one?’
‘I mean,’ Pataki responded superciliously, ‘a traditional fish soup, prepared in the proper way, as Hungarians have prepared it since time immemorial.’
‘But you can’t cook,’ G
yuri pointed out.
‘There are certain things that every man should be able to do and cooking a fish soup is one of them. It might be tricky getting some of the ingredients, but I will endeavour to do my best.’
‘Will it have some potatoes?’ enquired Katona.
‘No,’ replied Pataki.
‘But I like potatoes,’ remonstrated Katona.
‘So do I,’ retorted Pataki with one foot on the ladder of petulance, ‘I also like my basketball boots, but I wouldn’t put them in a fish soup. Potatoes don’t belong in a genuine fish soup.’
The day of the reception came near and Pataki, beseeched twenty-four hours a day to include potatoes, was getting truculent and also, although Gyuri could only suspect it, worried about his ability to cook fish soup. Fish soup would be something very difficult for Pataki to talk his way out of, since fish soup was either there or it wasn’t. But, somehow, Pataki had managed to round up the ingredients, so that as a minimum he had something to attempt to cook
‘Where are the potatoes?’ asked Gyuri.
‘There aren’t any,’ said Pataki, trying to look expertly at the fish he held, overdosed on air.
‘That’s not carp, is it?’ asked Gyuri.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Pataki, ‘it’s perch.’
‘Oh,’ said Gyuri exiting, ‘I didn’t know you could make fish soup with perch.’
In came Gyurkovics. ‘Where are the potatoes?’ he asked.
‘There aren’t any,’ reaffirmed Pataki, still working hard to give the appearance of preparing fish soup.
‘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.’
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