Under the Frog

by Tibor Fischer

  ‘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 forwa
rd 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.

  Everyone knew about the bell-shock, sweating away with the fear of arrest, but Gyuri had never felt important enough to be arrested. For an instant he believed they must be looking for someone else or that they had the wrong address; until they explained, not that they were arresting him, but that they had a few questions waiting for him.

  Gyuri got dressed and left a note for Elek who was nowhere in evidence (warming up a widow somewhere no doubt).

  Kovacs the concierge, an inveterate arsehead, was waiting, deeply disgruntled, to let them out and to lock up. Gyuri did manage to pick up a very faint sensation of satisfaction as he saw Kovacs fuming in his moth-eaten, cigarette-ventilated dressing gown, his hair floating in all directions.

  The car wasn’t black, as tradition dictated, but a sort of pukey brown. This was a little disappointing since it was going to spoil the story he could relate when he got out in five, six, seven, ten years time, whenever. It was a short drive through empty streets. Gyuri was surprised in a way that something he had been fearing for so long should have come so inexplicably out of the black. Was he going to be coached for a show trial? Who was being stored in the clink these days? They seemed keener on Communists these days but there was always the need for a supporting cast.

  Curiously, there was an element of relief. Now he had touched bottom. There was no need to fear being arrested when you’re arrested. What was the charge going to be? As far as Gyuri knew, considering the government to be a bunch of wankers wasn’t on the statute books. Why hadn’t they arrested him in ’45, in November, after the elections when he hadn’t anything to eat but did have a loaded revolver and had gone out into the streets in Elek’s overcoat to shout ‘Fifty-seven per cent’ with lots of other people? Why the Smallholders, a crowd of people with moustaches who liked going to church and waving loaves of bread, should have got fifty-seven per cent of the vote would have been a mystery if it hadn’t been for the Russians and baldy Rákosi’s party on the other side. Rákosi’s Communist Party, which only scored seventeen per cent, despite all sorts of largesse from Moscow and regular deliveries of prisoners of war to demonstrate Rákosi’s diplomatic skills. Rákosi had messed up that election, partly, because like everyone else in the Communist Party he couldn’t believe how disliked he was and partly because he’d only just unpacked the ‘build a Communist state’ kit that had been posted to him from the Soviet Union and was still reading the manual. ‘Fifty-seven per cent’ was a rather witless thing to shout in the streets, but it had been great, and the slogan was a portmanteau, replete with sesquipedalian imprecations and oaths against the Communists.

  As Gyuri was led into the eleg
ant interior of 60 Andrássy út, for some reason, the rumour about the head of the AVO’s wife came to his mind: Gábor Pétér’s wife was bruited to be lesbian with a strong penchant for triadic trysts. This salacious aside stepped aside as a young AVO officer (presumably the junior members and recruits got the night shift) who was Gyuri’s age, opened a folder and muttered ‘Fischer’ as if he were taking receipt of a consignment of desk lamps. The officer flipped through the file in a moderately annoyed fashion because it seemed to be virtually empty and lacking the crucial items he was searching for. Gyuri studied him and thought: if only I hadn’t been born with moral vertebrae, with intelligence, with dignity, I could be sitting there comfortably.

  ‘Your confession doesn’t seem to be here,’ remarked the officer with the clear implication that he was the only person in the building who dealt conscientiously with paperwork.

  ‘It had better be good, I’m not signing any rubbish,’ said Gyuri diving into the silence. On account of the dearth of menace in the proceedings (it was rather like a dentist’s waiting room without the magazines) and because he had the feeling it would be his last chance to crack a joke for a long while, he took the initiative. It would be the sort of story that would tickle everyone in prison.

  The receptionist looked at Gyuri as if he had fouled the carpet, not stupid or boorish, but simply sad. He called to a colleague in an adjoining room. ‘One more. Fischer.’ The colleague came in with a clipboard he was consulting closely, professionally. He spent rather longer than one could expect it would take to scrutinise a single sheet of paper, even with very small print, finally he pronounced, ‘There’s no Fischer.’