Authors: Tibor Fischer
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,’ Gyuri 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.