Introduction
Prelude
and The Raft of Poverty
In the Circus
Ring
The Pedlar's
Prediction
Hail Caesar!
Jealousy
is Dead
A Steam Engine
for a Piano
Stalin
Organs
Hungarian
Rhapsody: a failure
White
Nights
All
or Nothing
HUNGARIAN RHAPSODY: A FAILURE
Early
one morning, a warm, caressing breeze
swept away the cold which had been biting
into us for so long. Spring sunshine!
The morale of the whole unit was high.
It warmed our hearts and bodies, which
wanted nothing better than to forget
the bitter cold winter.
Full
instructions as to our new duties had
been received some time before. Everyone
did his best to respect them, following
them blindly, and soon we were all working
as one, with the reflexes of a professional
army.
While
waiting for the promised new tanks,
I was put in charge of the physical
training of a unit of young recruits.
The Company was installed in a school
which did not have a playground large
enough for our frolics so to trot six
miles, there and back, to a meadow large
enough for a biggish herd of cattle,
which had already been scythed by the
old peasants from the nearby village.
The terrain was just right for us and
we went there daily, except on Sundays.
I could have taken things easy but the
young chaps were not any more enthusiastic
about training than I had been, so that
I had to give the lead throughout the
sessions and, taking my duties to heart,
returned to the garrison most evenings
far wearier than those who knew exactly
how to appear more exhausted than they
really were. A lance corporal and a
sergeant were in charge of disciplining
the reluctant crew but they were relieved
that I pretended not to see the skivers
and did as much themselves. The daily
return journey alone would have been
sufficient to keep us physically fit,
nor was there any risk of becoming overweight
on army diet. To prepare youngsters
for a war they had no wish to fight,
I sometimes made them do endurance trials,
explaining to the lazier among them
that Adolf’s little party was not over
yet and that it was better to have me
on their backs than the Germans. We
did obstacle courses in full battledress.
We broke into a run then suddenly threw
ourselves to the ground (still fully
kitted out) and crossed imaginary rivers
by crawling along a rope, after which
we took a sort, well-earned break.
I
always took part in manoeuvres, though
there was nothing that obliged me to.
I did it of my own accord – in other
words, I was by now little more than
a cog in the wheel of war, a product
of the brain-washing process. In fact
it was a mere game compared with the
unbearable rhythm I had had to put up
with as a soldier under the orders of
that drill sergeant with his SS methods.
It was a good life, made to measure,
with days well-filled and about as varied
as the revolving wheels of a steam engine.
The
very sight of our encampment each evening
was enough to make me feel sick, more
out of anger than fatigue. I think it
must have been a sign that the situation
was getting me down: I was fed up to
the back teeth with it. Yet more often
than not, strange creature that I was,
a good night’s sleep put everything
right again and I watched my unit falling
smartly into line not in the least perturbed
by the previous evening’s feelings.
The
inhabitants of the nearby village were
always ready for a chat. Once the day’s
duties were over, we instructors were
allowed out for the evening. We had
a sort of late-night pass, in short.
So, we soon got to know the local civilians,
farm-workers for the most part. Some
of us were even lucky enough to be asked
in. The kindly, spontaneous way in which
they invited us to share their simple
evening meal was most touching. Generally,
we did not hesitate to accept, not so
much for the food as for an evening
of peace and quiet with families whose
loneliness was relieved by these evening
gatherings. Our hosts’ humble, discreet
desire that we should feel at home was
all the more touching as they had only
recently been liberated and had known
hard time under the Occupation. Besides
which, most families were deeply affected
by the absence of news from the Front
of a son, husband or father. They must
have found it difficult not to give
way to despair. They spoke in a flat,
laconic manner in what sounded like
a foreign language, punctuated by long
moments of silence. This was especially
so with the elderly.
Before
the war, this little place had been
a flourishing rural community. There
were fertile expanses of meadow and
field, whose products were sold at markets
in the surrounding towns. Now they did
not even have the seed to produce enough
corn to survive on. Only a few half-starved
cows, spared by the grace of God, remained
of the once prosperous herd. They wandered
over the fields in search of food along
with a few mangy, famished pigs. The
cattle had been slaughtered by the pitilessly
bloodthirsty soldiers, friendly or hostile
by turns, who were advancing or on the
retreat according to the hazards of
war.
We
used to go for an evening stroll to
try and shake off the spectre of hunger.
Quite frequently, someone would come
up to us cautiously and hand over a
small package containing an assortment
of smoked or fresh ham and sausage with
a piece of home-made white bread. Despite
their great kindness, these people barely
spoke – indeed they were almost cool
in their manner. Their faces were set
in an enigmatic, unsmiling expression
which seemed to reflect their inner
emotions.
This
attitude was typical of the middle-aged;
their daughters behaved quite differently.
Most of them had that mischievous sparkle
in their eyes which is a country girl’s
most attractive feature, handed down
as it is from generation to generation.
Late in the afternoon, these girls would
appear walking arm in arm. Dressed in
all their finery, they tried to give
the impression that they had a particular
destination in mind as they walked up
and down on both sides of the village
street more often than was proper. We
chose the spot for our stroll because
it was the most animated. Eyes modestly
lowered, they pretended to ignore the
insistent stares of the young soldiers
they passed before retracing their steps
to pass them again. Each longingly admired
the figure of the man whose arms she
would willingly have fallen into had
he dared declare his love. After a day’s
physical training, this evening stroll
was our only form of entertainment.
There was not a cinema open in the area.
The one in the village had been hit
by a missile and reduced to a heap of
rubble.
As
for music, there was not the least sign
of any. Even the main café where
poverty-stricken gypsies used to play,
transforming the noble peasant’s single
drink into an orgy of drunkenness, even
that, the regional cultural centre,
had shut down. Nor did the odd ribald
song, whistled by some of my companions
on the way to our daily high jinks,
contain enough music to reawaken any
trace of the fascination it had once
held for me. What is more, on the rare
occasions when I thought of the piano,
it was as something purely abstract.
I had become a perfect example of the
good soldier Schweik, ready to execute
orders at all times. My entire outlook
on life had changed. The day’s menu,
the promising glance of a young blond
who had passed us the evening before
and the height of the obstacle we would
have to leap over the following day,
these were my sole preoccupations. By
contrast, the piano as an artistic ideal
or even a breadwinner had become no
more than a distant memory, classified
once and for all under ‘errors of my
youth’. Yet again, something unexpected
and beyond my control occurred to rescue
it from my subconscious.
Since
I did not want to go to the piano, Destiny
intervened and the piano came to me.
That particular day I had been teaching
my brood to dig a tank trap. We came
back about midday for lunch in the canteen,
known to some as ‘the nursery’ because
the new arrivals were lodged on the
upper floors. We lined up to be served
then sat at a table and chewed hungrily
at the dish of the day – ‘fried veal’
as the chef called it. He was only a
couple of letters out: it was more a
question of flying than frying, as anyone
who put a knife to it quickly found
out. It was all the same to us. After
a morning digging, we would have eaten
a plateful of nails if need be. Once
we had got the meal over with, I went
for a smoke in the yard until it was
time to return to our adventure playground.
Propped against a wall, I half-listened
to my stomach protesting discreetly
(to my relief) against being used as
a dustbin. Just as we were about to
move off, a high-ranking officer came
up. Taking me to one side with a conspiratorial
air, he peered into my face as if wondering
whether I was intelligent enough to
realize the importance of what he, the
Angel of the Lord, was about to announce.
With all due solemnity he began: "In
conjunction with the intrinsic needs
of the masses, the splitting of whose
psych-motricity consequent on the present
state of events, is undergoing a kinetic
transference, High Command esteems it
opportune to concede a fraction of its
cultural reserves, subsequent to a bilateral
agreement with urban social advisers,
to accord maximum importance to the
implementing of a project in which,
as a study of your previous achievements
has permitted us to localise, your participation
at professional level would be primordial."
"Would
you care to sit down?" murmured
in the sort of melodious, other-worldly
voice used by nurses to calm a patient
in a paranoiac fit. "No? Well,
just listen to me. Even if we didn’t
go to the same university, I’m afraid
I may well have understood what you’re
getting at despite all the flowery language.
Apparently, you and he local bigwigs
– the priest, the beadle, the grave-digger
and the mayor (the doctor and the teacher
must have been conscripted) – fornicated
together to think up this cultural junketing
for the rustics. Now the knife is at
your throats you’re longing for some
fellow to transform your dreary whist-drive
into a Roman carnival. You’d gain yourself
an extra stripe when you’re demobilized
without doing a thing for the morale
of the local clods. Now, if you’ll excuse
me, I’ve got a tank trap to finish?"
"W-What
did you say? He stammered in astonishment.
"Cogito ergo sum, with all
due respect," and I gave the regulation
salute. "Just a minute," he
said, reaching out to me with a crestfallen
look. "I got what I deserved. You
put me in my place. Please listen."
"Certainly not," I persisted,
trying hard to control my growing anger.
"You are, of course, my superior
and I shall continue to obey all orders
from on high and do my best to fulfil
such obligations as are expected of
one of my rank. I’ll drive your tanks,
drill your raw recruits, swallow your
vile food but, my dear sir, my obligations
end there. My previous achievements,
as you put it, were part of my civilian
life, which is no concern of yours so
kindly keep your hands off. You seem
to think your problem is solved just
because you’ve come across some intellectual’s
file. I was indeed once a pianist and
you think an order form you is enough
to make me take my hands from out a
grease-covered engine, rinse them and
be ready to give a recital. When I tell
you, my dear sir, that I ceased all
playing ‘at a professional level’, as
you so learnedly put it, long ago you
will realize what an absurd mistake
you’ve made. Not only would I be incapable
of transforming myself into a virtuoso
at a moment’s notice but I can’t even
bear the sight of a piano now. I’ve
drawn a line under that part of my life
once and for all."
I
had let myself get carried away and
gave a deep sigh of relief, which calmed
me so that I could look him in the face
again. I hadn’t yet recovered from the
effects of my heated speech and was
astounded that it was the first time
I had actually said I was giving it
all up for good, which I had never had
the courage to do before. Had I sunk
so low as to have to put on a mask to
be able to look myself in the face?
Almost.
Visibly
taken aback and put out by my attitude,
the officer silently observed the struggle
between my will and my lost illusions.
He was to be, though I did not realize
it then, the catalyst of my long-forgotten
dreams. My benefactor remained silent
as long as his rule book permitted in
such cases and solemnly assured me that
he fully understood. Then he got back
on his cultural hobbyhorse and asked
me a most pertinent question. It was
the way he phrased it that amazed me.
"How
long do you think you will need to restore
the explosive power of your hands and
burst asunder the hearts of we prisoners?"
he asked, adopting a noble, artistic
expression in line with what he hoped
was my train of thought. I stood there
daydreaming, oblivious of his presence
and absurd pomposity. He was determined
to do his utmost to get me to change
my mind and was pleased to note he had
touched on a sensitive spot. "What
about having another try, even after
so long?" I had never thought of
it. I had a vague feeling the unease
provoked by the idea restored me to
life. I told him I needed time to consider
the question. He agreed with a condescending
smile, certain he had already won. That
night as I lay on my bunk I tried over
and over again to find the words to
refuse to play ever again, which would
mean a definitive break with the music
I loved so much. The same devil who
acts on the mind of the politician starting
out on a career with the best of intentions
and who likewise keeps watch over the
canonical knowledge of the irreproachable
critic succeeded in keeping me awake
all night, tempting me with all the
golden opportunities that would be mine
if only I would yield to temptation.
Firstly, the creature said, you will
be able to look yourself in the face
again. Secondly, you will be helping
your fellow soldiers no end. Thirdly,
you might be offered a job and get out
of being sent back to the Front. Fourthly,
it is high time you started to think
of your ambition and only your playing
can help you achieve it. Fifthly, your
life is at stake- as you are completely
out of your element here and cannot
hold out much longer. Sixthly, what
have you got to lose?
Quite
true, I thought in my somnolent state,
what have I got to lose? The gents’
gala evening is not for another ten
days. Since they need me, I will only
have to ask and they will relieve me
of my duties and give me access to a
piano in a quiet part of the barracks
during that time. Or will they? As things
stand, my hands are so hardened with
manipulating shovels and pickaxes that
they are better suited to driving a
tank than playing a piano. Yet, despite
all that has been imposed on them, there
is nothing they would enjoy more. Ten
days would perhaps be sufficient to
loosen them up so as to be able to put
together a few pieces buried deep in
my memory. Liszt’s Second or
Sixth Hungarian Rhapsody, for
instance – though as far as the latter
is concerned, "You’re letting yourself
in for it," my conscience whispered.
"To start with we must be more
modest, Cziffra, my friend. You can’t
get through the final pages of the Sixth
Rhapsody with fingers and wrists
in that condition. It is just not possible
to play multiple octaves with finger
joints more used to repairing military
equipment than to high precision virtuosity.
You’d need ten months’ practice, not
twelve, and even then…"
I
had reached a point where I was sick
of the whole idea and lay in the dark
on my awful camp bed brooding. I came
to the conclusion that I was exaggerating
the difficulties. "It’s my grief
at losing such a priceless treasure
that’s making me feel like this. Come
on, I’ll go and see the Camp Commander,"
I said to myself, still half asleep,
"and if he really needs me he’s
bound to give me a permit letting me
off training for ten days before his
great cultural evening. If he can find
me some sort of piano as far away as
possible form the noise of the barracks,
I will have at least eight hours a day
to get back at least some of my former
suppleness and a fraction of my skill
and prepare the Second Hungarian
Rhapsody and perhaps even work out
a few improvisations on a local folksong."
Full
of good resolutions, I slept until dawn,
at which point and to its great delight
my sense of smell was alerted to the
presence of a bowl of bacon soup, piping
hot and full of pieces of excellent
meat, which the Camp Commander had had
especially made and brought me by his
orderly. A nice thought. The fellow
certainly knew what he was about. He
knew that the way to a soldier’s mind
was via his stomach. This was yet another
of many such experiences and I delightedly
got down to my Gargantuan breakfast
more convinced than ever of the truth
of the old adage that any form of happiness
beyond one’s grasp is but a lure. The
prospect of other meals like this increased
my determination to transform myself
into a concert pianist, at least for
a while. That particular evening, the
piano, the butt of my resentment if
ever there was one, was more a means
of filling my stomach than of helping
men to understand the language of the
gods. My mental equilibrium was restored,
which was what mattered most considering
the extent to which my sensibility had
deteriorated over the past three years.
So
no ‘non-aggressive close combat training
with use of blanks’ for today. At crack
of dawn I asked for and was granted
an interview with the Major General,
the highest-ranking officer in the camp.
He was an educated man, a music lover
and an amateur pianist (yet another!).
I told him I had decided to take part
in the great ‘socio-cultural event’,
as he liked to call it. With a broad
smile, he handed me a paper exempting
me from all duties for a fortnight,
which could be prolonged if necessary.
He confirmed that some time during the
day a piano would ‘appear’ for my exclusive
use. "I don’t know where we’ll
find one but we will," he said,
scratching his head pensively. "I’ll
set my best scouts on the job. It shouldn’t
pose any major problems; we’re near
a fairly large town after all, aren’t
we?" he asked, obviously trying
to convince himself rather than reassure
me. I nodded approvingly and said it
was not for me to doubt his word. He
burst out laughing, shook me by the
hand and dismissed me. I returned to
the yard, certain there would be no
sign of a piano for at least three days.
But the Major General was a very efficient
man. In the course of the morning he
had the houses in the nearby village
searched and, after much discussion,
managed to take possession of (sorry,
‘borrow’) a piano almost as old and
dilapidated as its owner, a retired
schoolmistress. So it was that shortly
before midday a young soldier ran up
to me, his face glowing with pride and
pleasure at being the first to bring
me the good news:
"The
M-Major wants you to know that he’s
found it," he stammered, standing
rigidly to attention. "Found what?"
I replied gruffly. "Why, the little
chest, that’s to say… cupboard,"
he said hesitantly. "What’s that?"
I asked in astonishment. "Yes,
a little cupboard that you tap to make
music. Sorry, I don’t know the word
for it. It’s the first time I’ve seen
one." I chased him off, red with
anger, shouting, "Get out of here,
you stupid clod!"
"My
God!" I thought, astounded, "to
think that in a country which produced
Liszt and Bartók there are still
people who’ve never seen a piano in
their lives! There’ll be a fine lot
at the Major General’s social-cultural
evening! Even after his military service
that poor fellow is as oafish as the
day he was born. Fancy confusing an
upright piano with a chest! How daft
can you get? I’ll really have to set
to if I’m to restore the reputation
of my cupboard in the eyes of that twit
and others of his ilk," I said
to myself resignedly as I went off to
take a look at the amazing chest which
makes music – when you bang on it.
I
did not have to look far. In one corner
of the yard, six hefty soldiers looked
as if they were scrimmaging for a ball.
They sweated like oxen as they heaved
the poor old upright in all directions.
The instrument would have looked well
in a brothel. It was smothered in gilded
bronze Muses, their languid arms and
thighs wrapped around it, and looked
as if it had been got up for a carnival
parade.
The
six privates saw to it that the removal
was suitably staged, grunting like beasts
of burden and swearing at the lascivious
dream maidens enfolding the absurd coffer.
They tottered under their burden as
far as the ex-gymnasium where we were
billeted. Just for a laugh, a few conscripts
with nothing better to do followed closely
behind. I thanked the perspiring privates
and chucked the skivers out, having
no wish to hear their army-style jokes.
I wanted to be alone at this moment
which I had looked forward to – and
feared – for so long. During all those
endless years of war, whether on manoeuvres
or capering on horseback, crouching
behind the porthole of a tank, stagnating
down a mine or in a concentration camp,
I had often felt an almost sensual desire
to touch, caress or simply place my
hands on a keyboard, no matter what
its condition. At last I had achieved
my ambition. There in front of me like
a mirage the angelic vision of the chest-which-plays-when-you-bang-it
stared at me defiantly. My hands trembled
like those of an addict in need of a
fix as I raised the varnished lid, which
had been cunningly tempting me like
Pandora’s Box. One glance at the keys
was enough to bring me down to earth
again. A good third were depressed and
it was quite impossible to restore them
to the position intended by the maker
of this daft allegory on wheels. This
was worrying and I hurried to unbolt
some of the Muses and take a look inside.
What I found made me think of the young
booby I had dared, in my anger, to call
an ignorant peasant. He had been all
too right. Though the piano looked seductive
enough from the outside, it really was
no more than a chest containing the
story of my life.
I
looked on the rubble of my career, the
ruins of my former ambitions, through
a mess of hammers and tangled, broken
strings beneath a sounding board which
was split down the middle.
"Perhaps
it’s all for the best," I thought,
looking at my hands as calloused as
any old soldier’s, all blistered and
cracked, not to speak of the scar across
one palm, the result of a knife stroke
during close combat training. Miraculously,
the deep gash had not had any serious
consequences. There was a striking similarity
between the state of my hands and that
of the piano. Horses for courses. I
cussedly turned up my nose at the obstacle
ahead. Sick and tired of all the disappointments
in my life, I remained glued to my chair
for a while and then, rising to my feet,
stood there motionless.
And
that was the historic meeting with the
object on which all my resentment was
focussed. Like a robot, I fitted the
cream-coloured Muses back on their stands
and, thoroughly dejected, left the scene
of my shattered illusions like a sleepwalker
and took refuge in my hut. I sat on
the edge of my camp bed not knowing
where to hide my callous-covered paws
and took a perverse pleasure in analysing
my conflicting feelings. The cave-dwelling
Tommy with his knotty fingers and ape-like
habits was beginning to weary of sharing
his body with the hyper-sensitive one-man
band. Though cordially detesting one
another from the depths of the same
heart, each a projection of the other’s
alter ego, they were both past
masters in the art of humiliating me.
I was tired of the tyranny of two old
blimps who could only follow orders
and took turns at greedily lapping up
the other’s venom. The bumbling monologues
addressed to the musician with his head
in the clouds by the randy soldier,
and vice versa, left me giddy. I decided
I had had enough of agonizing and prepared
to go and tell the Commandant that the
old honky-tonk he had requisitioned
would make excellent fuel for a barbecue
or would, if he preferred, make a silk
farm.
There
was no other solution to the problem
of the artistic doldrums in which I
and the troops were becalmed. The incident
was a sign from above that my activities
as a dream-maker were over. The Major
was of a very different opinion. His
lynx-like eye had already spotted that
his toadies were somewhat lacking in
common sense. He took the view that
culture was what remained when all else
had been forgotten. For a start, the
unfortunate crew which had dared bring
back the ‘canteen-on-wheels crawling
with women in filthy postures’ was confined
to barracks for a week. He then selected
twelve worthy warriors who, judging
from their CVs, were not the sort to
confuse a cottage organ with a German
concert grand. I went back downstairs
feeling quite sprightly at regaining
my freedom and was halted in my tracks
by the stentorian voice of the Camp
Commander bellowing in the yard: "This
time, try not to come back with a kneading
trough encrusted with bronze tarts before
checking it’s a proper grand piano in
working order! I want you back dead
or alive with the squeeze-box by curfew!
On your way!"
Once
more, some vindictive shark had decided
on my fate before I had had so much
as time to ready myself. Because of
a nonsensical piece of bravado on my
part, I was obliged to keep my promise
to transform my carter’s paws into a
musician’s hands within ten days. There
was no putting a spoke in the wheels
of the diabolical machine I had set
in motion.
That
evening, at the agreed time, the lorry
rolled up and a squadron of temporary
Salvationists heaved out a stylish grand
piano of manageable proportions. They
seized hold of it and bore it triumphantly
into the room, setting it beside the
antiquated, mortally wounded instrument
the Muses were still ostentatiously
embracing. This time I simply looked
the instrument over casually as if it
had been an ox cart. To my amazement
there was not a gaiter button missing,
to quote the group wit.
They
all slipped away, leaving me agonizing.
By now it was late. Even so, I wanted
to get down to work straight away. But
how to avoid disturbing all my fellow
soldiers sleeping the sleep of the just,
dreaming of those bronze beauties? I
knew plenty of makeshift tricks for
muffling the sound of a tank engine
going flat out, but to do that to a
piano there and then without any tools
right in the middle of a barracks full
of men peacefully sleeping… The shifts
of the nonchalant goddesses gave me
an idea. I knew the Captain often used
to take a tumble with the Colonel’s
chambermaid. I crept into his room and
commandeered a long, dainty shawl and
a pair of chamois leather gloves: he
must have caught the habit from the
Germans as there were an incredible
quantity: lambskin, suede, pigskin.
The gent certainly looked after his
mitts.
Bearing
my booty, I went back to the piano,
dismounted the keyboard and slipped
the shawl beneath the strings in line
with the hammers then put everything
back into place. In this way, I had
at my disposal a muting device, rough
and ready to be sure but effective for
all the keys as it did not prevent the
hammers striking them. In this way I
could play at any time of the day or
night without being heard or disturbing
anyone. The ultimate refinement was
that I could just hear sufficiently
to know what I was doing. Since then
I have often used this rather primitive
method, always with success.
Once
that chore was over, I put on the chamois
gloves and began playing cascades of
scales. I hoped to be able to dispense
with them by the end of the week so
that my hands would have full control
of the keyboard. I spent some time sizing
up the extent of the damage to them
and their weak points. I virtually had
to start all over again from the beginning.
A
distant church clock sounding four brought
me back down to earth. So sleepy I could
barely stand, I shut the piano lid and
groped my way back to the ‘isba’ to
get an hour or two’s sleep before first
bugle call. I slept fitfully until dawn,
pursued by a nightmare in which I was
battling against a sea monster, a sort
of gluey, transparent octopus that I
attempted to wrestle with. I was in
such a sweat that my batman had to massage
me with his well-practised slaps. In
accordance with a prior agreement between
the Camp Commander, who understood all
us heroes who had lost touch with their
libidos, and myself, I was exempted
from all duties and training from then
on. Knowing what I was in for over the
coming ten days, I wished I could have
invited him to dinner like Don Giovanni
inviting the statue of the Commendatore
he had killed. Meanwhile, to get over
the restless night which had nearly
cost me my food and drink, I went off
to the kitchen to restore myself with
a large bowl of hot stew full of bacon
and runner beans. After this I returned
to the gym to continue, or rather re-start,
my crash course.
Apart
from half-hour breaks for meals, I did
nothing else. Not even eight to ten
hours of daily practice could satisfy
me. Often, once dinner was over, I put
my muting device in position and continued
to mortify my fingers. At first, I always
wore gloves. I worked exclusively on
‘technique’: every type of scale, thirds,
octaves and leaps. It seemed wiser not
to start on complex pieces until speed
and accuracy had been fully mastered.
It was not that I felt no urge to press
ahead: like anyone else, I inwardly
wished I knew it all already, but I
was also apprehensive.
Thus
the first five days accorded me went
by. Whether discouraged by a blunder
or encouraged by success, I made my
hands labour like convicts. Some times
a few pals, intrigued by my fanatical
zeal, came quietly into the room ,leaned
against the wall and dreamily watched
the harsh training of my ten slaves.
A few lads, full of common sense, and
aghast that anyone should drive himself
so hard, profited from the odd short
pause to make me the timid offer of
a drink from a flask concealed in a
uniform pocket: "Chief, you’d do
better to take a swig than make yourself
ill," they whispered. "Just
a drop and you’ll have wings on your
fingers!"
That
was precisely what I did not want. I
know they thought I was like the madman
banging his head with a hammer just
to see how much better he felt when
he stopped. Perhaps there was something
of that about it. I never worked in
gloves when they were there or they
would have thought me unfit for service.
I drove away the temptations of the
bottle (far from unattractive under
normal circumstances), shaking my head
and getting on with my practice for
the grand Battalion celebrations, while
the bacchic revellers crept outside
to slake their thirst wit a draught
strong enough to have fuelled an Air
Force plane. Aside from such occasional
visits, I was able to work undisturbed.
My
barfly pals spread the news of the David
versus Goliath combat round the village.
As for the inhabitants, "They watched
new stars arise from the ocean depths
to an unknown sky," to quote Heredia.
They really did think of my deeds as
a tour de force worthy of respect
if only for the effort involved. I was
getting along nicely. My hands were
in good condition once more. They were
subjected to hours of disciplinary torture
– like telling the beads of an endless
rosary – and this had almost entirely
restored that sixth sense which increases
an interpreter’s sensitivity, as it
does the receptiveness of an audience.
Mastery of the instrument was mine once
again – something only those who have
never experienced it can look upon with
hypocritical incredulity. To give an
example, I invented a very good exercise
to test the autonomy of my hands: I
superimposed the American and Russian
national anthems, each in its own key.
As one is in triple time and the other
in quadruple, harmonisation was rather
complicated with each hand playing a
different melody. Perhaps that is why
the two countries have never been able
to fall into step.
The
main part of the programme I had in
mind was based on patriotic songs intermingled
with folksongs and dances, all played
as if by a mob of volunteers disguised
as innocent maidens. There were also
a few sketches richly seasoned with
rustic wit, full of very obvious misunderstandings,
relating in a very corny style the endless
misfortunes of a soldier surrounded
by enemy troops searching for his battalion.
The
great day was approaching. Our barracks
were beginning to look like a fairy
tale garrison run by operetta soldiers
doing their best to transform their
quarters into a casino. Some of them
helped things along by working from
dawn till dusk cutting out fancy paper
garlands which the dummies, hastily
retrained as lace-makers, transformed
into paper lanterns. As a final touch,
they set their dainty fingers to painting
them, with an expression of beatitude
like monks engaged in illuminating manuscripts.
Another
squadron, reputed for its initiative,
was ‘delegated to outdoor work with
a view to conveyance’ – in the broadest
sense of the term. It was better not
to ask too many questions about the
articles ‘under conveyance’, whether
they had been obtained by the might
of the sword or, as was more likely,
looted, appropriated, pilfered or, to
put it bluntly, swiped. Once the invading
forces had passed, the Liberation army,
according to the principle of the biter
bit, became more or less tacitly tolerated
by the authorities, who had other things
to do than spend their time checking
up on the morality of soldiers a little
over-zealous in their ‘requisitioning’.
The piano I was using had probably belonged
to one of those families which had been
deported and sent to the gas chambers
as soon as Hungary was forced into the
position of ally of her former benevolent
protector. There was, alas, no lack
of abandoned homes full of easily removable
objects. In short, our battalion, a
close ally of the Red Army’s and as
popular as it was independent, quivered
to the cultural cry of, "Halt!
Who goes there?" However, no-one
had as yet been authorized to take over
the physical training room where, protected
by special orders, I barricaded myself
to put the final touches to my Herculean
labours. Forty-eight hours before the
Great Day, the valiant task force invaded
the place jubilantly, cleaning and polishing
everything in their path until the last
bar of soap was used up, at which moment
the exhausted saurians scuttled away
from the battlefield, by now transformed
into a recreation hall. The results
were amazing: the rotting boards shone
like a ballroom floor and were, in the
opinion of the Commandant, decidedly
cleaner than the canteen cutlery. The
little windows shone so brightly that
the intertwined rays of the spring sunshine
caused young flies in search of a cool
spot to shelter to fly smack into them.
The more experienced knew where the
missing panes were.
As
I put the finishing touches to my transformation
from a beggarly François Villon
to an Omar Kayam, a new choir of angels
arrived with orders to sandpaper a freshly
cleaned section of wall over which spread
the tentacles of a huge Swastika. They
set to with all the perseverance of
the Danaides. A square-shaped patch
in the centre of the hated emblem was
all that remained of the spot where
the once obligatory official portrait
had hung. It had no doubt depicted Admiral
Horthy, the ruler of Hungary, congratulating
a certain Austrian colonel with the
wind in his sails after signing their
notorious agreement.
Our
celebrations were due to take place
the next day. After two hours’ hard
work, the gravediggers of outmoded ideologies
had come to the conclusion they would
need three days to make the place presentable.
Desperate ills call for desperate remedies.
After consorting with his mates, one
off them went off, returning with a
roll of blood-red tinfoil. He unrolled
it on the floor and cut out a star slightly
larger than the faint traces of the
Swastika. His accomplices carefully
stapled the new emblem over the now-despised
old one. The brains behind the operation
went off yet again, returning proudly
with a portrait of the new arbiter of
peace who, with his benevolent smile,
was to dictate at Yalta a whole new
distribution of power. I gazed perplexedly
at the allegory of the joint rule of
the new era. By force of circumstance,
I had borne both emblems on my tank
turrets and my lapels and my enthusiasm
for the new decoration was muted almost
to the point of indifference. What significance
could this new emblem have for my life?
The naturalist Buffon has written that
the warbler symbolizes fickleness just
as the turtledove symbolizes fidelity.
Did this signal the dawn of a new life
or was it no more than a trademark,
merely bringing a change of shape and
colour to my Witches’ Sabbath of an
existence?
The preparatory stage of my training
was nearly over. To the greater joy
of my at long last free hands, I had
stopped mortifying them with Dervish-like
exercises two days before. For the moment,
I was restricting myself to Liszt’s
Second Hungarian Rhapsody and
the outline of improvisations on a popular
tune which, I hoped, would provide a
firework display at the appropriate
moment. While the lads, good tummies
that they were, put the final touches
to their decorations, I slowly and resignedly
shut the piano lid and watched them.
The situation was urgent. Yet another
team of strongmen, with a trace of alcohol-induced
squint in their eyes, was waiting to
carry the instrument off to its makeshift
platform. The podium was a good example
of Darwin’s theory that nothing is lost
or created, only transformed – even
in politics. Despite the weight of the
piano, the resourceful fellows who had
constructed this masterpiece had found
nothing better to support it than the
metal pieces of the proud Swastika adorning
the hall not long before and which had
been recuperated form the dump. There
stood the platform, on the ruins of
the former household god and beneath
the enigmatic gaze of his successor,
and from it I was to try and make the
village folk forget that they had already
had more than enough of both.
The
fateful hour of my gala concert was
fixed for ten o’clock the following
morning. I was off duty so I decided
to walk round the town as a reward for
my ten days’ solitary confinement. I
had to get out of my head the absurd
idea that having served under the banner
of Charybdis I was now under Scylla’s.
It was a lovely day. The inhabitants
were solemnly taking their daily stroll
along the main street. I stared in amazement:
it was like a vast floral float with
the people dressed all in their finery,
including many in multicoloured costumes.
As
in all truly rural villages where the
people live off the land, no-one paid
any attention to city fashions. For
the elderly they were too modernistic,
for the young too costly. So everyone
dressed according to what suited their
age or situation. The girls had put
on their organdie dresses and wore wooden
clogs or even went bare-footed. They
wore a few wild flowers in their hair
rather than patchouli. The more
mischievous made the young regimental
priest blush scarlet by heaving deep
sighs of longing every time they passed
him. Men of the older generation proudly
wore the old Hussars’ uniform. It was
an extraordinary one: despite its distant
Turkish origins, it was still very popular
and carried considerable prestige. It
consisted of a brightly coloured frogged
jacket, richly decorated with gold trimmings,
with trousers and sometimes even silver-spurred
boots to match. Compared with these
splendid uniforms, real collector’s
items worn by toy soldiers, we looked
as though we were dressed in second-rate
mercenaries’ rags. The women had eyes
only for them. Even when it came to
pleasing the eye, we were fighting the
wrong war.
After
ten days of enforced isolation, I drank
in this multi-coloured procession bathed
in the spring air. To complete the illusion
of being transported back in time, there
were even a few implacable old ladies
who, disdaining all this fancy, were
ostentatiously decked out in traditional
folk dress with its innumerable petticoats,
while on their white chignons they wore
a variety of local coifs of heavily
starched lace. Seated on the stone benches
along the street or near the thatched-roofed
washhouse, they chatted quietly to the
old men with their great handlebar or
pointed moustaches, preened specially
fir the occasion.
How
good it was just to be able to stroll
along with nothing in particular on
one’s mind. I breathed in the scents
of spring, wafted on the playful breeze
from the woods and fields round about.
All of a sudden, I found myself surrounded
by a gaggle of beauties: "Here’s
the drill sergeant who’s killing off
our boyfriends!" laughed one. "No,
it isn’t," said another nymph,
He’s a musician. He’s the one-man-band.
I know him – he’s all right." "People
say you know just how to handle it,"
added another lily-of-the-fields, a
tow-haired blond. "Is it true you’re
going to give us a little something
tomorrow?" "Give you what,
sweetie?" I quipped, sensing she
was a bit of a tease. "A piano
with only three legs," the pretty
girl replied, adding sympathetically,
"The battalion could have found
something a bit less shaky, couldn’t
it?" "Even the greatest beauty
in the world can only give what she’s
got," I replied learnedly, trying
hard to remain serious, as became my
new role as ‘man of the moment’. "I’m
looking forward to it just the same,"
replied the pert charmer, looking me
over admiringly as if I had been a prize
bull at an agricultural show. "You
don’t often see an instructor in close-combat
fighting change into an ivory-tickling
dandy in his spare time, do you girls?"
They
shrieked with laughter. I found the
voices of these flighty huntresses soothing
and, with all the wisdom of my twenty-odd
years, declared that, deep down, the
heart of this bloodthirsty mercenary
was brimming over with noble feelings
reserved for lovely washer-girls and
shepherdesses. Darkness was falling.
Regretfully, I was going to have to
leave this pretty bunch of primroses
with their forget-me-not-blue and sea-green
eyes, and bodices more enticing than
any service medal.
As
I left, I realized that the village
people were virtually all interrelated
since, from great-great-grandfather
down to the tiniest baby, they referred
to each other as cousin, uncle, etc.,
etc.. In short, this great rural family
had dressed up to the nines for the
sole pleasure of holding a dress rehearsal
for the next day’s festivities. I said
goodnight to my by now unconditional
admirers and went very grandly back
to barracks, where a great plate of
oat flakes, which was supposed to be
my dinner, was awaiting me. Bucephalus
himself would have found it difficult
to digest that lot. The orderly on duty
– the one I used to instruct in crawling
through puddles – clicked his heels
at my approach with all the respect
due to one returning from the hunt bearing
Hitler’s hide in the form of a bedside
rug.
"So
tomorrow’s the great day, chief,"
he said, standing rigidly to attention.
I nodded solemnly, looking up at the
sky like all great generals.
* * * * * * * * * *
It
was five o’clock. The day looked like
being a sunny one. I should have gone
back to sleep or at least taken advantage
of my last day of VIP treatment to laze
in bed but four years of patriotic wanderings
had rid my system of such decadent bourgeois
habits.
I
got up, washed quickly and hurried down
to the canteen, where my pal the cook,
who had a degree in maths, was already
waiting for me with a huge plateful
of salt pork. All that was needed to
help it down was a few lentils. This
great admirer of Newton, as well as
of units, had an unfortunate habit of
pouring huge quantities of salt and
pepper into our grub while his thoughts
were engaged on quadratic equations.
He had as much enthusiasm for his saucepans
as I for the innards of my tank when
it needed a repair. In the course of
our morning chats, he discovered I was
a musician and, since he was a little
batty, claimed we were kindred spirits
since the same laws governed sound and
mathematics. On this day of days, what
weighty arguments could I oppose to
such reasoning?
Speaking
with my mouth full, I reminded him that
the Emperor Claudius had been transported
in all haste to the Senate by litter
so that its members could decree without
delay that life would be pointless if
salt bacon did not exist. Stimulated
by our discussion, I went off for a
walk simply for the pleasure of not
hearing that wretched bugle braying.
I
walked on over hill and meadow for a
good two hours. It was a glorious day.
The countryside was so beautiful: the
blue forget-me-nots were opening, the
rising sun tinted the primroses mauve
and a whole mass of wild flowers with
long graceful stems were overflowing
with heady sap so that it was hard to
believe that just a few weeks previously
whole divisions had been trampling this
ground, fighting for it inch by inch.
I felt relaxed and carefree.
I
was lost in thought as though praying
at some great pagan altar. When after
some time I remembered the concert,
the sun was high in the sky. I had to
get back if I was not to be late. Far
off in the distance, people all in their
best were beginning to leave their houses.
Young and old alike seemed very excited.
I was soon to find out why.
I
pushed my way through the crowd, slipped
into the hall and went behind a curtain
made out of tattered sacks which had
contained the regiment’s potato stocks.
They now served as wings where the artists
tried to control their stage fright
by going over their lines and feeble
jokes. The local bright spark was the
worst affected of all. Normally a loudmouth,
he was slumped in a corner, teeth chattering
at the idea of having to welcome the
locals in dialect on behalf of the regiment.
Suddenly
all talk ceased. The Commanding Officer
entered in full regalia with half a
pound of sparkling medals hastily pinned
on his chest. "He really must be
in the soup to have got himself up like
a Christmas tree so quickly," the
man next to me whispered. Our dear,
crestfallen chief must have felt like
the Pope would have done had he learned
that god was arriving in ten minutes
to dine with him.
"Friends!
Dear friends!" he said, trying
to control his tremulous voice, "The
Generalissimo of the Hungarian Army
together with a Marshal of the Soviet
General Staff and their retinue, on
a tour of inspection, have just telegraphed
a message announcing their wish to honour
our cultural event with their presence.
I’m counting on you," he concluded,
more dead than alive, standing to attention
with corpse-like rigidity.
The
news spread like wildfire and made the
artists even more nervous. Indeed, they
would sooner have flirted with some
jungle beauty than gone onstage. Other
soldiers and officers, eager to be in
the know, crowded backstage where we
were already packed tight and could
have done without their presence. There
was no longer any question of starting
on time: we had to wait for our illustrious
guests. To fill in the time, certain
kindly souls went round jollying up
those among the artists who looked as
if they might faint at the sight of
so many glittering decorations.
As
for me, a young officer (blast him!)
felt it his duty to ‘keep my morale
up’, as he put it. I could not remember
ever meeting him before whereas he claimed
to have known me for years from reading
all about the incredible story of my
entry into the Franz Liszt Academy,
which had made headlines at the time.
In typical officer’s jargon, he made
a long speech about excessive nervous
tension draining an artist’s concentration,
plus other similar queer ideas, until
the tense atmosphere started to affect
me. He punctuated his Ciceronian oratory
with double swigs from a largish bottle
kept in his pocket and went on chatting
blithely about paralysing stage fright.
After I had refused his offer several
times, this devil’s disciple started
to expatiate on the worst thing that
could happen to a pianist: a memory
lapse. After half an hour of this, I
realized to my dismay that I had been
drained of every drop of self-confidence.
When this dratted lieutenant held out
his bottle to me for the umpteenth time,
his hand ever-shakier, I gave in and
with my own trembling hand took a couple
of reluctant sips. It was a mature walnut
brandy at least ten years old and of
exceptional quality. He asked me what
I thought of it and reverently concurred,
confessing with tears in his eyes that
the delicate ‘bouquet’ of this essence
was nothing less than the distillation
of his dear mother’s soul. It would
profane her memory to refuse this nectar.
He took back the object of his worship,
held it up like the holy sacrament and
made a further loving sacrifice to his
mother’s soul. I did not wish to appear
boorish and offend such filial devotion
and so took yet another dram. This time
my paralysing anxiety evaporated and
a soothing warmth spread over me. From
time to time I looked impassively through
a hole in the curtain: the hall was
full. We were only waiting for the High
Priests so that the junketings could
begin. Meanwhile, my lieutenant friend
kept urging more of the anti-stage fright
potion on me: "Nothing better to
help you face a crowd," he said
with a rumble and a burp.
Soon,
blissfully unaware, I was knocking back
walnut liqueur like mother’s milk. By
the time a speech welcoming our guests
and singing the praises of our victory
was over, my apparent Olympian calm
was more a case of comatose sleep than
loss of faculties. If only I had drunk
just that much less, a last-minute return
to consciousness, aided by fear, might
have burnt up the excess alcohol in
my system and restored some of my vitality.
I was not drunk but my body was rigid
and my eyelids were drooping. To crown
it all, I was aware that though I could
still walk straight the will to go onstage
had evaporated. I stood staring ahead,
sluggish and complacent. By then, both
my back-slapping benefactor and I were
downing, rather more often than just
praising, the quintessence of his mother’s
soul. Luckily, this did not continue
too long. My benefactor, who had been
paying homage since daybreak, suddenly
dashed out at a speed I would have believed
him capable of. Knocking over chairs
and plunging through scenery, he staggered
to the exit, sounding like a boiler
on the point of exploding. That is where
filial piety gets you, I thought, nodding
sagely.
The
euphoric lieutenant’s hassle with the
props was perfectly visible to the audience,
which reacted with a mixture of hilarity
and indignation. A few zealous corporals
blasted them with ‘shhs’ which I must
have been alone in thinking it sounded
like a distant murmur. My thoughts were
becoming more and more muddled. I was
on the point of going into hibernation
once and for all when I became vaguely
aware that someone was pulling me along
and forcing me onstage before a vague
mass whose indistinct murmur barely
attained my nirvana.
Some
impetus or other carried my rigid legs
along. I looked out over the stalls,
managing somehow or other to conceal
my somnolence. I stood quite still in
the middle of the little platform staring
blankly at the packed audience. Just
below, in the first row, shone a line
of glittering epaulettes while an assortment
of jutting chests sparkled with myriad
medals. I felt as welcome as a dog on
a putting green. A shout would have
gone unnoticed, yet I felt the rustle
of silence round me like a shroud. Then
my mind went quite blank, apart fro
the odd hallucination. Quite despite
myself, I found I was sitting on the
stool. Before me was a huge black piano
with an immaculately white keyboard
dotted with little patches of shiny
black shadow grinning at me.
My
arms hung inert like a disjointed puppet’s
and seemed to weigh a ton. Besides which
my fingers had grown so numb that they
barely seemed to belong to me. At that
precise moment an electric shock ran
through my clouded brain. As I looked
down, I realized that those generals
with their distinguished phizzes and
those peasant girls all dressed up in
their operetta flounced skirts were
my audience waiting for me to play something
for them. I was quite incapable of concentrating
on my hands to coordinate the complex
movements and tried desperately to recall
a mere fraction of the countless warhorses
my brain and fingers had struggled so
hard to master. I was obliged to concede
that all that remained of those hours
of self-communing and painstaking preparation
was a pile of rubble. All I could do
was finish off my recital – and I mean
finish off. I did manage to disinter
Liszt’s Second Hungarian Rhapsody
from my memory. How I did it remains
a mystery to this day.
After
this odd performance, I left the podium
in a daze. True, I did not stagger off,
rather I moved like a sleepwalker. I
do not even remember taking the customary
bow. As soon as I had started, I had
had the uneasy feeling that my playing
was unspeakably awful. I could not say,
though, to what extent such a mixed
audience was aware of the desperate
struggle being fought against my inner
void. What exactly is ‘quality’? For
me, being qualified means being apt.
On that dread day I failed lamentably
on both counts at one and the same time.
Even the little circle of rustic dilettantes
had realized it. Of all the performances
that morning, mine was received with,
or rather penalized by, the feeblest
applause. I was not sufficiently intoxicated
for it to be evident why my hands had
lost the power to convey the magic which
is normally one of the most notable
features of my playing. I had taken
such pains to restore it to its former
level and now it had sunk lower than
ever, if that was possible, and for
such a ludicrous reason, depriving the
audience of the spell that coherent
playing might have cast over them. My
last public concert had been at least
five years ago and was no more than
a faint memory. Most of what had happened
in the meantime had put my original
goal even further from my grasp. And
this was the result of my first attempt
to rise from the ashes!
As
far as I can remember, the festivities
ended round one o’clock in the afternoon.
The audience dispersed and we were free
till evening. As for me, as soon as
my tribulations were over I hurried
away from the jolly clique of celebrated
nonentities and went straight to bed.
I slept deeply, unperturbed by dreams,
right through to the following morning.
When I awoke, the events of the previous
day came back to me with astonishing
vividness. I was overcome with shame.
I ruminated over my dishonour and humiliation
with a feeling of opprobrium under which
good lost its lustre and evil its ugliness.
I broke down and wept unashamedly. For
having put up with too much abuse, as
well as for all my errors. Then there
was the loneliness, my loneliness, the
ghost of solitude that I had stoically
been pretending to ignore over the past
four years. So far I had managed to
a greater or lesser extent to beware
of underhand attacks on my only companion
during this barren period of my life.
From now on, this elemental power could
dispose of me as it thought fit: I was
throwing in the towel.
During
all this time, the patrol was searching
for me everywhere. I was discovered
in my room lying in a faint on the floor
with my arms outstretched. Later, when
I had recovered somewhat, I began to
worry about the sentiments of my superiors
towards their drill sergeant. It turned
out that no-one had noticed anything
abnormal about my conduct.
The
Camp Commander asked to see me but not
even he, with his considerably broader
intellectual horizons, made the slightest
insinuation about my buffoonery. Perfectly
straight-faced, he handed me a new list
of warmongering exercises to be tried
out on the trainees. In short, no disciplinary
action was taken over my blunder. I
got away with it, as they say. Time
passed and the festivities were soon
a distant memory – for everyone except
me.
Memories
of the fiasco gnawed at me inwardly
like an agonizing wound and for years
to come haunted my days and, worse,
my nights. In fact, it took me a good
twenty years of irreproachable professional
life to forget it. No other ointment
could have healed the wound and effaced
the deep inner scar.
Meanwhile,
for want of a better scapegoat, I took
my bitter feelings out on those around
me. I gave free rein to my baser instincts
and soon became a regular slave driver.
On the pretext of training the recruits,
I took great pleasure in exhausting,
breaking and martyrising them and even
physically abusing the unfortunate recruits
Fate threw in my path. I treated them
arrogantly and harshly. Such an attitude
was not healthy: I hated everything
and everybody – and it goes without
saying that the feeling was reciprocated.
As my despotic cruelty worsened, my
friends melted away. Cursing me under
their breath, my subordinates gritted
their teeth and crawled, ran and jumped
without let-up and at dizzying speed.
It was all the same to me. Their antipathy
was, if anything, a relief. My superiors
were not in the least bothered about
my sadistic methods so long as the rebellious
shirkers were transformed into disciplined
cannon fodder without a hitch and, believe
you me, there was never a word of protest.
During
the time spent drilling a love of the
fatherland into my brothers, I spent
my nights walking till dawn, trying
to rid myself of ‘that’ obsession. Those
sleepless nights spent out of doors
redoubled my severity, which had long
lost its ability to surprise, the following
day.
A
succession of events enabled me to rid
myself of the shadow haunting me. The
war was nearing its end. Hungary was
free of Nazi Germany’s unwelcome friendship.
Certain economic deals had been imposed
on us in addition to political protection,
by no means to our advantage. The Great
Reich was to have lasted a thousand
years, so that when it collapsed, a
new period of inflation set in. Certain
cabarets in the neighbouring village
opened up again as far as possible,
in view of the curfew still in force,
only to be invaded by local tipplers,
who engaged in a little barter while
waiting for the currency to become more
stable so as to be able to quench their
endless thirst. I longed to join them
to avoid being alone with myself and
organized my rake’s progress accordingly.
I did shift work, as they say.
Each
day from dawn till dusk I yelled myself
hoarse and reduced the joints and cartilages
of my underlings to jelly. Once dinner
was over, I went off to a bar to drink
my fill. It was the sort of place where,
during the week, the distinguished clientele
enjoyed a hearty punch-up at closing
time. On the whole, they were a pious
lot: they rarely broke the rule of not
using knives, except after High Mass
on Sunday night. I sometimes joined
in their jousting in honour of the knife,
the secret emblem of ‘Angel Court’.
It was as good a way as any of passing
the time. Once the circus games were
over, it was rare if some kind soul
did not invite me in to join him in
a final drink, though I hardly needed
one. "We can’t just part like this,"
my host for the evening would say. I
accepted gratefully, for although the
bars closed at ten I did not have to
be back until midnight and nothing in
the world would have made me go back
to quarters before I was certain I could
at least knock back a liqueur. True,
I only slept from midnight till four
o’clock: quite enough for me to recuperate.
After which I got up and went and did
a few menial tasks for one or other
of the early risers in the village,
such as the blacksmith, until first
bugle call. That was how I earned a
little money to help me see my existence
through rose-coloured spectacles each
evening.
Weeks
turned into months and I sank deeper
and deeper into a life of drunkenness
and violence. I was, not for the first
time, wading through a swamp and losing
touch with myself. My new acquaintances
had a strong influence on me: I fought,
swore and got drunk with all and sundry.
I found the company of these knights
of decadence soothing. Just as I was
about to sink without trace in a fury
of self-destruction, the postal system
started up again by fits and starts.
Little by little, all my fellow soldiers
got news of their families. I was staggering
back one night, stinking of wine, after
getting into a scrap with a braggart
of a farmer I had had to chuck into
a slurry pit to stop him altering my
features with the aid of a broken bottle,
when I found an envelope on my camp
bed. I sobered up immediately on recognizing
my wife’s handwriting. Even so, when
about to pick it up, my hands hesitated
for some time as though it was no concern
of theirs before eagerly grabbing the
letter.
It
was addressed to a certain "György
Cziffra, pianist".
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