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
THE PEDLAR’S PREDICTION
I
was beginning to feel a little better
and one morning asked my mother if I
could go outside. I was still far from
fit and she was none too keen on the
idea. Even so, she agreed, thinking
to herself that some fresh air would
be an excellent antidote to the piano.
The
great dressing ritual began. It was
a real ceremony: it was not enough for
my mother just to put my clothes on.
I had to be fully rigged out. My feeble
constitution was always close to crisis
point. The insignificant weight of my
body was still too much for my matchstick
legs. The slightest gust of wind would
have bowled me over so she put some
ballast in my shoes and padded my get-out
to prevent the first wild and mischievous
autumn gust turning me into a weather
vane. To start with I pulled on two
long pairs of thick socks, then a long-sleeved
vest, a thick lined shirt and a huge
pullover which would have done service
as a tunic. A patched old overcoat (which
I could have fitted into twice without
all the aforementioned) reached to my
ankles. My mother would not shorten
it as I had no long trousers. These
plus a long shawl knotted round my neck
and a pair of shoes whose length and
heaviness must have equalled a quarter
of my height and a third of my weight
respectively, made me look like a scarecrow.
Mother Nature must have thought I was
off to the North Pole when she saw me
all dressed up like a guy. In fact I
was only going down into the yard. My
goings out were subject to very simple
rules laid down by my mother. First,
illness was a costly privilege reserved
for the rich; poor people kindly refrain.
Second, why whet one’s appetite in the
cold air when one can go hungry in comfort
at home? Third, God looks after his
own. This philosophy was the vademecum
of many other families and was immediately
followed by a shower of further advice
before I was allowed out into ‘dropouts’
jungle’.
The
preparations over, she helped me downstairs
for at that season the old planks of
the balcony/walkway were slippery, as
were the stairs. When we reached the
yard, she patted the top of my head
and swiftly went back up. There was
no-one else in the yard. I walked carefully
through the mud looking for a playmate
and thinking nostalgically of the great
events of that summer.
The
rainbow bubble of my dream was burst
when a horde of kids dashed in, on the
way back to the warren after a good
time in a nearby field. There was just
the right number for a good game of
cops-and-robbers, I thought, happy to
see them. Most of them were known to
me because they lived in the same block.
When they caught sight of me, they stopped
in the middle of the yard to exchange
a few words then started slowly to approach.
I realized from the nasty, sullen way
they were looking at me that there was
nothing to be gained from waiting there
and yet I did, intrigued as I was by
their behaviour. They formed a circle
round me. They seemed to be weighing
me up as if they had never set eyes
on me before. Apart from a few of my
own age, most of them were about ten
years old. As I in turn looked at them
more closely, I realized to my surprise
for the first time how like beggars
they looked with their torn, ragged
clothes. Mine were all patches and no
better than theirs except that my mother
washed and mended them regularly so
that I should look less like a stray
dog. Even so, compared with what some
of those who were staring at me with
such persistence were wearing and by
the norms of ‘Angel Court’ it must have
looked as if I were dressed in haute
couture. My recent exploits at the
circus, still the chief subject of gossip
on winter nights, only made things worse.
Angered by such superiority, the gang
in its menacing silence obviously found
it difficult to accept that such a weed
had done something not even the toughest
in the gang could have. In their eyes,
such showing-off could not go unpunished.
They pressed round me, preparing for
the kill. In a flash I was pushed to
the ground, punched repeatedly and rolled
in the mud, and after that bombarded
with lumps of muck. I got myself sadly
up out of the puddle and heard my aggressors
sniggering as they ran off: "That’ll
teach him to be such a bighead and earn
so much! I’ve seen him fooling about...ugh!"
The yard was deserted once more. I hobbled
back up to our room. My mother let out
a cry when she saw me returning in such
a state. To cut a long story short,
I pretended I had bumped into something
from not looking where I was going.
Punishment was immediate: a week without
any piano. I was undressed manu militari
and ordered to bed without supper. While
the others ate, I examined my hands
as if they contained some shameful secret.
The excuse I gave my mother was only
a half-lie. The invisible object into
which I claimed to have bumped did exist:
the power of my hands to induce emotion.
Such power could arouse feelings of
hatred as well as of love. As I began
to doze off, my eyelids half-closed,
I thought with disbelief of the impotent
bitterness of boys I had thought were
my friends as they stupidly tried to
take away the only assailable thing
I had. Being a weakling was something
to be ashamed of in ‘Angel Court’. In
the world of the rejected, adults and
children obeyed the same law: that of
the hardest-hitting fist.
Occasionally,
I went along with my mother to the grocer’s
shop. She would put a tight bandage
round my wobbly knees over my two pairs
of long socks and wind another round
my ankles, which had an unfortunate
tendency to go out of joint. I was thus
able to walk in a straight line and
fall over less often. I preferred our
neighbours’ looks of commiseration behind
our backs to the gusts of autumn wind
which blew me around like a straw. By
force of circumstances, I became a stay-at-home.
My
former friends were replaced, with advantage,
by a cluster of extraordinary characters,
whose wonderful exploits I discovered
during my bouts of voracious reading.
Captain Nemo, Man Friday, the Seven
Dwarfs, filled my dreams and worked
on my imagination whenever they chose.
But my piano was my only confident,
at once my master and my slave. The
devilish instrument was a lodestone
round which my chief preoccupations
turned and a faithful mirror of my deepest
feelings.
My
father wanted to continue giving advice
for a while in an attempt to temper,
or at least channel, my ardent and rebellious
talent. He was not able to do a great
deal. The robot-like obedience with
which my hands, as if pre-programmed,
sounded out the mysteries of the keyboard
was to him so astonishing that, though
I was only five and a half, he did not
dare intervene for fear this apparently
superhuman gift, of which I was the
privileged receptacle, should lose its
vitality. It was as though I was drawn
to the piano each day by some strange
magnetic force. My father no longer
felt of any use at home and returned
to his wanderings with apostolic zeal,
in search of the job of his dreams.
My
mother had gone back to the grocer’s
as a ‘maid-of-all-work’, only coming
home to feed me at mealtimes. My sister
continued to leave at daybreak and return
late in the evening. Although I was
lonely, the time flashed by, what with
piano-playing and reading. In the evening
neighbours sometimes called in for a
chat. As always, they paid for the imaginary
food they had brought with the cheerful
clink of a non-existent silver crown.
Inflation was under control and the
purchasing power of the new coin was
astonishing. On the other hand, half
the unemployment indemnity which had
been the salvation of many had melted
away. As their nest egg diminished they
were obliged to spend as little as possible.
In such hard times, nobody needed a
shopping bag. A few potatoes, a half-portion
of cooking-oil, a single slice of bread
for each member of the family and just
a quarter of a candle to light their
feasts – this became the norm again.
The only way of putting a little aside
was to fast or at least become a vegetarian.
When
a limping pedlar as tall as a house
arrived in the yard with two battered
suitcases, he certainly knew what he
was about. His arrival caused unusual
excitement among the diehards of ‘Angel
Court’. Rain had washed the colour out
of his cases, bursting with samples
of cloth of all kinds. Scarcely had
he put his bags down than a mass of
people crowded round. He spread out
his cloth, got people to feel its softness
and suggested that the riff-raff looking
on should have a leg cut off rather
than miss such an opportunity. His brash
patter mesmerized the audience and made
the advantages of his ‘penny-by-penny’
instalment plan, as he kept repeating
with an odd snigger, seem irresistible.
It was true. This wandering pedlar was
offering a horde of out-of-work people
who were constantly hungry such bargains
as would have made the Good Samaritan’s
charity pale in comparison. The fellow
knew all that was said about ‘Angel
Court’ and that it was not a good place
for trade. Consequently, he offered
to deliver the following week the quantity
of cloth of their choice or a ready-to-wear
garment. He would go on to other slums,
prowling the region endlessly like a
bogeyman, collecting the money owing
him in sums of £2 a quarter, £1 a month
or even 10p a week! The usurer of fashion
was the acme of Providence to all poor
untouchables for whom such opportunities
were as rare as the temptation was great.
Standing round this King of the Highway,
the crowd of beggars with their bottomless
bags excitedly consulted each other
in their racy language. At the judicious
moment, the hobbling hawker conjured
up a large book shiny with grease. He
meticulously noted down the name and
order of every victim he had managed
to set on the road to ruin. Then he
put away his samples in a flash and,
raising his long, ape-like arms to the
sky, swore by all the devils in Hell
and half a dozen Bibles (those were
the terms he used) in a voice suddenly
grown wheezy to get on with the work.
As the crowd dispersed, the crookback
got up and with his deep-set, restless
eyes began searching where the strange
melodious sounds of a piano, which had
been intriguing him for some little
while, were coming from. He waited on
the alert for silence to return to the
yard and then the dark, starved-looking
silhouette climbed the worm-eaten stairs.
As
usual at that time of day, I was by
myself engaged on a complex, poetic
improvisation, sitting with my back
to the door. It was not easy to catch
me unawares because while playing I
made a mental note of all the familiar
sounds in the block, which resonated
like a drum with the echoes of various
comings and goings. Without so much
as raising my eyes from the keyboard,
I could tell what was happening in and
around the block from the creaking of
a stair, the squeak of planks on the
balcony-walkway and even the distinctive
groan of our front door.
After
a while, I stopped and let my arms fall.
Staring ahead, I wondered if I would
dare continue the terrifying story of
the Ogre which devoured children as
readily as I did Shepherd’s Pie. I finally
decided to wait for my parents to return
before making such a daring decision,
for I was as fascinated by the story
as by the pictures in the old book I
had come across. The afternoon was drawing
to a close and in the silent, half-dark
room the pale light was reflected by
the piano keys, yellow with age. Even
the thought of my tea – a dry crust
and a few pieces of sugar on a tin plate
within easy reach – had me thinking
of the monster’s ghastly meals. I was
suddenly awakened from my musings by
a slight creaking of the floorboards
and my eyes opened wide with fear. I
was sure someone or something had come
into the room and was standing motionless
behind me. Before even trying to see
what the intruder looked like, I was
convinced it could not be a mortal since
it seemed to me humanly impossible to
catch me out without my knowledge or
without making the slightest noise.
I sat as if glued to the seat, not daring
to turn my head. The voice of conscience,
repenting too late, echoed in my head,
"If you keep reading about ogres,
you’ll end up meeting one." Summoning
up such courage as remained to me, I
spun round on my stool, holding on tight
so as not to fall off. In the darkening
room there stood before me a strange,
ghostly man with a blank gaze, extremely
tall and thin. He looked lie a mummified
devil. "Thank God!" I whispered.
"At least it isn’t the child eater!"
"Not
everyone would dare go where I do,"
said the visitor in a grating, otherworldly
voice. "I’ve been listening to
you for some time, lad. I like your
work but I’d like you to play even better."
He gave a hollow laugh. "Alas!
No magic can replace the pinch of sulphur
which will soon make your playing different
from others’. But that’s of no importance
for the moment and even I can do a good
dead on occasion," he mumbled half
to himself.
"But
who are you, sir?" I asked politely,
astonished by the character’s appearance
and absurd remarks. "Who am I?"
he croaked in a strangely jovial manner,
which struck a false note. "Dammit,
you’ve got more curiosity than your
fingers, lad. Well, for you, let’s see
now…I’m the deacon of Destiny, ha, ha!
Is that good enough for you?"
I
still failed to understand what he was
getting at. Luckily my mother turned
up unexpectedly and the conversation
took another turn. Weighing up the lofty,
skeletal figure with one glance of her
bright eyes, she realized he was a pedlar.
"Sir," she said politely,
but in a tone admitting of no reply,
"we aren’t just poor, we’re very
poor. I’m sorry to have wasted your
time so if you would kindly…" Very
grandly, she opened the door for the
pedlar.
"Madam,"
said the decidedly odd creature, "I
haven’t come to sell my wares, though
you could do with them. You should also
know that I never waste my time,"
he muttered, stressing the final words.
"I came to tell you that your son
has exceptional talent. His place isn’t
in a big top but at the Budapest Academy
of Music founded by Franz Liszt."
His words admitted of no contradiction
either. "But how do you know?"
my mother ventured to ask, quite taken
aback. "Madam, I’m no more than
a humble travelling-salesman but, er,
well, I know what I know," he replied
obsequiously. "As proof of my good
faith I’m going to make an appointment
for you with the Director of the Academy
so he can audition your son."
"You
don’t expect me to believe that you
know him personally?" retorted
my mother, looking sharply at the stranger’s
frayed clothes. "Madam, I have
every reason to believe he will refuse
me nothing," he replied with a
sardonic laugh. "Be sure to be
ready: next week I’ll be back to confirm
the day and exact time of your appointment
and then – what will be will be! My
respects, madam. See you soon, young
master!" and away he went, shaking
with laughter. He picked up his load
from the landing and this time I heard
his ringing laughter and slightly limping
walk dying away as he went down the
stairs, which groaned under his weight.
Darkness
fell early over ‘Angle Court’ that day.
As usual, my father and sister came
home exhausted. My mother told them
excitedly about the odd, sphinx-like
character who looked like a tramp and
spoke like the Prince of Darkness. For
me, once and for all, he was the terrible
Ogre in my story to the life even if
there was no outward resemblance. I
was most careful not to let such a frightful
secret be known, for nothing would induce
me to let the image of myself as someone
far older than his years be tarnished
– an image I polished repeatedly. When
my father was told that one of the top
musical dignitaries was to audition
me very shortly thanks to this odd fellow,
he went wild with joy. I could not remember
ever having seen him so happy and exuberant.
Over supper, he made great plans for
my future as a famous pianist. After
all the exhilaration, my parents’ conversation
took a decidedly less enthusiastic turn.
"There’s
no question of taking the boy to the
Academy in that urchin’s get up,"
declared my mother, her voice breaking.
"They wouldn’t even let him in
dressed like that." "What
he needs is some new clothes,"
added my father, sighing wearily. "And
decent shoes," added my sister
pensively as she got up from table to
go to bed. The soles of her shoes were
like sieves. "Don’t wait for me
for supper tomorrow: I’m behind with
my work and will probably be late,"
she said as she finished undressing.
"Good night, all!"
She
got into bed, turned her face to the
wall and fell asleep at once. I did
the same. My parents went on talking,
trying to resolve the tantalizing problem.
Where were they to get the money from?
Next day we were back to our usual routine.
I stayed at home alone, riveted to the
piano stool, my hands brushing the keys
and constantly looking round uneasily,
either behind me or at the old yellowing
book, expecting to see the menacing
image of the Bogeyman rising out of
it. I got off with a scare.
My
parents and I were just finishing our
meal when my sister arrived, flushed
with emotion, a large parcel wrapped
in coloured paper under her arm. She
held it out to me silently, smiling.
This form of generosity was not the
rule in our community and I stood there,
arms dangling, not knowing quite what
to make of it all.
"Come
on, take it, silly, it’s for you!"
she cried, laughing at my shyness. Greatly
embarrassed, I took the beautiful parcel
and placed it carefully on the bed,
really sorry to have to tear off such
lovely wrappings. I clumsily began to
open it, putting off the moment of revelation
as long as possible. My parents and
sister gazed at me tenderly as I undid
the last knot in the final ribbon. The
parcel was undone. A dazzling sailor
suit plus a pair of real leather shoes,
with such a shine on them that it reflected
the flame of the paraffin lamp, lay
proudly in their box. Five minutes later,
dressed in my wonderful suit, I was
strutting round the room bursting with
joy while my family gaped in admiration.
The amazingly big collar was like a
lord’s; my first long trousers with
their immaculate creases fitted just
right.
"How
were you able to guess his measurements
so accurately?" my mother asked
in astonishment. "Quite simple,"
my sister answered. "Last night
while you were all asleep, I got up
and measured him from head to foot."
"How did you find the money so
quickly?" asked my father, perplexed.
"Just as simple," she replied
evasively. "I used all my savings!
My dear little brother," she went
on, containing her emotion and kissing
me, "You’ll go to the Academy for
your audition and it’ll be a sensation."
I
could not sleep that night. By now I
was quite ready for Nosferatu to reappear
and keep his promise. Meanwhile, I had
made a firm decision to read no more
stories about ogres. Would I keep to
it? In the huge album with its dog-eared
pages I found a story with a musical
title: the strange fable of a piper.
It brought out the Sorcerer’s Apprentice
in me. I wondered what tunes the ragged
wanderer played to his mysterious rhymes
in order to mesmerize the rats and children
of Hamlin, getting him to follow him
everywhere. I wanted to do the same.
I
calculated that I had some chance of
success since there were at least as
many rats in ‘Angel Court’ as in Hamlin.
I sat down at the piano, determined
to conjure up a dozen or more. I was
a little afraid my mother might tell
me off if she came back to find the
place overrun with rats so in the event
of my magic not making them disappear
in time I planned to chase them away
with a broom.
I
played for more than half an hour, doing
my utmost to draw irresistibly magic
sounds from my piano. Despite my efforts,
nothing happened and by then I would
have been satisfied with a couple of
mice. But it was no good: not a pointed
nose in sight – yet I had even looked
under the pedals. Disappointed and not
a little put out, I told myself that
either the Piper improvised better than
me or it was one of those stories, like
catching birds by putting salt on their
tales, invented by adults to shake off
children over-obsessed with magic.
While
we got dinner over, I asked my mother
with feigned indifference if she believed
in the Piper’s prowess. The question
amused her and she explained in a kindly
manner that elves, goblins, ogres, as
well as the Piper, were all part of
an imaginary family whose characters,
though famous, had never existed outside
stories and legends invented for little
boys such as myself. Upon which she
got up, washed our cracked plates in
no time at all and returned to the grocer’s,
warning me to behave myself at least
until she got back. I was alone once
more. Outside the weather was gloomy.
To pass part of the afternoon, which
looked like being endless, I decided
to re-read the Piper’s story, laughing
to myself at my previous naivety. My
reading was interrupted by some indefinable
noise and I stopped. A high-pitched
whistle, like a long lament repeated
over and over, became ever more piercing
as it approached. It was somewhat like
a catchy tune yet there was something
pleading about it, at once fascinating
and unbearable. I had never heard anything
like it. In my curiosity I opened the
window to take a look at the performer
of the unearthly hymn. It was the Bogeyman.
Who else? He was still some way off.
This time he carried not only his two
great suitcases but had on his back
a haversack of apparently considerable
weight as it caused his long, starved-looking
carcase to bend.
He
modulated his strange chant until it
became a strident whistle, still walking
in the direction of our block and limping
slightly. I realized with astonishment
that it was one week to the day since
our first encounter. He was on time
for his appointment. I do not know if
he had guessed my thoughts but he nodded
at me from a distance, which I took
for a greeting and automatically answered
with a wave. Deep down, I was almost
pleased to see the strange, whistling
Bogeyman again: he had become a part
of my world. All of a sudden my pleasure
turned to fear. People looking as if
they scarcely knew what they were doing
came out of their houses as he passed
and, marching like sleepwalkers, fell
into line behind him. The procession
grew before my eyes and was fast approaching
the entrance to our yard. When everyone
was inside, the good shepherd stopped
whistling and, turning round, called
out to his flock, "Come on, you
sexy lot! It’s time to rejoice! I’m
back with you again!" He broke
into a forced, devilish laugh. Having
recovered from their stupefaction, his
flock stood in line and applauded him,
tittering as they did so. They found
him irresistible. He let them gorge
themselves on the hilarity he had provoked
then raised his long, skinny arms in
the air. An oppressive silence at once
fell over the crowd. He gravely opened
his great black book and in his extraordinary
screech owl voice called out the names
of his debtors one by one. They came
forward as if hypnotised and went, heads
bowed, up to the small folding table
behind which stood the seller of illusions,
proud and generous.
To
each one he handed the roll of cloth
he or she had ordered and, with a grasping
gesture, swept the tiny pile of small
change the people had humbly placed
before him by way of a down payment.
Good salesman that he was, he did not
neglect to make the noses of the boozers
glow by unashamedly paying court, with
attempted ribaldry, to the sunken-faced
women. He picked out one nice girl with
an emaciated face standing among her
friends, all withered and faded before
their time. With an obscene gesture
he exclaimed, "By the fallen angel,
I swear when I see so many virtues in
a single person it makes me long for
a bowel movement! I’d rather stuff you
than the Pope’s mule!" The girl
thus addressed went and hid herself
behind the others in embarrassment while
they guffawed. The Bogeyman went on
titillating the women with other such
compliments, knowing full well that
his latest conquest, a notorious prostitute,
was waiting patiently behind a nearby
fence for him to honour his promises.
Once
everyone was satisfied, the pedlar climbed
up to our hovel. "Hi, kid! Tomorrow’s
the day!" he said in the voice
of a well-fed trooper. "Mr Dohnányi,
the Director of the Academy, will be
expecting you at his home at eleven
o’clock sharp. Be there without fail,"
he went on, turning to my mother, who
had just arrived. "No," turning
towards me again as if he had guessed
what was on my mind, "I’m sorry
I won’t be able to go with you but I
really am very busy at the moment. I’ll
make sure you get a decent welcome just
the same. Good luck, lad. Perhaps we’ll
meet again." Those were his final,
enigmatic words as he stood in the doorway
before limping off.
Next
morning, my mother and I were up at
daybreak. The Director’s home was on
the other side of Budapest. We had an
hour-and-a-half walk to the tram terminus,
a two-hour journey across the city,
then another hour’s walk. It was the
first time I had been out of ‘Angle
Court’. How beautiful the capital was
with its flashing car lights, fairyland
shop fronts overflowing with treasure
and wide, leafy avenues with palatial
dwellings on either side. It quite took
my breath away. Dotted here and there
were hansom cabs, buggies and antiquated
carriages which all became inextricably
entangled at every crossroads. Old hacks
pulled buses and splendid teams of horses
with shining harness and gold-plated
bits waited for them stoically, taking
not the least notice of the limousine
drivers bursting with impatience and
blasting furiously on their horns to
try and get past. Crowds of overdressed
people strolled along the pavements.
Haughty-looking women, heads held high,
wore hats defying the laws of gravity,
or indeed laws of any kind. I gazed
admiringly at one with a tropical forest
on her head made up of peacock, ostrich
and cockatoo feathers, and a few others
besides. Another wore, with great dignity,
a three-master in full sail on her hair,
which had been elegantly let down. The
most beautiful of all had a hat covered
with fruit. There was something for
everyone: an apple, a pair, a bunch
of grapes, a tomato. It was not a hat,
it was a cottage garden. We had descended
from the tram and my mother was hurrying
ahead so fast that I had to run to keep
up. It was nearly eleven o’clock. We
were now in a smart residential district
full of pretty flower beds. Far below
us, a superb view of the winding streets
of the city appeared to our delighted
gaze. We had reached our destination.
Just
as we were arriving at the home of the
‘Lord’ of the Academy, the richly decorated
gates opened. An impressive car with
copper headlamps drove noisily out and
sped off towards the town centre. The
doorkeeper gave such an obsequious bow
as it went by that we had a presentiment
something was not quite right. His act
of homage over, the Cerberus-flunkey,
who was probably used to sending away
mothers and their children, cut short
any possible conversation as, with a
blank stare, he recited in an expressionless
voice, "The Director only sees
people by appointment; he cannot bear
child prodigies and he thinks that,
Liszt apart, all pianists past and present
aren’t worth a shovelful of sh…"
A
smell of burning followed by the dying
sigh of a tyre pertinently illustrated
his words. An elegantly dressed man
with greying hair came briskly towards
us. "May I respectfully point out,
sir, that madam recommends the car should
not be taken out on Friday 13th?"
intoned the minion in an oily voice,
bowing low once more. "Change the
wheel and mind your own business,"
replied the other, repressing a laugh.
"Who are these people?" he
asked, seeing how upset we looked. "The
usual sort, sir," whispered the
wit, raising his white gloves in a gesture
of helplessness. "Yet another prodigy
longing for fame."
Indignant
at his servile hypocrisy, my mother
protested, "That is not true, sir!
We are very poor and have come a long
way for an appointment with the Director
of the Academy so he can audition my
son, as that rascal of a pedlar promised,
may the Devil take him and his hypocritical
face!" "But I am the Director,
madam, and I’m not expecting anyone
this morning," the head of the
household broke in, leafing through
his diary. "Who is this pedlar
you mentioned?"
"I
don’t know what hoaxer played this trick
and I beg you to excuse us for troubling
you," my mother said, bowing her
head in dismay. "But you should
know, sir, that we’ve been travelling
since dawn and no-one goes miles by
tram, not to speak of on foot, just
for the pleasure of getting surly treatment
from a dolled-up squirt with a po-face
enough to make you want to go and hang
yourself, even if his nose is like a
whole book of drinking songs."
The
description was so apt that the Professor
had to hold his lips tight to retain
his dignity. While his factotum, red
with embarrassment, went off to change
the wheel, the Director showed us into
the garden and said in an amused tone,
"Come in and play me something,
my boy, while my … is seeing to the
car." He led us into an immense
living-room with incredibly lavish furniture.
Two concert grands had pride of place
in the middle. I hoisted myself onto
one of the red velvet-coloured stools
and waited. In one corner, my mother
was silently crossing herself and I
heard the voice of the master saying
encouragingly, "You may begin."
So
I played. Everything and nothing. I
played the Bogeyman, the Piper, my joys
and sorrows, swept along by the elation
of at last being where I belonged. I
don’t know how long it lasted. I remember
the phone ringing, the Director staring
at me as if hypnotized and only going
answer reluctantly after some time.
"No, I really can’t come… What?
The rare pearl retaining me? You’re
on the wrong track, dear. This isn’t
a rare pearl, it’s the pearl of pearls,
the Koh-i-Noor!" The word was magic
to a child’s ears.
This
is not the place to go into the hidden
forces, magnetism, telepathy, which
certain types of journalist wrote of
in connection with me. The future of
this heaven-sent child – or had he been
sold to the Devil? – admitted to the
Academy under curious circumstances
had to be decided on without delay.
There was a pseudo-critical outcry and
soon two clans of ardent combatants
formed. The first spent its time trying
to prove to the second that the Chosen
are the playthings of Fate. Unless it
be the contrary, retorted the others.
Meanwhile,
I went to lessons on foot to save the
price of a return tram ticket and with
the money bought out-of-season fruit,
especially in winter, which I then resold
in the smart districts at quite a good
profit. This small sum enabled me to
start a sort of music library with things
bought by the kilo from junk dealers
at the rate for old paper. These were
brought back triumphantly to ‘Angel
Court’, often by the cartload. Did these
books and scores do anything for me?
A great deal and, in the last resort,
nothing.
My
first teachers at the Academy were just
as perplexed as my father had been:
they did not know quite which class
to assign me to. My talent was a form
of bond with my instrument that permitted
my manual skills to make sense of and
straightway put into practice all I
learnt from the sort of methodical teaching
which seems an avalanche of odds and
ends to most children. Things incomprehensible
to me at ten became conditioned reflexes
activating my hands before my brain
could provide a rational explanation.
It
was not yet possible to tell how far
my talent would take me before the weaknesses
in my playing were revealed so I was
allowed, indeed ordered, to attend the
Holy of Holies, the piano masterclasses.
They were quite different from any classes
I had been to up till then. One was
not taught how to play well but how
to become a part of one’s instrument
until the soul of the interpreter, visible
to all, became the messenger of music,
restoring it in all its original clarity.
Only
a few ‘grown-ups’ aged twenty-five and
more came to these classes. They were
virtuosos, with a technique far outstripping
my hesitant beginner’s effrontery, who
came along to perfect their already
considerable mastery under the eye of
Istvan Thomán, who made an indelible
impression on me. He had been a pupil
of Liszt’s and was subsequently the
revered teacher of Bartók and
Dohnányi. He had been appointed
to the top class at the Academy late
in life and was its Tree of Life – an
authentic, first-hand purveyor of the
teaching of Franz Liszt.
I
can still hear his voice roaring like
an old lion’s after a pupil had played
Liszt’s Grande Polonaise and
Chopin’s Fourth Ballade. "I
once played these pieces to Liszt in
this very room." What Liszt had
told our master was handed on to us
as if it was something completely new,
a password for generations of young
interpreters. He died while shouts and
the stamping of boots were already drowning
the celestial voices. People talked
far more about the possibility of a
war ‘like nothing anyone has ever seen’
than about their next concert.
The
class was suspended until someone else
could be appointed. Soldiers went into
the universities to encourage young
people to anticipate the conscription
order, tempting them with the promise
of various advantages. Recruiting officers
beat their drums outside the Academy.
When it came to my turn, I replied that
I would rather get married than drive
myself hoarse singing the Nazi hymn
while goose-stepping through the streets.
I was eighteen.
Less
than a year later I met Soleilka. It
was love at first sight and a few days
later we got married without our parents’
permission, stealing our identity cards
to do so. At the town hall we were told
that two witnesses would have to sign
the marriage certificate. We hurried
out and came back with two tramps we
had found nearby. After the ceremony,
they congratulated us but went away
disappointed at not being invited for
a drink. We literally did not have a
penny. All they got was a warm handshake.
Our wedding breakfast consisted of some
horse sausage, eaten on a nearby bench.
We were in heaven. Even now, thirty
years later, the bond between us is
still as strong. Not long afterwards,
I was called up and had to leave my
wife behind.
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