‘All the more reason, I should’ve thought, not to miss training,’ said his mother, the irritation evident in her voice.
‘He doesn’t want to leave me, do you, George?’ he said, chomping on his biscuit. ‘But don’t worry, I’m not planning to go anywhere for quite some time yet.’
George forced a smile and, retracting his hand, made an excuse about needing a glass of water, and disappeared into the kitchen. He’d forgotten how claustrophobic his parents could be when they were together, talking at him, talking for him, talking as if he was still a child. He could cope with one or the other but not both together. He couldn’t do it two years ago and couldn’t do it now. It’s wonderful to have Papa back again. He repeated the thought two, three times but something wasn’t quite right. The memory of the man outshone his physical presence. Perhaps because he expected him not to have changed. It was a naïve expectation, he knew that, but he couldn’t suppress the sense of anticlimax. The presence of the shrunken man that was his father filled the apartment as his former self had before; but whereas then it had felt natural, now, somehow, it felt wrong. He’d become used to it simply being him and his mother and the memory of his father. And he’d expected something different in his mother as well – optimism, outpourings of joy. Instead, she seemed resigned and, at times, irritable, as if his father’s return had upset her routine. Perhaps, she too was experiencing that same sense of anticlimax. It’s wonderful to have Papa back again.
‘I’m sorry, George, did you say something?’
‘I was just saying how wonderful it is to have Papa back again.’
‘Yes, isn’t it.’ Even her smile seemed forced. ‘I was planning a special feast tonight – spicy goulash – one of his favourites.’
‘It’d be too rich for him, his stomach can’t cope with that sort of food yet,’ he said, rinsing out the glass.
‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. I’ve got your kit ready; your boots look as good as new. I’ve put it all in your bag for you, next to the front door.’
‘I’ve said already, I’m not going today.’
‘You must, I insist.’
‘Stop talking to me as if I was a kid, Mother, I’ve made up my mind – I am not going.’
‘Now listen here, George Lorenc, you have a duty to yourself, to your team and to your father. You’ve got the sort of opportunity on Sunday that most boys of your age would die for. I will not have you cluttering up the apartment when you should be out there training for the most important game of your life. I simply can’t understand why you’re not more excited about it.’
‘Mother, I...’
‘Yes?’
He wanted to tell her, to share his burden, but he couldn’t, the words wouldn’t come; instead, he said simply, ‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all.’
His mother eyed him for a few moments, as if wondering whether to push him into saying what he obviously wanted to say. ‘I need to make a phone call.’
‘A phone call? To whom?’ he asked.
But she’d gone.
The communal telephone sat on a small table half way down the hallway two storeys below. He’d never known his mother to make a call without having discussed it for hours beforehand. He wondered whom on earth she’d be wanting to call. Curious as he was, it was too far to follow her. Instead, he returned to the living room to find his father asleep in his chair, his mouth open obliquely, looking slightly grotesque. George sat and watched him. What sort of existence had he survived, what deprivations had he endured? Did they torture him, deprive him of food, of sleep, of company? How did he cope without his pipe? These questions and more floated through his mind; questions to which he had no desire to know the answers. He noticed that his father hadn’t asked for his pipe since his return. It was a pity; whenever he smelled the sweet pungency of piped tobacco, he always thought of him in happier days.
His mother returned, her face flustered. Whomever she’d spoken to had obviously unsettled her. ‘Did you get through?’ he asked, timidly.
‘No,’ she snapped back. He watched her as she cleared away his father’s plate and cup, plumped up the cushions, wiped clean the already-clean table. He refused to reply when she asked him whether he didn’t have anything more interesting to do than watch her.
George was at a lost as to what to do. He noticed that the paperback Western had slipped off his father’s lap and lay propped up against his feet. He picked it up and idly began to read the first few sentences when a gentle tap at the front door made him look up. ‘Shall I get it?’ he asked.
‘No, no, it’s all right,’ she said quickly, her face suddenly drained of colour, her eyes fixed on the door.
The apartment was too small for anything grand such as a hallway or a lobby; the front door opened straight into their living room. His mother pulled the creases out of her apron and swept her hair back. But what she did as she opened the door took George by surprise – she opened it swiftly, then without pausing, stepped out into the hallway, her hand outstretched, literally pushing away the unseen visitor, before closing the door purposefully behind her. A strange way to greet someone, thought George.
He returned his attention to the paperback when, after a few seconds, something made him snap shut the book. Flinging it to one side, he rose quickly from his chair. He opened the front door, rushed down the corridor, down the stairs and outside. There, to his right, he found his mother leaning up, her arms round the shoulders of a tall man in a long cream overcoat, her face nestled into his neck.
George crept back, hoping to retreat unnoticed. But as she released her grip, his mother saw him. Letting go of the man as if she’d burnt herself, she turned to face him, her eyes agog, her mouth open like a fish on land. ‘George...’
He shook his head, unable to say the words he couldn’t find anyway.
‘George, please...’ She glanced up at the tall man in the long cream overcoat and George looked at him in the eye.
‘Hello, George,’ said the man. ‘We meet again...’
Chapter 12: Eva
The day was Sunday – the day of the football game and I felt strangely excited by it. I’d never been to a match before, indeed I didn’t think women were allowed to attend but Valentin insisted that we were. Not wanting to go alone, I’d invited my friend, Agnes, and Ferenc, her husband – a rather dour man whom everyone but Agnes suspected of being a serial informer as well as a serial adulterer. I wasn’t sure which was worse. We agreed to meet at the Café of the Revolution.
The stifling weather continued unabated, the heat melting the pavements, people fanning themselves with newspapers. I’d arrived at the café quite out of breath and had to order a glass of water to help me cool down. Settling into my usual place, I thought of Valentin and wished he was with me, sipping coffee, watching the people of Budapest hurry about their business.
Being a match day, Valentin had no time to meet me. How strange it would be to see him from a distance, watching him at work. The previous day, we met in the café, and then took our routine stroll in the park. Usually, we talked but yesterday we were both subdued and walked in silence. We both knew it was possibly our last time together. After the match, the team will be whisked off for a few games round the country, then, unless called back to Moscow, the players will be permitted two days of sightseeing in Budapest. I had to cling on to that for I couldn’t bring myself to think I might never have seen him again. How quickly we become dependent on another person, how strange to think that barely a fortnight ago I’d never known of his existence, that I had a husband, albeit a distant one. Now a future without Josef seemed bearable while a future without Valentin seemed incomprehensible.
I read Free People, re-reading the same short article again and again – about Moscow Lokomotiv’s Hungarian tour and especially their visit to Budapest. Each player’s name was listed, and there, amongst them, was Valentin Ivanov. I felt a twinge of pride at seeing his name, as if he was already associated with me, as if I had the right to bask in h
is glory. The team had recently beaten the Wolverhampton Wanderers, one of England’s top teams. The three nil victory was another example of the superiority of Russian sportsmen and, by implication, the Russian system, a testament to the Soviet Union’s breed of supermen.
‘Hello, Miss,’ said a vaguely familiar voice. Standing next to my table, circling his hat between his hands was the old man with the walrus moustache. ‘On your own?’
‘Well, I’m –’
‘Don’t mind if I join you? Phew, it’s getting hotter everyday. Where’s your husband today? Or is he a boyfriend, or...’ He leant towards me, lowering his voice, ‘your lover, eh, eh?’ He laughed raucously, not noticing how much he was embarrassing me. ‘Look, couldn’t buy me a tea, could you? See, I’ve been caught a bit short, if you catch my meaning...’
I caught it all right but still found myself buying him his tea. ‘...And a little cake, perhaps?’ And a hefty slice of cake too. ‘This heat, it’s unbearable, isn’t it?’ The constant use of the rhetorical question, I noticed, was an intrinsic part of his conversation. ‘Reminds me of the summer of ’18. That was some summer, I can tell you, too hot to be stuck in the trenches with full kit, but I was a young man then, young and strong...’
He regaled me, for the second time, with the story of his life; of how he’d been a sniper during the Imperialist War; of how he’d killed two Nazis with his bare hands during the occupation; of how he’d saved the honour of his sister from the hands of a marauding Russian in forty-five. I shrunk in my chair, hoping to God no one could hear his blasphemous tale. He was a widower, he told me, his wife had red hair – like me, and how he still missed his dear wife, even if she never allowed him to talk. I couldn’t say I blamed her. But perhaps it explained something –he was talking now to make up for thirty or forty years of marital silence. He didn’t care whom he talked to or whether they were listening or not, as long as he could talk. It was like listening to a familiar record, knowing what to expect, knowing the good bits from the dull. There was something rather reassuring in listening to him. Perhaps because it reminded me of Valentin, the first day I met him, when he rescued this harmless old boy from the clutches of the café’s staff. How I wished Valentin were with me now.
The young waitress took the used cups and plates and then hovered at our table expectantly.
‘Does she want a tip?’ he asked me as if she wasn’t there.
‘No, we’re obliged to order something else otherwise we have to leave.’
‘Another cup of tea, then, please and...’ he turned to the waitress, ‘another of those delicious cakes.’
I sighed.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this will cheer you up – three workers find themselves locked up, and they ask each other what they’re in for. The first man says: “I was always ten minutes late to work, so I was accused of sabotage.” The second man says: “I was always ten minutes early to work, so I was accused of espionage.” The third man says: “I always got to work on time, so I was accused of having a Western watch.”’
Despite myself, I laughed.
‘You’re a fine woman,’ he said, wiping cake crumbs from his moustache. ‘Where did you say your husband is?’
‘I didn’t –’
‘So, where was I? Ah, this apartment they’ve put me in, it’s a disgrace, I tell you; after what I’ve done for this country. No respect for the old, that’s the problem. Now, when I was a young man we had respect for...’
‘Eva.’
‘Oh, Karolina.’ Why did I say Karolina when I knew the voice to be Agnes’s? ‘I’m sorry, Agnes, I...’
‘Expecting Karolina, per chance?’ she said, leaning down to embrace me.
‘Ferenc, hello.’ We kissed cheeks, his beard scratching my skin. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘Yes, sit down, sit down,’ said the old man, with exaggerated generosity. ‘I was only saying to your friend here – Eva, is it? – how disgusting my apartment is, you wouldn’t believe –’
I’d had enough. ‘I think you were saying how you had to leave,’ I said firmly.
‘Well, no –’
‘Your shout then, is it?’
‘Er, yes, well, perhaps you’re right.’ He looked at his bare wrist. ‘My word, is that the time already? Western watch, eh? Yes, I must be going.’ He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Well, it’s been a delight. Thank you for the cake.’ I resisted saying or two. ‘Give your husband my regards.’ And with that, he limped out of the café, raising his hat at the waitresses behind the counter.
Agnes and Ferenc watched him leave. ‘He’s met Josef?’ asked Agnes.
‘He’s harmless,’ I said nervously.
‘He shouldn’t be criticising his apartment like that,’ said Ferenc. ‘The State provides first class accommodation for our senior citizens.’
‘We should go,’ I said, ignoring this blatant distortion of the truth.
I settled my bill with the young waitress, while the older one looked on, disgusted, I think, that I should have spent my time and money on the old man.
We had to catch two trams, with a short walk in between, to reach the stadium on the western side of Buda. We joined the throng of people making their way to the game, a snaking parade of young and old, fathers and sons, wearing green and white football scarves, hats and rosettes, twisting noisy rattles. The crowd was good-natured, emitting lively banter and rowdy singing. It was unusual to see people looking so happy; a far cry from the forced jollity of festival days. I couldn’t spot any women amongst them and wondered whether Valentin had been right about women attending football matches. But I was enjoying the festive atmosphere, soaking in the joyous ambience. Only Ferenc seemed ill at ease, being in such close proximity to the masses, the very people he routinely denounced to the authorities. As we approached the stadium gates, the crowd bottlenecked and movement became laborious and slow. Agnes snatched my hand and we held on as we squeezed our way through, showing our tickets and pushing through the barrier.
I was surprised by the size and lush greenness of the pitch, and how small the people looked at the opposite end. Ferenc led the way to our seats, muttering under his breath, annoyed at having to squeeze past those already seated to get to our places. ‘Kick-off’s at three.’
‘I expect the Russians will play a four-four-two formation,’ I said with a grin, sitting down.
‘A what?’ asked Agnes.
‘Or perhaps a five-three-two.’
‘Stop showing off,’ she laughed. ‘So, were you expecting to see Karolina? Vida’s wife?’
‘No, not really. I bumped into her there the other say, that’s all.’
‘Huh,’ said Ferenc, the other side of Agnes. ‘You won’t be bumping into her any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
Agnes said, ‘You haven’t heard? You know Vida was arrested?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, apparently, yesterday, she was arrested as well.’
‘No.’ I remembered the look she gave me as the AVO men led her away. ‘On what charge?’
Ferenc spoke firmly. ‘For being the wife of an enemy of the people. Looks like –’
He was interrupted by an eruption of cheers – the players were on the pitch. Twenty-two men milling about, kicking footballs to each other; on one side the green and white of the City team, on the other, the red and white of Moscow Lokomotiv. And yes, there he was, wearing number six, Valentin Ivanov, my Valentin, and how handsome, how strong he looked. I saw him scan the crowd, searching for me. And I felt special, wanted. He was searching for me, a single face amongst thousands. And for a few seconds, I forgot all about Karolina and Josef, and forgot that within a few hours Valentin might be gone from me forever. I found myself standing up and waving frantically, hoping to catch his attention.
‘Eva, what on earth are you doing?’ asked Agnes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said feebly, suppressing the urge to laugh. I sat back down. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I think I feel a
little overexcited.’
Chapter 13: The Match
The pitch feels suffocating under a blanket of heat. The referee blows his whistle. George receives the ball and passes back to Kosak who lobs the ball pointlessly forward into Lokomotiv’s defence. The match has begun.
The Russians launch their first attack and George finds himself stranded on his own near the half-way line. How long had it been going on? Had their affair started before his father’s arrest or after? Did he come along and provide her with a sympathetic word, a shoulder to cry on? No wonder she was so annoyed by his refusal to go to training, no wonder she ran off to use the telephone downstairs, no wonder she returned agitated because she’d missed him. And of all people – Mark Decsi, the talent scout. The ball comes his way. He runs for it but a Lokomotiv defender gets to it first and boots it up field. Had Mark Decsi truly been impressed by his football? Was Sebes Gusztav really in the crowd right that moment watching him play? Did he really feature in the national manager’s plans? Or was it all simply a ruse to impress his mother, to get her to... no, he couldn’t think it.
Lokomotiv shoot but the shot lacks power and Milan Ignotus saves easily. The goalkeeper kicks the ball up the field. George jumps for it with a Lokomotiv defender and receives an elbow on the side of his head for his efforts. Losing his balance, the ball bounces off his head harmlessly to a Russian, who uses the opportunity to start another attack. The Russians are playing well.
Zoltan Beke stands in the VIP enclosure. To his left, stands Fischer, silent and grey as ever; to his right, is Donath. He hadn’t expected his boss to attend but at the last minute Donath had insisted on coming, despite Zoltan’s best efforts to put him off. This simple job had, over the previous fortnight, gained a momentum of its own and now loomed large in the department’s priorities. Hence Donath’s personal attendance. He wanted to see Lokomotiv win for himself, knowing there’d be hell to pay with his superiors if they didn’t. Zoltan couldn’t believe how a stupid football match had taken over his life. Petra still wasn’t speaking to him after the birthday debacle, Roza was still sulking, and Fischer, Zoltan knew, was secretly hoping for a Hungarian win to topple the immediate hierarchy and allow him a fast shot at promotion – at Zoltan’s expense.
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