After I told him, he rapped his signet ring on the glass tabletop. He said the school would definitely forward my application. That much he could promise. Of course, that didn't mean I'd be accepted. While he respected my decision to apply, there was nothing optimistic he could say about the possible outcome. But whether I'd get accepted or not, from now on I'd have to fend for myself.
He put out his cigarette and got up. He rounded the table and, while I was getting up myself, again put his hand on my shoulder, and this time there was indeed nothing encouraging in this gesture. I should heed his advice not only because his own influence was very limited but also because anyone unable to make the best of his own opportunities could no longer understand his own situation. My own father would not think otherwise. He spoke quietly. With his hand still on my shoulder, he was steering me toward the exit.
A month later I was notified that my application had been rejected. No reason was given for the decision.
In all probability I must have responded with stubbornly laconic answers to my friend's persistent questions, and he must have gathered from this that there was some struggle about my going to a military academy. I know he was afraid of losing me. He hoped that my hopes would be dashed and then we might still wind up in the same high school. But frankly, that possibility got as big a rise out of me as my soldierly aspirations did out of him. In any case, there was no struggle at home. If anything, my mother was happy. Prém conceded defeat and decided to become an auto mechanic. I remained alone with my obsession. The anger I felt for my father's friend would not abate. I couldn't understand why he wouldn't help. I felt like a child who craves chocolate and can't understand why adults don't eat chocolate day and night — after all, they have the money to buy it. I did the very opposite of what he in his paternal wisdom advised me to do. Or more precisely, in my anger, I did exactly what he advised me not to do.
I wrote or rather tapped out a letter on a typewriter and sent it to István Dobi, President of the Republic. I kept a copy of it for years and destroyed it only after I noticed that my wife had been rummaging through my papers. Shame keeps me from quoting the actual words used by that humbled, abject child. What I said more or less was that making the acquaintance of Comrade Rákosi — and of the new Soviet man, or rather woman, in the person of his wife — was a fundamental turning point in my life. I continued by mentioning that in our family the love of the Soviet people was a tradition; it was by following in my father's footsteps that I mastered the Russian language. That's how I got to somewhat safer ground. I acknowledged that my father was forced to fight in an unjust war against the Soviet people, but I asked that his steadfast anti-German attitude also be taken into consideration. Finally, I vowed that I'd dedicate my life to righting the wrongs committed by him. I wanted to lend credence to my words with documentary evidence. Nothing I have done in all my life fills me with greater shame. I appended four notebooks with checkerboard covers to the letter — they were my father's war diaries.
I know very little about opera and even less about ballet. I find people singing and dancing onstage both fascinating and repugnant. People comporting themselves in a way that normal, sober adults would never do in public. Still, I am amazed that these people are capable of such shamelessness. The voices, the bodies, the decor, the cloying splendor of opera architecture so repels me that it's a trying experience whenever I have to set foot in an opera house. It feels as if I were sitting inside a fancy powder box and somebody was stuffing cream puffs into my mouth. As soon as the curtain goes up I begin to feel queasy, I have to close my eyes, and before long, without noticing it, I doze off with all that music going on. And on that November evening we weren't sitting just anywhere but right next to the huge imperial box.
I've no idea how this particular opera is supposed to be staged, but behind the curtain that rose to the first strains of the overture, another curtain became visible. It was tacked together from shimmering silks, shreds of gold-spangled muslin, smoke-gray tulle, as well as pieces of coarse sackcloth and soiled rags. While the orchestra was busy playing, this multilayered patchwork, independent of the music, was slowly pulled, floated, flapped, and fluttered before our eyes. This went on until the set of Red Square appeared, where crowds of people with smoky torches, candles, and swaying lanterns were dancing. And at last you understood that the curtain was supposed to represent the slowly lifting morning fog.
Two huge black cars came to pick us up at the hotel. And although I managed to end up in the same car with the girl, I soon had second thoughts about joining them. Apart from the secret, largely unexpressed joy of seeing each other again, there was nothing much my friend and I could talk about. For one thing, I was tired, and also distracted by the girl. What's more, they were rather loud under the influence of something they'd had earlier, while I was still in need of a drink. And the strenuous effort to conceal from each other the joy of seeing each other created an unpleasant tension between us. As for the girl, I could only watch her, keep an eye on her, but could not really get any closer. She let me know that any advance on my part would be met by a refusal. One thoughtless move and she'd rebuff me so spectacularly, I'd have to give her up for good. Which also meant that she didn't want to give me up. She hadn't made up her mind yet. We kept avoiding each other's eyes, but we couldn't avoid the desire for each other's glances. The whole time we kept each other in a state of tension. The only thing I permitted myself to do was politely to take her fur-collared coat from her when she took it off. She thanked me with the same noncommittal politeness. The tension was mutual, because we both tried to hide from the others our mutual interest. We couldn't succeed completely, not only because the four people and the interpreter accompanying them had already had an afternoon of copious drinking behind them, but also because they shared the special intimacy that develops among people traveling together. I remained a stranger among them.
One member of the group, a bearded young man who appeared anxious to call attention to himself at every turn, was especially eager to show me up. It's possible the girl had sounded so cool on the telephone because she wasn't alone in the room. The bearded young man was watching me, and I was watching them. Later it turned out that my suspicions were not unfounded. My friend and the third man in the group were watching and waiting to see where all this was leading to. And the interpreter, an unfailingly kind and solicitous lady, kept a watchful, maternal eye on the entire group. Reminding them of my position as a guest, I politely let them go first, and took a rear seat deep inside the box, next to the lady interpreter. The girl sat in front of us, leaning forward on the railing. From time to time I had to look at her bare neck. Her unruly hair was gathered in a bun. And she sensed every time my glance lingered on her neck; she'd move imperceptibly. Or rather, she seemed to dictate to me when I should be looking at the stage and when at her bare neck.