Bea’s existence had been gradually revealed, more by Pataki’s absences than her presence. But Pataki was finally caught, having informed everyone that he was going to get some developing agents, in tandem with Bea on a bench overlooking the Danube.
Gyuri and Róka spotted them as they were completing a run around Margit Island.
The vigour of her hello, the choreography of Bea’s movements, the mellifluousness of her voice that made every syllable stand on its own feet, the projection of her posture would have convicted Bea of being an apprentice actress, without the production of her student identity card. Discovering Bea and Pataki on the bench was rather startling because Pataki’s stated policy was that sitting around on park benches was for simpletons or failures.
‘You don’t mind if we join you?’ said Gyuri sitting down on the grass next to the bench. He and Róka fastened onto Pataki and Bea, surmising that this would be of some hindrance, embarrassment or annoyance to Pataki, whose demeanour was one of affability as if there could be nothing more natural and agreeable than all of them sitting there watching the Danube. ‘Been saving up for my present, have you?’ asked Gyuri, taking advantage of Pataki’s corneredness to remind him about the non-appearance of his birthday present, then ten days overdue. Pataki writhed, too briefly for anyone but a seasoned Pataki-watcher to behold, and then handed over, to Gyuri’s surprise, a neatly wrapped volume (it must have been wrapped by someone else). ‘We were just out shopping for it,’ said Pataki. There was no doubt it was intended as Gyuri’s birthday present but Pataki’s reluctance in handing it over soon became understandable.
The present was a book, Hungarian Writers on Mátyás Rákosi, a volume issued to commemorate Rákosi’s sixtieth birthday in March. ‘It’s what I always wanted,’ said Gyuri, using one of his subtlest sarcasms, since only minimal irony was called for. The anthology was self-evidently not only something Gyuri didn’t have the slightest interest in, it was a gift that he had no more intention of taking home than he had of sticking a serrated blade through his palm. Pataki had probably bought it to read himself and catch up on the latest in literary goings-on.
The book was a collection of pieces by leading Hungarian writers which might as well have been titled Arse-Licking in 35 Variations. The only real literary ability called into action was to minimise the degradation and shame in composing a panegyric on the bald orang-utan who happened to be Prime Minister and the first Secretary of the Hungarian Working People’s Party. You could imagine them sitting around in the comforts of the Writers’ Union saying to each other: ‘No, no, Zoli, I’m not distinguished enough to make a contribution to the book. I’m sure Józsi or Laci can knock out something.’
Bea was attractive, though by no means the fairest to be Patakied, and her theatrical nature prompted Gyuri to read out the first work from the book, a poem by Zoltán Zelk. Zelk at his best was well, appalling. Curiously, Pataki, normally merciless in his critical judgements on poetry, always went easy on Zelk, although he had claimed he could train any reasonably intelligent dog to compose better verses than Zelk, by picking out words from a hat.
‘Comrade Rákosi is sixty,
No other words required,
If I write it down,
You’ll know instantly,
Comrade Rákosi is sixty.’
Perhaps because of Gyuri’s skilful inflections in reading, Róka started to cry with laughter. Mastering his mirth, he was handed a stanza by his muse: ‘Comrade Rákosi is an arse, no other words required, if I write it down, you’ll know instantly, Comrade Rákosi is an arse.’
‘Oh, don’t be unfair,’ chided Bea gently ‘Rákosi’s a good old soul, he’s why I joined the Party.’ This only added fuel to the fire. Both Gyuri and Róka laughed to the point of pain, doubled up on the ground, much to Bea’s puzzlement, since she hadn’t intended to be funny, since she wasn’t joking.
Pataki made good their escape before any offence occurred. ‘We’re going to the cinema. We’d better be off.’ He and Bea sauntered away to the bus stop. Bea’s parting words made it clear however that she was quite genuine in her admiration for Rákosi. ‘He’s done a lot of good for this country.’ Róka was quite shocked- although he was indiscriminate in assisting women with their orgasms, this bounty was coupled with an austere, petrous morality that forbade any form of intercourse with the Party. Bea struck Gyuri as someone who hadn’t thought too much about Rákosi & Co. – as someone who hadn’t thought too much about anything. For her the Party meant social occasions, meetings, songs, speeches, set texts.
‘What is he doing?’ Róka asked persistently, largely rhetorically.
‘Isn’t it about time the Party showed him a good time?’ replied Gyuri, flicking through the homage to Rákosi, wondering whether he could find anyone stupid enough to barter something for the book. There was only one bona fide cadre in Locomotive- Péter, a peasant lad from Kecskemét, who was bullishly in favour of the new order as well anyone might be who had been rescued from a region where the most dramatic event was the sluggish production of oxygen by the local verdure. Peter was always attending courses, radiating optimism and socialist zest for life. He would have been ideal for one of those photographs where young Hungarians look on proudly and wistfully at the brand new achievements of people’s power. Moreover, Peter was always ferrying around books such as Stalin: A Short Biography (‘not short enough’, others would remark) and in moments of leisure he would work his way through ponderously underlining passages that he deemed to contain bonus significance. Might Peter be willing to exchange some of those delightfully tasty objects that he received from his solicitous relatives for this outstanding literary work?
‘But,’ said Róka, ‘what is he doing?’
Róka’s bewilderment might have been greater if he had known that Pataki’s father, an accountant who had wandered into social democracy, had spent 1951 tied up in an AVO basement. Pataki’s father had only told Pataki and Pataki had only told Gyuri. Gaspar had been picked up in the regulation fashion in January, asked to come to Andrássy út as a witness.
His suspicions had been aroused when they tied him up from shoulder to toe in a sort of all-encompassing rope strait-jacket, a hemp cocoon, and deposited him in an unlit basement for what was probably a week. After that he was unwrapped in an interrogation suite, punched in the mouth and admonished:
‘Confess something. Surprise us. Entertain us.’
All Gaspar could do was to say there must have been some mistake and then emit a few ouches as they tried to punch-start him into admission. He was thrown back into the basement with the verdict: ‘Who arrested that boring bastard?’ He stayed there for the rest of the year, eating by pushing his face into the billy-can that was introduced from time to time into the cell. He felt like an envelope waiting to be opened in someone’s in-tray. There were dribs and drabs of conversation he heard emanating from outside: ‘Don’t you need a social democrat, Jeno?’ ‘What do you think this is, 1950?’ ‘What about an accountant?’ ‘Well, I certainly don’t need one. You’ve been greedy again, haven’t you? Remember what Belkin said, never arrest more than you need, it just creates paperwork.’