They were escorted to a luxurious reception room which only confirmed Gyuri’s respect for the diplomatic life. Another Chinese official joined them. He seemed to have rudimentary or no knowledge of Hungarian, since the door-opener kept handing him chunks of the conversation in Chinese. ‘We have been inspired by the example of the Chinese Revolution,’ proclaimed Gyuri, ‘as Mao Tse-Tung has said: “the Communist Party of China has brought a new style of work to the Chinese people, a style of work which essentially entails integrating theory with practice, forging close links with the masses and practising self-criticism.” It is this new style that in an internationalist, fraternal and scientific spirit we would like to study, first-hand for ourselves, in order to aid the development of a peace-loving socialism on a global basis.’
Oddly enough, no one laughed when Gyuri finished – Pataki must have been biting the insides of his mouth. Gyuri had done his homework. Pataki hadn’t. But this didn’t stop him: ‘Yes, as Comrade Mao said, “ Hungary and China are closely bound by common interests and common ideals.’” The good thing about Mao, like Marx, and in particular Lenin and Stalin, was that at some point or other, he had written or said everything from ‘I ordered the steak medium rare’ to ‘Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny’ to ‘Chattanooga Choo-Choo’. Everything had passed their lips, so you couldn’t go wrong quoting from imagination.
Gyuri took the ball again, and reiterated their fervent desire to go to China, learn the language and study the newing of China. The two Chinese listened very soberly to the proposal, then the non-Hungarian-speaking one who exuded an air of seniority, spoke to the other briefly, and his words stumbled out through the other in clunking Hungarian:
‘Comrades, your ardour is highly commendable and we are greatly touched that our achievements in China have proved such an example to you. But as Comrade Mao has also said, as he has so aptly phrased it, building socialism must start in front of your neighbours, and it is better for you to carry on the struggle here in Hungary in your own way.’ There could be no doubt that in China the science of horseshit detection was not neglected or unknown.
Gyuri and Pataki were given a copy each of Mao’s poetry on their way out. They thanked their hosts profusely. They had spent no more than twenty minutes on Chinese soil. ‘I suppose if nothing else I can say I’ve been to China,’ Gyuri said. Out but in.
The Korean War had seemed promising too. Pataki actually phoned the Ministry of Defence, pseudonymously, from a public phone, to inquire whether there was any chance of being able to ‘go and fight those imperialist bastards’. The authorities, guessing the magnitude of these volunteers’ numbers, deduced that they would most likely be the fastest-surrendering soldiers in the history of warfare. Pataki was carefully given details of an anti-American demonstration where, he was assured, he would be allowed to uncork his righteous wrath.
‘Why are they fighting Communism in Korea, but not here?’ asked Pataki irascibly. ‘Are the hotels much better in Korea? Is it the superiority of the local cuisine? My only objection to the war is that it should be here and not in some rice-paddy in Korea. What have we done not to be invaded by the Americans?’
With this background in Far Eastern Studies, they were intrigued by the arrival of a Chinese basketball player at the camp. Hármati had presented him with great fanfare and to bursts of admiring applause. This first period of Hungarian-Chinese basketballing relations went well, but after that, despite the undeniable warmth, cordiality and curiosity on both sides, things slowed down somewhat, because whoever had arranged for him to attend the camp had either overlooked or forgotten that Wu, as he seemed to be called, spoke no Hungarian, no English, no German, no Russian or any other language of which anyone in the camp had a smattering. No one, of course, spoke any Chinese.
‘He probably thinks he’s in Moscow,’ observed Róka as Wu trotted about dribbling the ball respectably but unbrilliantly. No one had seen him arrive, and the purpose of his presence remained rather mysterious. Hármati, under questioning, denied having any foreknowledge of Wu’s provenance. ‘He’s Chinese, right? Or maybe Korean. Can you tell the difference? Or maybe he’s a Cambodian who likes long walks. Anyway, if he’s Chinese, we salute him as a member of the heroic Chinese people. If he’s Korean, we salute him as a member of the heroic Korean people. This is a sports camp, blown by the breeze of progress, we fraternally give him a basketball and let him run around in a correct, scientific and socialist manner on our court. If nothing else he’s going to learn that you’ve got to be a bit taller to play basketball.’ Wu could have easily fitted into five foot six.
Everyone liked Wu because, despite his virtually trappist existence, he was extraordinarily polite and cheery. He was the only person in the camp who energetically thanked the cooks for the meals they provided, giving vigorous bows of gratitude every time. ‘Things must be really bad back home,’ Gyuri remarked, since the only thing you could say in favour of the camp food was that it was there, and you could have as much as you wanted. Wu’s courtesy extended to the basketball court, where on those rare occasions when he unwittingly managed to get hold of the ball, he was too civil to refuse to hand it over to whoever approached him.
The sportswomen had invited all the sportsmen over to their half of the camp for an egg and nokedli evening. Despite the more important attractions, Pataki spent most of the evening launching strictures on the texture of the nokedli, how the wrong kind of flour had been used (which was strange since Pataki knew as well as anyone there was only one kind of flour available, flour flour, since Hungarian shops had adopted a philosophy of not taxing their customers with choice), that the water temperature had wavered, that the nokedli had been swimming for too long and the eggs applied at an inappropriate point, and generally indulging in a molecular appraisal of the method. Sensing scepticism at his culinary authority, Pataki then promulgated loudly that he would return the sportswomen’s hospitality by preparing a true fish soup, a genuine fish soup, the following week.
‘Why a genuine fish soup?’ queried Róka, ‘why not a sham one?’
‘I mean,’ Pataki responded superciliously, ‘a traditional fish soup, prepared in the proper way, as Hungarians have prepared it since time immemorial.’
‘But you can’t cook,’ Gyuri pointed out.
‘There are certain things that every man should be able to do and cooking a fish soup is one of them. It might be tricky getting some of the ingredients, but I will endeavour to do my best.’
‘Will it have some potatoes?’ enquired Katona.
‘No,’ replied Pataki.
‘But I like potatoes,’ remonstrated Katona.
‘So do I,’ retorted Pataki with one foot on the ladder of petulance, ‘I also like my basketball boots, but I wouldn’t put them in a fish soup. Potatoes don’t belong in a genuine fish soup.’
The day of the reception came near and Pataki, beseeched twenty-four hours a day to include potatoes, was getting truculent and also, although Gyuri could only suspect it, worried about his ability to cook fish soup. Fish soup would be something very difficult for Pataki to talk his way out of, since fish soup was either there or it wasn’t. But, somehow, Pataki had managed to round up the ingredients, so that as a minimum he had something to attempt to cook
‘Where are the potatoes?’ asked Gyuri.
‘There aren’t any,’ said Pataki, trying to look expertly at the fish he held, overdosed on air.