Nigel had the elegant garb of a top spy, a rising diplomat: someone, in short, well worth getting to know. But in fact he said he was an aspiring opera singer, studying in Vienna. With a friend, he had driven to Budapest to deliver medical supplies. There was no one else who spoke English, but even if there had been they wouldn’t have had a chance. Gyuri took charge, exulting in every well-spent forint of his English lessons. ‘And how do you like Budapest, Nigel? Let me escort you to the Embassy. And do tell me what you think of Viennese women.’
A week after the start of the revolution it was all over, barring the history-writing. To Gyuri’s amazement, to everyone’s amazement, and no doubt most of all, to the Russians’ amazement, the part-timers of Budapest had beaten the Red Army. True, a lot of the Russians hadn’t been very eager to fight, most of them had been based in Hungary for some time and seemed to understand what they were being asked to do and that they weren’t combating international fascism or the Hungarian underworld but the populace of Budapest. Indeed the only Russian Gyuri had seen who was wholly enthusiastic about trigger-pulling had been a Russian deserter he had met at the Corvin who had been fighting his former colleagues.
But the main problem for the Russians, who had been counting on the AVO to pull their weight, had been that, without proper infantry support, their tanks had been bizarrely vulnerable in the streets of Budapest. People simply waited for a tank to pass and then for the price of a good drink, lobbed their petrol bomb on the rear of the tank, where the burning fuel would be sucked in through the ventilation grilles of the T-34s and into the engine, turning the occupants of the tank into charcoal sticks; those fast enough to avoid being burned were shot as they clambered out.
Imre Nagy formed a new new government, one this time with a few people who hadn’t been in the Communist Party. Ceasefire. Exultation. Hungarians had fought their way to paradise.
Along with many other curious folk, Gyuri and Jadwiga had taken a look in the White House, which appropriately enough for a revolution looked as if it had been turned upside down, all the drawers and shelves emptied as people indulged their prurience or just enjoyed themselves making a mess. ‘You always choose the most romantic places for outings, Gyuri,’ she remarked. The first document Gyuri picked up to read was a file detailing the blackmailing of a British diplomat who had been apprehended smuggling gold and then moulded by the AVO. Gyuri grabbed the file and headed for the British Embassy, pleased that he had found a bridge to more civilised parts, leaving Jadwiga to studiously read, slowly and carefully the way she always did, from the vast anthologies of turpitude.
With remarkable speed and ease, perhaps because of a good word from Nigel, perhaps because of the informality of the times, Gyuri was shown in to see the Ambassador, who received the file with courtesy. He puffed on his pipe, manifestly at home in the revolution and pored over the first few pages. ‘Ah. Dawson. Yes,’ he thought out loud.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Fischer. It’s very kind of you to bring this round.’ It took fifty seconds; Gyuri was out almost as fast as he had got in. He hadn’t been expecting anything in particular, though some gold bullion, a British passport, a job offer, something like that would have been quite acceptable. A little excitement and incredulity as a minimum. The Ambassador showed him out as if he had just return a stray button from the Ambassador’s overcoat.
In the waiting-room, next to the entrance, Nigel was chatting with a man whom Gyuri had met before, The Times correspondent. Gyuri had been excited to meet him because The Times was The Times, and also because everyone knew that their foreign correspondents worked for British Intelligence, although the correspondent did a good job of disguising it. In fact his behaviour was rather dim. Brilliant cover. Gyuri admired professionalism. There was also a broad, military figure who looked as if he would be happiest inspecting rifles, who sure enough, was introduced to Gyuri as the military attaché.
‘What do you make of the new government?’ asked The Times, presumably looking for some good quote.
‘It’s fine. I approve of it, while it lasts.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Russians will be back.’
There was gentle British scoffing at this statement. In the few days he had been dealing with live Brits, Gyuri had rapidly become attuned to how the British had reached a level of civilisation where they could clearly tell you how stupid you were, without actually having to say so; that’s what cricket and centuries of parliamentary democracy could do for you.
‘The Russians have given an undertaking to leave. I saw Mikoyan in the parliament with my own eyes, the man was in tears over losing Hungary,’ explained the correspondent. ‘They’re leaving. They have no choice.’
Gyuri had had the same argument that morning with Elek who was cock-a-hoop over the news. ‘I told you this couldn’t go on much longer,’ Elek had said. Gyuri summoned up a simplified, profanity-free version of his thesis for British consumption.’I know the Russians have lost one fight. They are leaving. But I do not believe they will say: “Oh. You want to be independent. We’re so sorry we didn’t understand that you didn’t want us here.” They will return.’
There was more quivering of stiff upper lips in amusement at the wary Hungarian who had no grasp of the international situation. ‘No,’ pronounced the military attaché, ‘they’re finished here.’
‘Indeed,’ said The Times, ‘I’m willing to bet you five pounds that they don’t come back. You can give me a few Hungarian lessons when I win.’
‘I hope you do win,’ said Gyuri.
Jadwiga had told Gyuri to meet her at the Corvin and going there he stopped on the Körút to buy a newspaper. A Soviet corpse was still lying there, an unusual sight now, since the dead had been mostly packed away out of sight. Something metallic glinted on his wrist. It looked familiar: an Omega watch, like the one the Red Army had relieved him of back in ’44, exactly the same model. He undid the strap, and looked on the back of the watch. There were the initials Gy. R ‘Thanks very much for looking after it,’ he said, pocketing the watch.
Walking across to the newsagent, a shout stopped him. It was Róka. ‘Hey class alien! This is what you want,’ he said, handing Gyuri one of the stack of papers he was nursing. ‘Kill anyone interesting?’ he enquired. ‘Not really,’ Gyuri replied, ‘but I was being choosy.’ Róka had spent most of the livefire time chasing a lorryload of AVO who were keen on surprise atrocities; they would flip open the flaps on the lorry’s rear and blast away at anyone in view, male or female, young or old, unarmed or unarmed. Róka’s crew had missed them several times by seconds. The story ended with the AVO being last seen motoring in the direction of the Angyalföld. ‘They couldn’t have lasted more than ten minutes,’ Róka obituarised. The paper that Róka had handed over was entitled The Truth. ‘I’m working on the editorial committee,’ he explained proudly. ‘Oh, before I forget, Hepp wants everyone out at the club at Hepp-time, Monday morning. He says we’ve wasted enough time.’ With a parting injunction to look up Gyurkovics, who had managed to get himself put in charge of the distribution of a vast amount of processed cheese from Switzerland, Róka carried on down the street dishing out his journal to anyone willing to take it.
Gyuri had never thought he would ever in his life earnestly want to read a Hungarian newspaper. Newspapers were now teeming with the sort of increases that could normally only be found in the production figures of Communist enterprises.