| Sándor
Tar
Translated by
Judith Sollosy
Are we poor, dad?
Yes, son, we’re poor. Not very, but poor enough.
What makes us poor, dad?
I don’t know.
Did they steal it?
Steal what?
I don’t know. Tibi Kárász said we’re
so poor, the mice die of hunger pains at our house.
Tibi Kárász is a colossal idiot.
He also said I’m so lean, when I blink, the skin slides
off my glans.
Tell Tibi Kárász I’m gonna kick his ass.
I’m also going to beat the shit out of him, because
he’s as stupid as an animal. Who does he think he is?
You’re gonna beat the shit out of him?
Yes, the fathead. My advice is, don’t even talk to him.
I don’t. He talks to me.
Well, walk away.
I do. But he shouts at me.
Well, don’t listen. Don’t even look at the likes
of him.
I hope you do beat the shit out of him, dad. Just make sure
everybody sees. Will you beat the shit out of him, dad?
Yes, son.
When?
I don’t know. Let’s change the subject.
All right.
We’re not rich. But we got food on the table, and clothes
on your back. You go to school, don’t you?
Yes, dad.
Your father didn’t steal or rob, like the others. Your
father is an honest man. He got everything with the work of
his own two hands. We have a place to live. Some people don’t
even have a place to live. Right?
Right.
Besides, you’re not lean. I’m not lean neither.
It’s the way we’re made. And also, you’re
gonna have everything you need, if it kills me, you’ll
see. Did Tibor Kárász say anything about me?
No.
It’s not my fault things turned out this way, you know
that. It doesn’t mean I’m not as good as the next
guy. I provide for you, don’t I? Do you go hungry?
No, dad.
Well, then?
Don’t cry, dad.
I’m not crying. But that idiot Kárász
unnerved me.
Your nerves are bad?
Yes.
What’s glans, dad?
Nothing. Don’t pay any mind to what a filthy-mouthed
fat pig like him says.
The boy was wearing a threadbare brown grownup winter coat
open all the way up front and hanging loosely from his shoulder
in the back. It swept the floor so you couldn’t see
the pants underneath. He was kicking up the dust with his
dirty black lace-up boots, and he was licking an ice cream
cone. His father was leaning against a tree by his side, supporting
an accordion with his feet. His hands were sunk inside the
pockets of his blue jacket, a checked shawl was wrapped around
his neck, and there was a small cap with a shield on his head.
They were standing in front of a small, old-fashioned station,
waiting for the train to come in. His thin face unshaven,
the man cast cursive glances at the child, sucking his teeth
in the meantime. He had a number of ways of sucking his teeth.
Mostly it sounded like he was saying cheese, though at times
it was sleaze, and at others, still, it was more like fizz,
provided he sucked his teeth from the front. Sometimes he’d
even swallow and say yum, or yum-yum, but that was a joke.
He’d say it to make the boy laugh, and in turn he’d
let out a constrained, high pitched giggle. But it was not
real laughter, just pretense. At school the other children
called his father the paddler, because when he walked, he
moved his arms and hands as if paddling a boat. They also
called him an idler.
Let’s go. The train’s here.
I haven’t finished my ice cream.
Trash it. I’ll buy you another. Trash it, I said! And
make sure nobody sees!
Why?
I told you. We gotta look like we’re poor. Not very,
but still. If they ask, we’re poor. And fix your hair.
Not like that! Like this!
Tibi Kárász said I’m so ugly, a sparrow
wouldn’t eat the horse shit out of my hand.
Tibi Kárász is an ass. Don’t even mention
him, he gets me so wrought up.
He also said…
And don’t use bad words.
But it wasn’t me that said it.
I thought I told you to stop. And throw that damned ice cream
away if you know what’s good for you. And keep your
mouth shut when we get on the train.
I hope you’ll beat the shit out of him, dad. And kick
him too, dad. Promise?
Go on ahead of me.
It was a yellowish afternoon in fall. In back of the dilapidated
station building there stretched a parched corn field, and
there were some houses nearby with a wide dirt road meandering
past them. A cow on a long chain was grazing off the grass
that sprang up out of the dirt.
There were hardly any passengers waiting for the train. Seeing
that he had a limp and that there was a child with him and
an accordion hanging from his neck, they wanted to let him
go on ahead. But he motioned to them, it’s all right,
he’ll wait his turn. Then he nudged the boy, go on,
he said, then he got on, too, with his crippled feet. A woman
wanted to help, but he said no, let me, I got plenty of practice.
You know, he said once they were on the train platform, if
strangers help me, I might lose my grip and fall. No offense
meant. The woman didn’t answer him. She placed the bag
she was carrying between her feet and stared out the window.
The boy was about to head for the inside of the train, but
his father grabbed him by the shoulder. Won’t you come
in?, he asked the woman, but she said no, I’m getting
off at the next stop. She’s worried that if she gives
me a forint, she’ll starve to death, the boy’s
father grumbled in the door.
You got tears in your eyes, dad.
It’s the dew stuck to it.
There no dew.
Go on ahead of me.
Did you smear it with saliva, dad?
Be quiet! Quiet, I said. Now go on in. Besides, when we started
out this morning, there was dew.
Even though there was hardly anybody inside the car, the smoke
was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. He slid the door
to, stopped, removed his cap, and clear and loud, he said,
good day. I’m István Balog. Can I play something
for you? Then he squeezed his accordion together, and his
fingers began moving along the keys. I’m off to war,
dear heart, he began tentatively, but you’re the love
of my life, Rosie-posie, went a lot better. The boy was standing
by his father’s side, supporting him gently with one
hand, but he didn’t feel like singing along with him
yet. He’d have plenty of time to sing later. Besides,
his father told him it’s all right, you don’t
have to every time, if you don’t feel like it.
Do I have to sing, dad?
No, son, you don’t have to. Only if you feel like it.
What if I don’t feel like it?
Then you don’t have to.
What if I don’t ever feel like it?
You will. I sing, too, don’t I?
But you don’t feel like it either, dad. You were just
crying.
That’s different.
If I don’t sing, it’s not effective, is that it?
What makes you say that?
The bearded man on our way here said it. The man that gave
you the hundred forints.
He didn’t. He just made like he did.
We shouldn’t have sang for him, dad.
The singing wasn’t for him. It was for everybody.
There’s no telling beforehand, is there?
What?
You said there’s no telling beforehand what’s
inside of people.
No, there’s no telling beforehand.
Now, for instance, he didn’t feel like singing because
of this beforehand. As he stood by his father’s side,
he could feel every hair on his head standing up. It didn’t
hurt, but he could feel it. In the evening, his father wet
his hair and curled it in pieces of wood or pencil stubs,
then wrapped it around, and that’s how he had to sleep.
Once, a black woman in a gypsy town said he looked just like
a blond angel, and every since, his father insisted on curling
his hair and making him sleep with a kerchief wrapped round
his head, like a woman. If Tibi Kárász ever
got wind of it! He couldn’t, of course. Still, he’ll
know. Tibi Kárász knew everything. This, too,
most probably. Meanwhile, his father was playing and singing,
with a warble to his voice, swaying back and forth to the
music, not looking at anyone, but fixing his eyes up at the
baggage racks. From time to time he nudged the boy’s
head with his elbow to stop standing there like an oaf, and
pay attention. To what? The car was practically empty. An
old man was sitting by the window, wiping the fogged-up pane
and looking out, and so was the person sitting across from
him. Soon as we come in, they all stare out the window, his
father was used to saying. You’d think we were going
round with the church collection box, the way they contort
their neck! A young girl with long hair was reading a book,
so she didn’t look at them either. On the other side
of the car, two older boys were sitting opposite each other,
laughing. That’s as much as they could see of the car.
His father isn’t going to sing here for long, the boy
thought; he’s gonna stop in a minute, thank them for
listening, and ask them to make a small contribution. He’ll
go round with his father’s cap, holding it up in front
of the passengers. But you don’t have to do it long,
his father had told him once.
If they don’t put anything in it, move on.
All right.
But if they start fishing in their pocket, wait a bit till
they take it out.
How long?
Till they take the money out and throw it in.
In the morning, somebody pulled out a handkerchief.
They’re not all like that.
Some people make fun.
It happens.
I’ll count till ten, and if there’s nothing…
That’s too long.
Then five.
That’s better. But if you see them scratch, hold out.
Scratch what?
Only the girl gave them something. She had the money in her
hand, and dropped it in the hat. The boy thanked her, then
stepped over to the boys, but they didn’t give him anything.
Nor did the two old men. There was also a woman sitting up
front with a sleeping child on her arm, but all she did was
look at it and at nothing else. There was a basket full of
apples by her side, but she didn’t give them any of
that either, whereas they usually do. Twenty forints. Not
bad for a start, his father said merrily.
You’re cold?
No.
It’ll pick up now, you’ll see. There’ll
be more people on the train now, with the women going to the
market.
Why don’t we go to the market too, dad? The market’s
always full of people.
The market’s no good. It’s got plenty of beggars
without us.
Are we beggars, dad?
No, son. We’re artists.
Like wandering minstrels?
That’s right, son. But you’ll sing along now,
won’t you?
All right.
If you feel like it.
Fine.
I’ll play something you like.
Great.
People like to hear children sing.
Do I have a nice voice, dad?
Yes, son. Your teacher said you have a nice voice, and he
should know.
The one who gave me chewing gum?
That’s the one.
He gave the boy chewing gum that can be swallowed. It was
round like candy, but he didn’t tell his father until
much later, after Tibi Kárász said that the
hole in his ass would stick together with his mouth and he’d
have to be cut apart with a knife, and then he would die.
* * *
After a train backed
up and caught him, the others at the railroad came to call
Balog Balog the Cripple. His leg should have been amputated,
but he wouldn’t hear of it. I’d rather have you
cut off my head, right here, he said, and he showed them where.
He was still cheerful then, and for a long time afterwards,
even though his leg was badly mangled and he needed repeated
surgery until it got some semblance of shape to it, but work
was out of the question. Even walking was a problem. He would
have needed to go under the knife two more times, at least,
to strengthen his foot out and to make the bones move, but
by then he’d had enough. Every time he went under the
knife he’d gnaw his pillow from the pain, and he said,
enough. Enough! He’s not going to get his leg back,
so what’s the use? Then after a while, he stopped joking.
Even turning in bed caused him excruciating pain. Then gradually
he learned to walk with his characteristic waddle, sliding-jerking-wrenching
himself forward. First he had to hitch his shoulder, then
twist his waist and swing his arms, and he bit his lips until
they bled. Without crutches, he told his wife elatedly, who
cried when she heard. Then he was pensioned off, which didn’t
improve his spirits any either. It’s no good, being
pensioned off at the age of forty. Later his movements improved
a great deal, only the sole of his foot and the foot itself
burned like fire, and he tired quickly. That’s when
he came up with the accordion, because the boredom at home
was becoming unbearable. There were other problems as well.
You find me repulsive, he asked his wife, and she said no,
of course not. Besides, it’s not her fault. She’s
not the one to blame.
Still, you’re not like you used to be.
For Christssakes, how could I? Nothing’s not like it
used to be. Or is it?
I’m still the same man and the same male.
Why are you badgering me?
Because if you’re planning to leave me, I want to know.
I’m not going to stop you. You’re still young.
What about the boy?
Ah. So it’s the boy that’s holding you back.
I’m sorry, but I can’t take it any more. I always
had a thing about cripples. I can’t help it. It turns
my stomach. I feel sorry for you, but I can’t help it.
What am I to do? I can’t lie down next to you, how could
I? I can’t expect you to understand. I did the best
I could, but I can’t.
All right.
We manage, though, don’t we? Maybe I’ll get used
to it. A couple of drinks, or whatever, I don’t know
what I’m going to do. I’ve been to see the doctor
about it. I was hoping he could do something.
What did he say?
He said there’s nothing he can do. I’ll have to
get used to it, or jump ship.
Is it better when I sit?
Yes. It’s only when you walk or move around.
Is it very bad?
It makes me sick.
Fine.
What’s fine?
Nothing. I think you should go.
Where?
Don’t make out like you don’t know what I’m
saying.
In the end, she left. They agreed not to get a divorce, and
she wouldn’t take the child with her or wax sentimental.
It’ll be like you’re visiting, understand? You
can come whenever you want. You know that. We shouldn’t
say anything to the boy, though. There’ll be plenty
of time for that later. When he’s older, he can go visit
you any time he wants. It’s the best I can think of.
It’s not your fault. I know this may sound foolish,
but could you buy something for the child now and then so
he’ll know he’s got a mother? Don’t worry,
I’ll pay for it. I’ll tell him you went to stay
with a sick relative.
He’ll find out anyway.
We’ll continue lying to him.
I may not come for a long time at first.
That’s all right.
People will say I deserted you in your hour of need.
So what?
Is that what you think?
Me? No.
They were standing on a dark and noisy passageway between
cars. It was cold, and the floor boards pitched gently under
their feet. The boy was shivering. Let’s rest a while,
his father said, pulling the boy closer, rubbing his back
and shoulder. This was the only place they could stop to catch
their breath; everywhere else there were too many people around.
Even on the platforms by the train doors people were standing
with sacks, bags, and cans. As they were nearing Debrecen,
the train was gradually filling up with passengers.
In the dining car a group of pensioners, a little worse for
drink, were having a loud time of it, singing to themselves,
when Balog entered. They were glad to have him, and he began
to accompany them on his accordion while the boy stood silently
by. Then his father started singing my own true love, she’s
left me, just like that, from the middle of the song, at which
the group fell silent. Stop, a fat man shouted, wheezing,
take it from the top! It was a long, sad song, and after a
while the boy joined in, too, because his father kept nudging
him with his elbow, good bye, my love, good bye. How do you
know these old songs, they asked Balog, but he just smiled.
I know a great many songs, he said. Well, then, let’s
hear, they urged, we got plenty of time on our hands, don’t
we?
They gave him a beer, and Balog told them that his father
had been on the front, too, and was wounded, which is how
he made it home. From then on he played music on trains and
he, a mere child, accompanied his father wherever he went.
Except, he always embellished the story, and the boy remembered
that he never told the same story twice. Oh, dear, oh, my,
the people said in wonder, and now it’s you and your
son. Well, well. But what happened to your leg, if you don’t
mind the intrusion, the fat man asked. My leg?, Balog sighed,
it’s no big deal, I could get used to that. By this
time the boy would tug at his sleeve, because he didn’t
like what followed, even though he knew it was no use urging
him, Balog wouldn’t stop. Once he got some drink in
him, but even if he didn’t, at this point he would launch
into a confused explanation about how his foot this and his
foot that, and not a word of it was true. He never said that
it happened while he was working for the railroad. It was
high time for the boy to move away from him. You see?, his
father would say pointing at him, poor child. He can’t
even hear me tell it. It got to him so bad, we had to bring
him back from the threshold of death, because he hanged himself.
And such a young child, the others said, aghast. What did
he use? His mother’s stocking. That’s how much
he loved her while she was alive. She died?, someone who’d
just started attending to the story asked, but Balog just
waved it off. I better go after the boy. Make sure he won’t
do something crazy again. At other times he’d show the
scars on his stomach. The boy, he’s living with one
of my kidneys. This is where they took it out. And I say to
the doctor, take my heart, too, if he needs it, take my eyes,
my brain, take whatever the boy needs! And by then he’d
be crying, and the women would cry along with him, and the
boy, too, was crying when he found him, mostly in the toilet
or on one of the platforms, where he could be alone. Why do
you say stuff like that, he screamed at his father, why must
you lie? I was never sick. And your leg, it didn’t get
that way because I needed the bone from it! And mom didn’t
die. It’s a lie! You’re always lying! Leave me
alone! Sometimes people would go after them to comfort them,
or to give that poor unfortunate child something, and then
his father would say, no thank you, we’re not beggars.
Just that it feels so good, having someone to tell it to.
And in fact, he wouldn’t accept anything when this happened,
he just wiped his eyes and the child’s face and heaved
a heavy sigh, it’s all right, it’s all right,
until the child calmed down.
This time, though, he was in good spirits when he went to
find the child, who heard his waddling steps--knocking his
feet into everything,he thought,--when the corridor’s
empty, and he sighed. There you are, son, Balog hollered as
he forced himself through the sliding door, you’re going
in the wrong direction, we’ve done that part already!
The child retraced his steps in silence and stopped on the
opposite platform, waited for his father to catch up, then
let go of the door. They sent you some chocolate, his father
said. Here. Take it. The boy stopped. Let’s wait a bit,
what do you say? Let’s rest a bit, and you eat your
chocolate. They invited us to a wedding, he said later. Should
we go?
Are you mad?
No.
What?
I’m not mad.
You look out of sorts.
Just tired.
There’s another carriage ahead of the dining car. It’s
usually crowded.
Can we get off after?
Yes.
And can we go home?
Yes. We’ll start the stove and go to bed.
And can we stay home?
Yes. But if you want, you can go play.
I don’t want to go anywhere.
Fine.
The next car had a group of loud, unruly children, probably
on their way to an outing. Balog and the boy could hardly
push their way through them. The boy took his father’s
hand and walked up front, fixing his eyes straight ahead.
Thank God, his father didn’t want to play or sing, because
the children would’ve made fun of them, and Tibi Kárász
was sure to find out. He would’ve also found out about
his lace-up boots, not to mention his oversize coat. He’s
got a proper coat, but when he goes with his father, he’s
got to wear this one, because they’re poor. Tibi Kárász
might even be in the car for all he knew, and he’ll
be hearing him sing out in a minute, what’s up, Pauper
Billy? You look like something that’s been pissed on
the wall and hatched by the sun. He looked down at the floor,
but he could still feel the children whispering behind his
back, nudging each other, suppressing a giggle, and soon as
they’re gone, screaming with laughter, he knew. The
two monkeys, they’d say, two monkeys from the fair.
He hurried through the car so that his father could hardly
keep up with him. Let’s stop, Balog said out on the
platform, let me catch my breath.
But still, they did not get off. Just a little bit more, his
father pleaded, because the platform was crowded with people,
mostly women, and that was always a good sign. Behold a little
baby boy, a happy babe is he, his face how bright, his heart
how light, his throne his mother’s knee, they sang,
and people started asking questions again, at which point
the boy went on ahead, and didn’t even hear his father
say, look at that child, he’s been pieced together from
my body, and now, this is all that’s left of me. And
him. When they entered the next car they couldn’t get
off again, because the people were already waiting for them.
Somebody had taken news of them, and they didn’t even
have to sing. Instead, Balog had to show his scars. See? See
here? For two whole days he lived with my heart. This is where
they took it out, and we were both hooked up to it. At other
times he showed his back. The boy couldn’t breathe.
This is where they put a tube from him in my lung, so he shouldn’t
choke to death. Or his knee. Believe it or not, he’s
got my knee. He doesn’t know because I signed a paper
saying I’d never tell him.
They must’ve been near the front of the train by then,
because they could hear the sound of the locomotive from up
close, when Balog said theywould get off at the next stop,
because by now, he’d had it, too. Here, too, there was
a draft between cars, but they managed to reach the adjoining
platform. Okay, we can stop here, he said, and lowered his
accordion to the floor. He took a knitted hat from his pocket
and pulled it over the boy’s head. Dad, the boy said
after a while, there’s somebody there. Where?, his father
asked. Over there. I can see his feet. Balog took a step or
two in the direction indicated by his son, and spotted a young
man lying at the head of the corridor. He must’ve been
attacked by the door. He was wearing jeans and a jacket, and
his shirt was torn, and his head and face were smeared with
blood. Let’s get away from here, son, he said in haste,
and don ’t look. But dad. You promised we’d get
off. Let’s go back to the other car. We’ll get
off there. Come on, move it. Open the door! But the boy kept
staring at the man on the ground, because he was sure he saw
him make weak, jerky movements. Then the toilet door was flung
open and two men came out. Tut-tut, said the one, what have
you two been up to? He had curly black hair and long side-whiskers
that reached down to the corners of his lips. Lookee there,
added the other, they beat Mugger within an inch of his life.
The second man was also dark, but not as much, and his metal
teeth gleamed in his mouth. Shame on you, he said to Balog,
then they burst out laughing. Come with us, the curly man
said, we gotta talk this over. Please, Balog said, we didn’t
hurt nobody. I’m a wandering musician and me and my
son, we want to get off. Are you sure it wasn’t you
knocked him cold, the man with the metal teeth asked, though
it was in fact a threat. I’m sure, Balog said. How could
I have done it with my crippled...
Well, if it wasn’t you, who the fuck was it? Well? The
Boogie Man? Meanwhile, the two of them had forced Balog into
a corner. The boy stood a way off, looking on round-eyed.
Or me? Hey? Is that it?, the man with the metal teeth hollered.
Go on! Let me hear you say it! Say it was me, ’cause
it was me! He looked at the other man and gave an ugly belly-laugh,
then patted Balog on the back. Hey, he said, don’t shit
in your pants. He’ll come to in a minute. Okay, you,
he shouted at the man on the floor, rise and shine. Then he
started kicking the soles of his feet. Leave him be, the curly
man said. Let him get some shut-eye. Then he turned to Balog.
Did you say a musician? That’s right, Balog answered,
having partly recovered from his scare. And this is one of
our regular routes. What about this thing, the man with the
metal teeth said, pointing at Balog’s accordion, what
can you play on it? Anything, Balog shot back. Just about.
The two men looked at each other and had another laugh. Good,
the curly one said, in that case come. Show us what you know.
Balog tried everything he could think of so he wouldn’t
have to go with them. His son’s still a child, and ailing,
he said, he may even be feverish. He tends to be delirious,
and his mind wanders. No sweat, they said, his mind can wander
all it wants. Ours wanders, too, at the yard. Then he said
he was tired and showed them his scars and his crippled legs.
So much the better, the curly one said, they’re made
for rapping. So move your ass. Bewildered and scared, the
boy shot pleading glances every which way, but the two men
pushed them toward the inside of the car, where there was
an incredible amount of smoke and noise. They were greeted
with an ovation. It was evident at a glance that the men and
women sitting and standing around a traveling case covered
with cards and money were old friends. I got us a musician,
the curly man announced. He’s got something to say,
so shut up, everybody! I got nothing to say, Balog said defensively
as he pulled the boy closer, trying to laugh it off. But then
he figured it’d be best to do as he’s told. Oh,
all right, he said, because some of the company were threatening
him by then. But just one, because we’re tired. Somebody
handed him a bottle of beer, telling him to drink up, and
they made the boy drink, too, despite his protests. Then somebody
picked him up and settled him atop a luggage rack. Are you
hungry, a woman with heavily painted lips asked. Would you
like a banana? Here! The boy needs clothes, not bananas. Just
look at the rags he’s wearing, someone else said. Why
don’t you dress him properly? Balog hemmed and hawed,
he’s got proper clothes, except not for here, it would
be a pity on the train, it’d just get wrinkled
and worn out. Then he started to play the accordion. Louder,
some people shouted, we can’t hear! Hey, shut up, everybody!
Balog started to play “Krasznahorka”, and for
a while they listened, then a bald man with the neck of a
bull cut in, saying that’s no good, we’re not
at a funeral. Ain’t you got a happier tune? Hey, give
him another drink, somebody, that’ll perk his spirits
up!
Balog couldn’t really play the accordion. He only knew
the movements he’d learned from his father, and the
songs to go with them; he never tried anything new, nor was
there any need. Now he was in a bind, but he did his best
to hold the rhythm steady when the others joined in, except
he made a poor show of it, and after a while the people stopped
singing and said, old man, you’re no good. Get your
ass out of here, you’re not worth shit. You’re
a mound of shaking jelly, the curly man added, not a musician.
Hey, somebody, give him something. I don’t want him
saying we’re misers. No, no, don’t, Balog said,
trying to calm them, I couldn’t entertain you, so don’t
pay me. Who cares, the man with the metal teeth said, time
is money, what do you say, boys? Have you got change of a
thousand, somebody put in, at which there was laughter and
guffaws all around. How did you come to be such a pitiful
reject, a thin, asthmatic man asked, what happened to you?
Why don’t you walk properly? Wouldn’t it be a
whole lot easier on you?, at which there was another round
of laughter. Isn’t that band heavy, they asked, then
they removed the accordion from around his neck and started
pulling and tugging at it, as if it were a piece of spring,
each man according to his strength. They vied to outdo each
other, pulling at it high above their heads, or in the back,
up front, then somebody had an idea, hey, you, he said to
Balog, I know why you push them buttons. It makes it easier
to pull this thing apart, a remark that was immediately followed
by another round of laughter. And he even gets paid for it.
It’s highway robbery! Okay, here’s your money,
and good riddance. Where’s the boy? Has anybody seen
the boy?
They took the boy off the luggage rack, and proceeded to admire
him. What nice big teeth, somebody said. Have you got them
all? Yes, said the boy. And look at those muscles! The bull
neck felt his arms and laughed. That’s what I call muscles
of steel! Have you got your weenie too? The boy nodded and
smiled as those big men passed him around, then somebody picked
him up, I’ll carry him, he said, just don’t piss
on my clothes, you hear? The boy laughed, and he didn’t
even seek his father’s face, because he felt so good,
now, so very good. The man with the bull’s neck told
him to grab on to his hair, but he didn’t have a single
strand, and the boy leaned his cheek against his bald head,
flung his arms around his neck, and laughed and laughed and
laughed. All right, the man with the curly haired shouted,
that’s enough, everybody! Leave them be! Shumi, take
that thing after the old man. See our guests to the door and
make sure they don’t come back. Want another drink,
old man? No? Have it your way.
They led the boy up front, followed by his father. They’d
grabbed him under the arm, so he didn’t even have to
walk; and the man in the back brought his accordion. Then
out on the platform, the man who’d gone up front took
the boy from around his neck. Well, he said, here we are.
Put it here, he said, and he offered the boy a hand the size
of a shovel, and the boy slammed his own into it. Good show,
son! First class! Then he flung open the train door. The boy
felt a light push and heard someone say there you go, and
he went flying through the air, with his father after him.
The accordion landed a ways off. The train proceeded on its
way.
Thank God we’re small and thin, his father said once
he’d managed to sit up. And also, that the weed’s
so thick here. Did you hurt yourself? No, said the boy, who’d
gotten to his feet by then and was toeing the grass with his
boot as if nothing had happened. He was even smiling. His
father was panting heavily. Fuck them, he said, then heaped
curses on them right and left, those filthy, rotten, flea
eating bastards, look what they’ve done to us. It boggles
the mind. It’s incredible. I hope they don’t think
they can get away with this. The vermin. A cripple and a child.
And what are you laughing at?
Nothing.
You’re not laughing for no reason. Are you laughing
at me?
They threw us out like a cat to do his shitting.
That’s some joke. We could’ve broke our neck.
Come here. Let’ me take a look at you.
I’m all right.
Come here, I said. You might have internal injuries.
Where?
I gotta feel you. If it hurts, tell me.
Fine.
And wipe that smile off your face.
The boy burst out laughing, his two mouse-teeth glistening
with saliva. There was saliva in the corner of his mouth,
too, and he said it tickles when his father touched him, which
wasn’t true, it’s just that he had to laugh, it
was all so ridiculous, the way the bald man threw them out
of the train. Maybe they’ll come and get them and then
they’ll laugh at the whole thing together, the curly
haired man and the man with the metal teeth, and the bald
man will pick him up again and shout for him to leave his
hair alone, which he hasn’t got. You’re a rascal,
his father said to him, and began tickling him in earnest,
then picked him up in his arm, sitting, like a child, and
said, no harm done. Later he got to his feet and looked around.
Just as I figured, he said, we’re near Apafa. Just a
hop, skip, and a jump away. Freight trains go by here all
the time. They go very slow. We’ll hoist ourselves on
one, all right? All right?, he asked again, because the boy,
who was staring into space with traces of laughter still on
his face, did not answer him. Then he said, all right. Like
the last time, his father went on, but only if it goes very
slow. I’ll tell you when, and not before. Later he picked
up his accordion, but his face was sad as he brought it over
to his son. It’s got a lot of problems with it, he complained,
it’ll need fixing. Plus it’s ripped. Then he turned
it around, tried it, then with a sigh, put it down.
For a while they said nothing. Then the boy stood up and went
to the rails to have a look, but there was no freight train
approaching. Then a regular train came, passing them with
a speedy clatter, then nothing, again, for a long while. Then
a freight train came, but it was as fast as the passenger
train. Sit down, his father said, and stop fretting. And stop
walking along the tracks. I know this stretch. It’ll
come. Sometimes they back up all the way to here.
Am I strong, Dad?
What a question.
They said I’m muscular. Is this muscle?
Yes.
Then I could jump on the fast train, too?
You could jump on the fast train. Your hand would get ripped
off.
How about you.
No.
Because you’re as weak as a breeze?
Is that what they said on the train?
They also said you’re like putty.
They don’t know what they’re talking about.
The bald man was the strongest. Yes?
Yes.
But you’re weak. Yes?
What if I am?
The boy made no answer, but he looked sad, and he sat down
in the dry grass, too. Then another train passed by, but in
the opposite direction, followed by two more, then nothing.
Dad.
What is it?
You’re not going to punch Tibi Kárász.
Why not?
Because you’re weak.
No, I’m not.
Yes you are. And he’s gonna smear you into the wall,
like snot.
Is that what he said?
Yes. And you’ll just grin, like a hare at a bunch of
wild apples.
Come on over here.
I’m not.
I’m not gonna hurt you, just that I can’t hear
clear what you learned on that train. Your mother would be
proud of you if she could hear, he added, out of sorts. Tibi
Kárász. Did he say anything about your mother?
Yes.
Well, what did he say?
A low rumble could be heard, like the approach of a slow train.
Balog got to his feet, and then the boy. It’s slow,
his father said, as far as I can tell. Maybe it’ll suit
us. Come, stand at the ready! Then he quickly grabbed the
boy and pressed him close, but the boy wrenched himself free.
The train’s coming, he shouted happily. Wait, his father
shouted, don’t run! If it’s too fast, we’ll
wait for the next one, do you hear? Fine, the boy shouted
back, but all his attention was concentrated on the train.
Flat cars, his father said when the freight train pulled up.
It might work. Don’t go that close, wait for me. Wait
till it slows way down.
His eyes were pinned on the boy as he climbed the pebbled
railway bed, straight as an arrow, his father thought. He
jerked and wriggled after him as fast as he could, panting
and still shouting, wait!, then he saw the boy grab a step,
oh, God!, he’s hanging in mid air!, but the next moment
he was on. I’m coming, his father shouted, sit down
and stay where you are. He managed to grab hold of a step
at the further end of the wagon, I’ve made it, he thought,
once I got hold of it, it’s mine. The train was pulling
him along, but that was all right, and the boy was running
towards him on the platform, sit down, he shouted, I’ll
be all right. Then he felt a kick in his face, delivered by
a laced-up boot, then another, two blinding white explosions
in all. He let go of the iron step. He couldn’t take
it any more. There was no reason why he should.
(1941-2005),
the highly regarded Hungarian writer, worked most of his life
in a factory in the provincial town of Debrecen until he was
made redundant there. His short story anthologies, most notably
Person No. 6714 (A 6714-es személy, 1981), Thy Kingdom
Come (A te országod, 1993), Our Street (A mi utcánk,
1995), Slow Freight (Lassú teher, 1998), and On the
Edge of the Map (A térkép szélén,
2003), as well as the highly acclaimed existentialist political-crime
novel, Grey Pigeon (Szürke galamb, 1996), owe their existence
to the world the writer knew so well -- the world of displaced
peasants and lower class blue collar workers. As another contemporary
writer, Ádám Bodor, has said about him, "Sándor
Tar stayed 'behind' in the place other writers were quick
to leave. He has not forgotten what causes the sudden silence
in a crowded inn."
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