Under the frog by Tibor Fischer Page A

on, ‘and now under socialism, the fried chicken is even more fried.’ He
reached for a plate of slender green tubes. ‘The paprika is optional,’ he
announced loading a couple into his mouth.
    Three
kilos into the chicken, Faragó began to sweat, though whether this was due to
gastronomic exertion or the calorific effects of the paprika it was hard to
judge. He was also beginning to look uneasy, perhaps because it was dawning on
him that the reports of the Jesuit’s unearthly wolfing had some foundation.
Faragó was oozing effort while Ladányi was methodically and calmly stripping
drumsticks with such ease that he hadn’t taken the trouble of dialling his
willpower yet.
    ‘I’m
just going to shake the snake,’ Gyuri informed Neumann. He was becoming
increasingly anxious about losing contact with several outposts of his body.
Draining two of the four glasses of pálinka awaiting his attention, he made his
way out of the csárda into the sheltering darkness and voided the burning
liquid from his mouth in an aerosol flurry to dodge some of the enormity of
Hálás’s hospitality. A standard peasant, an elderly gent with the inevitable
black hat that peasants had stapled to their heads and a massive handlebar
moustache, came to join him in watering the planet. ‘Good evening, sir,’ said
the peasant, causing Gyuri to note that only countryfolk could be so courteous
while airing their dick. Conversation turned to Faragó as Gyuri was in no hurry
to go back in and be the victim of further largesse; he was curious about
Faragó’s track record. ‘I hear he did some appalling things during the war?’
    ‘You
don’t want to know, sir. Some things should never be repeated, just forgotten.
Satan himself is his coach.’
    Gyuri
waited outside as long as he could without triggering a search party and
re-entered to find Ladányi and Faragó crossing the ten kilo mark, Faragó in
discomfort, Ladányi still emitting a lean, keen look. A barrel of pigs’
trotters in aspic was dumped in front of Gyuri and he wondered how on earth he
was going to eat any. ‘You didn’t like the smoked goose, did you?’ asked one
woman accusingly and woundedly, although Gyuri estimated he had had six
respectable helpings. Neumann next to him wasn’t saying much, but he wasn’t
demonstrating any signs of suffering (however, he had sixteen stone to upkeep).
The village must have gathered every bit of food for ten miles around. Gyuri
could only regret that his stomach wasn’t up to it, that it had left its
office, put up the ‘out to lunch’ sign and wasn’t doing any more business.
    To
round off his other distasteful qualities, Faragó had a bad cold and as he
handed over his handkerchief to the deputy Party secretary to place on the
stove to dry, Gyuri felt another surge of sympathy for the villagers. They had
a straightforward, soily existence which if you liked that sort of thing could
be quite pleasant. No wonder they were filled with hatred for Faragó;
bewildered by their misfortune, it was like having a plague of locusts or a
dragon deciding to set up home with you. ‘Why us?’ the elderly peasant had
implored. ‘A whole world to be a stinking horseprick in and he’s never lost
sight of Hálás. Why?’
    The
eating had now long since left pleasure behind. It was no longer a question of
appetite, but a question of will, which was why Gyuri knew Ladányi would win,
and knowing Ladányi, would end up recruiting Faragó as an altar boy.
Conversion. It was funny how people could, while changing completely, remain
the same. Fodor, at school, for example, for whom getting into trouble had not
been a by-product of his activity but his sole activity, who had been almost as
much of a nuisance as Keresztes, had, without warning, got a bad attack of the
Holy Ghost. At first there was a suspicion that it was an elaborate and unfunny
stunt, but Fodor was so unswerving in handing out leaflets to remind how Jesus
wanted a word, that everyone