realised that he had gone evangelist for real:
preaching was his latest irritation tool. Fodor caught Gyuri hanging around in
a corridor one day. ‘Jesus Christ came to be your saviour, He died for your
sins. You must acclaim Him and surrender to His teachings,’ Fodor urged, and
then continued, more quietly, really savouring the next bit, ‘you’ve been
warned now. You’ve had the message, you’ve got no excuse. If you ignore it, you’ll
burn. In hell. For eternity.’ Fodor had then marched off with a satisfied air.
This was the appealing part of the job for Fodor, going around with a sawn-off
version of the scriptures and looking forward to the infidels being infinitely
ignited. Gyuri had also seen Fodor
in the Körút, on a soap-box, giving a sermon to the unheeding passers-by, a
glint of delight in his eye at the prospect of the mass fry-up that was coming.
Fodor didn’t want anyone to be able to reach for some mitigation when they
stood in the pearly dock, saying no one had explained the Nazarene contract to
them. Then Fodor could chime out: ‘Liar! Liar! I told him, I told him. Let him
burrrnnnn.’
What
had befallen Fodor in the end, whether he had grown weary of his sadistic
evangelism, Gyuri didn’t know. Gyuri had last seen him at a school trip to the
cinema where they had been locked in. You could tell it was a Soviet film when
they locked you in. The school had taken over an enormous balcony in the cinema
which descended in a series of plateaus. Fodor had vaulted over what he had
thought was the edge of one of these sections, in fact the end of the balcony.
Just before he disappeared from view, there had been a nanosecond’s worth of
expression on his face: why isn’t there any balcony here?
Along
with a couple of others, Gyuri had selflessly volunteered to take Fodor and his
broken legs to hospital, thereby avoiding the feats of Sergei, who
single-handedly repulsed the invading Germans in between repairing his tractor
to produce a bumper harvest. Either for fear of ridicule or in pursuit of fresh
souls, Fodor never returned.
‘You
don’t say much, do you?’ Faragó observed to Ladányi, with the implication that
Ladányi was unfairly reserving energy for eating. Even if Faragó had had more
fight, the switch to chocolate ice cream was the end. A large chicken’s weight
behind Ladányi, Faragó had chosen the sweet to which Ladányi was most partial;
Ladányi’s nickname in the troop, ‘Iceman’, came from his mythical disposal of
chocolate ice cream, in the days before he had signed up with Jesus. Gyuri
wondered whether Ladányi had mentioned to anyone back at Jesuit headquarters
that he was popping down to the countryside to out-eat a Party Secretary.
However laudable the goal, in an atmosphere of austerity where quips such as ‘Isn’t
that the second meal you’ve had this week, Father?’ abounded, this sort of
indecorous gourmandise, however much a part of Christian soldiering, must have
run the risk of some gruelling rosary work.
‘What
would you like me to say?’ inquired Ladányi politely, keeping a spoon full of
ice cream from its destination. The whole village was craning forward now, as
Faragó was visibly floundering, gazing with resentment at his bowl of ice
cream.
‘As the
saying goes,’ said Faragó fighting for air, ‘there isn’t room for two bagpipe
players in the same inn. We, the working class… we, the instrument of the
international proletariat… we will defend the gains of the people…’ Here Faragó
jammed, fell off his chair and as if gagging on his propaganda, spilled his
stomach on the floor. It looked very much to Gyuri like a job for the last
rites.
Ladányi
didn’t seemed worried. ‘There are some documents Father Orso has ready for you
to sign, I believe,’ he said. The village priest crouched down and offered a
pen to Faragó who was sprawled on the floor as if he were thinking about doing
a push-up. Saturninely he scrawled a mark on
preaching was his latest irritation tool. Fodor caught Gyuri hanging around in
a corridor one day. ‘Jesus Christ came to be your saviour, He died for your
sins. You must acclaim Him and surrender to His teachings,’ Fodor urged, and
then continued, more quietly, really savouring the next bit, ‘you’ve been
warned now. You’ve had the message, you’ve got no excuse. If you ignore it, you’ll
burn. In hell. For eternity.’ Fodor had then marched off with a satisfied air.
This was the appealing part of the job for Fodor, going around with a sawn-off
version of the scriptures and looking forward to the infidels being infinitely
ignited. Gyuri had also seen Fodor
in the Körút, on a soap-box, giving a sermon to the unheeding passers-by, a
glint of delight in his eye at the prospect of the mass fry-up that was coming.
Fodor didn’t want anyone to be able to reach for some mitigation when they
stood in the pearly dock, saying no one had explained the Nazarene contract to
them. Then Fodor could chime out: ‘Liar! Liar! I told him, I told him. Let him
burrrnnnn.’
What
had befallen Fodor in the end, whether he had grown weary of his sadistic
evangelism, Gyuri didn’t know. Gyuri had last seen him at a school trip to the
cinema where they had been locked in. You could tell it was a Soviet film when
they locked you in. The school had taken over an enormous balcony in the cinema
which descended in a series of plateaus. Fodor had vaulted over what he had
thought was the edge of one of these sections, in fact the end of the balcony.
Just before he disappeared from view, there had been a nanosecond’s worth of
expression on his face: why isn’t there any balcony here?
Along
with a couple of others, Gyuri had selflessly volunteered to take Fodor and his
broken legs to hospital, thereby avoiding the feats of Sergei, who
single-handedly repulsed the invading Germans in between repairing his tractor
to produce a bumper harvest. Either for fear of ridicule or in pursuit of fresh
souls, Fodor never returned.
‘You
don’t say much, do you?’ Faragó observed to Ladányi, with the implication that
Ladányi was unfairly reserving energy for eating. Even if Faragó had had more
fight, the switch to chocolate ice cream was the end. A large chicken’s weight
behind Ladányi, Faragó had chosen the sweet to which Ladányi was most partial;
Ladányi’s nickname in the troop, ‘Iceman’, came from his mythical disposal of
chocolate ice cream, in the days before he had signed up with Jesus. Gyuri
wondered whether Ladányi had mentioned to anyone back at Jesuit headquarters
that he was popping down to the countryside to out-eat a Party Secretary.
However laudable the goal, in an atmosphere of austerity where quips such as ‘Isn’t
that the second meal you’ve had this week, Father?’ abounded, this sort of
indecorous gourmandise, however much a part of Christian soldiering, must have
run the risk of some gruelling rosary work.
‘What
would you like me to say?’ inquired Ladányi politely, keeping a spoon full of
ice cream from its destination. The whole village was craning forward now, as
Faragó was visibly floundering, gazing with resentment at his bowl of ice
cream.
‘As the
saying goes,’ said Faragó fighting for air, ‘there isn’t room for two bagpipe
players in the same inn. We, the working class… we, the instrument of the
international proletariat… we will defend the gains of the people…’ Here Faragó
jammed, fell off his chair and as if gagging on his propaganda, spilled his
stomach on the floor. It looked very much to Gyuri like a job for the last
rites.
Ladányi
didn’t seemed worried. ‘There are some documents Father Orso has ready for you
to sign, I believe,’ he said. The village priest crouched down and offered a
pen to Faragó who was sprawled on the floor as if he were thinking about doing
a push-up. Saturninely he scrawled a mark on
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