A Quiver Full of Arrows (21 page)

The minister frowned. “I am afraid, Sir
Hamish, if you cannot understand that, you can never hope to understand the
principles we Mexicans live by.”

The Secretary of State rose from behind his
desk, limped to the door and showed Sir Hamish out.

C
oincidences, writers are told (usually by the
critics) must be avoided, although in truth the real world is full of incidents
that in themselves are unbelievable. Everyone has had an experience that if
they wrote about it would appear to others as pure fiction.

The same week that the headlines in the world
newspapers read “Russia invades Afghanistan, America to withdraw from Moscow Olympics”
there also appeared a short obituary in The Times for the distinguished Professor
of English at the University of Budapest. “A man who was born and died in his
native Budapest and whose reputation remains assured by his brilliant
translation of the works of Shakespeare into his native Hungarian.

Although some linguists consider his
Coriolanus immature they universally acknowledge his Hamlet to be a translation
of genius.”

Nearly a decade after the Hungarian Revolution
I had the chance to participate in a student athletics meeting in Budapest.

The competition was scheduled to last for a
full week so I felt there would be an opportunity to find out a little about
the country. The team new in to Ferihegy Airport on the Sunday night and we
were taken immediately to the Hotel If ushag. (I learned later that the word
meant youth in Hungarian). Having settled in, most of the team went to bed
early as their opening round heats were the following day.

Breakfast the next morning comprised of milk,
toast and an egg, served in three acts with long intervals between each. Those
of us who were running that afternoon skipped lunch for fear that a matinee
performance might cause us to miss our events completely.

Two hours before the start of the meeting,
we were taken by bus to the Nep stadium and unloaded outside the dressing rooms
(I always feel they should be called undressing rooms). We changed into track
suits and sat around on benches anxiously waiting to be called. After what
seemed to be an interminable time but was in fact only a few minutes, an
official appeared and led us out on to the track. As it was the opening day of
competition, the stadium was packed. When I had finished my usual warm-up of
jogging, sprinting and some light callisthenics, the loudspeaker announced the
start of the 100m race in three languages. I stripped off my track suit and ran
over to the start.

When called, I pressed my spikes against the
blocks and waited nervously for the starter’s pistol.

Felkeszulni, Kesz – bang. Ten seconds later
the race was over and the only virtue of coming last was that it left me six
free days to investigate the Hungarian capital.

Walking around Budapest reminded me of my
childhood days in Bristol just after the war, but with one noticeable
difference. As well as the bombed-out buildings, there was row upon row of
bullet holes in some of the walls. The revolution, although eight years past,
was still much in evidence, perhaps because the nationals did not want anyone
to forget. The people on the streets had lined faces, stripped of all emotion,
and they shuffled rather than walked, leaving the impression of a nation of old
men. If you inquired innocently why, they told you there was nothing to hurry
for, or to be happy about, although they always seemed to be thoughtful with
each other.

On the third day of the games, I returned to
the Nep stadium to support a friend of mine who was competing in the
semi-finals of the 400m hurdles which was the first event that afternoon.
Having a competitor’s pass, I could sit virtually anywhere in the half-empty
arena. I chose to watch the race from just above the final bend, giving me a
good view of the home straight. I sat down on the wooden bench without paying
much attention to the people on either side of me. The race began and as my
friend hit the bend crossing the seventh hurdle with only three hurdles to
cover before the finishing line, I stood and cheered him heartily all the way
down the home straight. He managed to come in third, ensuring himself a place
in the final the next day. I sat down again and wrote out the detailed result
in my programme. I was about to leave, as there were no British competitors in
the hammer or the pole vault, when a voice behind me said:

“You are English?”

“Yes,” I replied, turning in the direction
from which the question had been put.

An elderly gentleman looked up at me.

He wore a threepiece suit that must have
been out of date when his father owned it, and even lacked the possible virtue
that some day the style might come back into fashion. The leather patches on
the elbows left me in no doubt that my questioner was a bachelor for they could
only have been sewn on by a maneither that or one had to conclude he had elbows
in odd places.

The length of his trousers revealed that his
father had been two inches taller than he. As for the man himself, he had a few
strands of white hair, a walrus moustache, and ruddy cheeks. His tired blue
eyes were perpetually half-closed like the shutter of a camera that has just
been released. His forehead was so lined that he might have been any age
between fifty and seventy. The overall impression was of a cross between a tram
inspector and an out-of-work violinist.

I sat down for a second time.

“I hope you didn’t mind my asking?” he
added.

“Of course not,” I said.

“I t’s just that I have so little
opportunity to converse with an Englishman. So when I spot one I always grasp
the nettle. Is that the right colloquial expression?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to think how many
Hungarian words I knew. Yes, No, Good morning, Goodbye, I am lost, Help “You
are in the student games?”

“Were, not are,” I said. “I departed
somewhat rapidly on Monday.”

“Because you were not rapid enough,
perhaps?”

I laughed, again admiring his command of my
first language.

“Why is your English so excellent?” I inquired.

“I’m afraid it’s a little neglected,” the
old man replied. “But they still allow me to teach the subject at the
University. I must confess to you that I have absolutely no interest in sport,
but these occasions always afford me the opportunity to capture someone like
yourself and oil the rusty machine, even if only for a few minutes.” He gave me
a tired smile but his eyes were now alight.

“What part of England do you hail from?” For
the first time his pronouncement faltered as “hail” came out as ‘heel”.

“Somerset,” I told him.

“Ah,” he said, “perhaps the most beautiful
county in England.” I smiled, as most foreigners never seem to travel much
beyond Stratford-on-Avon or Oxford. “To drive across the Mendips,” he continued,
“through perpetually green hilly countryside and to stop at Cheddar to see
Gough’s caves, at Wells to be amused by the black swans ringing the bell on the
Cathedral wall, or at Bath to admire the lifestyle of classical Rome, and then
perhaps to go over the county border and on to Devon... Is Devon even more
beautiful than Somerset, in your opinion?”

“Never,” said 1.

“Perhaps you are a little prejudiced,” he
laughed. “Now let me see if I can recall:

Of the western counties there are seven But
the most glorious is surely that of Devon.

Perhaps Hardy, like you, was prejudiced and
could think only of his beloved Exmoor, the village of Tiverton and Drake’s
Plymouth.”

“Which is your favourite county?” I asked.

“The North Riding of Yorkshire has always
been underrated, in my opinion,” replied the old man. “When people talk of
Yorkshire, I suspect Leeds, Sheffield and Barnsley spring to mind.

Coal mining and heavy industry.

Visitors should travel and see the dales
there; they will find them as different as chalk from cheese.

Lincolnshire is too net and so much of the
Midlands must now be spoilt by sprawling towns. The Birminghams of this world
hold no appeal for me. But in the end I come down in favour of Worcestershire
and Warwickshire, quaint old English villages nestling in the Cotswolds and
crowned by Stratford-upon-Avon. How I wish I could have been in England in 1959
while my countrymen were recovering from the scars of revolution. Olivier
performing Coriolanus, another man who did not want to show his scars.”

“I saw the performance,” I said. “I went
with a school party.”

“Lucky boy. I translated the play into
Hungarian at the age of nineteen.

Reading over my work again last year made me
aware I must repeat the exercise before I die.”

“You have translated other Shakespeare
plays?”

“All but three, I have been leaving Hamlet
to last, and then I shall return to Coriolanus and start again. As you are a
student, am I permitted to ask which University you attend?”

“Oxford.”

“And your College?”

“Brasenose.”

“Ah. B.N.C. How wonderful to be a few yards
away from the Bodleian, the greatest library in the world. If I had been born
in England I should have wanted to spend my days at All Souls, that is just
opposite B.N.C., is it not?”

“That’s right.”

The professor stopped talking while we watched
the next race, the first semi-final of the 1,500 metres. The winner was Anfras
Patovich, a Hungarian, and the partisan crowd went 80159 wild with delight.

“That’s what I call support,” I said.

“Like Manchester United when they have
scored the winning goal in the Cup Final. But my fellow countrymen do not cheer
because the Hungarian was first,” said the old man.

“No?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“Oh, no, they cheer because he beat the
Russian.”

“I hadn’t even noticed,” I said.

“There is no reason why you should, but
their presence is always in the forefront of our minds and we are rarely given
the opportunity to see them beaten in public.”

I tried to steer him back to a happier
subject. “And before you had been elected to All Souls, which college would you
have wanted to attend?”

“As an undergraduate, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Undoubtedly Magdalen is the most beautiful
college. It has the distinct advantage of being situated on the River Cherwell;
and in any case I confess a weakness for perpendicular architecture and a love
of Oscar Wilde.” The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a pistol and
we watched the second semi-final of the 1,500 metres which was won by Orentas
of the U.S.S.R. and the crowd showed its disapproval more obviously this time,
clapping in such a way that left hands passed by right without coming into
contact. I found myselfjoining in on the side of the Hungarians. The scene made
the old man lapse into a sad silence. The last race of the day was won by Tim Johnston
of England and I stood and cheered unashamedly. The Hungarian crowd clapped
politely.

I turned to say goodbye to the professor,
who had not spoken for some time.

“How long are you staying in Budapest?” he
asked.

“The rest of the week. I return to England
on Sunday.”

“Could you spare the time to join an old man
for dinner one night?”

“I should be delighted.”

“How considerate of you,” he said, and he
wrote out his full name and address in capital letters on the back of my
programme and returned it to me. “Why don’t we say tomorrow at seven? And if you
have any old newspapers or magazines do bring them with you,” he said looking a
little sheepish. “And I shall quite understand if you have to change your
plans.”

I spent the next morning looking over St.
Matthias Church and the ancient fortress, two of the buildings that showed no
evidence of the revolution. I then took a short trip down the Danube before
spending the afternoon supporting the swimmers at the Olympic pool. At six I
left the pool and went back to my hotel. I changed into my team blazer and grey
slacks, hoping I looked smart enough for my distinguished host. I locked my
door, and started towards the lift and then remembered. I returned to my room
to pick up the pile of newspapers and magazines I had collected from the rest
of the team.

Finding the professor’s home was not as easy
as I had expected. After meandering around cobbled streets and waving the
professor’s address at several passers-by, I was finally directed to an old
apartment block. I ran up the three flights of the wooden staircase in a few
leaps and bounds, wondering how long the climb took the professor every day. I
stopped at the door that displayed his number and knocked.

The old man answered immediately as if he
had been standing there, waiting by the door. I noticed that he was wearing the
same suit he had had on the previous day.

“I am sorry to be late,” I said.

“No matter, my own students also find me
hard to find the first time,” he said, grasping my hand. He paused. “Bad to use
the same word twice in the same sentence. ‘Locate’ would have been better,
wouldn’t it?”