The Longest Pleasure (9 page)

A few weeks ago she-had hated this room, used it only to sleep, to pass the useless hours before she could return to Madam Csank's, and live through the never-ending pleasure of seeing men in all their variety, the large and the small, the young and the old, even the odd deformity. She found them all fascinating, all stimulating. Her only rule was that they should never hurt her between her legs. They could use the cane, they could bite her arms, her legs, her breasts and her belly, her buttocks and her ears, they could squeeze and they could slap and they could scratch, but between her legs they must be gentle if they wanted results. It had taken her several years to establish that. How unimportant it now seemed.

The sound of a key in the lock brought her to her feet, one stocking on, the other twined round her fingers; Then she sat down again, her shoulders sagging. 'Your telegram said you were coming on the morning train. I was going to meet you.'

Kirsten Moeller threw her travelling case into a corner. She wore a white raincoat, for no apparent reason, as the sun was shining, and her pale yellow hair, worn to her shoulders, was caught in a thick rubber band, making an untidy ponytail. She had chewed off most of her lipstick, as usual, and there were black smuts on her nose, melding with the shadows of fatigue which stretched away from her eyes. 'I came last night.' She bent over the bed, took Irena's face between her hands, squeezing the thinly covered bones, forcing the mouth open, driving her tongue to the back of Irena's throat. "You just grow younger.'

Irena lay on her back, the stocking still caught round her fingers. 'Why
do
you come back to me? Always.'

'I love you, dear one.'

‘
You have
a
husband. Where does he suppose you are this time?'

'Rome. And Jonathan grows older every day, while you grow younger. I wonder if you have any idea. Oh, I know you get the odd ones, but they
are
the odd ones. Jonathan is there all the time. Sometimes he comes when neither of us are ready, and then it is hours, and he weeps. Grown men should not weep. And other times he comes when we are both ready, and it is over before he has got past tickling.'

'It is your own fault for marrying
a
man so much older than yourself.'

Kirsten smiled, stroked the long brown hair. 'You have no idea about that either, dear one. Do you know what will happen to me when I leave here? I shall change my clothes and my passport in Vienna, and I shall fly to Heathrow. I shall be wearing mink, and the car that meets me will be a Rolls. Those are the things you get for marrying a man twice your age. And, besides, Jonathan is a very understanding man. He knows I must get away, be amongst people of my own age. He accepts it At this moment he imagines I am sharing my bed with half
a
dozen Italian gigolos, and
he
does not resent it. In many ways
he
is a treasure.'

'And instead of doing what
he
expects, you come here, and risk the Avo. You are
a
fool, Kirstie.'

Kirsten Moeller sat up. "Yes,' she said.
‘I
come to see you, in Budapest But not only because I love you, you know. You provide me with a perfect bolt-hole.' She took off her raincoat, rolled it into a ball, threw it on the floor, kicked her shoes behind it. 'I could drink
a
gallon of coffee.'

Irena rolled off the bed
?
lit the gas under the kettle. To resist Kirsten was impossible. And now she knew that to explain to Kirsten was also impossible. 'Why did you come last night?'

'Because I was informed that there was going to be a student meeting. We talked all night And a delegation went to the Central Committee.'

'How long will you stay?'

'A week, at least'

Irena turned. 'A
wee
k?’

'It's going to happen, Irena. Now. Tomorrow, maybe. Haven't you been listening to the radio?'

'Sometimes.' Irena stirred coffee, thoughtfully. 'I know Rakosi is gone.'

'That! That is a put-on, by Gero and that bunch. They will seek to hoodwink you.
You,
Irena. You are Magyar. You sometimes forget that, I think.'

Irena sat on the bed, her hands dangling between her knees. 'So what are you going to do about it?'

Kirsten drank, noisily. She was more tired than she seemed, than she would admit 'We wish our demands broadcast to
the nation. The Central Committe
e refused.'

'What did you expect?'

‘
Nothing else. But we are not going to let them get away with that
.
We are going to keep up the pressure. We are going to demonstrate. This afternoon we are meeting at the Petofi statue. And do you know who is going to be there? Adam Wazyk.'

‘
Who is Adam Wazyk?'

Kirsten sighed. 'Sometimes I worry for you, Irena. Wazyk is a poet
The
poet, of this moment Have you never read
Poem for Adults?’

'I have heard of it'

‘
Well, that is Adam Wazyk. He is going to address the students, and then we are going to present our demands again. And do you know what? The Central Committee have refused to allow us to meet'

'Again, what did you expect?'

'Again, dear one, nothing less. But we are going to meet, anyway. There will be thousands of us. Hundreds of thousands of us.'

'Us?' Irena asked.

Kirsten placed the empty c
up on the table beside the bed.

'What is the matter with you? You are behaving very strangely this morning. You, then, if you prefer it. You Hungarians. But you have to be shown the way. Without people like me you would do nothing. You would spend your lives wallowing under the communist tyranny, happy to pick up whatever crumbs they drop in your way.'

Irena Szen took off her stocking. 'I am going back to bed. You don't have to make speeches at me, sweetheart.'

'At you more than anyone,' Kirsten Moeller insisted. 'You, even with me to help you, wallow more than most, Sometimes I am ashamed of you. Are you going to come with me to the demonstration? I will be speaking.'

'I would rather stay here.'

'Then will you cook me some breakfast?'

'Certainly. And I will wish you good luck.'

Kirsten stood behind Irena as she took out the loaf of black bread. She put her arms around Irena's waist, clicked her tongue as she was shrugged away. 'And you will not tell me what is troubling you? Are you ill ?'

You. You are troubling me. It is all very well for you. This agitation, provocation, is your hobby. As you say, you are going home to your big car and your fur coat. But you are playing with lives here. With the lives of all those children, because they are nothing more. They are going to march behind you. What will happen then? Do you think the Russian soldiers are just going to stand there and look at you?'

'Yes,' Kirsten said. 'If they are still here. We have demanded the withdrawal of all Russian troops from Hungary.'
'You
have demanded?'

'The students have demanded. You watch. They will be starting home very soon. Today is October
22nd?
By November 1
st.'

'They haven't gone home from Poland yet'

'But they didn't
do
anything there, either. This is
1956,
Irena, not
1940.
Not
1848,
either. Troops don't go around shooting at civilians in
1956.
There is such a thing as world opinion nowadays.'

'And what about the Avo? Do you think they care-about world opinion?'

'Of course. So they beat people up in their cellars. We know they do that. But we
cannot prove what they do down
there. They shoot someone in the streets, with all the world looking on, and the newsreel cameras clicking away, and they cannot deny afterwards that it happened. Anyway, my dear little one, you are not bothered by what the Avo may or may not do. You know they are not going to trouble Irena Szen. Half the brass in the Russian army, not to mention the government, would be on their necks. Now tell m
e what is really troubling you.’

Irena Szen placed sausage and cucumber with the bread on a plate, left the plate on the table, returned to the bed, and lay down. 'Later,' she said, 'When you come back from your demonstration.'

The sun dipped in a blaze of red and gold over Budapest. It was a memorable sunset, but because it was over a city, a place of dust and fumes and noise and human excitement, it was muted, lacking the streaks of yellow, the unearthly pinkish fade. But it was good to think of sunsets again, without the naked, bleeding belly. Without the thin brown hair, the scrawled name, either. With only the pleasure of a coming fulfilment.

'I knew all the time that it would amount to nothing.' Colonel Evenssohn settled himself in the back seat of his car and lit a cigarette. 'But, still, orders are orders. And it is good for these people to be reminded that there is a power greater than their childish aspirations.'

‘I
t seemed a little over-anxious,' Galitsin agreed, 'to put us on standby because a few schoolchildren proposed to hold a public meeting. In any event, Comrade Colonel, was this not entirely a matter for the Hungarians?'

Evenssohn smiled. He was a little man, dapper, who spent much time, and more money, securing the best materials for his uniforms, and wished only to be left in peace to enjoy the wearing of them. 'One would have thought so, Alexander Petrovich. Although... this is in the strictest confidence, you understand, but I have heard a rumour that additional troops have been ordered across the border. So we are taking the business seriously. It would not do to let it get out of hand, as it has done in Poland. There is too much unrest in the air. It is all the Poles' fault Have you thought, Galitsin, how much trouble the Poles have brought into the world?'

'No, Comrade Colonel.' Galitsin gazed out of his window at the streets of Pest, as they approached the Margaret Bridge. These streets always made him uneasy, and this evening they were deserted, as they had been nearly twelve years ago.

'They have never been satisfied with their rulers, no matter who they have been. You wait. Gomulka will soon be in as much trouble as anyone. They are a nation of anarchists.'

Galitsin said nothing. He was on his way to see Irena; he was happy that this was still possible, was in no mood to listen to a political diatribe from the colonel.

'But these people, as you say, are schoolchildren. I had an observer there this afternoon. They sang patriotic songs, and waved flags, and made patriotic speeches, and presented lists of demands, to the air, of course. And do you know what headed their demands, Alexander Petrovich?'

'No, Comrade Colonel.'

'They demanded the withdrawal of all Soviet troops from Hungarian soil. Truly, one wonders if liberating these people and rebuilding their country was worth all the effort. But the Central Committee were wise to permit the demonstration, after all. Let them get it off their chests. Now they will all go home to bed like good little boys and girls and we will be able to resume living civilised lives. Where
can
I drop you?'

'The next corner, thank you very much, Comrade Colonel.'

'You have a mistress in Buda, eh, Alexander Petrovich? Ah, you young
officers,
with your medals and your good looks, are always the lucky ones. Me, now, I have to make do with Madam Csank's. And my favourite whore has been ill recently. It disturbs the rhythm.' He leaned forward to tap his driver on the shoulder, peered through the windshield into the dusk. 'What is that noise?'

'It is a crowd of people, Comrade Colonel. They seem to be gathered outside the radio building.'

'Stop the car.' Colonel Evenssohn rolled down the window to peer at the end of the street, which was entirely blocked by people. The radio building itself was out of sight round the corner, but someone seemed to be addressing the crowd through the l
oudspeaker system, not entirely
with success, for every few words he was interrupted by boos and catcalls.

'A relic of the demonstration, Comrade Colonel?' Galitsin suggested.

'Maybe, Alexander Petrovich. But there are not only students over there. Do you suppose there could be trouble?'

'Not from a spontaneous demonstration, Comrade Colonel, surely.'