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The day was Sunday – the day of the football game and I felt strangely excited by it. I’d never been to a match before, indeed I didn’t think women were allowed to attend but Valentin insisted that we were. Not wanting to go alone, I’d invited my friend, Agnes, and Ferenc, her husband – a rather dour man whom everyone but Agnes suspected of being a serial informer as well as a serial adulterer. I wasn’t sure which was worse. We agreed to meet at the Café of the Revolution.
The stifling weather continued unabated, the heat melting the pavements, people fanning themselves with newspapers. I’d arrived at the café quite out of breath and had to order a glass of water to help me cool down. Settling into my usual place, I thought of Valentin and wished he was with me, sipping coffee, watching the people of Budapest hurry about their business.
Being a match day, Valentin had no time to meet me. How strange it would be to see him from a distance, watching him at work. The previous day, we met in the café, and then took our routine stroll in the park. Usually, we talked but yesterday we were both subdued and walked in silence. We both knew it was possibly our last time together. After the match, the team will be whisked off for a few games round the country, then, unless called back to Moscow, the players will be permitted two days of sightseeing in Budapest. I had to cling on to that for I couldn’t bring myself to think I might never have seen him again. How quickly we become dependent on another person, how strange to think that barely a fortnight ago I’d never known of his existence, that I had a husband, albeit a distant one. Now a future without Josef seemed bearable while a future without Valentin seemed incomprehensible.
I read Free People, re-reading the same short article again and again – about Moscow Lokomotiv’s Hungarian tour and especially their visit to Budapest. Each player’s name was listed, and there, amongst them, was Valentin Ivanov. I felt a twinge of pride at seeing his name, as if he was already associated with me, as if I had the right to bask in his glory. The team had recently beaten the Wolverhampton Wanderers, one of England’s top teams. The three nil victory was another example of the superiority of Russian sportsmen and, by implication, the Russian system, a testament to the Soviet Union’s breed of supermen.
‘Hello, Miss,’ said a vaguely familiar voice. Standing next to my table, circling his hat between his hands was the old man with the walrus moustache. ‘On your own?’
‘Well, I’m –’
‘Don’t mind if I join you? Phew, it’s getting hotter everyday. Where’s your husband today? Or is he a boyfriend, or...’ He leant towards me, lowering his voice, ‘your lover, eh, eh?’ He laughed raucously, not noticing how much he was embarrassing me. ‘Look, couldn’t buy me a tea, could you? See, I’ve been caught a bit short, if you catch my meaning...’
I caught it all right but still found myself buying him his tea. ‘...And a little cake, perhaps?’ And a hefty slice of cake too. ‘This heat, it’s unbearable, isn’t it?’ The constant use of the rhetorical question, I noticed, was an intrinsic part of his conversation. ‘Reminds me of the summer of ’18. That was some summer, I can tell you, too hot to be stuck in the trenches with full kit, but I was a young man then, young and strong...’
He regaled me, for the second time, with the story of his life; of how he’d been a sniper during the Imperialist War; of how he’d killed two Nazis with his bare hands during the occupation; of how he’d saved the honour of his sister from the hands of a marauding Russian in forty-five. I shrunk in my chair, hoping to God no one could hear his blasphemous tale. He was a widower, he told me, his wife had red hair – like me, and how he still missed his dear wife, even if she never allowed him to talk. I couldn’t say I blamed her. But perhaps it explained something –he was talking now to make up for thirty or forty years of marital silence. He didn’t care whom he talked to or whether they were listening or not, as long as he could talk. It was like listening to a familiar record, knowing what to expect, knowing the good bits from the dull. There was something rather reassuring in listening to him. Perhaps because it reminded me of Valentin, the first day I met him, when he rescued this harmless old boy from the clutches of the café’s staff. How I wished Valentin were with me now.
The young waitress took the used cups and plates and then hovered at our table expectantly.
‘Does she want a tip?’ he asked me as if she wasn’t there.
‘No, we’re obliged to order something else otherwise we have to leave.’
‘Another cup of tea, then, please and...’ he turned to the waitress, ‘another of those delicious cakes.’
I sighed.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this will cheer you up – three workers find themselves locked up, and they ask each other what they’re in for. The first man says: “I was always ten minutes late to work, so I was accused of sabotage.” The second man says: “I was always ten minutes early to work, so I was accused of espionage.” The third man says: “I always got to work on time, so I was accused of having a Western watch.”’
Despite myself, I laughed.
‘You’re a fine woman,’ he said, wiping cake crumbs from his moustache. ‘Where did you say your husband is?’
‘I didn’t –’
‘So, where was I? Ah, this apartment they’ve put me in, it’s a disgrace, I tell you; after what I’ve done for this country. No respect for the old, that’s the problem. Now, when I was a young man we had respect for...’
‘Eva.’
‘Oh, Karolina.’ Why did I say Karolina when I knew the voice to be Agnes’s? ‘I’m sorry, Agnes, I...’
‘Expecting Karolina, per chance?’ she said, leaning down to embrace me.
‘Ferenc, hello.’ We kissed cheeks, his beard scratching my skin. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘Yes, sit down, sit down,’ said the old man, with exaggerated generosity. ‘I was only saying to your friend here – Eva, is it? – how disgusting my apartment is, you wouldn’t believe –’
I’d had enough. ‘I think you were saying how you had to leave,’ I said firmly.
‘Well, no –’
‘Your shout then, is it?’
‘Er, yes, well, perhaps you’re right.’ He looked at his bare wrist. ‘My word, is that the time already? Western watch, eh? Yes, I must be going.’ He rose unsteadily to his feet. ‘Well, it’s been a delight. Thank you for the cake.’ I resisted saying or two. ‘Give your husband my regards.’ And with that, he limped out of the café, raising his hat at the waitresses behind the counter.
Agnes and Ferenc watched him leave. ‘He’s met Josef?’ asked Agnes.
‘He’s harmless,’ I said nervously.
‘He shouldn’t be criticising his apartment like that,’ said Ferenc. ‘The State provides first class accommodation for our senior citizens.’
‘We should go,’ I said, ignoring this blatant distortion of the truth.
I settled my bill with the young waitress, while the older one looked on, disgusted, I think, that I should have spent my time and money on the old man.
We had to catch two trams, with a short walk in between, to reach the stadium on the western side of Buda. We joined the throng of people making their way to the game, a snaking parade of young and old, fathers and sons, wearing green and white football scarves, hats and rosettes, twisting noisy rattles. The crowd was good-natured, emitting lively banter and rowdy singing. It was unusual to see people looking so happy; a far cry from the forced jollity of festival days. I couldn’t spot any women amongst them and wondered whether Valentin had been right about women attending football matches. But I was enjoying the festive atmosphere, soaking in the joyous ambience. Only Ferenc seemed ill at ease, being in such close proximity to the masses, the very people he routinely denounced to the authorities. As we approached the stadium gates, the crowd bottlenecked and movement became laborious and slow. Agnes snatched my hand and we held on as we squeezed our way through, showing our tickets and pushing through the barrier.
I was surprised by the size and lush greenness of the pitch, and how small the people looked at the opposite end. Ferenc led the way to our seats, muttering under his breath, annoyed at having to squeeze past those already seated to get to our places. ‘Kick-off’s at three.’
‘I expect the Russians will play a four-four-two formation,’ I said with a grin, sitting down.
‘A what?’ asked Agnes.
‘Or perhaps a five-three-two.’
‘Stop showing off,’ she laughed. ‘So, were you expecting to see Karolina? Vida’s wife?’
‘No, not really. I bumped into her there the other say, that’s all.’
‘Huh,’ said Ferenc, the other side of Agnes. ‘You won’t be bumping into her any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
Agnes said, ‘You haven’t heard? You know Vida was arrested?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, apparently, yesterday, she was arrested as well.’
‘No.’ I remembered the look she gave me as the AVO men led her away. ‘On what charge?’
Ferenc spoke firmly. ‘For being the wife of an enemy of the people. Looks like –’
He was interrupted by an eruption of cheers – the players were on the pitch. Twenty-two men milling about, kicking footballs to each other; on one side the green and white of the City team, on the other, the red and white of Moscow Lokomotiv. And yes, there he was, wearing number six, Valentin Ivanov, my Valentin, and how handsome, how strong he looked. I saw him scan the crowd, searching for me. And I felt special, wanted. He was searching for me, a single face amongst thousands. And for a few seconds, I forgot all about Karolina and Josef, and forgot that within a few hours Valentin might be gone from me forever. I found myself standing up and waving frantically, hoping to catch his attention.
‘Eva, what on earth are you doing?’ asked Agnes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said feebly, suppressing the urge to laugh. I sat back down. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I think I feel a little overexcited.’