My mother is combing her thinning yellow-white hair in front of the mirror, her face is streaming wet, she'll wipe it in a moment, but first she passes out, her eyes suddenly turn upwards, she keels over, I make a grab at her, try to catch and hold her, too late, we slip down beside the washing machine, the comb clatters into the bath, with the soap, toothbrush, dentures, hairpins and everything else her hands brushed against as she fell, it's alright, I say, almost in relief that this too is behind us now, her head falls onto my shoulder, she is somewhere else, towels, drying sheets, underwear rain down on us, I gather strength and indifference. We sit on the concrete floor in puddles of water, two embryos, the world is half a square metre under the washbasin, now would be the best time to die.
Water is dripping, trickling down on us, a rusty puddle has collected beneath us, now I must drag eighty years weighing sixty kilos back inside to her bed, I can't let her die here among the floor swabs, bottles of bleach, washing powder, strands of hair, all kinds of dirt and used razor blades, I ought to stand up. A vacant face in the mirror, in the beginning, months ago, there was terror and confusion, I pulled at her arm as you'd pull at a well-pump, tried wet cloths, water, heart massage, not any more. I watch my mother in this crumpled-up position, squeezed between the washing mashine and the bath, she is breathing. One of her slippers comes off her foot in the corridor, the other leaves a black streak on the floor as I take her under the arms and drag her, panting, as far as the room, in the doorway I have to stop to rest, she, coming to, begins to flail her arms, trying to crawl somewhere, anywhere, on all fours, back to some kind of life, the whimpering half-consciousness of nightmares, of night-time and daytime visions, wait a bit, I pant, arranging her legs so they won't break, we'll get going again in a minute. There are bruises on her arms, on her knees from the fall, the stained nightdress barely covers her, her tragic and shameless prostratedness, she reaches up into the air for us to go. Back in bed she has a face again, smiles tiredly, I fell, she says, cooling perspiration on her forehead, her face, you did, I say, and don't think of anything at all.
We have fallen in every corner of the flat, in the corridor as I was taking her to the toilet, in the toilet itself when she stood up, when she sat down, at the washbasin before washing her hands and after, in the kitchen, sweeping Zsófi's pans to the floor, at the window; at other times, simply back into bed, the barely touched paprika soup trickling from the small plate onto the quilt, the sheets, books fell from the shelves, Broch, Cendrars, Mándy, the copper plaques of my proud prizes scattered (two of Bölöni), a miners' lamp off the table; the television just fell flat on its back as if in laughter and stayed that way, it makes no difference to her, just takes up space, in the daytime we just sit, would talk, but more often just wait. The room is all over the place, I do not put anything back in its own place anymore, everything stays where it has fallen, I just kick it aside if it gets in the way. The curtain is torn, from beside its drooping, tattered sails we watch the wind tugging at the bare trees outside, sometimes the sun shines in, at other times rain beats on the cracked panes; on the table, used hypodermic syringes, broken fragments of vials, suppositories; Canaletto's vista of Dresden has fallen behind the bed, beneath it is a washbowl in case she wants to throw up bile, spittle.
The telephone still works, my mother hears the tiny tinkles from within its cracked carapace, if and when! Someone's coming! I whisper into the receiver, just in case, but it's already bleeping, or someone excusing themselves. The front door is open too, a torn sweater left in the crack so no one will ring the bell, but no one ever comes any more, even Zsófi comes as rarely as possible, always more restless, on edge, there is only the soft siren of the draught to rouse me, or the noises from the stairway, the tramp of feet, somewhere a radio is playing.
But as to what makes us want to live, this way, or some other way, even I can't tell. I think I did know it once. The years run by, life fades like a flower, my mother sings, she has forgotten the rest of the words. And what will make us want to die? ß

Slow Freight
(Short Story)

Are we poor, dad?
That we are, son. Not very poor, just sort of hard up.
And why are we poor?
I don't know the answer to that.
Because someone else stole it?
Stole what?
I don't know. Tibi Kárász said we're so poor that even the mice in our house go hungry.
Tibi Kárász is a twit.
And he said I was so skinny that if I blinked my foreskin would slip up my pecker.
You tell that Tibi Kárász that I'll give him a kick up the arse, and a right belting besides, 'cos he's a silly bugger. Who does he think he is?
You're going to belt him?
I will. He can go to blazes, him and his sort. Don't you have anything to do with him, don't even speak to him.
I don't, he speaks to me.
Well then walk away when he comes up to speak to you.
If I walk away he shouts after me.
Don't listen to him. Don't even look at someone like him.
Best thing would be if you belted him one. So that the others see you doing it. Will you belt him?
I will.
When?
I'll see, let's just leave it for the time being.
All right.
We're not rich, but we don't go hungry. And you've got plenty of clothes. You go to school, don't you?
Yes.
I never stole anything, I never robbed anyone, not like others. Your father's always made an honest living, worked hard for everything we've got. We've even got a place to live. There's many who don't even have that. Isn't that right?
Yes.
And you're not skinny. Neither am I. It's just the way we're built. And anyway, you'll always have everything you need, if I have to work my fingers to the bone getting it. You'll see. Did he say anything about me?
No.
It isn't my fault I'm the way I am now, you know that. And besides, I'm still worth as much as the next man. I can give you everything you need. Do you ever go hungry?
No.
Well then?
Don't cry, dad.
I'm not crying, it's just that that little shit got my back up.
Are your nerves all shot to pieces?
They are.
What's my pecker, dad?
Nothing. Baloney. Never you mind about anything a foul-mouthed, fat pig like that thinks up.
The boy was wearing a man's shabby brown winter coat, unbuttoned, slipping off his shoulders and hanging down to his feet so his trousers could not be seen. He was kicking up sand with his dirty black boots and eating an ice cream. His father was standing beside him, leaning against a tree, a piano accordion resting on his foot, his hands in the pockets of his blue track suit, a checked scarf around his neck, a small peaked cap on his head. They were standing in front of a small, old-fashioned station, waiting for the train. From time to time the man turned his thin, unshaven face to look at the boy, and sucked his teeth. He had several ways of sucking his teeth, most times he seemed to say cheese, other times it sounded like check, or tsup, when he sucked the front ones, the boy knew them all, after eating his father would use a matchstick to clean the spaces between his teeth, sometimes said chupp, then swallowed. And sometimes he said yum-yum and made smacking sounds as well, but that was just kidding, to make him laugh, and he would laugh hee-hee-hee in a high, shrill voice, but it wasn't real laughter, just pretending. In school the other kids called his father the rower because of the way his arms moved as he walked. And they said he was a goldbrick, a skiver.
Let's go, the train's in.
I haven't eaten my ice cream yet.
Chuck it away, I'll get you another one. Chuck it away, we don't want people to see it!
Why not?
I've told you! We have to look like we're poor. Not very poor, just hard up. If they ask, we're poor. Fix your hair, not like that, wait! There.
Tibi Kárász said I was so ugly that a sparrow wouldn't take horse-shit from my hand.
I don't give a shit about Tibi Kárász. I don't want to hear his name again, 'cos I don't know what I'll do.
And that...
And watch how you talk too.
But it was him who said that...
I told you to stop it, see? And chuck that blasted ice cream away, how many times do I have to tell you! And be quiet when we get on!
It'll be good, if you belt him one. Give him a kick too, okay?
Go on, you go first.
It was a yellowish autumn afternoon, behind the shabby station building lay a parched field of maize, further off a couple of houses with a wide, grassy dirt road winding between them and a cow grazing on a tether. There were very few people waiting to board the train. They would have let him get on first, seeing he was lame, and that he had a boy with him, and an accordion hanging from a strap around his neck, but he just waved them ahead, he'd get on last. Then he nudged the boy, go on, he said, then he too clambered up with his bad leg. A woman wanted to help, but he said no, I'll manage, it's alright, I'm used to it. You see, he said, when he was standing on the carriage platform too, a stranger can't help, because I might miss my hold and fall off. I hope you don't mind. The woman did not say anything, stood her bag between her feet and stared out of the window. The boy was about to go into the carriage but his father grabbed his shoulder. Aren't you coming inside, he asked the woman, no, she said, I'm getting off at the next stop. There's another who's scared she'll starve if she gives you a forint, his father muttered in the doorway.
Your eyes are wet, dad.
Just the frost melting.
There isn't any.
Go on ahead!
Did you wet them?
Sssht…quiet, you. Go on, get going.
There was frost in the morning when we left.
The carriage was full of smoke, though there was hardly anyone inside. He closed the door behind him, stopped, took off his cap and said good day to you all in a loud, clear voice. My name is István Balog, let me play you something. Then he took up the accordion, compressed the bellows and ran his fingers up and down the keys. I am writing this letter by the camp fire, he began in a slightly unsteady voice, but on a starlit, summer night was better. The boy was standing beside him, he gave him an encouraging nudge; he did not feel like singing along with his father yet, maybe later. His father had told him he needn't always.
Why do I have to sing, dad?
You don't have to, only if you feel like it.
And if I don't?
Then you needn't.
And if I never feel like it?
Why shouldn't you? I sing too, don't I?
You don't feel like it either. You were crying just a minute ago.
That's different.
It isn't much cop if I don't sing, right?
Where did you get that from?
The man with the beard said so, the one we met on the way. The one who gave you the hundred note.
But he didn't give it to me, just pretended to.
We shouldn't have sung for him, should we, dad?
We didn't sing for him, we sung for everybody.
You never can tell beforehand, can you?
Tell what?
You told me that you never can tell beforehand what a person's going to turn out like.
No, you can't.
He didn't feel like singing now because you never could tell beforehand. He stood beside his father and it felt as though all his hair were standing on end. It didn't hurt, but that was how it felt. Every night his father would wet his hair and twist locks of it around bits of wood or pencils, then he'd tie something around his head and that was how he had to sleep. One time near Téglás a black-haired woman said he was like a little blond angel. Since then his father always musses up his hair and that is how he has to sleep, like a woman, with a kerchief round his head. If Tibi Kárász were to see him like that! He won't ever see him, but he'll know anyway, because he can see anywhere he wants. Perhaps he can see him even now. His father was playing, singing, making his voice quiver, swaying to the music, not looking at anybody, just up at the luggage-racks, giving his head a nudge with his elbow now and then not to stand there gaping, but to pay attention. To what? There were hardly any people sitting in the carriage. He could see an old man beside one of the windows, wiping at the glass and staring outside, the person sitting opposite him doing the same. They all stare out of the window as if we were taking up a collection, his father would say, keep staring out until their necks get all stiff and twisted. A younger girl with long hair was reading a book, she did not look up at them either; over on the other side two older boys sitting opposite each other were laughing, he couldn't see anyone else. His father wasn't going to sing here for long, he'll finish any moment now, and then thank them for listening to him, and ask them to contribute a little something. And he'll start doing the rounds with the hat, holding it out to each of them in turn. You don't have to hold it out for long, his father had told him in the beginning.
If they don't put anything in the hat, go on to the next one.
Alright.
But if you see them fumbling in their pockets, give them time to take the money out.
How long should I wait?
Until they get the money out and put it in the hat.
In the morning that man took out a handkerchief.
They're not all like that.
Just there's some who like to put one over you, right?
Right.
I'll count to ten, and if...
That's too long.
To five then.
Alright. But you can wait a bit longer if you see they're just playing for time...
How do I know they're playing for time?
Only the girl gave them money. She was holding it ready in her hand, threw it into the hat. The boy thanked her and went over to the older boys, but they did not give him anything. Neither did the two old men. There was a woman sitting in front, holding a sleeping child in her arms, she kept her eyes fixed on the child, never even raised them; a basket full of apples stood beside her, she didn't give him any, though they usually do. Twenty forints, not bad to begin with, his father said happily.
You cold?
No.
It'll be better now. More passengers. Women going to market.
We could go too. There are a lot of people there.
That's different. There's too many begging there.
We don't beg, do we?
No, we don't. We're artists.
Wandering minstrels?
That's right. But you sing too, alright?
Alright.
If you feel like it.
Yes.
I'll play something you like too.
Alright.
People like it when children sing.
And I've got a nice voice, haven't I?
You have. The teacher said so too, didn't he, and he's the kind who means what he says.
The one who gave me chewing-gum?
Yes.
He had given him chewing-gum that you could swallow, round, like a sweet, he didn't tell his father about it except much later, when Tibi Kárász told him that the chewing gum would get him all bunged up from his mouth right down to his asshole and he'd have to be cut open and that's how he'd die. But his father made him drink a glass of brandy, and he didn't get all bunged up.
Balog was known as Crippled Balog at the railway ever since he'd been injured in a freak accident by shunting a train. By rights the doctors should have amputated his foot, but he wouldn't let them, he'd said, I'd rather you cut off my head, here, and showed them where. He was a cheerful man even then, and for a long time afterwards, though his foot was badly mutilated; he was operated on several times until the foot regained some kind of shape, but he couldn't work, could barely walk. He should have had another couple of operations to straighten out his foot, get the bones moving, but by then he'd had enough of it all. After every operation he'd be chewing on the corner of his pillow with the pain for weeks, and he said he just couldn't take any more. He'd never get his foot back anyway. By that time he did not feel like joking anymore, it was agony just to turn over in bed. Then he slowly learned to walk again in that peculiar, contorted way of his, swaying from side to side, wrenching his body forward from the shoulder first, following with a twist of the waist while his hands jerked up in the air and he bit down on his lips so hard his teeth drew blood. No crutches, he told his wife joyfully, who promptly burst into tears. Then he was pensioned off, but it did not make him any happier, getting pensioned off makes no-one happy at forty. Later on, his walking improved a lot, there was just the burning sensation in his sole and foot, and he tired very easily. Still he hit upon this idea of going about and playing the accordion, because he was going out of his mind with boredom at home. But that was not the only trouble. Do I disgust you, he asked his wife once, no, she said, of course not, and besides he couldn't help it, it wasn't his fault.
But you're not like you usually are.
Well, for God's sake, how could I be? Or do you think nothing happened?
I'm the same person, the same man I was before.
Why are you badgering me with all these questions now?
Because if you want to leave, then I want to know. I won't try and hold you back, you're still young.
And the boy?
Aha. The boy. So that's what's holding you back.
I'm sorry, but I simply can't stand it! I never could stand the sight of a cripple, what can I do, it revolts me! I feel sorry for you, but still, oh dear God! How am I supposed to bear to lie beside you, how? You don't understand, how could you! I've tried everything, but I still can't bear it!
Alright.
Still, we're alright otherwise, aren't we? I might get used to it in time, get drunk or something, God knows what I'll do, I've been to the doctor even, to get him to help me somehow.
And what did he say?
He said there was nothing he could do. I'd either get used to it or I wouldn't.
Does it bother you as much when I'm sitting?
Not so much. Only when you walk, when you're moving.
Then it bothers you a lot.
Terribly.
Alright.
What do you mean?
Nothing. I just thought it would be better if you left.
Where?
Don't make as if you didn't know what I meant.
She did go, in the end. They agreed that they wouldn't get a divorce, she wouldn't take the boy with her, and wouldn't make a fuss. It'll be like if you'd gone on a long visit, see? You come when you like, you know that. That's all we'll tell the boy, the rest we'll leave till later, and when he's older, he can go visit you whenever he likes. I can't think of anything better, it isn't your fault. I know it's silly but bring the kid something now and then so he'll know he's got a mother too. I'll give you the money for it. I'll tell him you've gone to visit some relative who's been taken sick.
He'll learn the truth from someone else.
Then we'll go on lying.
I might not come for some time, now.
Don't.
They'll say I left you in the lurch.
And?
What do you say?
Me? Nothing.
They were standing in a noisy, dark connection between two carriages, it was cold, the steel plates of the flooring were rocking beneath their feet, the boy hunched up inside his coat, he was cold. Let's take a rest, said his father, and pulled the boy to him, rubbing his back, his shoulders. This was the only place they could take a breather, everywhere else was crowded, there were people standing on the carriage platform with bundles, bags, cans, the train was slowly filling up as they got nearer to Debrecen. Let's make a move, said Balog in a little while, there's not much left to go.
In the buffet car a group of tipsy pensioners was making a racket, some of them were already singing when Balog joined them. They were very glad to see him, he started playing at once, accompanying them, the boy just stood there, then his father began to play she's left me, the one I loved so much, right in the middle, they all fell silent, stop, cried a fat man in a wheezing voice, play it from the beginning! It was a long, sad song, the boy joined in too later on, his father kept nudging him with his elbow, when we see each other once again. God, if only I could go back home. How come you know all these old songs, they later asked Balog, he just smiled. That's a long story, he said in the end. Let's hear it then, they said, we've got time enough, haven't we?
They brought him a beer, and he told them that his father had been wounded at the front, that's how he'd got home. And from then on he'd played music on the trains, and he as a child had accompanied him everywhere. That was the gist of it, but of course he embroidered it a bit, and the boy recalled that it wasn't always the same story that he told. Well I never, they all said when he'd finished, and now you're doing the same thing with your son! And what happened to your foot, if you don't mind my asking, said the fat man. My foot, sighed Balog, I could get used to it if it was just my foot. When he said that the boy would start tugging on his hand, wanting to be gone, he didn't like the part that came next, but he knew it was no good, his father wouldn't come. Because by then his father would have begun spinning them a yarn about his foot, especially if he'd been given something to drink, and not a single word of it was true. He never even told them that it happened when he was working for the railway. When his father came to the part he hated, he would walk off. You see, his father would say, pointing a finger after him, the boy can't even stand hearing it again, he was so shook up, had to be brought back from the dead! He hanged himself! That little kid, they said, astonished, what did he use to hang himself? His mother's stocking, he was that fond of her, while she was alive! Why, is his mother dead then, asked someone who had not been paying attention, but Balog just made a discouraged gesture, I'd better go after him, he would say, in case he tries something again. Then at other times he would show them the scars on his stomach: that boy is living with one of my kidneys, that's where they took it out! And I told the doctors, take my heart too, if you must, and my eyes, my brains, anything he needs, everything! and by then he'd be crying, and the women would be crying with him, and the boy too, when he finally came upon him, in the toilets mostly, or on a platform where there was nobody about. Why do you say such things, he would shout at his father, why do you have to lie? I've never been sick, never! And your foot isn't bad because I needed the bone! And mum isn't dead either! You're always lying! Let me be! Sometimes someone would go after them to give them a few words of comfort, or a little something for that poor unfortunate child, and then his father would say please don't, we're not beggars. It's just that sometimes it does good to open your heart to someone. And he really would refuse to accept anything, just wiped his eyes, and the child's face, sighed great sighs, there, there, he would mumble to himself till he'd calmed down.
The boy heard the shuffle of his steps before he saw him, looking pleased and happy as he drew nearer, he knocks that foot against everything, he thought to himself on the empty platform, and sighed. There you are, son, his father cried as he squeezed himself through the sliding-door, you should have gone the other way, we've already been this way! The boy did not reply, set off in the other direction without a word, stopped on the carriage platform at the other end, waited until his father had gone through the door, let it close behind him. They sent you some chocolate, his father said, here you are. D'you hear me? The boy stopped. Let's stop here a bit, alright? Take a breather. You can eat your chocolate while we wait. We've been asked to a wedding, he said later, shall we go?
Or are you angry with me?
No.
What?
No, I'm not angry.
You look down in the dumps to me.
I'm just tired.
There's one more car before the buffet, there's usually a lot of people there too.
And then we'll get off?
Yes.
And go home?
That's right. We'll stoke up the stove and go to bed.
And stay in?
Yes. But you can go out to play if you like.
I don't want to go anywhere.
That's fine too.
The next carriage was full of boisterous children, probably on their way back from an outing, they could hardly make their way through them. The boy held his father's hand and walked on ahead without looking left or right. Luckily his father did not want to play and sing here, because they would have been laughed at, and Tibi Kárász would surely hear about it. And know that he was wearing boots, not like those the other boys here are wearing, and his coat! He has got a proper coat, but he has to wear this one when they come on the train, because here they're poor. Maybe Tibi Kárász is here on the train right now, and any minute now he'll be hearing his voice: what's new, Scarecrow? You look like something the cat's brought in! He lowered his eyes but he could still see them whispering behind him, nudging each other, choking with stifled laughter, and when they'd be out of here, the laughter would burst out. Look at them, they would say, look at the two raggedy-asses! He walked so quickly his father could barely keep up with him, stop a bit, he said when they were outside on the carriage platform, let me get my breath back.
In the end they didn't get off after all. Can you stick it just a little bit longer, his father pleaded, there were plenty of people in the next car too, mostly women, and they usually did well where there were women. They sang Mother, you're a good woman, and here too people started asking questions, so the boy went forward, he didn't hear his father say, look at that child, he's been put back together out of me. What you see before you is what was left of me after, besides him. They couldn't get off at the next one either, because the people there had been expecting them, news had travelled quickly, they didn't even have to sing, Balog had to show his scars straight off, here. He lived with my heart for two days, that's where it was taken out, and we were both hooked up to it. In the next carriage it was his back he bared: the boy couldn't breathe, they connected a tube from my lungs to his so he wouldn't choke. Then it was his knees: believe it or not, he's got my knee-caps, he doesn't even know about it, I signed a paper that I'd never tell him.
They were somewhere near the front of the train, the sound of the engine came from quite close, Balog said they would get off after the next one, he'd had enough too. The gangway was draughty, they crossed over to the next platform, this'll do fine, we'll stop here, he said, and slowly lowered the accordion to the floor. He took out a knitted hat from his pocket and put it on the boy's head. Dad, the child said later, there's someone lying there. Where, his father asked. Over there, you can only see his legs. Balog walked forward a couple of steps, and then he saw him. It was a young man, lying at the front of the corridor, he must have been struck down right by the door, his head, his face was covered in blood, he was wearing jeans and a windcheater, his shirt was torn in several places. Let's get away from here, son, he said quickly, better not even look. Go where, asked the boy, aren't we getting off? Let's go back, we'll get off there, come on. Open the door! The boy just stood and stared at the man lying on the floor, it seemed to him that the body had moved, was twitching faintly, then the door of the toilet suddenly swung open and two men came out. Dear oh dear, one of them said at once, what have you two been doing? He had black, curly hair and long sideburns reaching down to his mouth. Well, take a look at that, said the other, they've gone and done the Finder good and proper. This one was black too, but not so much, and steel teeth glittered in his mouth as he spoke, now he shouted at Balog, hey! Then they just laughed, come on, let's go, said the curly one, we've got to have this out! Please, Balog said, we did not knock anyone out, I'm a wandering musician and we were just about to get off with my son here. You did not knock him out, said the one with false teeth in a menacing voice. Of course not, said Balog, how could I have, with this bad.… Well, who the fucking hell struck him down, then? Lightning? They had manoeuvred him into the corner now, the boy was standing further off, staring at them round-eyed. Or do you think it was me, shouted the one with false teeth, hey? Well? You've only got to say so! Say it was me, 'cos it was! He looked at the other one and began to laugh loudly, patting Balog's shoulder, there, no need to get upset like, he'll be up in a minute. Hey, he shouted at the man on the floor, wake up! Then started kicking the soles of his feet. Leave him, said the curly-haired one, let him sleep, come on, let's go! So you're a musician, you say? That's right, said Balog, collecting himself after the scare, we're on this train a lot. Can you play this, asked the one with false teeth, what can you play? I can play everything, Balog replied quickly, almost everything. The two men glanced at each other, and laughed again, come on then, said the curly-haired one, do your stuff!
Balog did his best to get out of going with them, brought up the boy, a mere child still, sickly, might have a fever even now, starts raving sometimes, never mind, they said, he can rave all he likes here, we do the same thing at the yard. He spoke of being tired, of his wounds, showed them his bad feet, great, said the one with sideburns, made for rapping, those, come on, get going. The boy stared from one to the other confusedly, while the men pushed them ahead towards the interior of the car, which was full of smoke and very noisy. They were greeted with loud cheers, a crowd of people, clearly together, was gathered, sitting and standing, around a bag strewn with cards and money, a rowdy party of men and women. I brought a musician, said the curly-haired one, he wants to tell you something, shut your mouths! I don't have anything to say, Balog protested, pulling the boy close, laughing constrainedly, then he thought that perhaps it would be better if he did what they wanted.. Alright, he said, because they were threatening him by then, just one then, because we're dead tired. A bottle was thrust into his hands and he was told to drink, then the boy was made to drink as well, however hard he protested, then someone picked him up and threw him up into the luggage-rack. You hungry, a thickly painted mouth asked him, want a banana? There you are! It's clothes he needs, someone laughed, just look at him! Why don't you get him some proper clothes? Balog hemmed and hawed, saying the boy had plenty of proper clothes, but not to wear on the train, what would be the use, they'd only get crumpled, then he began to play something, louder, they shouted, no one can hear anything! Shut up! Balog started with Krasznahorka, they listened for a while, then a bull-necked, bald man broke in, saying he'd have to do better than that, they weren't going to a funeral, couldn't he play something more cheerful? Give him something to drink, liven him up!
Balog did not really know how to play the accordion, he just knew a couple of positions to accompany the songs he'd learned from his father, he'd never tried to learn any new ones, there'd never been the need. Now he struggled to keep in rhythm at least while the others sang, but did not really succeed, and they slowly stopped singing, and said old man, you stink. Get the hell out of here, you're not worth shit. You're a dead duck, said the curly-haired one too, not a musician. Go on, give him something, don't want him to say we're cheap. No, no, leave it out, don't, Balog said to appease them, I didn't give satisfaction, I don't deserve anything. Still, said the one with false teeth, you got to get your hourly wage, right, boys? Got change for a thousand, someone asked, and laughter broke out. And how did you get to be such a damaged piece of goods, asked a skinny, consumptive-looking fellow, what happened to you? Why don't you walk properly? Wouldn't it be easier? They had another laugh over that, isn't that expander too heavy for you, they asked, and took the accordion from his neck and started pulling at it as if it were an expander, had a contest, who could pull it out how many times, pulled it out above their heads, behind their backs, in front of their chests, then one of them caught on, hey, he said, you play the keyboard because it's easier to pull it out that way! They laughed again, and people give him money for it, a rip-off artist, that's what he is! Here, here's your money, beat it, get lost, where's the kid? Where did you put him?
They lifted the boy down from the luggage-rack, stared at him admiringly, lovely big teeth he's got, someone said, still got them all? Yes, said the boy, and look at his muscles! The bull-necked one groped his arms and laughed, that's something like it! It even bends! Got your weenie too? And all your marbles? The boy nodded, smiling, those huge men passed him from hand to hand, then someone lifted him high, I'll take him, he said, but don't you dare piss on my clothes, you hear me? The boy laughed, he couldn't see his father's face, but he felt fine, just fine, the bull-necked man told him to grab hold of his hair, but he didn't have any hair, not a one, so the boy laid his face on his bald head, wrapped his arms around his neck and laughed, laughed. Hey, the curly-haired one shouted, that'll be enough now! Let them go! Sumi, you carry the instrument after the old man, and accompany the guest to the door, make sure he doesn't come back! You want another drink? No? Fine. They took the boy out first, his father after, grabbing him under the arms so he didn't have to walk a step, the one following behind carrying the accordion, then when they reached the carriage platform, the one walking in front lifted the boy down from his shoulders, there, he said, we've arrived. Put it there, he said, holding out his huge palm, and the boy struck it with his own, that's right! Great! Then he opened the door, the boy felt a gentle push, heard a single word, whoops, and was flying. His father after him. Then the accordion. The train continued on its way.
It's a mercy we're small and skinny, said his father, struggling to get up. And that the scrub's that thick around here. Did you hurt yourself bad? No, said the boy, back on his feet almost at once, kicking at the grass as if nothing much had happened, and smiled. His father was finally sitting up, panting. God damn the bastards, he began, then continued with a string of expletives, what a dirty trick those rotten, lousy sons-of-bitches had played on them. Never seen the like. Beats everything, it does. But he wouldn't leave it at that. The scumbags! To do that to a cripple and a child! What are you laughing at?
Nothing.
You were laughing at something! Were you laughing at me?
They threw us out like you throw a cat out to shit.
Well, that certainly is very funny. We could have broken our necks. Let me see if you're alright, come over here.
I'm OK.
I told you to come over here! You could have internal injuries!
Where?
I've got to feel you all over. If it hurts, say so.
Alright.
And don't grin at me like that.
The boy laughed, his two pearly white front teeth gleamed wetly, a drop of saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth, he said it felt ticklish, having his father feeling him over like that, which wasn't true, he just had to laugh at the whole thing, the way that hairless man threw them out of the train, perhaps they'd come and fetch them, and then everyone would laugh, the curly-haired one and the one with false teeth too, and the bald one would pick him up again and tell him to grab onto his hair, which he hasn't got. You're a right one you are, said his father, and started tickling him for real, then sitting there on the ground gathered him into his arms like a baby, and said, well, that was a close shave. Later he stood up, looked around, aha, he said, I thought so, we're near Apafa. It's not too far. Plenty of freight trains along this line, passing at a walking pace, we'll take one of those, alright? Alright, he asked again, because the boy did not reply, just stared before him with the remains of laughter on his face. Alright, he said in a little while. Like the last time, his father continued, but only when it's going real slow, I'll tell you when. Later he went to fetch the accordion, his face was sad as he brought it, well, there's plenty wrong with it, he lamented, it will have to be repaired. It's torn too. He turned it over and over in his hands, tried it out, then put it down, sighing.
They sat silent for a while, then the boy got up and went over to the tracks, looking round, but nothing was coming. Then a passenger train came, clacking by them rapidly, then nothing came for a long time. Then a freight train came, but also very fast. Sit down, do, said his father, don't go near the tracks, it'll come, never fear, I know this line, they sometimes shunt them right back here.
Am I strong, dad?
Of course.
They said I had muscles. Is that it?
That's it.
Then I could jump on the train. Even if it was a fast one.
No one can jump on a fast train. They'd get their hands torn off.
Not even you?
Not even me.
Because you're soft like a breeze?
Did they say that on the train too?
That you were a softie, and wimpy.
You can't even pronounce it.
That bald man was strong, wasn't he, dad?
Yes.
And you're weak.
So?
The boy did not reply, his face grew sad, he too sat down in the dry shrivelled grass. Then a train went by again, but in the wrong direction, then another two, then nothing came again.
Dad.
Yes.
You're not going to belt Tibi Kárász.
Why not?
Because you're weak.
Get off, will you!
It's true. He'll paste you.
Did he say that?
Yes. And that you'd just grin like a rabbit at a weasel.
Come over here.
No.
I'm not going to hurt you! It's just that I couldn't hear quite clearly what you learned on the train. Mummy would be proud of you if she heard, he added morosely. Did Tibi Kárász say something about her too?
He did.
What?
There was a slow rumble, like when a train's coming. Balog stood up, then the boy, sounds like it's a slow one, said his father. Maybe it'll do. Come on, let's go lie in ambush! Then he caught hold of the child and pulled him close, but the boy wriggled out of his arms, the train's coming, he cried eagerly, wait, his father warned, don't rush! If it's too fast we'll wait some more, you hear me? Alright, the boy cried over his shoulder, but you could see he wasn't really paying attention, just watching for the train now. Flatcars, said his father, when the freight train came up alongside them, it might do. Don't go so close! Wait for me, it'll slow right down in a minute!
He kept his eyes on the boy as he scrambled up the gravelbed. Fast as lightning! He clambered after him hastily, panting, wait, he shouted as he pulled himself up, then he saw the boy grab hold of one of the steps, hang on there for a moment! and then he was up. I'm coming, he shouted, stay where you are! Sit down! He managed to grab hold of the step at the other end of the car, that's alright then, he thought, once I've got hold of it, it's mine. The train was pulling him along, but it was nothing, and the boy was running towards him along the plateau, sit down, he shouted, I'll be up in a moment! Something kicked him in the face. A boot. Another kick. Two white explosions. He let go of the steel then, he couldn't hold on any longer. There wasn't any point. ß

Translated by Eszter Molnár