Introduction
Prelude and The Raft of Poverty
In the Circus Ring
The Pedlar's Prediction
Hail Caesar!
Jealousy is Dead
A Steam Engine for a Piano
Stalin Organs
Hungarian Rhapsody: a failure
White Nights
All or Nothing

           THE PEDLAR’S PREDICTION

          I was beginning to feel a little better and one morning asked my mother if I could go outside. I was still far from fit and she was none too keen on the idea. Even so, she agreed, thinking to herself that some fresh air would be an excellent antidote to the piano.

          The great dressing ritual began. It was a real ceremony: it was not enough for my mother just to put my clothes on. I had to be fully rigged out. My feeble constitution was always close to crisis point. The insignificant weight of my body was still too much for my matchstick legs. The slightest gust of wind would have bowled me over so she put some ballast in my shoes and padded my get-out to prevent the first wild and mischievous autumn gust turning me into a weather vane. To start with I pulled on two long pairs of thick socks, then a long-sleeved vest, a thick lined shirt and a huge pullover which would have done service as a tunic. A patched old overcoat (which I could have fitted into twice without all the aforementioned) reached to my ankles. My mother would not shorten it as I had no long trousers. These plus a long shawl knotted round my neck and a pair of shoes whose length and heaviness must have equalled a quarter of my height and a third of my weight respectively, made me look like a scarecrow. Mother Nature must have thought I was off to the North Pole when she saw me all dressed up like a guy. In fact I was only going down into the yard. My goings out were subject to very simple rules laid down by my mother. First, illness was a costly privilege reserved for the rich; poor people kindly refrain. Second, why whet one’s appetite in the cold air when one can go hungry in comfort at home? Third, God looks after his own. This philosophy was the vademecum of many other families and was immediately followed by a shower of further advice before I was allowed out into ‘dropouts’ jungle’.

          The preparations over, she helped me downstairs for at that season the old planks of the balcony/walkway were slippery, as were the stairs. When we reached the yard, she patted the top of my head and swiftly went back up. There was no-one else in the yard. I walked carefully through the mud looking for a playmate and thinking nostalgically of the great events of that summer.

          The rainbow bubble of my dream was burst when a horde of kids dashed in, on the way back to the warren after a good time in a nearby field. There was just the right number for a good game of cops-and-robbers, I thought, happy to see them. Most of them were known to me because they lived in the same block. When they caught sight of me, they stopped in the middle of the yard to exchange a few words then started slowly to approach. I realized from the nasty, sullen way they were looking at me that there was nothing to be gained from waiting there and yet I did, intrigued as I was by their behaviour. They formed a circle round me. They seemed to be weighing me up as if they had never set eyes on me before. Apart from a few of my own age, most of them were about ten years old. As I in turn looked at them more closely, I realized to my surprise for the first time how like beggars they looked with their torn, ragged clothes. Mine were all patches and no better than theirs except that my mother washed and mended them regularly so that I should look less like a stray dog. Even so, compared with what some of those who were staring at me with such persistence were wearing and by the norms of ‘Angel Court’ it must have looked as if I were dressed in haute couture. My recent exploits at the circus, still the chief subject of gossip on winter nights, only made things worse. Angered by such superiority, the gang in its menacing silence obviously found it difficult to accept that such a weed had done something not even the toughest in the gang could have. In their eyes, such showing-off could not go unpunished. They pressed round me, preparing for the kill. In a flash I was pushed to the ground, punched repeatedly and rolled in the mud, and after that bombarded with lumps of muck. I got myself sadly up out of the puddle and heard my aggressors sniggering as they ran off: "That’ll teach him to be such a bighead and earn so much! I’ve seen him fooling about...ugh!" The yard was deserted once more. I hobbled back up to our room. My mother let out a cry when she saw me returning in such a state. To cut a long story short, I pretended I had bumped into something from not looking where I was going. Punishment was immediate: a week without any piano. I was undressed manu militari and ordered to bed without supper. While the others ate, I examined my hands as if they contained some shameful secret. The excuse I gave my mother was only a half-lie. The invisible object into which I claimed to have bumped did exist: the power of my hands to induce emotion. Such power could arouse feelings of hatred as well as of love. As I began to doze off, my eyelids half-closed, I thought with disbelief of the impotent bitterness of boys I had thought were my friends as they stupidly tried to take away the only assailable thing I had. Being a weakling was something to be ashamed of in ‘Angel Court’. In the world of the rejected, adults and children obeyed the same law: that of the hardest-hitting fist.

          Occasionally, I went along with my mother to the grocer’s shop. She would put a tight bandage round my wobbly knees over my two pairs of long socks and wind another round my ankles, which had an unfortunate tendency to go out of joint. I was thus able to walk in a straight line and fall over less often. I preferred our neighbours’ looks of commiseration behind our backs to the gusts of autumn wind which blew me around like a straw. By force of circumstances, I became a stay-at-home.

          My former friends were replaced, with advantage, by a cluster of extraordinary characters, whose wonderful exploits I discovered during my bouts of voracious reading. Captain Nemo, Man Friday, the Seven Dwarfs, filled my dreams and worked on my imagination whenever they chose. But my piano was my only confident, at once my master and my slave. The devilish instrument was a lodestone round which my chief preoccupations turned and a faithful mirror of my deepest feelings.

          My father wanted to continue giving advice for a while in an attempt to temper, or at least channel, my ardent and rebellious talent. He was not able to do a great deal. The robot-like obedience with which my hands, as if pre-programmed, sounded out the mysteries of the keyboard was to him so astonishing that, though I was only five and a half, he did not dare intervene for fear this apparently superhuman gift, of which I was the privileged receptacle, should lose its vitality. It was as though I was drawn to the piano each day by some strange magnetic force. My father no longer felt of any use at home and returned to his wanderings with apostolic zeal, in search of the job of his dreams.

          My mother had gone back to the grocer’s as a ‘maid-of-all-work’, only coming home to feed me at mealtimes. My sister continued to leave at daybreak and return late in the evening. Although I was lonely, the time flashed by, what with piano-playing and reading. In the evening neighbours sometimes called in for a chat. As always, they paid for the imaginary food they had brought with the cheerful clink of a non-existent silver crown. Inflation was under control and the purchasing power of the new coin was astonishing. On the other hand, half the unemployment indemnity which had been the salvation of many had melted away. As their nest egg diminished they were obliged to spend as little as possible. In such hard times, nobody needed a shopping bag. A few potatoes, a half-portion of cooking-oil, a single slice of bread for each member of the family and just a quarter of a candle to light their feasts – this became the norm again. The only way of putting a little aside was to fast or at least become a vegetarian.

          When a limping pedlar as tall as a house arrived in the yard with two battered suitcases, he certainly knew what he was about. His arrival caused unusual excitement among the diehards of ‘Angel Court’. Rain had washed the colour out of his cases, bursting with samples of cloth of all kinds. Scarcely had he put his bags down than a mass of people crowded round. He spread out his cloth, got people to feel its softness and suggested that the riff-raff looking on should have a leg cut off rather than miss such an opportunity. His brash patter mesmerized the audience and made the advantages of his ‘penny-by-penny’ instalment plan, as he kept repeating with an odd snigger, seem irresistible. It was true. This wandering pedlar was offering a horde of out-of-work people who were constantly hungry such bargains as would have made the Good Samaritan’s charity pale in comparison. The fellow knew all that was said about ‘Angel Court’ and that it was not a good place for trade. Consequently, he offered to deliver the following week the quantity of cloth of their choice or a ready-to-wear garment. He would go on to other slums, prowling the region endlessly like a bogeyman, collecting the money owing him in sums of £2 a quarter, £1 a month or even 10p a week! The usurer of fashion was the acme of Providence to all poor untouchables for whom such opportunities were as rare as the temptation was great. Standing round this King of the Highway, the crowd of beggars with their bottomless bags excitedly consulted each other in their racy language. At the judicious moment, the hobbling hawker conjured up a large book shiny with grease. He meticulously noted down the name and order of every victim he had managed to set on the road to ruin. Then he put away his samples in a flash and, raising his long, ape-like arms to the sky, swore by all the devils in Hell and half a dozen Bibles (those were the terms he used) in a voice suddenly grown wheezy to get on with the work. As the crowd dispersed, the crookback got up and with his deep-set, restless eyes began searching where the strange melodious sounds of a piano, which had been intriguing him for some little while, were coming from. He waited on the alert for silence to return to the yard and then the dark, starved-looking silhouette climbed the worm-eaten stairs.

          As usual at that time of day, I was by myself engaged on a complex, poetic improvisation, sitting with my back to the door. It was not easy to catch me unawares because while playing I made a mental note of all the familiar sounds in the block, which resonated like a drum with the echoes of various comings and goings. Without so much as raising my eyes from the keyboard, I could tell what was happening in and around the block from the creaking of a stair, the squeak of planks on the balcony-walkway and even the distinctive groan of our front door.

          After a while, I stopped and let my arms fall. Staring ahead, I wondered if I would dare continue the terrifying story of the Ogre which devoured children as readily as I did Shepherd’s Pie. I finally decided to wait for my parents to return before making such a daring decision, for I was as fascinated by the story as by the pictures in the old book I had come across. The afternoon was drawing to a close and in the silent, half-dark room the pale light was reflected by the piano keys, yellow with age. Even the thought of my tea – a dry crust and a few pieces of sugar on a tin plate within easy reach – had me thinking of the monster’s ghastly meals. I was suddenly awakened from my musings by a slight creaking of the floorboards and my eyes opened wide with fear. I was sure someone or something had come into the room and was standing motionless behind me. Before even trying to see what the intruder looked like, I was convinced it could not be a mortal since it seemed to me humanly impossible to catch me out without my knowledge or without making the slightest noise. I sat as if glued to the seat, not daring to turn my head. The voice of conscience, repenting too late, echoed in my head, "If you keep reading about ogres, you’ll end up meeting one." Summoning up such courage as remained to me, I spun round on my stool, holding on tight so as not to fall off. In the darkening room there stood before me a strange, ghostly man with a blank gaze, extremely tall and thin. He looked lie a mummified devil. "Thank God!" I whispered. "At least it isn’t the child eater!"

          "Not everyone would dare go where I do," said the visitor in a grating, otherworldly voice. "I’ve been listening to you for some time, lad. I like your work but I’d like you to play even better." He gave a hollow laugh. "Alas! No magic can replace the pinch of sulphur which will soon make your playing different from others’. But that’s of no importance for the moment and even I can do a good dead on occasion," he mumbled half to himself.

          "But who are you, sir?" I asked politely, astonished by the character’s appearance and absurd remarks. "Who am I?" he croaked in a strangely jovial manner, which struck a false note. "Dammit, you’ve got more curiosity than your fingers, lad. Well, for you, let’s see now…I’m the deacon of Destiny, ha, ha! Is that good enough for you?"

          I still failed to understand what he was getting at. Luckily my mother turned up unexpectedly and the conversation took another turn. Weighing up the lofty, skeletal figure with one glance of her bright eyes, she realized he was a pedlar. "Sir," she said politely, but in a tone admitting of no reply, "we aren’t just poor, we’re very poor. I’m sorry to have wasted your time so if you would kindly…" Very grandly, she opened the door for the pedlar.

          "Madam," said the decidedly odd creature, "I haven’t come to sell my wares, though you could do with them. You should also know that I never waste my time," he muttered, stressing the final words. "I came to tell you that your son has exceptional talent. His place isn’t in a big top but at the Budapest Academy of Music founded by Franz Liszt." His words admitted of no contradiction either. "But how do you know?" my mother ventured to ask, quite taken aback. "Madam, I’m no more than a humble travelling-salesman but, er, well, I know what I know," he replied obsequiously. "As proof of my good faith I’m going to make an appointment for you with the Director of the Academy so he can audition your son."

          "You don’t expect me to believe that you know him personally?" retorted my mother, looking sharply at the stranger’s frayed clothes. "Madam, I have every reason to believe he will refuse me nothing," he replied with a sardonic laugh. "Be sure to be ready: next week I’ll be back to confirm the day and exact time of your appointment and then – what will be will be! My respects, madam. See you soon, young master!" and away he went, shaking with laughter. He picked up his load from the landing and this time I heard his ringing laughter and slightly limping walk dying away as he went down the stairs, which groaned under his weight.

          Darkness fell early over ‘Angle Court’ that day. As usual, my father and sister came home exhausted. My mother told them excitedly about the odd, sphinx-like character who looked like a tramp and spoke like the Prince of Darkness. For me, once and for all, he was the terrible Ogre in my story to the life even if there was no outward resemblance. I was most careful not to let such a frightful secret be known, for nothing would induce me to let the image of myself as someone far older than his years be tarnished – an image I polished repeatedly. When my father was told that one of the top musical dignitaries was to audition me very shortly thanks to this odd fellow, he went wild with joy. I could not remember ever having seen him so happy and exuberant. Over supper, he made great plans for my future as a famous pianist. After all the exhilaration, my parents’ conversation took a decidedly less enthusiastic turn.

          "There’s no question of taking the boy to the Academy in that urchin’s get up," declared my mother, her voice breaking. "They wouldn’t even let him in dressed like that." "What he needs is some new clothes," added my father, sighing wearily. "And decent shoes," added my sister pensively as she got up from table to go to bed. The soles of her shoes were like sieves. "Don’t wait for me for supper tomorrow: I’m behind with my work and will probably be late," she said as she finished undressing. "Good night, all!"

          She got into bed, turned her face to the wall and fell asleep at once. I did the same. My parents went on talking, trying to resolve the tantalizing problem. Where were they to get the money from? Next day we were back to our usual routine. I stayed at home alone, riveted to the piano stool, my hands brushing the keys and constantly looking round uneasily, either behind me or at the old yellowing book, expecting to see the menacing image of the Bogeyman rising out of it. I got off with a scare.

          My parents and I were just finishing our meal when my sister arrived, flushed with emotion, a large parcel wrapped in coloured paper under her arm. She held it out to me silently, smiling. This form of generosity was not the rule in our community and I stood there, arms dangling, not knowing quite what to make of it all.

          "Come on, take it, silly, it’s for you!" she cried, laughing at my shyness. Greatly embarrassed, I took the beautiful parcel and placed it carefully on the bed, really sorry to have to tear off such lovely wrappings. I clumsily began to open it, putting off the moment of revelation as long as possible. My parents and sister gazed at me tenderly as I undid the last knot in the final ribbon. The parcel was undone. A dazzling sailor suit plus a pair of real leather shoes, with such a shine on them that it reflected the flame of the paraffin lamp, lay proudly in their box. Five minutes later, dressed in my wonderful suit, I was strutting round the room bursting with joy while my family gaped in admiration. The amazingly big collar was like a lord’s; my first long trousers with their immaculate creases fitted just right.

          "How were you able to guess his measurements so accurately?" my mother asked in astonishment. "Quite simple," my sister answered. "Last night while you were all asleep, I got up and measured him from head to foot." "How did you find the money so quickly?" asked my father, perplexed. "Just as simple," she replied evasively. "I used all my savings! My dear little brother," she went on, containing her emotion and kissing me, "You’ll go to the Academy for your audition and it’ll be a sensation."

          I could not sleep that night. By now I was quite ready for Nosferatu to reappear and keep his promise. Meanwhile, I had made a firm decision to read no more stories about ogres. Would I keep to it? In the huge album with its dog-eared pages I found a story with a musical title: the strange fable of a piper. It brought out the Sorcerer’s Apprentice in me. I wondered what tunes the ragged wanderer played to his mysterious rhymes in order to mesmerize the rats and children of Hamlin, getting him to follow him everywhere. I wanted to do the same.

          I calculated that I had some chance of success since there were at least as many rats in ‘Angel Court’ as in Hamlin. I sat down at the piano, determined to conjure up a dozen or more. I was a little afraid my mother might tell me off if she came back to find the place overrun with rats so in the event of my magic not making them disappear in time I planned to chase them away with a broom.

          I played for more than half an hour, doing my utmost to draw irresistibly magic sounds from my piano. Despite my efforts, nothing happened and by then I would have been satisfied with a couple of mice. But it was no good: not a pointed nose in sight – yet I had even looked under the pedals. Disappointed and not a little put out, I told myself that either the Piper improvised better than me or it was one of those stories, like catching birds by putting salt on their tales, invented by adults to shake off children over-obsessed with magic.

          While we got dinner over, I asked my mother with feigned indifference if she believed in the Piper’s prowess. The question amused her and she explained in a kindly manner that elves, goblins, ogres, as well as the Piper, were all part of an imaginary family whose characters, though famous, had never existed outside stories and legends invented for little boys such as myself. Upon which she got up, washed our cracked plates in no time at all and returned to the grocer’s, warning me to behave myself at least until she got back. I was alone once more. Outside the weather was gloomy. To pass part of the afternoon, which looked like being endless, I decided to re-read the Piper’s story, laughing to myself at my previous naivety. My reading was interrupted by some indefinable noise and I stopped. A high-pitched whistle, like a long lament repeated over and over, became ever more piercing as it approached. It was somewhat like a catchy tune yet there was something pleading about it, at once fascinating and unbearable. I had never heard anything like it. In my curiosity I opened the window to take a look at the performer of the unearthly hymn. It was the Bogeyman. Who else? He was still some way off. This time he carried not only his two great suitcases but had on his back a haversack of apparently considerable weight as it caused his long, starved-looking carcase to bend.

          He modulated his strange chant until it became a strident whistle, still walking in the direction of our block and limping slightly. I realized with astonishment that it was one week to the day since our first encounter. He was on time for his appointment. I do not know if he had guessed my thoughts but he nodded at me from a distance, which I took for a greeting and automatically answered with a wave. Deep down, I was almost pleased to see the strange, whistling Bogeyman again: he had become a part of my world. All of a sudden my pleasure turned to fear. People looking as if they scarcely knew what they were doing came out of their houses as he passed and, marching like sleepwalkers, fell into line behind him. The procession grew before my eyes and was fast approaching the entrance to our yard. When everyone was inside, the good shepherd stopped whistling and, turning round, called out to his flock, "Come on, you sexy lot! It’s time to rejoice! I’m back with you again!" He broke into a forced, devilish laugh. Having recovered from their stupefaction, his flock stood in line and applauded him, tittering as they did so. They found him irresistible. He let them gorge themselves on the hilarity he had provoked then raised his long, skinny arms in the air. An oppressive silence at once fell over the crowd. He gravely opened his great black book and in his extraordinary screech owl voice called out the names of his debtors one by one. They came forward as if hypnotised and went, heads bowed, up to the small folding table behind which stood the seller of illusions, proud and generous.

          To each one he handed the roll of cloth he or she had ordered and, with a grasping gesture, swept the tiny pile of small change the people had humbly placed before him by way of a down payment. Good salesman that he was, he did not neglect to make the noses of the boozers glow by unashamedly paying court, with attempted ribaldry, to the sunken-faced women. He picked out one nice girl with an emaciated face standing among her friends, all withered and faded before their time. With an obscene gesture he exclaimed, "By the fallen angel, I swear when I see so many virtues in a single person it makes me long for a bowel movement! I’d rather stuff you than the Pope’s mule!" The girl thus addressed went and hid herself behind the others in embarrassment while they guffawed. The Bogeyman went on titillating the women with other such compliments, knowing full well that his latest conquest, a notorious prostitute, was waiting patiently behind a nearby fence for him to honour his promises.

          Once everyone was satisfied, the pedlar climbed up to our hovel. "Hi, kid! Tomorrow’s the day!" he said in the voice of a well-fed trooper. "Mr Dohnányi, the Director of the Academy, will be expecting you at his home at eleven o’clock sharp. Be there without fail," he went on, turning to my mother, who had just arrived. "No," turning towards me again as if he had guessed what was on my mind, "I’m sorry I won’t be able to go with you but I really am very busy at the moment. I’ll make sure you get a decent welcome just the same. Good luck, lad. Perhaps we’ll meet again." Those were his final, enigmatic words as he stood in the doorway before limping off.

          Next morning, my mother and I were up at daybreak. The Director’s home was on the other side of Budapest. We had an hour-and-a-half walk to the tram terminus, a two-hour journey across the city, then another hour’s walk. It was the first time I had been out of ‘Angle Court’. How beautiful the capital was with its flashing car lights, fairyland shop fronts overflowing with treasure and wide, leafy avenues with palatial dwellings on either side. It quite took my breath away. Dotted here and there were hansom cabs, buggies and antiquated carriages which all became inextricably entangled at every crossroads. Old hacks pulled buses and splendid teams of horses with shining harness and gold-plated bits waited for them stoically, taking not the least notice of the limousine drivers bursting with impatience and blasting furiously on their horns to try and get past. Crowds of overdressed people strolled along the pavements. Haughty-looking women, heads held high, wore hats defying the laws of gravity, or indeed laws of any kind. I gazed admiringly at one with a tropical forest on her head made up of peacock, ostrich and cockatoo feathers, and a few others besides. Another wore, with great dignity, a three-master in full sail on her hair, which had been elegantly let down. The most beautiful of all had a hat covered with fruit. There was something for everyone: an apple, a pair, a bunch of grapes, a tomato. It was not a hat, it was a cottage garden. We had descended from the tram and my mother was hurrying ahead so fast that I had to run to keep up. It was nearly eleven o’clock. We were now in a smart residential district full of pretty flower beds. Far below us, a superb view of the winding streets of the city appeared to our delighted gaze. We had reached our destination.

          Just as we were arriving at the home of the ‘Lord’ of the Academy, the richly decorated gates opened. An impressive car with copper headlamps drove noisily out and sped off towards the town centre. The doorkeeper gave such an obsequious bow as it went by that we had a presentiment something was not quite right. His act of homage over, the Cerberus-flunkey, who was probably used to sending away mothers and their children, cut short any possible conversation as, with a blank stare, he recited in an expressionless voice, "The Director only sees people by appointment; he cannot bear child prodigies and he thinks that, Liszt apart, all pianists past and present aren’t worth a shovelful of sh…"

          A smell of burning followed by the dying sigh of a tyre pertinently illustrated his words. An elegantly dressed man with greying hair came briskly towards us. "May I respectfully point out, sir, that madam recommends the car should not be taken out on Friday 13^th?" intoned the minion in an oily voice, bowing low once more. "Change the wheel and mind your own business," replied the other, repressing a laugh. "Who are these people?" he asked, seeing how upset we looked. "The usual sort, sir," whispered the wit, raising his white gloves in a gesture of helplessness. "Yet another prodigy longing for fame."

          Indignant at his servile hypocrisy, my mother protested, "That is not true, sir! We are very poor and have come a long way for an appointment with the Director of the Academy so he can audition my son, as that rascal of a pedlar promised, may the Devil take him and his hypocritical face!" "But I am the Director, madam, and I’m not expecting anyone this morning," the head of the household broke in, leafing through his diary. "Who is this pedlar you mentioned?"

          "I don’t know what hoaxer played this trick and I beg you to excuse us for troubling you," my mother said, bowing her head in dismay. "But you should know, sir, that we’ve been travelling since dawn and no-one goes miles by tram, not to speak of on foot, just for the pleasure of getting surly treatment from a dolled-up squirt with a po-face enough to make you want to go and hang yourself, even if his nose is like a whole book of drinking songs."

          The description was so apt that the Professor had to hold his lips tight to retain his dignity. While his factotum, red with embarrassment, went off to change the wheel, the Director showed us into the garden and said in an amused tone, "Come in and play me something, my boy, while my … is seeing to the car." He led us into an immense living-room with incredibly lavish furniture. Two concert grands had pride of place in the middle. I hoisted myself onto one of the red velvet-coloured stools and waited. In one corner, my mother was silently crossing herself and I heard the voice of the master saying encouragingly, "You may begin."

          So I played. Everything and nothing. I played the Bogeyman, the Piper, my joys and sorrows, swept along by the elation of at last being where I belonged. I don’t know how long it lasted. I remember the phone ringing, the Director staring at me as if hypnotized and only going answer reluctantly after some time. "No, I really can’t come… What? The rare pearl retaining me? You’re on the wrong track, dear. This isn’t a rare pearl, it’s the pearl of pearls, the Koh-i-Noor!" The word was magic to a child’s ears.

          This is not the place to go into the hidden forces, magnetism, telepathy, which certain types of journalist wrote of in connection with me. The future of this heaven-sent child – or had he been sold to the Devil? – admitted to the Academy under curious circumstances had to be decided on without delay. There was a pseudo-critical outcry and soon two clans of ardent combatants formed. The first spent its time trying to prove to the second that the Chosen are the playthings of Fate. Unless it be the contrary, retorted the others.

          Meanwhile, I went to lessons on foot to save the price of a return tram ticket and with the money bought out-of-season fruit, especially in winter, which I then resold in the smart districts at quite a good profit. This small sum enabled me to start a sort of music library with things bought by the kilo from junk dealers at the rate for old paper. These were brought back triumphantly to ‘Angel Court’, often by the cartload. Did these books and scores do anything for me? A great deal and, in the last resort, nothing.

          My first teachers at the Academy were just as perplexed as my father had been: they did not know quite which class to assign me to. My talent was a form of bond with my instrument that permitted my manual skills to make sense of and straightway put into practice all I learnt from the sort of methodical teaching which seems an avalanche of odds and ends to most children. Things incomprehensible to me at ten became conditioned reflexes activating my hands before my brain could provide a rational explanation.

          It was not yet possible to tell how far my talent would take me before the weaknesses in my playing were revealed so I was allowed, indeed ordered, to attend the Holy of Holies, the piano masterclasses. They were quite different from any classes I had been to up till then. One was not taught how to play well but how to become a part of one’s instrument until the soul of the interpreter, visible to all, became the messenger of music, restoring it in all its original clarity.

          Only a few ‘grown-ups’ aged twenty-five and more came to these classes. They were virtuosos, with a technique far outstripping my hesitant beginner’s effrontery, who came along to perfect their already considerable mastery under the eye of Istvan Thomán, who made an indelible impression on me. He had been a pupil of Liszt’s and was subsequently the revered teacher of Bartók and Dohnányi. He had been appointed to the top class at the Academy late in life and was its Tree of Life – an authentic, first-hand purveyor of the teaching of Franz Liszt.

          I can still hear his voice roaring like an old lion’s after a pupil had played Liszt’s Grande Polonaise and Chopin’s Fourth Ballade. "I once played these pieces to Liszt in this very room." What Liszt had told our master was handed on to us as if it was something completely new, a password for generations of young interpreters. He died while shouts and the stamping of boots were already drowning the celestial voices. People talked far more about the possibility of a war ‘like nothing anyone has ever seen’ than about their next concert.

          The class was suspended until someone else could be appointed. Soldiers went into the universities to encourage young people to anticipate the conscription order, tempting them with the promise of various advantages. Recruiting officers beat their drums outside the Academy. When it came to my turn, I replied that I would rather get married than drive myself hoarse singing the Nazi hymn while goose-stepping through the streets. I was eighteen.

          Less than a year later I met Soleilka. It was love at first sight and a few days later we got married without our parents’ permission, stealing our identity cards to do so. At the town hall we were told that two witnesses would have to sign the marriage certificate. We hurried out and came back with two tramps we had found nearby. After the ceremony, they congratulated us but went away disappointed at not being invited for a drink. We literally did not have a penny. All they got was a warm handshake. Our wedding breakfast consisted of some horse sausage, eaten on a nearby bench. We were in heaven. Even now, thirty years later, the bond between us is still as strong. Not long afterwards, I was called up and had to leave my wife behind.