Snow on the Danube
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Gilbert, Francis. 2019. Snow on the Danube. London: Blue Door Press. ISBN 9781916475403 [Book] https://research.gold.ac.uk/id/eprint/26037/ The version presented here may differ from the published, performed or presented work. Please go to the persistent GRO record above for more information. If you believe that any material held in the repository infringes copyright law, please contact the Repository Team at Goldsmiths, University of London via the following email address: [email protected]. The item will be removed from the repository while any claim is being investigated. For more information, please contact the GRO team: [email protected] Snow on the Danube FRANCIS GILBERT All rights reserved. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of the original material written by Francis Gilbert is prohibited: these sections of the book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. This edition first published in 2017 by Blue Door Press: https://bluedoorpress.co.uk Copyright © 2019 Francis Gilbert Blue Door Press, London UK, [email protected] British Library Cataloguing-in-Publications Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: 978-1-9164754-0-3 Dedication Michael Whyte, great friend, colleague & most perceptive reader. Acknowledgments Erica Wagner for all her help. Pam Johnson and Jane Kirwan at Blue Door Press for their support and wonderful, creative advice. Clare Alexander, Jason Cowley, Jane Harris, Nicolas Soames & George Szirtes for reading earlier versions and providing helpful, incisive comments. Cover design by Sam Sullivan: https://bluedoorpress.co.uk/associates/associate-2/ Also by Francis Gilbert I’m A Teacher, Get Me Out of Here (2004) Teacher on The Run (2005) Yob Nation (2006) Parent Power (2007) Working the System (2011) The Last Day of Term (2012) How to get a great English Degree (2013) Who Do You Love (2017) The Mindful English Teacher (2018) CONTENTS Prologue ........................................................................................ 5 Part One: First Moves .................................................................. 15 1: The Lion Bridge 16 2: Beetroot medicine 21 3: János and the zoo 26 4: The doll’s house 37 5: The Deadly Treaty 43 6: Lessons of pain and pleasure 50 7: The rescue 55 8: The Happy Gypsy 65 9: The dynamited train 73 10: Imre and Dracula 80 Interlude I .................................................................................... 90 11: School 97 12: Liszt and Laszlo 103 13: Walking on the Corso 106 14: Anna’s return 111 15: Women and bridges 114 16: The affair 124 17: The Danube flows on 127 Interlude II ................................................................................. 134 Part Two: The War -- Budapest 1944-45 .................................. 139 18: My bed 140 19: The rescue 169 20: Dressing up 186 21: Russians 197 22: The cellar 209 Part Three: English life .............................................................. 227 23: Film music 228 24: Uprising 236 25: The arrival 243 26: An English education 264 Epilogue .................................................................................... 277 About the author 283 Francis Gilbert Also published by Blue Door Press ........................................... 284 Who Do you Love by Francis Gilbert 285 Taking in Water by Pamela Johnson 286 Don’t Mention Her by Jane Kirwan 287 iv Prologue 23RD JANUARY 6.30AM Phone message. Hi, Karolina, it’s me, Béla. Why aren’t you picking up? I’m standing on the Chain Bridge right now. It’s freezing. And I’m looking down at the water. I can see the snow falling into its iciness. I know it’s early, but normally you’re up, aren’t you? I’m going to do it. I’m going to jump. Did you know my one of my relatives did exactly the same thing, right here, in this spot? Jumped into the Danube. Suicide runs in the family, you see. There’s no way out. You led me to believe that we’d be together forever, and now I’m in a living hell. You know that I don’t know anyone else in Budapest, I don’t speak the language. I’m not going to try again. This is it. You did this to me, Karolina. I’m going… 23RD JANUARY 7AM From: [email protected] To: [email protected] Hi Karolina, You’ll have noticed from this email that I didn’t do it. An old lady in a shawl stopped me. I was standing on the railings and she was shuffling by and she dropped her sack of onions and carrots and just pulled me off, shouting at me in Hungarian. I’ve no idea what she said, and then she took my hand in her big gloves and pulled me over here to this café and said something to the owner who gave me a large coffee and a pancake. He speaks a little English. He said, ‘I’m keeping an eye on you! You call a friend to come and get you before I let you go!’ And so I called you, and of course there was no answer, so he gave me the wi-fi code and I’m writing this email to you on my bust-up old MacBook, which was going to disappear with me into the Danube. I feel a bit better. The old lady made me laugh, ranting and raving at me, and I like the big café owner. He’s so Hungarian! He has a great big black moustache, he’s unshaven, and walks around in a dirty apron like he’s king of the world. The palacsinte is really nice, great smotherings of jam, and the coffee tastes bitter but good. I’ll call you a bit later on, I think. You’re going to need to come and get me, because this guy is definitely not going to let me go unless Francis Gilbert someone comes. And that comforts me too. It doesn’t mean I haven’t given up on the idea. I’m going to do it at some point. I definitely am if… And since I am, I have nothing to lose. You see, the truth is Karolina I don’t have a great job as a CGI visual effects programmer in London, and I’m not here working for a film production company. That’s bullshit. I’m unemployed, and I’ve spent all my money coming here. No, the real reason I came to Budapest is more sordid, more complex. It hurts me to talk about it. You see, there’s a lot I haven’t told you. And I think, before I go, I’d like to explain. It really started a few months ago, back in October. It was late in the afternoon. I had just got up and was playing GTA on the PS4; that’s how sad I am. I’m nearly thirty and all I fucking do all day is play computer games in my mother’s flat. She’s always going on at me how I need to get my act together; there was a spell when I did, but I tried hard, and I didn’t get anywhere. But that’s another story. The main thing for you to know is that I don’t have a fancy loft apartment in Shoreditch. I live with my mum in a council flat in Bethnal Green – a kind of different area. It’s near to Shoreditch though and we have quite a few trendy tossers moving in near us. Until October, I lived with my great-uncle. He’s the one I’ve told you a little about. It’s true he was a Count, but he’s not alive. I don’t know whether I told you he was alive. Perhaps it was to give you the impression that I am going to inherit a lot of money. You’re a very artistic, intelligent woman Karolina, and being with you was the one of the most beautiful things that’s happened to me. I’m sorry I lied so much. But I’m telling the truth now. It was the late afternoon on Wednesday, and I’d just killed some prostitutes and was just jacking a fancy camper caravan when my great-uncle, who was sitting beside me, made these massive 8 Snow on the Danube gesticulations with his arm. At first, I didn’t take off my headphones because I was used to him doing things like this. He could be very dramatic. I shared a room with him and every night, he would listen to Radio 3, conducting with his arms as he lay in bed. I found it very irritating but I now I wish I could have him there in the bed next to me making all those crazy movements in the darkness and saying in that great Hungarian accent of his, ‘Ah yes, Béla, my dear grand-nephew, just feel the sublimity of Ravel’s Gaspard de la nuit, the shimmering crepuscular cadences entering your veins as you drift into sleep…’ That’s how he talked. You’ll see in a minute. The terrible thing was, I took him for granted. But I need to tell you this. I was sitting there playing GTA and the Count (that’s what we called him) was watching this documentary about Hungary during the Second World War. I caught a glimpse of the Chain Bridge – the one I was just standing on – all blown up, and the Count uttered, ‘Oh János, oh Anna, oh Imre!’ These were names I didn’t understand. And then he stood up, which was unusual for him -- he was nearly a hundred years old -- and staggered towards the TV and collapsed.