Lucy and Todd

Posts Tagged ‘mothers’

No Live Files Remain — András Forgách

In Reviews by Lucy and Todd on July 2, 2018 at 5:29 pm

(Translated from the Hungarian by Paul Olchváry)

‘In our home murderous quarrels invariably broke out over the Arabs and the Israelis, the political goals of the Americans and the Soviets, and the whole situation in the Middle East, and they lasted until veins were ready to burst, faces turned purple, throats hoarse.’ Welcome to Sunday lunch at 22, Kerek Street, Budapest. Not exactly the Good Ship Lollipop.

A few years ago, an acquaintance mentioned to the writer and artist András Forgách that he’d seen a file which suggested that his mother had been a government agent. Because even Hungary now has a degree of ‘freedom of information’, an astonished Forgách started digging in the archives of the interior ministry. What he discovered was enough to make him re-think his entire existence.

András’s father, Marcell, was nicknamed ‘Pápai’ (‘Papa’) in the bureau where he worked, for his plump good humour. But unassuming Marcell became a Hungarian operative in London, with the cover of a reporter in the state news service. A sensitive, complicated man, the role didn’t suit him. He began to suffer from paranoia, which became extreme. The family returned to Budapest. At that point the security service had the idea of operating Marcell’s wife, Bruria, in his place. She became ‘Mrs Pápai’.

Bruria was an easy-going, loquacious woman with a ferocious intelligence and a way of getting anyone to talk – about anything. Her correspondence with her handlers is disarmingly off-beat. She was also beautiful – a circumstance not lost on her masters, who considered using her as a ‘honey trap’. They gave up on the idea because they couldn’t afford it.

The Hungarian government was intensely interested in the new Jewish state. As the Forgách family had relatives and important contacts there, Bruria agreed to go on several subsidized trips, with young András. But Bruria was a fiercely devoted Hungarian socialist and patriot, and she hated Zionism; one learns quickly in these pages that if you’re going to be a spy, it’s not a great idea to be filled with venom.

‘Mrs Pápai’, writes András, ‘knew she was attempting the impossible, and yet she went. As for myself, I can’t – and I don’t want to – undertake to analyse twentieth-century Middle East developments, Palestinian-Jewish strife and/or the Israeli-Arab wars, and I don’t wish to have my say about world politics. No, here and now I wish only to understand my mother.’

This is the novel of what András found out about Bruria – and that is the correct form for dealing with this story, no doubt. It is told with amazing simplicity and a unique, almost uncanny sense of detail and humour. Forgách has the arresting habit of setting scenes by first describing the exact architectural history and nature of the buildings in which they take place.

After WWII, the security services were housed in a large building in Budapest that, with gob-smacking irony, had once been the Symbolic Grand Lodge of Hungary’s freemasons: ‘The hermae of half-naked women that had projected from the rustic keystones of the ground floor had been dismantled by careful hands – or by bombs or a well-aimed round of machine-gun fire – to make way for austere rhombuses.’ At one point the family occupy a flat which looks directly out at Buda Castle, and Forgách’s description of its dilapidated state and the statuary surrounding it is masterfully satiric.

The novel is moving and intimate – it will remind you at times of Günter Grass and perhaps the half-hidden relationships that were often the subjects of Robert Pinget. András, quite young at the time of his mother’s clandestine activities, has to re-calculate over and over what absolutely everything meant in his childhood – was a cocktail party simply a party? Or was it a group of people his mother brought together for the purposes of observation and provocation? Perhaps we could all ask ourselves that one.

Families are families, even if they are confidential agents, though the Forgáchs were a little less fortunate than some in their decay. András’s father lost his mind and also acquired Parkinson’s; Bruria ultimately couldn’t contain herself about the relations between Hungary and Israel and told the spooks she was quitting. She had grief of many kinds to contend with in her last couple of years.

One of the dossiers András reads toward the end ‘perfectly sums up that schizophrenic situation, that labyrinth without an exit, in which Mr Pápai and Mrs Pápai, my father and my mother, existed and floundered here and in the big wide world.’ This is a dark, eye-popping, must-read love letter – to lots of vanished things.

TMcE

(This review appeared in the Herald on April 13, 2018)

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Julian Stannard—What Were You Thinking?

In Reviews by Lucy and Todd on May 3, 2016 at 9:47 am

‘I had not realized how much one could look at a tree and hate it.’ This is a book of playful, moving poems with an almost excruciating self-deprecation. It’s lyrical, real, wistful, and then sometimes it barks like a dog you can’t completely trust.

There are strange happenings, ancient and modern. The poet’s bedsheets emigrate to Poland. Mothers dress their children in tutelary clothes so they can carry uncooked Christmas turkeys the weight of the baby Jesus across heaths. Sheep wait for the writer to speak to them, to give them ‘something they can pass around themselves’. A teenage wheelie bin that writes poetry gets blown by the wind to Paris and his mother goes berserk.

Mothers are much in evidence. On the phone, the poet tries to be breezy with his. She senses he is lighting a cigarette and scolds him; he can then ‘hear her frowning’. She goes on to use the word ‘alakefic’ which he affects to understand. If you look this word up, you will encounter claims on very dodgy-looking etymological web sites that it is RAF slang, but one might equally guess Stannard made up ‘alakefic’ and planted references to it on the web. Such are the thoughts you will think while reading this.

‘Imagine a castle defended by poets. How easily we capitulated!’ This from a poem about a certain well-known writers’ retreat not a million miles from Edinburgh. As in all such places, the quality of the experience is determined by whom you are thrown together with and how good the food is. For amusement there’s something proposed called ‘Scottish roulette’, which involves dangerous amounts of porridge. ‘One night I met the American poet on the stairs by candlelight. How much self-hate can there be? she asked. I said, There can always be a little more.’

Stannard has spent much of his life in Genoa, where, he writes, there is always something to find out, and you can lose your way twenty times a day. The wonderful section ‘The Street of Perfect Love’ addresses Italy, and love. It hasn’t worked out too well maybe: ‘Someone had taken an axe to my life.’ Dragging a Christmas tree through the city streets he starts to feel alarmingly Biblical and it’s very funny and sad.

Most of these poems are a page in length, but they’re packing heat. They read like memoranda from the future, from someone who’s got slightly worse luck than you do. ‘Burlington Arcade’ is a terrific riff on the luxurious late capitalism that will choke London to death. In a longer piece, about hell, the writer opines it’s like public school. You get free towels, cover versions of the Pet Shop Boys and occasional amyl nitrate (actually, what’s he complaining about?). ‘As a rule I find damnation’s good for the figure’. But the problem with this particular hell is that there are no women, and he finally guesses they must have their own inferno – with plumped-up pillows and pot-pourri. Hell as Laura Ashley.

TMcE

This review appeared in the Herald on May 2, 2016