Elek looked unbelievably good for a man completely
ruined. His hair and moustache were so disciplined it was as if they had been
sculpted into place; however the grey pullover which was now the core of his
wardrobe did have two impossible-to-miss holes. Other men having seen all
their assets evaporate overnight, especially having an entire fortune fly by
night, would have protested bitterly at the unseen forces reducing their wealth
to the small change in their trouser pockets. Destitute at the age of sixty,
even allowing for the common denominator of a world war and vast industries of
suffering and misery, you would have expected some cursing and shrieking. A
gnawing of fists. A denouncing of higher powers.
But Elek didn’t issue any unseemly lamentations. He simply
sat in the armchair, at ease, as if enjoying a day off. He tried to resurrect
his fortunes after the war, and more crucially, after the hyper-inflation,
which Hungarians proudly pointed out had been the fastest and greatest in
economic history. Once the inflation was over, Elek went to the bank where he had
deposited millions, emptied his unfrozen account and bought a loaf of bread,
hardly getting any change back. The gutters of Budapest had been clogged with
discarded banknotes, the fallen leaves of an old order.
What tortured Gyuri even more than Elek’s tranquillity, what
racked him night and day, was the sheer inanity of the loss. It could have been
so different, a tiny stash in Switzerland, a loose gold ingot buried in a
field, some well-cached jewellery and things would have been different enough
for them to eat and even eat well. But everything had gone in what would amount
to no more than, at best, an eyebrow raising footnote in abstruse economic
journals.
Funnily enough for a bookie who had made a very good living
out of people losing their money on horses, Elek’s first ventures to recoup
some money saw him going to the track for a string of flutters. Gyuri could
distinctly remember Elek before the war coming home with the takings from the
races (in a small brown suitcase, the money all jumbled up for Elek’s staff to
sort out) and exclaiming: ‘Human folly– it’s the business to be in. You can’t go
wrong.’ His turf accountancy riches had been less the result of his astuteness
than the fact of bookmaking being a virtual monopoly and one of his old army
chums being responsible for handing out the licences. Nevertheless, incited
perhaps by his inside knowledge, Elek remained adamant that the gee-gees would
provide, if not a regular income, a start-up capital for some future, nameless,
hardship-solving enterprise.
Elek’s excursions to the track were, in the main,
shirt-losing exercises but now and then he must have won since there were
evenings when there was something to eat. More direct action took place too.
One day Gyuri came home to find that his books, all his books, were gone; all
that was remained was a patch of lighter wallpaper ‘I had to sell them,’ Elek
replied to Gyuri’s inquiry: ‘we have to eat you know.’ Which was fine, but Elek
could have asked first, and the galling thing was not that the books were gone
but that whatever the going market value of his library was Elek would have
been bamboozled and only got a tenth of it. Elek’s business sense, if he ever
had any, seemed to have been mislaid somewhere during the war. The grocery shop
that he had run for a month was the best example; it nearly destroyed the
family because they had to rise before dawn to buy stock and not only did they
not make any money, they lost it. They lost a staggering amount, more than if
they had just jettisoned the greens in the street. Grocers weren’t keen on
other people becoming grocers.
Ambitious projects like grocering were behind Elek now, the
armchair was enough. Since Mother died, Elek had demonstrated less of a need to
be seen doing something. There were mysterious absences from time to time,
which spawned packages of food,
ruined. His hair and moustache were so disciplined it was as if they had been
sculpted into place; however the grey pullover which was now the core of his
wardrobe did have two impossible-to-miss holes. Other men having seen all
their assets evaporate overnight, especially having an entire fortune fly by
night, would have protested bitterly at the unseen forces reducing their wealth
to the small change in their trouser pockets. Destitute at the age of sixty,
even allowing for the common denominator of a world war and vast industries of
suffering and misery, you would have expected some cursing and shrieking. A
gnawing of fists. A denouncing of higher powers.
But Elek didn’t issue any unseemly lamentations. He simply
sat in the armchair, at ease, as if enjoying a day off. He tried to resurrect
his fortunes after the war, and more crucially, after the hyper-inflation,
which Hungarians proudly pointed out had been the fastest and greatest in
economic history. Once the inflation was over, Elek went to the bank where he had
deposited millions, emptied his unfrozen account and bought a loaf of bread,
hardly getting any change back. The gutters of Budapest had been clogged with
discarded banknotes, the fallen leaves of an old order.
What tortured Gyuri even more than Elek’s tranquillity, what
racked him night and day, was the sheer inanity of the loss. It could have been
so different, a tiny stash in Switzerland, a loose gold ingot buried in a
field, some well-cached jewellery and things would have been different enough
for them to eat and even eat well. But everything had gone in what would amount
to no more than, at best, an eyebrow raising footnote in abstruse economic
journals.
Funnily enough for a bookie who had made a very good living
out of people losing their money on horses, Elek’s first ventures to recoup
some money saw him going to the track for a string of flutters. Gyuri could
distinctly remember Elek before the war coming home with the takings from the
races (in a small brown suitcase, the money all jumbled up for Elek’s staff to
sort out) and exclaiming: ‘Human folly– it’s the business to be in. You can’t go
wrong.’ His turf accountancy riches had been less the result of his astuteness
than the fact of bookmaking being a virtual monopoly and one of his old army
chums being responsible for handing out the licences. Nevertheless, incited
perhaps by his inside knowledge, Elek remained adamant that the gee-gees would
provide, if not a regular income, a start-up capital for some future, nameless,
hardship-solving enterprise.
Elek’s excursions to the track were, in the main,
shirt-losing exercises but now and then he must have won since there were
evenings when there was something to eat. More direct action took place too.
One day Gyuri came home to find that his books, all his books, were gone; all
that was remained was a patch of lighter wallpaper ‘I had to sell them,’ Elek
replied to Gyuri’s inquiry: ‘we have to eat you know.’ Which was fine, but Elek
could have asked first, and the galling thing was not that the books were gone
but that whatever the going market value of his library was Elek would have
been bamboozled and only got a tenth of it. Elek’s business sense, if he ever
had any, seemed to have been mislaid somewhere during the war. The grocery shop
that he had run for a month was the best example; it nearly destroyed the
family because they had to rise before dawn to buy stock and not only did they
not make any money, they lost it. They lost a staggering amount, more than if
they had just jettisoned the greens in the street. Grocers weren’t keen on
other people becoming grocers.
Ambitious projects like grocering were behind Elek now, the
armchair was enough. Since Mother died, Elek had demonstrated less of a need to
be seen doing something. There were mysterious absences from time to time,
which spawned packages of food,
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