did not like to take pictures. There are only two ways of recording things, he thought: remembering and writing. That is, if the two can be separated at all, the writer usually works from his memories. It frustrated him that his brain produced such sentences, but he couldn't help it, recently, he had been writing play reviews for the Yokohama Sinbum for a living, which was not a very healthy occupation, and often led to such thoughts.
He gazed at the sight of the unfamiliar city, the quite broad, whirling river bending below (oh great!), the bridges of bewitching span, the eclectic, still in some way structured chaos of terraces fading in the distance. Some speak in verse, and some in prose. Recently, Ensi had been speaking in reviews. Faces were swirling, flashes blinking around him. The tourist group, which he happened to be the leader of (to his greatest sorrow), already broke into smaller formations, the different cliques utterly hated one another. Now, though, they were busy taking photos of the panoramic view like so many noisy children, composing themselves into the pictures. Everybody wanted to record the Fishermen's Bastion. Its photo was shown in every tourist guide. Ensi, the Japanese playwright also took a few pictures of it, giving in to public pressure, after fulfilling the requests of his fellow countrymen, who organised into varied group pictures, to click with their cameras as well.
This was not how he imagined it at home. According to the description of the Sundai guide book, bought hurriedly in Tokyo, he imagined that the Fortification of the Fishermen (this is how they translated it to Japanese) stood alone on top of a cone-shaped hill, with circuitous stairs leading up to it. The forming of this image might have strongly been influenced by the Sacre Coeur in Paris (again!), which indeed stood alone on its conical hill, with the circuitous stairs leading up to it. Naturally, Ensi went up with the cable car, followed by the rest of the Japanese, whom he hated wholeheartedly. All stupid technocrats, with hundreds of idiotic questions and problems, all for him, to fulfil and solve, since he, Ensi (the promising playwright, who won the golden wreath of the Yamaha Theatre Centre nine years previously) was the tour guide, leading this package tour, which the Yosuko company booked for a group of its employees, the size of half an aeroplane.
The Yosuko company produced small-, and medium-size harvesters on its assembly lines, on their bodywork the Yosuko colors of bright-yellow and twilight-scarlet, as well as the Yosuko slogan: WE MUST SOW AS WE REAP. Since he got to know those, who (as one of them noted on the social evening) were the company's soul, Ensi knew that if he was ever in great need of small-, or medium-size reaping machines, he would by no chance buy Yosuko products. Ensi, however, did not need harvesters, rather some self-discipline to finish this tour without major obstacles, and then forget the Yosuko name as fast as he had learnt it. He felt as if he had been a guide in Europe twice now: the first time as the last time. This immediately reminded him of the Yosuko company's colourful ad of its hedge-cutters: BUY ONE, GET ONE FREE! That's the way life goes.
The Japanese shot their one thousandth film (most used Fuji, whose films RIVAL KODAK PRODUCTS!), the video cameras were also working. Ensi turned his back to the whole company defiantly, and started taking shots of the buildings behind the Fortification of the Fishermen. He noticed that man (about his age) in the viewfinder of his Nikon. Must be a foreigner, Hungarians don't come here for the view, presumably, he thought. The man gazed at the city, deep absorbed in his thoughts, with a careless smile on his face. He is probably French, Ensi decided (dark, rough hair, flashing black eyes, broad cheek-bones), and immediately imagined Paris beyond him, the city that had the greatest influence on him in the course of this round-trip.
All this slipped through his head, then crumbled away, giving way to other thoughts and emotions. Ensi turned the Nikon toward the nearby Gothic cathedral. He had trouble pronouncing the name of this church (Matth-yash) once already today. The Frenchman appeared again in the Nikon's viewfinder. Did he move? Ensi tried to leave the man out of the composition, but then the Yosuko workers got into the picture. Ah, who cares anyway... he pushed the button, the machine opened and closed the shutters with an obedient click, then turned the film with a naughty little noise.
Marton Gyula (in Hungarian, the family name comes first), the Hungarian actor blinked in that same second as the lines of his face were copied onto the Japanese playwright's Fuji film. This is going to be interesting, he thought, this little Japanese develops his film, shows the photos to his family.
"Well, and who is this guy here?" the little slanted-eyed boys and girls ask.
"This?" the Jap contemplates, "this is no one. A Hungarian, by accident... An accidental Hungarian."
This way one could get anywhere, the accidental Hungarian continued in his mind. If one stood at such a tourist spectacle with enough patience, sooner or later he would be photographed by the Germans, the French, the Canadians, the Chinese, the Mexicans, the Tunisians, the Americans, the British, the Brazilians, the Swedish, the Australians, and so on, see the World Atlas. Then, they would look at this charming, unforgettable face, he would become popular in more and more families, in more and more countries... this way a unique sort of world-fame could be created, with hard work...
It would be no everyday argument, if someone succeeded in getting into the photo albums of every family, thought Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor. After all, this was a method too... Not very fast, not very effective, but still...
Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor spent about an hour and a half on the Fishermen's Bastion that day. Meanwhile, he was copied onto seventy four private photographs... true, usually only in the background. The result: his face would travel to at least three different parts of the world, trusted on the memory of the light-sensitive material, to be developed in chemicals later on, and finally (in most cases) to end up on photo paper. All this in only ninety minutes!... not a bad result.
The Fishermen's Bastion was only the beginning. What if he did the same on scenes, where not only amateurs, but also professionals went around clicking?! Or where television companies were shooting!? The publicity of media photography was many times greater than that of family albums (even if only their background could be considered), television shootings presented an even greater opportunity. Whether someone remembered those faces that would get on the screen by chance, in the background of reports? Maybe, maybe not. Who knows. In any case this was also a way, worth a try.
Do I really consider this seriously? Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor asked himself. He could not give an answer. He came to the Fishermen's Bastion to say good-bye. He got a scholarship to the States, where, besides, he already spent a few months recently, when a theatre in Washington produced two one-act plays of his. Because he was not merely an actor, but also a director and a playwright, that is: all in all a theatre man. Indeed! The plane was leaving the next day. Good-bye Budapest!
He conquered this city more or less already, he thought. He was known and appreciated here to a certain extent (though he could walk on the streets carelessly, few turned after him), he got good roles sometimes (not too often), nice reviews as well (even less often), the audience liked him (the subtle signs and proofs showing this were, of course, relative). It didn't matter, he was flying to the States now, to see what those unlimited opportunities were over there, and if possible, to fight himself onto stage (movie screen), furthermore, to get rich, but not a little, rather filthy rich, so much so as to make all his colleagues, who stayed at home turn yellow of envy. Of course, they were already pretty yellow, that they were not the ones to receive the scholarship.
Marton Gyula recorded the sight of the Fishermen's Bastion with the noisy Japanese in his brain-cells as permanently, as his figure was copied onto the light-sensitive surface of colour films. For him, this sight was Hungary for a long time. He took it with him, over the ocean, to New Haven in Connecticut, then to New York City, later to New Orleans, Chicago, California, New Mexico, etc. In course of his pilgrimage, he managed to get into the fire line of cameras again and again, and even succeeded in getting into American TV programmes sometimes. In the autumn of 1988, Dukakis, a Greek-American democrat candidate for president visited New Haven, and walked along the street splitting the park called Green. Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor gathered all his abilities to get to the edge of the pavement, exactly when the politician's small figure passed by there. The accidental Hungarian reached out his hand. Dukakis looked at him, then slantwise behind him, started smiling broadly, took the palm of Marton Gyula with his right, then grasped it with his left as well, and was shaking it for long seconds before continuing his walk. The Hungarian actor smiled back and thought: You checked if the cameras were shooting, ha? We're walking in the same shoes, brother! Just don't make such a silly smile, 'cause your voters won't like you!
In the afternoon and evening news of the NBC national television network that day, at least fifty million Americans could see Dukakis shake hands with the accidental Hungarian. According to the news commentator: In course of his barnstorm, the governor of Massachusetts visited New Haven in Connecticut today. After the mass assembly, he talked to the local residents. He spoke a few words to a Greek person in his mother tongue. After the first showing, Marton Gyula received a number of congratulation calls: "We didn't know you were Greek!" He later got a call from the president of the Connecticut Greek Association, Mr. Georgopulos:
"How come I had not heard this about you before?" he asked very strictly. To the first callers Marton Gyula explained that this was a misunderstanding, being that he was Hungarian and not Greek, that is: he came from Budapest and not Athens, however, all were so disappointed, that he soon decided to take on the Greek identity. After all, why couldn't I be Greek? They are also just a small nation with a great past. By the time he got the call from Mr. Georgopulos, Marton Gyula already felt like a born Greek. Mr. Georgopulos had always felt like a born Greek, he spoke English with a strong accent, and he switched to Greek immediately. Marton Gyula felt, that it would have been very awkward to admit he didn't understand a word of this monologue (which sounded mostly like Russian to him), so he preferred to hum agreeably. It seemed, that Mr. Georgopulos also preferred this manner of discussion, he went on saying his own for quite a long time, then finally, he asked in English:
"So where can I send the joining declaration to?" and the Hungarian actor dictated his address.
Soon, the declaration arrived, and it turned out that the yearly membership fee was a sum of one thousand two hundred dollars, which fact immediately made Marton Gyula sober. He wrote a few lines to the Connecticut Greek Association, explaining that there was a misunderstanding, he was not Greek, but Turkish... Well, either Greek, or Turkish, fact was that Marton Gyula appeared in the NBC news (one of the three largest American television companies) the tiny scene was shown in several European television news (not in the Hungarian one).
He was able to reach similar success, when he travelled to Florida the next spring. There was a movie shooting on Daytona Beach, where the cars drove on the sands, down to the water. Marton Gyula managed to smuggle himself into the background of two scenes, as a non-paid extra. The movie was shown with the title: Your dreams come true, Marton Gyula was clearly visible tanning behind, in the screen's left corner, leaning against his old Ford Mercury Zephyr. (The other scene, where he was jumping around in the waves, was unfortunately cut out.)
Every beginning is difficult. Then there was (somewhat later) another American movie, that was shot in New Hampshire. Marton Gyula was recommended to the director by a playwright called Joe Seeger. The director's name was Jerry Anderson, and he did in fact give Marton Gyula a role, a small role, a tiny little one, for which, though, he was paid already: fifty dollars. Fine, so he was an extra, right, he was a pedestrian in a street scene. The couple in the main role got into a fight in an open sports car, while Marton Gyula walked by on the other side. He performed without fault. The scene was shot nine times, but not once because of him. It was another story, that the production failed during the postworks, the movie never got to the screens, and Marton Gyula waited in vain for the fifty dollar cheque to arrive in his post box. In any case, he could claim that he appeared in American movies... and so he claimed, many times, to many people.
Ever since his scholarship ended on Yale, Marton Gyula had been making a living primarily of part-time, casual teachings. Through familiar's acquaintance he got to the Theatre Department of the Connecticut College in New London, where he held a special course by the title of Playwrights of Distant Countries. According to the rules of the Connecticut College, at least six students were required to apply for one course in order for it to stay in schedule. On the other hand, no more than nine students were allowed to be taken in one course. Exactly nine applied for Marton Gyula's special. A Japanese fellow approached him on the grass of the university, reminding one of ancient English schools.
"Excuse me," started the Japanese with a singing accent, "are you the Hungarian guest professor teaching THR310?"
"In person," said Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor. The Japanese started blinking shyly.
"I beg your pardon, what do you mean by 'in person'?"
"Nothing... a joke, a bad joke."
"Oh, I see," the Japanese bowed his head, "unfortunately, I usually jokes do not understand here." Hearing this grammatical mistake, Marton Gyula's heart filled with sympathy, took up his nicest expression, just talk, you little Japanese, I am listening!, this was the message his eyes conveyed. Thus, the little Japanese explained that his name was Ensi, he was a guest student here, had an IREX scholarship in New York originally, but only for six months, since than he had been making a living on his own. He applied for free tuition, but received no answer yet. He would be very grateful if he could join the Hungarian guest professor's course, being that the topic concerned him a great deal, he himself being a playwright of a distant country. He felt, that he had a lot to learn, he could surely learn a lot from the Hungarian guest professor, who was well known to had even written plays. He read in the syllabus, that the course included unique methods of characterisation and exceptional dialogue techniques, he is interested in precisely these.
Marton Gyula sighed. It was precisely these that he, on the other hand, was not interested in. He put the syllabus together carelessly, filled it with all kinds of phrases and boasting technical terms that sounded good. He was hoping that nobody would ever test him on them. What an unpleasant surprise that the applicants examined it so carefully. What the hell am I going to say about characterisation or dialogues to this little Japanese?, he thought huffily. In his brain all kinds of smart answers were running around, things he had heard from various directors, well, it was going to turn out somehow. The little Japanese continued:
"I understand that the precondition of the THR310 is a freshman course in composition, but the problem is that I was not a freshman here, being that I went to an art college in Nagasaki, over there the whole order and organisation is different, I would like to be an exception, therefore, I won the golden wreath of the Yamaha Theater Centre ten years ago for play writing, with my historic play titled: The Dreams of the Heroes, which shows the second world war from a Japanese perspective. However, there is also another problem. According to the department registrar, the course is already full. I am still convinced that there is a solution of some sorts, if the Hungarian guest professor so wishes. For me this is an issue of life or death, since aside from the Hungarian guest professor's special there is hardly one that would suit my interests, how unfortunate that I only found out about it so late."
Marton Gyula looked at the tiny face of the Japanese playwright, his deep-brown bleary eyes, and imagined what kind of play this The Dreams of the Heroes might be, in which this small Japanese showed the second world war from a small (or big) Japanese perspective. He remembered a comedy, the Teahouse to the August Moon, where he played a Japanese manufacturer. This real Japanese probably would have found Marton Gyula's Japanese identity as ridiculous as Marton Gyula found the real Japanese identity of this... well... real Japanese. In which case it was not even worth mentioning the real Hungarian identity. What would this Jap say to, say, the Lord Bánk (a Hungarian historical play), to its unique characterisation and exceptional dialogue techniques? He decided this very moment, that he was going to entertain his students with ancient Hungarian plays. That's gonna give it to them... Some might even give up and quit. The less remained of the nine, the better!
The Far-East playwright was waiting for the answer excited. After all, it doesn't make any difference, if you are being stared at by nine or by ten pairs of eyes, Marton Gyula thought. He was overwhelmed by a generosity wave, he promised that he would try to arrange everything. "I am very grateful," said the little Japanese.
Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor set off, therefore, to find the Registrar's Office. In other universities he studied or taught at, he didn't have much success in offices of this sort. On Yale, the registrar was a girlish, shy, Italian-American woman, Mrs. Giotto, who answered to every plea of Marton Gyula by saying: "Well, I guess I could try that." The numerous attempts, however, hardly ever resulted in anything substantial. She did not arrange for Marton Gyula to get a Yale identity card, which he would have needed a great deal, and also, she did not get him a parking licence either, and without that it was practically impossible to stop in the city centre of New Haven, which in ninety percent consisted of the central buildings of Yale.
All this (and many other problems) had to be solved by the Hungarian actor last year in September. Mrs. Giotto explained, that he couldn't receive a Yale ID, because 1. as a foreign scholarship recipient he was in a higher category than a student, 2. in a lower category than a professor. Marton Gyula was, therefore, floating in between these two castes, without any American ID whatsoever, which resulted in the fact that his cheques were not accepted at any store. CHEQUES ACCEPTED WITH TWO PHOTO IDs ONLY! -- he read on the signs. They looked at his passport suspiciously, then gave it back to him while shaking their head. This book-like thing was not the kind of photo ID they knew, in the States this was a coloured, laminated, credit card-like plastic sheet. "Don't you have a driving licence?" he was asked by cashiers, but the faded-pink, four-fold Hungarian driving licence did also not resemble the local card-IDs much. Marton Gyula got angry, took the reading card he received in the Yale School of Drama's library (having the proper size), scraped off the word 'library' with a razor blade, glued a coloured photo in the left corner, then made a holder for the carton out of a green, plastic file-holder and showed it as photo ID... they accepted it everywhere. Nobody assumed, that a scholarship student from the famous Yale University would go and fake an ID.
He got the parking licence sticker similarly, he went into the Parking Office, flirted a bit with the slightly overweight girl sitting there, then lied that someone stole the sticker from his car the previous night. "It happens," said the girl with sympathy, and handed him a sticker without asking a thing.
Whether the Japanese playwright also found his way similarly? Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor was wandering, and as he remembered the little man's bleary eyes, he was sure that Ensi would never lie for a parking ticket. Maybe not even for something a lot more important.
The Connecticut College, this very expensive, private university made every effort to resemble the English schools of great past and fame. It started with the campus, settled in a town called New London, with a river in the middle called: Thames... The present buildings of the university were built in this century, however, most of them resembled Middle-Age style, with metal padded windows, arched entrances, stones cut to look ancient. On the grass they usually (as now) played Lacrosse, a field hockey of some sorts. Strangely though, always girls, blond chicks with ponytails. In fact, everywhere, everybody in Connecticut College (let it be student or teacher) was blond with blue eyes, thought Marton Gyula, the (black haired and eyed) Hungarian actor. Maybe that was an entrance requirement too... Poor little Jap, with his dark button eyes is just as a fly in the Connecticut College's soup, as you are. We, flies should help each other...
Then in the Registrar's Office it turned out, that whether the Hungarian guest professor had a good heart or not, they took rules seriously here. "More than nine people cannot take the course by any chance, Professor Marton," said the overweight, blond woman, who introduced herself as the officer of foreign students. "If we made an exception on your request, all the other students would have every reason and right to complain, that they do not pay the tuition fee to sit in overfilled rooms, where they might not even hear the teacher's words."
"Ten students is really far from overfilled yet," noted Professor Marton, "particularly not compared to nine."
"We cannot make an exception," repeated the blond woman again (white like a rose!, hummed Marton Gyula noiselessly).
"I understand, but this person is a famous Japanese playwright, he won the golden wreath of the Yamaha Theatre Centre ten years ago."
"No," said the blond woman, "this person is a guest student of the Connecticut College, who is entitled to everything that the other guest students are, besides, he applied for free tuition and the committee in charge granted him half of his request."
"What do You mean half?"
"He is granted a half-tuition, being that he is a famous Japanese playwright, who won the golden wreath of the Yamaha Theatre Centre ten years ago."
Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor knew, tuition at Connecticut College cost about twenty thousand dollars. Where was the little Japanese going to get half of that? Ten thousand dollars was quite a bit of money, he earned about that much in half a year this way, teaching and overworking himself giving occasional lectures on four different universities. Well, of course if he was a regular professor, not a casual lecturer... occasional fly...
He assumed that he was not going to see the Far-East playwright ever again. He was wrong. When he stepped in on his first lesson, the little Japanese was waving to him from the edge of the first row, like a childhood friend, who returned after long years. It looks like he is not that incapable, somehow he managed to arrange it for himself. Oh-oh... now the little swot is going to ask me on characterisation and dialogue techniques... his stomach contracted with a jerk. "Good morning," he said meanwhile automatically, "my name is Gyula Marton, I am a theatre man, I have come from Hungary, from beyond the Iron Curtain, with respect to which I would like to note, that in European theatres there really is an iron curtain, which can be lowered in between the stage and the audience, if God forbid a fire starts on the stage. In earlier days (in the time of candle lighting) that happened quite frequently."
The flame of interest was triggered in the eyes of his nine students. Marton Gyula always started the first lesson with these words. The little Japanese took notes diligently. Question is, does he draw signs or write in English? The desks of the hundred-person lecture hall's rows slanted toward those sitting in them, so Professor Marton could not see the paper.
At introduction, Ensi took care to mention the golden wreath of the Yamaha Theatre Centre, which made all the other eight students hum a polite "wow". How old might he be, Marton Gyula was wondering. If he won the golden wreath ten years ago, then he must be at least thirty.
Before the break, Marton Gyula, as usual, offered to kindly answer all questions concerning the course or his person. They usually wanted to know if there was any censorship in Hungary? Could Hungarians travel abroad? Did the state subsidise theatres? After he told them his canned answers, he started outside, but then Ensi asked: "Would it be too impolite to ask, how old the Hungarian guest professor was?" Aha, so he has the same trouble with guessing white men's age as we do with theirs, Marton Gyula thought; "Thirty nine," he said. The little Japanese was nodding with the facial expression of considering that an exceptional achievement. Could he be older than me? Or younger?
Coffee, fast! He stepped out the back door of the building. After the air-conditioning inside, he was hit and overwhelmed by the suffocating New England heat. This heat here lasted sometimes until the end of September. His shirt became wet with sweat immediately. He took careful sips of the air, breathing it in slowly, as his lungs got used to the temperature. He walked across the lawn with somewhat uncertain steps, then took cover in the Dining Hall, where students and teachers could have meals for free. He showed his temporary teacher ID to the guard, the old man nodded agreeably. Marton Gyula poured himself a cup of diluted American coffee (he got used to it by now), and took a blueberry muffin from the self-service counter. He was munching the cookie, felt the deep blue blueberries crack in his mouth, and again (must be at least the thousandth time) remembered that he should really look it up in a dictionary what blueberry was at all in Hungarian? Blackthorn? Or dogberry?
"May I sit down?" the little Japanese came there, with a tray in his hands. Marton Gyula gestured to the empty chair. Ensi filled his tray to its limits from the choice of the Dining Hall, brought himself tuna sandwiches, some fruit salad, chocolate ice-cream and two full mugs (at least half a litre) of coffee. He is able to drink this slop? This will surely get the last of him, thought Marton Gyula. Though it was more likely, that the little Japanese equipped himself like this only, because it was for free. How piddling...
Ensi got into the THR310, the course of the Hungarian guest professor only due to the fact, that a Texan couple got divorced. He signed up on the waiting list, as second in line. The first was a young man from New London, who worked in a video rental store and wanted to become an actor. He misunderstood the syllabus, he thought distant theatres meant the Californian ones. Then, when he realised that it was about Europeans and Asians, he rather signed up to THR296 (Introduction to the history of the American film: from Chaplin to the Marx brothers, held by Donald Cumberland from the English department). This was how Ensi became first on the waiting list. Mr. and Mrs. Bunkenport decided to get divorced after long disputes, the wife stayed in the house in San Antonio (Texas), the husband moved to Oregon to start a new life. Mrs. Bunkenport informed her daughter, Jane in a five-page letter, ending it by writing: "Don't worry about me, I'm perfectly fine. Go on studying, do your job, you'll see that we shall survive this as well. Send you my hugs and kisses. Your loving mother." Jane immediately packed her things together, travelled to New York, from there she took the next plane and flied home to her mum... thus she was not able to hand in her application form to the THR310 before the last deadline. Ensi, on the other hand, received a phone call: "We have the pleasure to inform You..."
Word got around that the Hungarian guest professor was not just anybody. He played in several American movies. Two one-act plays of his were produced in New York and Washington, moreover, they said it was going to be shown at other places too. If his connections are so good, he might be able to help me have my plays produced in America too, Ensi thought. When he'll get to know me better and will like me more, I shall hand one over to him and let him read it. To give his opinion about it. To help me rewrite it. Then to place it.
Ensi already translated The Dreams of the Heroes to English with great efforts. It was a hopeless task. Ensi spoke a broken English, and wrote even more broken. He knew the meaning of the words and expressions more or less already (or he could look it up in a dictionary), but he could not feel their flavour and atmosphere. He needed help. He rented a room with a Korean cook on the shore. The cook's name was Chung, he always worked at night and slept during the day. Chung came to America in the quay of a freighter twelve years previously, with fake documents. Ensi assumed that one could learn English in twelve years sufficiently to correct his draught translation. Chung was willing to do the job for three hundred dollars. He scrawled over the typewritten manuscript with red and green markers beyond recognition. "What do the colours mean?" Ensi asked. "That I ran out of the red," said Chung and pocketed the three hundred dollars.
Ensi started to copy the play. He had a typewriter, but he rather used one of the computers in the library of the Connecticut College, just in case it would be necessary to correct some more later. He was bending in front of the computer every afternoon in August, trying to make out something of Chung's letters. When he was ready, he printed it on a laser printer, even though it cost him fifty cents per page. The copy turned out to be press quality, and when he was handed over the still hot bundle of papers, he embraced it, as mothers do to their children.
He thought the work was over. However, when he showed it to an American acquaintance of his, it turned out that Chung was not a man of words. How could I be so foolish! Just because somebody speaks English, that does not mean that he can write with a good style! I need a writer, possibly a playwright. Ensi thought that the most suitable for this purpose was the Hungarian theatre man. He is a foreigner, he would obviously understand my problem. It is of further advantage, that he is told to have translated his own plays, he has acquired experience in this matter. He is really not asked much to do for a student of his...
Ensi felt, that his lucky star was having a cup of coffee just in arm's reach. He did all he could to make a good impression. He held his little finger apart from the others, he ate as well-mannered as possible, did not champ, did not even slurp. "Professor, what kind of country is Hungary?" he asked. "Small," said Marton Gyula, the Hungarian actor, deep absorbed in his thoughts. Right at that moment he was homesick. In his imagination he was at home, in the Jozsef Attila Theatre in Budapest, where he had been an extra already in his college days.
On the performance of a Greek drama, when all extras were lying scattered around the stage already, killed and left dead, Turtle (his best friend then) whispered to him:
"You know what the biggest success is?" Marton did not answer, he hated it when they made him laugh during performances, Turtle was famous of his idiotic jokes. But, of course, Turtle would not let go:
"Marton!" he hissed, "this is serious!" You know what the biggest success is? Marton Gyula waited a little, then whispered back: "No."
"A beautiful death," said Turtle quietly. "Great joke!" Marton Gyula hummed. That was when he saw, that Turtle's whole body (he was a slightly hunchbacked, tall kid) was shaking from crying.
"What's up?" asked Marton Gyula in surprise, and he sat up. The audience responded to the sudden resurrection of one of the dead with a spreading laughter. Marton Gyula was fined five hundred forints. Turtle got the news in the break, that his father died: having enough of the long suffering, he took the bottle of the infusion tied to his arm, and set off home from the Rokus hospital in pyjamas and a hat, but barefoot... he was kept in the intensive-care unit with tuberculosis. Turtle was repeating the story for years. One could have more than one weddings, could give birth to more children, but could only die once, and if that one was a failure, everything failed retrospectively (that wasn't how he said it). Marton Gyula thought a lot about Turtle's philosophy. He found it very high-sounding, but could not agree with it. What do I care about a beautiful death! I want a beautiful life... I want to be successful while I am still alive. It's not such a big deal, when one dies, anyway... he is exactly the one who doesn't even know about it.
"Japan is also a tiny country," Ensi noted, "a few islands, and the problem is, that hardly anyone speaks our language aside from us."
"Are you telling this to me?" responded Marton Gyula, the accidental Hungarian, "are you kidding, we are altogether not more than ten million!"
"True, but at least you use the Latin alphabet, don't you?"
"Yeah, we write with the Latin alphabet, but there's been socialism for some forty years now, and our money is not convertible!"
"We had the A-bomb dropped on us and had to start everything from scratch!!"
"Sure, but why don't you mention the huge American financial supports?!"
"Those were not so huge at all!!"
"Oh, come on... you're complaining, when you were pumped up, you produce the cars, the computers, the VCRs for half of the world!!!" this, Marton Gyula was shouting already. The whole room was staring at them with interest. The Hungarian actor became embarrassed, a professor couldn't start screaming at his student.
"I'm sorry," he said defiantly, "I've been having a bad day today."
"Me too," said Ensi, eager to help, "must be because of the warmth."
"Possibly..." Marton Gyula decided that he would avoid this little Japanese from far. The only problem was, that the little Japanese decided the exact opposite, and he was more stubborn and determined. He grabbed every opportunity to have a discussion with the Hungarian guest professor. He was always bustling close to him in the two breaks of the lesson. He kept inviting him to a cup of coffee and to dinner. For a couple of weeks Marton Gyula rejected these suggestions. Ensi did not show any signs of their slowly developing private relationship in the classroom, he continued to behave as a willing, good student. He went to Professor Marton's consulting hours regularly. Lent him recently published books. Bought two tickets to a theatre in New York, and drove him there personally, in his old Volkswagen, insisting on paying for everything, from parking to dinner. Marton Gyula (after some disputes) agreed. He calmed his conscience with the thought, that the Japanese were, after all, 125 millions. Anyway, Japan was not far from becoming the richest country, wrote the Newsweek.
His initial dislike started to melt down, then transformed into a warm, friendly love. He spent more and more nights in the little Japanese's room, sometimes even stayed overnight, with the permission, and in the bed of Chung, he had to leave before seven, of course, by the time the cook got home. They read through the English translations of each other's plays. It is a case of the blind leading the blind, thought Ensi. I dunno, he dunno, we dunno, thought Marton Gyula, with a slight grammatical mistake.
"We're total idiot," said Ensi one night, after opening the second bottle of Californian red wine, "why is it soo important forus to become playwrights inenglish?"
"Because this is where the dough is, my dear friend," Marton Gyula answered, "you hit it high once here, and you can live happily ever after."
"But you were produced already, and you still...you're still not..." Ensi stopped hesitatingly. Well, that's it, Marton Gyula thought, still and still not. He didn't get rich from his two performances, neither from his movie roles... all right, say, those were not real movie roles. And the performances were real? Depends on the perspective. Maybe something is unreal precisely because it is happening to me. Maybe nothing related to me is real.
Ensi, the Japanese playwright told him on this night, that he had been to Hungary once, as a tour guide, he remembered the city well, the quite broad, whirling river bending below, the bridges of bewitching span, the eclectic, still in some way structured chaos of terraces fading in the distance, the Matth-yawsh church and the Fortification of the Fishermen, he took photos of both.
"I do not take pictures," responded Marton Gyula, the accidental Hungarian, "in my opinion there are only two ways of recording things: remembering and writing."
"That is, if the two can be separated at all," Ensi said, "being that the writer uses the memories.
They agreed perfectly again. The Japanese playwright took his Nikon camera, and asked the Hungarian actor and guest professor, to let himself be taken a picture of, in memory of this day. Marton Gyula stood up, bowed his head, with the same movement as he did in his college diploma performance, as a Spanish grand. The Nikon's shutters opened (with a 60th), and Professor Martin's image was copied on the film, that was an Eastman Kodak this time.
Ensi did not remember, that something similar had happened to them once already, and neither did Marton Gyula. The Nikon might have, but it was not asked.


Don McGuire,
the speech instructor,

spoke worse and worse. His tone deepened quickly, lost its color and rang more hoarse with each second. McGuire knew a number of tricks, that enabled him to articulate comprehensibly, notwithstanding the fact that whatever left his larynx was nothing more than a fading rasping.
He had a hunch of what was happening to him. No doubt he would need treatment again soon. First of all he would have to stop smoking. Though, on second thought, it might be too late already --too late, too bad. His wife demanded hysterically that he quit smoking immediately. "Your health is getting worse every day! A grown up man cannot be so irresponsible and forget about his family! His two beautiful kids! You're killing yourself on purpose! And in front of our eyes!!!"
Don McGuire listened patiently to these hysterical arguments, and merely said: "never mind". It was his favourite expression, but on these occasions it only added fuel to the fire. "What do you mean never mind? I very much mind! You are the father of my children! I cannot just watch idly while you're killing yourself! I beg you, do something!!!" "I do." "What?" "I live."
However, he couldn't calm his wife, his daughter, his son, his mother-in-law or his underlings with such statements. McGuire had been leading the Yale School of Drama, one of the best in the States, for nine years. He was the Associate Dean, effectively the Dean's right hand. He was not only teaching speech, but acting as well. For the same nine years the Dean's position was filled by Saul Gordon, one of the five most famous directors in the country, winner of a number of Tony awards. Gordon spent only days in New Haven, though he bought a large house right next to the Yale Gym, a gymnasium-complex reminding of a church. He needed someone to direct the school, to hire the instructors, arrange the entrance-, and selecting exams, organize the lectures. That is why he invited McGuire to Yale, they had worked together earlier on the prestigious Carnegy Mellon University in Chicago.
McGuire knew that he was to do the actual work, since Gordon, as sort of a star-director, would be travelling constantly from city to city, wherever his contracts called him. Gordon is African-American, that is in fashion these days in American theaters. He could probably only be more successful if he was Indian-American, or rather an Indian-American ( or African-American ) woman.
The first part of Summer Don McGuire usually spent in England, but this year he didn't feel like travelling, so he rather moved down to the island of Martha's Vineyard, to the house on the shore that his wife inherited. He had famous neighbours. Styron the author on one side, on the other, Buchanian, a nowadays popular stand up comedian, who made a living from appearing in night clubs and fruit-juice tv advertisements. They visited each other frequently to have a drink. Don McGuire used to be happy, if someone popped in at his place unexpectedly. Nowadays, it rather tired him. He found it difficult to speak. "You turned into a sullen old man," his wife said. "I always was one," he said, or rather hissed. "Never mind."
His post gathered on his desk in a pile. He didn't feel like opening the envelopes. He used to set aside a day every week to his letters, he selected them into three boxes. The first was the IMPORTANT, the second the IT CAN WAIT, and the third, GARBAGE. Now, he would have gladly tossed the whole pile into the third. On the other hand, one may contain a paycheck (McGuire wrote theater reviews to New York papers frequently, and edited books as well). In others, there could be bills waiting to be paid... "Ah, I'll take a look at it... tomorrow."
He was only interested in letters of extraordinary color, or form. Like that square shaped, poor-looking aerogram, that came from Hungary. It looked like it was sent from the last century. The paper was poor quality, the text was written on an old typewriter, that always hit the letter 'r' above the line. It arrived to the address of the school, that is where the secretary sent it to him from, together with the others.
"Dear Sir," it read, "I will to arrive in Your department on full scholarship from Hungary, to about ten months. I got Your name from the Budapest embassy. They told that You will be my adviser. I already would like to get Your advise as to my things in the Yale School of Drama. I think it's smart if You see my attached curriculum vitae as an introduction. I am a theater person here in Hungary, actor, but also director, and kind of a playwright too. There was a play of mine produced at the States too (in Washington DC), I went there for a few months then. I liked the USA very much. In those times I realised, that I would like to be in it for a longer period of time. I would gladly hand over my knowledge to the students out there. I would be pleased to give a course and/or lecture in acting or on the Hungarian theater..."
McGuire looked at the old-fashioned typing thoughtfully, it reminded him of his father's letters. Nowadays, one mostly receives computer typed letters. They don't use computers in Hungary? The name of the fellow, Gyula Marton, sounded familiar, but McGuire could not remember from where, or why. After a short hesitation, he crumpled the paper into a small ball, and threw it in the third box. Nice throw, three points.
Soon thereafter, the second letter arrived from Hungary, envelope and typing identical. "Dear Sir, I did not receive an answer to my letter. I suspect that You didn't even get it, maybe. I write again now. I would be about to arrive to Your department as a scholarship student, etc..." What a stubborn fellow, McGuire thought, and aimed at the GARBAGE box.
The third letter came only after a couple of days. McGuire opened it with interest. A graphomaniac, he thought with distaste. The Hungarian did not show any signs of frustration. "I take it, that my letters do not reach..." it read after the greeting. He used the same sentences again as earlier. That he would be so glad to teach, all the more so for financial reasons, being that his scholarship will be quite insufficient.
This one thinks that we are only waiting for him, McGuire hummed, as he made a ball out of the Hungarian theater person's third offer. "Are You talking to me?" his wife asked from the lower floor, in the kitchen. "No." "Too bad." the woman said. McGuire did not answer. "Our conversations are similar to that of actors in an absurd drama. Never mind."
Four more letters arrived until the beginning of the semester from the persistent Hungarian. To be frank, he would deserve to be given a chance, McGuire thought in a generous moment of his. Then he waved his hand angrily. Why him? Many others would deserve it too! We are talking about the Yale School of Drama, not a Sunday school.
The days became humid, and the sea winds did not bring any relief, either. Don McGuire kept hawking up phlegm, and was stretched out in the deck-chair on the upper balcony, staring at the gulls. When he lit a cigarette, he started coughing immediately. He was barking so loud, that he scared away the birds. Too bad one cannot cough in silence, he thought. When the attack was over, he closed his eyes. He was about to go on a long drive in the afternoon. Every part of his body objected to it. Even though he didn't visit just anyone. He had an appointment with Arthur Miller. He had been trying to talk him into giving lectures to the playwright students, for months. McGuire liked it, when stars from the world of theater stepped on each other's heels in the school. Let us make use of the near vicinity of New York. After all, it's only an hour's ride by train. He had always imagined, that it was inspirational for a would-be actor, or actress, if he or she could appear on the same stage with Robert de Niro, for instance.
The University's leadership did not agree with his views. They objected to this "expensive star-worship" of the Drama School many times. Much to Don's astonishment, part of the students did not appreciate his efforts either. "What does he bring here established actors for? Why is it good when they get the best roles?" a sophomore student asked on the Free Word Day, when the students could complain about all their troubles. "Do You feel, that You could play those roles the same level they do?" "Yes," a few answered immediately; "Or better!" the person who asked the question added. The majority was nodding in agreement. Don was so surprised, that he forgot to close his mouth. In his time, he got his diploma in acting on the UCLA, and in those days, he would have given away a year of his life, to get a chance to play with Marlon Brando. Of course, the situation was different today. He would not give away a year of his life for anything.
He sat in to the car at twelve, took the ferry to the land, and set out on the highway. His back grew stiff by the time he took the curve to Arthur Miller's house, on the ghostly path in the woods. The writer's German shepherd ran to McGuire's black Oldsmobile with loud barking. It leaned against the door, standing on its feet. "Go away, you beast!" McGuire said in a hoarse voice. This was the first time he spoke, since five o'clock, it was quite unpleasant. The dog's nails creaked on the shiny metal surface. It stopped barking, but didn't move. "Get out of here, you...you...," he couldn't remember its name, "move, 'cause I can't get out!"
By then, the living classic showed up. His youthful look surprised Don. The writer drove away the beast with a flick of the wrist. Don remembered, that not too long ago Arthur Miller was acclaimed to be the smartest man in the States; his that time wife, Marilyn Monroe, was given the title: the most beautiful woman in America. They shook hands. "How are You?" the living classic asked, but he didn't mean it. "Fine," said McGuire, but he didn't mean it, "And how are You?" he asked, but he didn't mean it. "Great," said the living classic, but he didn't mean it.
They sat down outside, on Arthur Miller's famous porch, where most of America's leading theater personalities have been to, already. The living classic's first question was, what Don wanted to drink, the second: "I heard, there was a certain Mr. Martin coming to your institution." "Well..." Don wasn't sure, whether to admit, that he didn't have the slightest idea, who he was talking about. "Anyway, it is good that you too open slowly to the Eastern block," said the living classic, "nobody cared a bit about them for a long time... I have been to Budapest more than once, a pretty city, with a wide river in the middle, nice people there."
Don McGuire did not understand, why the living classic was telling him all this. Then the name of the city reminded him of the persistent Hungarian. "Tell me... you know this...Mr. Martin?" "No," the living classic answered, but I received a few letters from him recently... he wrote, he played in several plays of mine in Budapest, he had always wanted to meet me in person."
I wonder how many more people he wrote to, in order to teach in the Yale School of Drama? Don McGuire hated people, who were too much of a go-getter. He decided, that if it was upon him, Mr. Martin would never teach anything in the Yale School of Drama, not even for the sake of the President of the United States, or the Secretary of the UN.
He soon forgot about the Hungarian. Then, in the beginning of September, Elaine, his secretary told him, that a Mr. Martin wanted to see him urgently, that day if possible. "Hungarian?" he asked, and already felt the taste of fury in his mouth. "Well... he is definitely a foreigner... supposedly on scholarship." "Well, tell him that I am not available for any urgent matters. He should come on Wednesday, nine in the morning."
As Elaine closed the door of the tiny hole he called his office, Don stared out through the forever closed window, that was cut in the wall. Midday traffic was high in the spacious entrance hall, there were at least twenty students waiting at the three desks with application forms, the administrators worked hastily. He noticed the Hungarian immediately. He was the only one without papers in his hands. He was a small, fragile bloke, his hair parted meticulously, wearing wire-framed glasses. Little prick, Don McGuire thought, but Elaine did not go up to that little prick, rather to a bulky, curly haired fellow with a Latin look, standing in the middle of the room in a slight straddling position, carrying a huge shoulder pack and having an aggressive jaw. So that's him... big prick, thought Don McGuire. Even in the overall noise, he could hear Elaine tell him the message on that beautiful contralto voice of hers. "Is there no way to make it a little earlier?" asked Mr. Martin on a bit nasal voice, according to McGuire. (Maybe he caught a cold. Those arriving from less developed countries frequently got ill that way, they were not used to air conditioning.) "Unfortunately not," said Elaine, "the Associate Dean is very busy, the registrations are in process now, you can see what's going on!"
Then, Tuesday night the check up fight broke out: due to an administrative mistake two junior students were to play in four different productions in the same four weeks, this being a physical impossibility. Before, something like this could not have happened. Don handled the arrangement himself, usually. This year, he gave the task to the head of the acting department. The results were apparent. He called up an emergency meeting with all those concerned participating: the head of the department, the students, and the directors. All these together only fit into his office, with the two students sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. They were in the middle of an argument, concerning the solution of the problem, when Elaine said, that the Hungarian arrived. "Never mind, tell him something interfered, give him another appointment."
The next thing they heard, was a loud exchange of arguments from the entrance hall. They all peeked out the little window. "I know, why you do to me this," Mr. Martin screamed outside, "just because I come from the iron curtain and we don't count!"
"Who is this idiot?" asked the head of the acting department, an overweight and superannuated Broadway-operetta hero, with a dark, pear-shaped blotch on his forehead. "A Hungarian actor, he was sent to us on scholarship." "And what's his problem?" "You heard him." "I knew a Hungarian, his name was Martin. He was a playwright agent," said the superannuated hero, "His widow is still alive, maybe this bloke is a relative?" Don McGuire shrugged his shoulders, thought over what trouble could originate from the Martin agency getting angry at the Yale School of Drama, then ended it, lacking patience. "Who cares? Let's continue!"
"You are wrong, Mr. Martin," Elaine said with the patience of a teacher for handicapped children, "We do not care, where everyone comes from. Don McGuire really does have a very urgent discussion, and he would like you to come at a later appointment." "But that's him in there, isn't it?!" the Hungarian actor pointed at the window. "Yes, Mr. Martin, that is Don McGuire in there, however he is unavailable, momentarily he would not be available even if you were American or a Martian Alien!" "My name is Marton," the Hungarian actor said in a hostile manner, "Gyu-la Mar-ton!" "Dju-la Mar-toun," repeated Elaine with unabashed calmness, "I am terribly sorry, Mr. Mar-toun, I won't forget it again."
Gyula Marton was already paying attention to the window, instead of her. His gaze met that of the man, whom he guessed to be McGuire, he nodded his head, the other nodded back, with a slightly hesitant, or rather idiotic smile on his face. Big prick, thought Gyula Marton, and noted, that this is precisely how he imagined him back in Hungary, waiting in vain for the answers to his letters to come. Yes, I expected an old, fat bureaucrat like this, the pear-shaped blotch is the only surprise.
Gyula Marton decided, that he would make Don McGuire's life hell. He found out what courses he taught, and chose the profession-course of the freshmen. He would presumably have ample opportunity to make a fool of him in front of his students. According to Gyula Marton's experiences, it was not too hard to be more educated and cultured than the Americans. This Don McGuire didn't look like a tough case anyway, he could get on his nerves with his cunning mocking, could destroy his lessons by provoking meaningless arguments, could make him crazy with tricky questions. He was already imagining the bugger's face when he saw him in the classroom. He arrived ten minutes early, but he couldn't get into the building. Every door is always closed around here for security reasons, every student and professor is walking around with oversized key chains. He waited, until a girl with pimples on her face let him in. They went down to the basement, to a battered room. There were some two dozen chairs, with fold-down desks in three rows in one end of the room. Along the walls there were stage settings, and folding screens. The girl dropped her bag, and ran out the corridor. He heard the flushing of water. Pee-pee, Gyula Marton thought. He gazed around. Green pieces of scotch tape marked the corners of the particular scenery, and scene setting furniture on the old and scratched, grey linoleum floor. All this was very familiar from college. Gyula Marton felt as if he suddenly became eighteen years younger.
A weak-chested, small man stepped in the door, with his Adam's apple jumping up and down. His semi-glass reading glasses pushed to the tip of his nose, he stared over his lenses with a pair of grey eyes.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
"My name is Gyula Marton, I'm a Hungarian actor on scholarship here."
"Nice to meet you," said the man, his voice sounded like emery paper, "I'm Don McGuire."
"Really?" Gyula Marton swallowed.
"Really," said the little bloke, "Take a seat... you look disturbed."
"To tell you the truth... I imagined you differently."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"Did you expect something better or worse?"
Well... fatter, thought Gyula Marton, but he didn't say it out loud.
The students started coming in. McGuire left Gyula Marton, kneeled on the linoleum, tore off the stripes of tape one by one, then threw them in the garbage. There was a cold-water machine, with a glass container, standing next to the entrance. McGuire took a few sips, and put the paper cup in the garbage can as well. A thorough person, thought Gyula Marton.
The lesson started. In the course of thirty minutes McGuire made two girls cry, and mercilessly humiliated a number of students. The first pair, a well built boy and a red haired girl, didn't memorise their roles. Though they read it in the course description, that it would be their turn, right on the first lesson, they didn't think McGuire would demand instant text fluency. "How are you going to act with that copy in your hands?" McGuire screamed, which in his voice sounded more like hissing. The girl with the red hair started crying. "Sorry," started the boy, "We didn't know that already on the first lesson..." "You didn't know?" McGuire interrupted, "Well, what did you think, what the fuck we were going to do here? Didn't you register in order to act? Where do you think you are, in a day school? Or a kindergarten?"
The girl in the second pair --they played the provoking scene from the Master Builder Solness -- was so nervous, that her voice was trembling, and she was bathed in sweat. She kept fixing her mini-skirt, constantly, unable to stop. McGuire was making notes into a spiral-cord exercise book. After the last word was said, McGuire pushed his glasses on his forehead, and asked: "Why do you think you sweat so hard?" The girl in the mini-skirt was thoroughly ashamed, and wished she was never born, she bit her lip. "I'm not asking because of the smell," McGuire added. This gave the final stroke. The girl was crying hysterically, repeating: "Nobody ever ta-halked to me-he like this... I feel so-ho asha-hamed..." "Don't fumble with your skirt!" Don McGuire roared at her, "If it bothers you that it's so short, what do you wear it for?!"
Impolite moron, thought Gyula Marton, his hand forming a fist, his heart filling with gallant feelings. He suspected, that McGuire wanted to gain respect, this way he could count on the students' discipline in the future, too. Still, it is... repelling. He should say something. Tell him that this is no way to talk to a person. What right does he have, to use such vulgar terms in the classroom? He should report him...or wait for him outside and slap him in the face!
Meanwhile, McGuire was already drawing the conclusion, that the girl in the mini-skirt kept the tension within herself, instead of letting it out, that's why she was sweating. "Acting is precisely the letting go of all the high voltage pulsing within us," he was explaining hastily, the word-endings fading into hoarse whisper, "We must set off this inner fire in the air, that is: hand it to the partner, who, in turn can add his or her own flame. This is how the act gets heated up step by step, this is what they call theater at better places!"
Gyula Marton was forced to admit, that McGuire's comparisons were accurate. He glanced back on his past career, and noted sadly, that he always wanted such a common fire on the stage, but had little opportunity to experience it. He was already on his way home, walking on Elm Street, when he realised, that he forgot about making a fool of McGuire. Never mind, next time.
"What can I do for you?" McGuire started helpfully, when Gyula Marton got into his office at last (Elaine changed the time twice through the phone). By then, Gyula Marton had sat through numerous lessons of McGuire, and making a fool out of him still remained a mere abstract possibility, because... Gyula Marton did not know himself, why. Things turned out that way, that the opportunity did not come, or went unused. Am I not paying attention enough... or could it be, that...?
McGuire was waiting for the answer impatiently, he started to beat on the top of the desk with his fingers. Gyula Marton was sure, he could ask anything, this bugger would never fulfil it. He answered, therefore, that McGuire cannot do anything for him, he merely came to introduce himself. McGuire nodded agreeably.
"What are your plans?"
"I would like to study the Drama School, how acting is taught here, the theater life," Gyula Marton explained, "I would gladly give a few lectures about the Hungarian-, or Eastern-European theater. My small-budget scholarship would need a little extra help. I would also be willing to give a course, but I take it, that you were not waiting for me all this time, places are probably filled with the Drama School's own teachers."
"Yes," Don McGuire said to this.
"I would also like to act," continued Gyula Marton, "any role, where the accent, and the lack of language proficiency does not create an obstacle. Maybe a little directing, too, if it was possible. Then there are those two one-act plays of mine, they were produced in Hungary with great success (in this sentence the word "great" was a lie, the word " success" a strong exaggeration at best). I am presently translating the text into English, maybe there is a possibility to produce it somewhere."
"So I can help you after all," said McGuire, "I organize the program list of the Yale school of Drama's seven theater halls, so when you're ready with the translation, you might give it to me. I'll try to take a look at it."
"Fine," said Gyula Marton, and noted silently, that there was no way to say this more conditionally. Don McGuire let him know quite clearly, that his time was over. They both stood up, and being, that the Associate Dean did not offer his hand, Gyula Marton made a theatrical bow of his head, then backed out the door. No point in coming here, that's for sure, he thought.
He sat down in the Atticus, to console himself. One could eat sandwiches and cakes in this cafe-and-book-store-in-one, while reading the new books, without having to buy them. He ordered himself a long French bread sandwich, and a cup of coffee, which they refilled as many times as one wanted. He felt so utterly humiliated, like McGuire's pupils after a rude rebuke of his. Frankly, if I was an American Drama School, and a Hungarian actor dropped in, I would surely ask him to speak about how theater is like there, how does the college work, what plays do Hungarians write. Ain't there nothing, that would interest these?!
He felt lost. He worked long and hard, till the dream came true: he travelled to the States. Here he is, on the Yale School of Drama, and it isn't good either. He hasn't been this unhappy for a long time, in this abstract status of a foreign scholarship student, somewhat above the average student, but floating way bellow teachers. Nobody cares about him, they don't give a damn, whether he is alive, or dead, what he does with himself. with his time, his abilities, all in all: with his life. Home sickness filled him with an overwhelming force, he wanted to be home, in the company of his friends, his colleagues, or even his ex-wives, to sit in a smoke filled little cafe, to listen, or tell jokes about the all too familiar, typical, silly Hungarian characters of Hungarian jokes, let it be Aristid, the little rabbit, or the big green stone eater. Nobody here has any feelings towards him yet, even McGuire doesn't hate him, he simply doesn't notice him, he just doesn't make a difference, like FÜLES in Winnie the Pue.
"Want some more coffee?" The small waitress didn't wait for an answer, simply filled Gyula Marton's mug. "Thanks," murmured the miserable Hungarian actor. This is not how he imagined the States. Back at home, in different poor theater snack bars, in dense cigarette smoke, after having tasteless hot dogs and grossly watered whiskies, one of the colleagues always brought up, that had we been born in America! It looks, like one, one like me, is never on the right place.
For them, this continent meant the stage settings of American movies, and the gestures of American actors. The way Marlon Brando brushes back his hair. The way Dustin Hoffman throws an ice cube in his whisky. And the way Robert de Niro transfers his fork from his left hand to his right...
The senator's wife was the one, who explained (a lot later) to Gyula Marton, that according to the traditional code of behavior, one has to put the knife on the table after cutting a piece from the meat, take the fork in his right hand, and eat that way. Then, when he needs the knife again, the fork goes back to the left hand, etc. Gyula Marton made up a well sounding explanation, according to which the origin of putting down the knife is obviously the Wild West. Better to hold the sharp weapon for as short as possible...That is how he told it to everyone, even Americans. Nobody ever doubted the historic validity of the story.
Gyula Marton ate with both hands, without a fork and a knife. In the Atticus one was given a three-pointed fork, but no knife. It reminded him of farmers' pitchforks. He imagined, what Don McGuire would say, if he came to his next lesson in the costume of a Hungarian farmer, creating the atmosphere of tshikoush, gulash, fokosh (which are articles better known around the world as being the famous and traditional Hungarian cowboy, a farmers' rich soup and their customary equipment/weapon respectively), dressed in "lajbi", the traditional textile jacket, or vest, wearing a hat with the brim rolled up, and black boots, with a pitchfork in his hand, in the style of Rozsa Sandor, the notorious criminal of old countryside stories. "And don't you swear to me, don't torture the students, don't do wicked things, or I'll teach you what good manners are!" if by chance McGuire says a wrong, word he stabs him in the belly with the pitchfork immediately. The tips of the fork would jolt in that bony body, Gyula Marton would push it in, until they came out on his back, there you have it! The triple bloodstream would flow on the grey linoleum floor.
Gyula Marton wanted to know more about Don McGuire. Was he an actor once, when he still had a normal voice? What roles did he play in? In what corner of the States did he come to this world? How did he get to Yale? He wanted to find out about all these. He initiated a conversation with freshmen students, asked questions from the librarian girl, the registrar, and others, read the Yale Repertory Theatre's information booklet, which contained the c.v. and picture of every leader in the Drama School. In any case, what he found out was quite inappropriate, only dry data. Don McGuire was never a successful actor himself, but many of his pupils reached world fame, particularly while he was a speech instructor in New York. His vocal cords were operated on several times. His wife works at a biological research institute, as an administrator. Their son studies architecture at Stanford University in California, their daughter is in high school. The McGuire family lives in a nearby garden-suburb, that is where Don comes in from, in his black Oldsmobile every morning. His graduated students worship him as a deity, and come back frequently to sit in on his lessons, this Gyula Marton had a chance to experience on occasion. He published a book, with the title: Accents and Dialects on the Stage. Gyula Marton attempted to work his way through the book, but was taken aback by the frequently reoccurring technical terms. He turned a few pages, saw all kinds of gross diagrams and graphs, ugh!...
McGuire gave the profession course to the freshmen three times a week, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, from twelve to two. At the beginning of October Gyula Marton suddenly calculated, that he had been sitting on them eleven times, making a fool out of him: zero. He had to admit: McGuire knew his craft. Gyula Marton often guessed what it was, that McGuire wanted to guide the kids to, but even he was many times surprised by the teacher's understanding of a particular piece. Finally, he found himself starting to take notes into a little notebook. He wrote down McGuire's most frequently mentioned slogan on the inner side of the cover: Acting is reacting! He had never before heard a more accurate and all-encompassing sentence about his own profession, he wished he could translate it to Hungarian, but the only appropriate words he found sounded awkward. He found McGuire's second axiom essential as well: "Acting is not a way of behavior, rather more a human relationship: between you and your partner."
There was no human relationship between McGuire and his pupils, girls still cried pretty often, sometimes a boy too, and they all bit their lips until they drew blood. McGuire's most irritating habit was, that he interrupted after the first few words. "I feel, that there is no concentration, try it one more time!" Occasionally, a trio had to start the beginning of the second act from Hedda Gabler the fifth time, teeth grinding and finger crumbling.
It seemed to Gyula Marton, that Don McGuire was literally in love with the characters of Checkoff (Ibsen, Strindberg) dramas, he listened to their acts, taking notes with his eyes half closed, with an expression on his face, like that of an opera lover listening to his favourite aria. Gyula Marton found the familiar Checkoff lines rather strange in English. He, of course, always heard it in Hungarian, never in Russian, the way they were written down. It must be strange the same way for the Russians in Hungarian, in English, or any other language. In Hungarian, Checkoff usually sounds old fashioned, out of style, in English it has a more common, everyday tone. Even the names changed. Chechov, the way he is pronounced in Hungarian, for example, became "Checkoff" in English. Gyula Marton found it ironic of fate, that the sounding of the name was identical to the expression: "check off", as in checking off something on a list. Csehov never checked off anything.
Astrov, a thin haired fellow with bags under his eyes, showed his sketches and graphs proving the destruction of the area to the woman he desired. Jelena was an irregularly moving, wide cheek-boned, Californian girl, with perfect teeth. She did not wear a bra. It caused Gyula Marton physical pain to look somewhere else. Jelena did everything, to draw the doctor's attention from the woods and the cattle to herself.
Gyula Marton saw the famous production of this Uncle Vanya in the Merry Theater (one of his favourite theaters in Hungary), with famous actors, who gave a splendorous play. Jelena radiated desire, Astrov was elegant, but getting to the point.
"All right," Don McGuire said. That was the highest level of praise, sounding from his mouth, the two actors hugged each other happily. "But why don't you pay attention to his sketches?" Jelena felt, that the happiness was too early. "Well, but I did..." "You didn't give a damn about his papers!" McGuire took the marker-made prop drawings of Astrov from the setting table, and studied it immersed. His glasses slipped lower on his nose, the whole class was watching, whether it would fall down. He showed the drawings to Jelena.
"Do you see the woods?"
"Yes."
"And the ponds?"
"Well... sure."
"And the cattle stock too?"
"Yes."
"The cows and the pigs separately?"
"Eeh...kind of!" Jelena smiled nervously.
"Then show me the cows!"
Jelena leaned closer, picked by chance one of the black markings. Then another. "And these are the pigs," she murmured.
McGuire nodded, "You see, they are good drawings, aren't they?" Part of the students approved, others were giggling. "Fine little sketches, the only problem is, they're fucking boring! That's why you didn't pay attention!"
Jelena and Astrov were nodding quickly, they wanted to get away already. McGuire, however, didn't make it so easy for them.
"Why do you say at the end, that 'Oh, this is terrible!'?"
Jelena started cautiously, "We are ... caught with Astrov."
"And just why is that so terrible?"
"Because they find out, that the two of us... and there is Sonia, who is in love with the doctor."
"Aren't you in love with him too?"
"I... I think I am, too... a little...," Jelena blushed up to her ears. McGuire pretended, that he didn't notice how much he embarrassed her, he continued.
"What is happening between the two of you in reality?" Jelena explained the contents of the scene stuttering.
"Astrov brings his drawings and reports, which are very interesting, on the other hand, she, Jelena would like to find out what his feelings are towards Sonia."
"All right, all right," McGuire interrupted hoarsely, losing his patience, but did you fuck?" Jelena was abashed.
"We? The two of us? Here? Of course, we didn't fuck?"
"You fucked," Don McGuire stated unquestionably. He started explaining, that in plays, especially in older ones, sex was substituted by commonly agreed marks. The same way classic novels use such methods. The chapter-ending with the three periods, after the first kisses meant, that the characters had a good fuck afterwards, but due to general morals and censorship, we refrain from putting that into writing. Checkoff's plays are full of unexpressed bedroom scenes, the contemporary audience felt precisely, where these were. "That is why it's so important to decide, whether there was sex in a particular case, or not, and if the thought never entered your mind, then you don't know shit about the scene!" McGuire's voice was sounding more and more hoarse.
Afterwards, Nina, the Seagull returned to the place of her childhood, visiting Konstantin, the that time already famous writer, who believes for a moment, that the girl came here because of him, but of course he's wrong. Nina popped in because of Trigorin, who is a guest at the place. Nina, a thin blonde in tight sports-shorts, and a chequered, male shirt, seemed very nervous, stuttered more than once in the middle of sentences. Konstantin prompted her helpfully. Nina repeatedly stated, that she was the Gull, then ran away upset, Konstantin tore his manuscript to pieces embittered, and glanced at McGuire questioningly.
McGuire praised Nina, but he was not satisfied with Konstantin's acting. He wanted to hear from him, why Checkoff makes the young writer tear up his manuscripts? Konstantin reasoned with his own embittered state of mind, the terrible disappointment, that Nina still loves Trigorin. Gyula Marton knew immediately, what McGuire wanted to get down to: "When a writer tears up his manuscripts, he is in fact committing suicide. Spiritual suicide." He didn't make all this up, merely remembered. He played in the Gull in a country theater in Hungary (unfortunately only in the role of Medvegyenko), the director there instructed with these words Konstantin, an ill-talented bugger, who isn't even in the acting business anymore. The Konstantin here couldn't imagine on his life, that McGuire wanted to hear the word suicide. By now, every person in the room, other than him knew. Nina put her hands to her throat with a gentle movement, trying to give an idea to her partner, but the boy didn't notice. A fellow put his index finger to his forehead, imitating a pistol. This, Konstantin totally misunderstood, he thought, that his classmate signalled to him, that he was an asshole.
However, Gyula Marton was not interested in the Konstantin's suffering, he caught the opportunity at its best: the time has come!, he could hardly wait for them to say the word suicide, he raised his hand immediately, first time since he started the profession course. McGuire waved his hand automatically. "Yes?"
"Mr McGuire," Gyula Marton started (he didn't address him by his first name, like the others, on purpose), "as we know, Konstantin will actually commit suicide at the end of the play. If destroying the manuscript is also suicide, then Checkoff ended Konstantin's life by his own hand twice. Why?" he leaned back, with the taste of victory in his mouth.
McGuire answered without hesitation. "That's because most people sitting in the audience are assholes! Any more questions? If not, then let's have a break!" he was first to step out the door.
Maybe he had to take a piss, thought Gyula Marton sourly. Unfortunately, the answer to his question seemed perfect. Probably only those with a fine ear are able to decipher Checkoff's fine-tuned messages, to make sure, he made his point more obvious for the others.
Gyula Marton was a fair person, with time he accepted, that his hate towards the Associate Dean slowly turned into respect. Even an antipathetic person can be a good teacher...
Thanksgiving was getting closer. Gyula Marton found it out from the fact, that suddenly, the ice started to break up around him: he started to receive invitations. "Where are you spending Thanksgiving Eve?" several actor-students (Jelena among them) asked, "If you don't have a place yet, come to our house!" Gyula Marton chose Jelena, of course. He dreamed a lot in the loneliness of his poor little room about that night, about that moment, to be more accurate, when Jelena's parents, brothers and sisters went to sleep already, and the two of them remained alone on the couch, in front of the marble fire place, the flames coloring their faces red.
"Thanksgiving is like Christmas," Jelena explained, "without presents... a big feast... stuffed turkey with huckleberry sauce."
"Always turkey?"
"Yes, in remembrance of the early settlers, who ate wild turkey... don't you like it?"
"Sure I do!" lied Gyula Marton. The taste of turkey meat, reminding of wet cotton spread in his mouth. Never mind...
Among the small-framed posters of the productions running and expected that week in the Drama School, Gyula Marton found one, which caught his attention, advertising a piece from Beckett, which was originally written as a radio play. Knapp's Last Tape, directed by Bill Kramer, presented by Don McGuire. Gyula Marton thought, that he was not seeing right. That Don McGuire? How on earth can he play anything, with his non-existing voice?! That's insane!!! The poster got him so excited, that he asked for Bill Kramer's phone number in the registrar's office. Kramer was a junior director-student, Gyula Marton met him a few times before. He called him that night.
"Listen, is this the McGuire, who..."
"Sure, pal," said Bill Kramer, "there's only one Don McGuire."
"But he can hardly talk!"
"That's exactly it!"
"I don't get it."
"Come, you'll get it there."
Gyula Marton knew Beckett's radio play, a student from his parallel actor-class played it as a one-act monodrama in college, with the title: The last roll. It was about an old man, named Knapp, who records all kinds of messages on tape, and then dies, if Gyula Marton remembered correctly.
There was a place-list hung up in the passage room, called the Green Hall, about all productions in the Yale School of Drama. Whoever wanted to see them, simply had to write his name down. One had to hurry, because the productions were only played a few times, the list was filled quite quickly. Gyula Marton signed his name, as well as Jelena's.
"Do you want to come to the Knapp?" he asked the girl on the lesson ( he always sat next to the girl already, these days).
"Sure, everybody wants to see Don."
"Good, 'cause I signed you up."
"Thanks."
There was such a mass of people waiting on the street, as if Robert Redford was playing in the theater hall of the Annex building. There were four, arm-sized candles burning on the pavement, showing the way inside. In the darkness of the early Winter night, the flicking flames were radiating a mystical solemnity. Everyone was thoroughly checked at the inner gate according to the names on the list, anybody not on the list was mercilessly sent away. This was certainly new. By the time Gyula Marton and Jelena got in in the overall elbowing, the Yale's president, and several high position leaders were already sitting in the first rows, all up in suits, covered in clouds of aftershave and wearing silver-frame glasses. On most of the chairs there were little pieces of paper, marking, that it was occupied, they could hardly find two unoccupied chairs next to one another.
It was already ten past seven, and the play has not started yet. The room was damp of people's breaths, Gyula Marton was sweating, he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt. He was hoping, that Jelena wouldn't notice. According to McGuire, an actor cannot sweat, if he acts well. Can the audience sweat? Maybe only if he doesn't watch well?!
There was a guy standing in a long trench coat in the space between the rows, next to Gyula Marton, looking around nervously. There were no empty seats in the room, a group of students sat on the floor. This bloke should also put his ass down somewhere, he can see, that there is no place free, thought Gyula Marton, how long does he want to hang around there like someone, who was lost in the wilderness? More and more people were staring at the battered little bloke, and Gyula Marton realised finally: it was Don McGuire, in the role of Knapp, the lonely old man. He didn't wear a mask, or any make up, he still looked twenty years older, than on the lessons, his students were giggling, and whispering to one another. The room became silent. Knapp was still staring, shook his head dissatisfied, then went up to the stage with slow steps. He opened his mouth, but didn't say a word. He went around his little, poor, dirty hole, with merely an old couch, a hardly stable table, two chairs and an old fashioned tape recorder in it. The fog of the stage lights (gegenlicht) created a freezing cold in the room, Knapp rubbed his hands freezing, Gyula Marton felt, that he, too, became cold, the sweat congealed on his body.
Knapp still hasn't said a word, he started to search for something in the table drawer, pulled out rolls of tape. He looked down the audience, like someone, who would want to say something, then waved his hand, put on one of the rolls, started the machine. Nothing happened. Knapp was examining the tape recorder, then realised what the problem could be, and plugged it in. A trace of laughter ran through the audience. Knapp was shaking his head objectingly, changed the roll. Soon, a Beatles song started playing from the old tape recorder's cotton covered loudspeakers. Yesterday, all my trouble seemed so far away... The audience was dying from laughter. Knapp sighed, he didn't like this one either, changed the roll again. His whisper came with sharp clarity, and strongly turned-up from the speakers: "I cannot speak..." he showed at the machine sadly.
An overall applause broke out. Gyula Marton finally realised the point: so he recorded the whole monologue, holding a microphone close to his mouth. The play was about the recordings of an old man anyway... The tape recorder already started the original text, and McGuire started the action. He made his remarks on his own sentences, the situation, and most of all on himself, with different gestures. Gyula Marton felt, that he was witnessing a miracle, yes, this is theater, this is worth any sacrifice. He found himself clutching tightly something with his fingers, and something holding his hand in return. Jelena's both hands were tightly around his. This is also thanks to Don McGuire...
When the last roll slid out of the tape recorder. Knapp didn't stop it. The roll's end was circling like a broken fan, beating and making noises on the plastic edge. Gyula Marton knew, the show was over. Knapp, however, didn't take a bow, merely sat there, staring at his audience, his students, his colleagues, his superiors, glancing at the faces. After long seconds, Gyula Marton was the first to start clapping. The paralysed-looking audience took it up immediately. They celebrated the hero of the night for a long time. Knapp did not stand up. He let those congratulating surround him, but he didn't answer anyone, simply accepted the hands extended to him. By the time Marton Gyula and Jelena elbowed their way there, he disappeared already, went into his dressing room.
"Fantastic!" Gyula Marton was enthusiastic. They sat in the Gipsy Club for a drink, words were flowing from the Hungarian actor, he wanted to analyse Knapp's every movement. Jelena was listening to him with a slightly tired smile. "I have to apologise," she said later, "but I have to wake up early tomorrow, I have a rehearsal!" The girl worked in a sophomore director's production, as a light-effects person. It was one of the basic principles of the Yale School of Drama, that everyone had to do everything, the actor directs, the playwright acts, the reviewer is on the look-out, the stage-designer dances... I'm the only one, who's not allowed to do anything, Gyula Marton thought.
"I'll walk you home!" he offered Jelena, but the girl did not take it on.
"Stay, you now that I live here at the corner!" she slipped out into the starlit night.
Gyula Marton leaned against the counter in the dense semi-darkness and cigarette smoke, ordered a cognac for himself. "Whatever you do, my friend," he said to the black kid sitting next to him, "there are some, who can work magic, and there are those, that cannot." "Never mind," said the black kid. He didn't understand a damn word, since Gyula Marton, the Hungarian actor, was speaking in his mother tongue. "But, of course, this is unfair," he continued, "very-very unjust." "Never mind," said the young man friendly. "How is it possible, that somebody goes up the stage, his voice couldn't even match the sound of a creaking door, he doesn't have any carriage, his frame is uncategorisable, and you can still not take your eyes off him?" "Never mind," said again the young man, and pushed him further away from him, because he was afraid, that he would throw up on him in the end, which happened frequently in the Gipsy Club.
He didn't know how he got home. His place was no better than Knapp's. He went to sleep with his clothes on. He woke up the next day at eleven fifteen, chewed and spit out.
He awaited McGuire's next lesson impatiently. He was sure, that there would be some talk about the production the day before, and he decided, that this time he would certainly raise his hand, and say his opinion. He got to the basement room a few minutes after twelve. McGuire was not yet there, a familiar looking man was standing in front of the students, he was talking about something. Gyula Marton dropped on the first empty chair, the ones next to Jelena were already taken. He tried to meet the girl's gaze, but Jelena was paying attention to the man. The faces were radiating a strange atmosphere, a surprising seriousness. "Point is, that he's over it now," the man said, "presently the only question is, how long it will take."
"What is he talking about," Gyula Marton asked, whispering to his neighbour, Doctor Astrov.
"Don," the doctor said.
"What???"
"Don McGuire!"
"What about him?"
"Hospital."
"Hospital?"
"Yes, hospital," the fellow repeated irritably, "don't you speak English???"
Gyula Marton turned his back to him insulted. What a joke, didn't he notice? His aerials were already all up, though, and worried: Don in hospital? Why? Since when?? How is that possible???
"The operation went as well, as could be expected," the man explained, "he already regained consciousness, and sends his greetings to everyone. I will be teaching the course until his return. I used to be one of his students myself at Carnegie-Mellon University. As I said, my name is Ted Willow, you probably saw me in off-Broadway productions, but I am not unfamiliar to film lovers either...
"When will Don be able to leave the hospital?" asked a girl.
"It is hard to say," answered Ted Willow, "not for a few months, certainly."
"A few months?" some repeated, unbelievingly.
"Yes, this is a serious operation. They removed his whole larynx..." Ted Willow made a circle with his long index finger around the particular area on his neck. "The main aim at these operations is, that the tumour may not attack other organs. They remove everything from the throat, and open a little slit on the neck, to breath through. In the future Don will not be able to speak the usual way, only with a resonator."
Gyula Marton felt ill. So Don McGuire...had...cancer? The question mark was hanging like a dark flag at the end of the hesitant sentence.
Some of the students didn't know, what a resonator was. Ted Willow described how it worked in details, he simulated the speech of resonator users, which reminds one mostly of robot speech in science fiction movies.
"Don will need long weeks to learn how to use the resonator, it's like a kid learning to speak. He is not expected to return in the next few months, certainly not in this semester.
"Not in this semester?" the unbelieving chorus sounded again.
"Unfortunately, you will have to be contented with me," said Ted Willow, the off-Broadway actor, who is not unfamiliar to film lovers either, with a humble bow of his head.
Gyula Marton was close to crying. Jelena didn't have such problems, she was over it already. The room was overwhelmed by the deadly atmosphere. It was only now, that they understood, what The Last Roll meant. That was, how Don McGuire said goodby to the human ability to speak, the sounded, spoken words, his own voice. Gyula Marton found this gesture heart-gripping and beautiful. He couldn't help it, he started crying. Oh dear God, why are only women allowed to cry?
What a dirty joke of fate, that when I not only respect him, but love him with a religious fervour, he just simply... What am I going to do now? He felt like standing up and going home. He was not interested at all, how Ted Willow taught acting. Soon he found out, that he was right: Ted Willow gave a boring lesson, similar to those, of which he had had enough in college. Bill Kramer said it well, there's only one Don McGuire.
Gyula Marton invited Jelena to the Kavanagh, the regular place of drama students. To be sure, he merely asked her, if she wanted to come, he wasn't sure, that he could actually pay at the end, according to nice, gallant European customs. The Americans he invited reached for the bill with an unquestionable naturalness, and put the money for what they ate on the table. As if they would feel it an insult to their self respect, that someone pay the bill instead of them.
The girl's eyes were still swollen and red from crying. Gyula Marton wished, that he could give a kiss on both, but he didn't think the time was appropriate. McGuire's spirit was floating between them. After a few minutes he put his hands cautiously on Jelena's shoulders. The girl didn't object, rather came a little closer. Well, so far, so good, thought Gyula Marton with a little easiness.
"Don was like a father to me," said Jelena, "my real father practically disappeared from my life... I always came excited to his lessons, particularly if it was my turn that day. I was hoping for an encouraging word, or at least a warm smile."
"Me too," Gyula Marton jumped deep into self-deception. He could feel the heat of the girl's body. He was hoping, that this is merely the beginning. Jelena went on praising McGuire, Gyula Marton slowly started to suspect: maybe the girl would prefer the Associate Dean, and she takes him only as second choice, the first being hospitalised. This, on the other hand seemed such foolishness, that he didn't say it out loud.
Jelena ordered a Kavanagh hamburger. Gyula Marton followed her example, though he didn't have the slightest idea, what it was like. When the stocky waiter put it in front of him, he could hardly believe his eyes. There was a mill-wheel sized loaf of bread, or as the Americans call it: bun, on the plate, cut into two halves horizontally, the upper part arrived on a separate tray, the palm-sized, fist-thick burger was placed on the lower part. Gyula Marton was studying this oversized portion with interest. It seemed hopeless, to try to eat all this. He decided, that he doesn't eat the upper part from start, if he put it on, this whole thing would not fit into his mouth. On the other hand, hamburger is usually eaten by taking it into both hands, if he does not put the upper part to its place, he will get his hands smeared with fat. The smartest is to try it with a knife and a fork. The only thing is, these things are made for biting, not for slicing. However hard he tried to stick the knife in it, the thing flattened, but didn't split. Don't tell me, that I can't cut this thing! He was cutting with full force, grinding his teeth together.
That's when he realised, that Jelena, her face somewhat abashed, is staring at him. The girl took the Kavanagh hamburger the usual way, it became of normal size between her fingers. Gyula Marton wanted to throw away the knife and the fork, but he felt, that he would make a fool out of himself. After all, this is a free country, everybody stuffs himself in any way he prefers, right?
"Say," Jelena started cautiously," what do you usually eat in Hungary?"
Gyula Marton understood perfectly: Jelena inquired diplomatically, if he had ever seen a hamburger before. "I know, that it is taken in the hands," he said blushing, "it's just, that I don't feel like it right now.
"OK," said the girl, "don't worry about it."
This little affair brought him down from his high spirits. I definitely won't start explaining myself, he repeated silently, he knew, that his two temple-bones were jumping up and down, as always, when irritation was stuck within him. He asked for the bill
"Be my guest!"
"No need," said Jelena smiling.
"I know, there's no need, but I would like to invite You!" but by that time the girl already pulled the bill to herself, and started to calculate her share. Gyula Marton suddenly threw it in.
"Let's make an easy bill, and just split!" he had heard it the day before in a tv series.
There was a little Japanese sitting at the neighbouring table. He caught the last sentence, and became interested. What could be the meaning of making a bill easy, instead of heavy, and then cut it in two halves? Aha, he saw, that the man and the woman simply paid half of the bill each. Until then, he had thought, that they were a couple. In that case the guy would have paid obviously. Though... maybe they're on a separate budget. Nothing is impossible in this country. The little Japanese took the train from New York to New Haven, to see a Shakespeare piece in the famous Yale Rep. The classic roles were played by black actors. Somehow, he always imagined these characters to be oriental.
Gyula Marton hoped, that Jelena would invite him to her place, but the girl said goodby with a kiss, in front of the Kavanagh, she had some business to take care of. Gyula Marton felt like asking her, what business she could have right then, when he wanted to ask her out on a date, but by the time he remembered the right words, Jelena was already gone. Gyula Marton remained alone on the pavement. That was, when the Japanese stepped out the door, and took a step towards the Hungarian. "Got a problem, pal?!" Gyula Marton roared at him in a hostile manner. "Sorry," said the little Japanese with a singing accent, and left.
On Thanksgiving day, Jelena picked him up in front of the York movie theater, in a big-framed, black car.
"What car is this?" Gyula Marton asked.
"It belongs to my sister, she gave it to me for a year, while she studies at Brown."
"But what made is it?"
"No idea."
"You don't know, what car you're driving?"
"Why should I know?"
The words embossed into the leather surface of the wheel said: Saab. Gyula Marton liked the sports-car frame of the vehicle. He really felt like driving it a little, but he feared that Jelena would object, especially, that the car belonged to her sister. Then the girl offered herself, when they passed from Connecticut to Massachusetts. His heart was racing wildly, as he sat down behind the wheels. He had never before driven such a fancy car.
Gyula Marton imagined Jelena's parents, maybe because of the Checkoff play, into a country farm house, with a grove of birch trees, a little pond, a garden swing. They drove into a settlement, consisting of wooden houses, instead, after Jelena opened the automatic barrier, with the help of a plastic card. The whole family came out to great them, Jelena's mother (a blond demon, wearing thick make-up), her step-father (fat, bold, shoots words like spitting them), her younger sister (tall teenager, who wanted to ogle with Gyula Marton, by all means, while laughing like a hyena), her older sister (a girl with pimples and glasses, wearing an Indian saari), her younger brother (an easily hurt youngster, who wanted to talk about communism with Gyula Marton, by all means), and her grandmother (an old woman in a wheelchair, with her mouth twisted due to a stroke, radiating a deadly atmosphere).
His sexual fantasies concerning this little excursion faded away immediately, as the sizeable family surrounded him, and introduced themselves one by one.
"We are very happy, to have you here," Jelena's mother repeated, with disturbing slowness, her daughter apparently warned her not to gabble, or he won't understand a word.
"Thank you for the invitation."
"Ooh, that's the least we can do, everybody has to have a family on Thanksgiving!" Jelena's mother singed, with a smile so unnatural, that Gyula Marton could hardly control his facial expression. What the hell did I come here for, he asked himself. He knew the answer, of course.
He noticed with a pleasant surprise at dinner, that the stuffed turkey did not remind him of wet cotton, rather the most tasty chicken breast. It was just, that it landed on his plate in much larger portions. Actually, the plate itself looked more like a serving tray, according to Hungarian standards. He ate until he felt sick. He was answering helpfully to Jelena's brother, who didn't give him a moment's worth of piece and quiet. "Yes, there is censorship in Hungary." "The ministry gives subsidy to theaters, but nowadays they don't influence the program plan." "No, as far as I know, there are no tortured political prisoners." "No, Hungarian is not an Asian language." And so on.
Around eleven, the family members quickly spread into the different upper-, and basement floor rooms. Gyula Marton stayed alone with Jelena, exactly how he imagined it. There was even a marble fireplace, though no fire was burning inside. There was a monumental tv set murmuring in the background, they left it switched on the whole time, it looks like this is the custom here.
Gyula Marton was making plans, reminding him of his teenage years. I count till ten, then I spread my arms around her, I kiss her, then we get down on the thick carpet covering the whole place... They were showing an earthquake on the screen, which, judged from the color of the victims, must have been taking lives somewhere in Asia. Jelena was talking about the fact, that she was actually a freshmen for the second time in the Yale School of Drama. She was accepted two, or rather three years ago, but everything got so mixed up around her, her parents were getting divorced, her grandfather passed away, and her boyfriend set her up, and made a fool out of her. There was only one person, that kept her going, Donald. They talked a lot, it's not her fault, that she fell in love with him.
"The only thing was, Donald was married. That made the whole thing so complicated, like my whole miserable life... Then, one night I went up the East Rock mountain, the one, that according to the Yale Security Handbook is not even suggested men, especially not after sunset, that's where nowadays all the New Haven drug gangs hang out. I wanted to die. I would not have minded, if I had got mugged, raped, stabbed in the back. But I didn't meet a soul. It was a warm Autumn night. I crawled over the iron fence, made a few steps ahead on the flat surface of the big rock. I didn't see a thing. I didn't know when I would fall down into the deep, I desired the deadly fall. My body was bathed in sweat. Suddenly, someone called my name. A familiar voice. He called out again. I started back, a blue ray of light struck my eyes, I knew by then, that Donald came for me. I ran to him, and fell into his arms. How did he now, that I was there? He said he felt it! I always wanted a man, who feels, what is important! I gave myself to him on that night, there, on the top of East Rock, on the rear seat of his car. No wonder, that I felt everything even more mixed up the next day. I packed my stuff together, left everything, and came home."
"Why?" asked Gyula Marton.
"Come on, this is serious, I slept with him, with the Associate Dean!"
"With whom???"
Jelena didn't answer, and in Gyula Marton's head a big, iron door was shut closed with an ear piercing bang: Donald must be the longer version of Don! Don McGuire... The Associate Dean was not taken aback by the difference in age, nor by the fact, that this wide cheek-boned girl, with perfect teeth was a student of his, he took the opportunity and... boom!
Gyula Marton didn't want to hug her anymore, kiss her and then get down with her onto the thick carpet covering the whole place. He wanted to run out into the Winter night, howling, like an injured wild dog. Jelena, on the other hand, had different plans, she wanted warmth and gentleness, her long fingers found their way under Gyula Marton's shirt. He returned the initiation only faintly. Jelena stood up, led him up to the second floor, into her room. They were going stealthily, on their toes. The girl's family members were sleeping behind the doors. Inside, she switched on the light, and started taking off her clothes, Gyula Marton was watching her weakly. What are you waiting for, you moron, he persuaded himself, but down there was nothing, shameful weariness. "What now?" she asked a little later, with a purple condom in her hand, which she already removed from the little plastic bag. They were sitting by the bed, on the floor-carpet, the girl naked, himself in underwear. The sight of the condom enervated him further. Of course it is usual here... because of AIDS... he was sweating hard, which reminded him of McGuire again, not that he would have been able to forget about him for a moment.
"So..." he cleared his throat embarrassed, "I was very surprised, that You and Don..."
"Really?" Jelena laughed, "I thought, that everybody knew in the Drama School."
"I didn't," said Gyula Marton.
"You're not jealous, are you?" the girl asked.
"Noo waay!" he lied. We're back to square one, I hate him again... He fucked this up for me, too... That fucking guy fucked up the whole thing.
After Thanksgiving, he didn't set a foot in the buildings of the Drama School, he was lying in his room with high fever. He was seriously ill. He had a flu. Nobody cared to ask about him. It seems, that Jelena had enough of him, because she didn't even call. The next Monday, Gyula Marton went to the profession lesson. When he opened the door, he thought he didn't see right. Don McGuire was sitting there, in his usual place, the middle of the first row, with a white antiseptic gauze bandage on his neck, Ted Willow on the seat next to him. He waved encouragingly to Gyula Marton. Ted Willow nodded as well: go ahead, ,we haven't started yet.
Gyula Marton found a seat right behind them. Those two were having a little correspondence.
"We have the Death Dance, and the Nora today, Ted Willow wrote.
"OK," wrote Don McGuire, "always act, as if this whole thing was natural." Ted Willow was winking, like someone, who understands everything.
The late comers were as shocked by the sight of McGuire, as Gyula Marton had been. Irina, from the Three Sisters kneeled down in front of him, and wanted to kiss his hand. McGuire didn't let her, he indicated, that he wanted it on his face.
Where is Jelena? It turned out only later, that she was also lying in bed at home with a flu, waiting insulted, the Hungarian actor to ask, if she was dead or alive?
That day, Ted Willow was McGuire's tongue. The speech instructor, from whom the ability of speech was taken away, always wrote down what he wanted to say, and simply showed his note book to the New York actor, for him to read it. Ted Willow made every effort to pretend, that he had a greater task, than that, he always added his own comments. He stated about the fight between Olga and Natasha in the third act, for example: "It is also possible, that Natasha is not only fighting for the rulership over the house, but also for the Olga's friendship... right Don?" he didn't expect an answer, he merely wanted to be polite. Olga and Natasha looked at McGuire questioningly. Don McGuire hesitated, he apparently didn't want to get into a debate with the New York actor, however, finally he must have felt, that it was a must, he shook his head, and wrote down: "No, Natasha wants to rule, whatever it takes."
"No," Ted Willow said dispirited, "Don says, that Natasha wants to rule, whatever it takes."
Ted Willow didn't even come in to the next lesson. It wasn't necessary. By then, Don McGuire learned, how to use the resonator. They say it takes several months for others. There was a machine-like noise coming from the equipment he held tightly to his neck, Gyula Marton didn't understand a word at first, but then his ear got used to it. The first two words, that he understood were very familiar: "Never mind..."
Don McGuire acted, as if nothing had happened, he continued, where he stopped. Gyula Marton was so overwhelmed by this, that he wanted to kneel down in front of him, like Irina did. As it turned out, McGuire continued with his speech course to the sophomores too, to everyone's satisfaction.
Gyula Marton, therefore, forgave Don McGuire again. He wouldn't have missed a lesson of his on his life. McGuire handled his students with unchanged mercilessness, the girls were crying again, sometimes boys too, and all of them bit their lips till they drew blood. Somebody, who knows no mercy with himself, can allow himself to be merciless with others, Gyula Marton thought.
He could not forgive Jelena. The girl didn't look for him either. Their gaze met sometimes on Don's lessons, but they didn't go out again, didn't even talk to each other.
Don McGuire went to the Yale-New Haven Hospital every three weeks for a check up. He knew, his voice was only the beginning, there would be other losses coming, step by step, and inescapably. His situation stagnated for a long time, it only turned worse three years later, at the end of May, in the exam-presentations period. His doctors suggested, that he move in to the hospital, but he rather passed on routine matters to Ted Willow, whom he chose as his successor, and he moved down to a Vermont village, without leaving his address. His wife was having the Federal Police search for him at the end. That was, where he died, at the end of September, in that mountain hut. The neighbours broke in on him. He was lying on the balcony, in an old fashioned deck-chair, holding the resonator tightly to his neck. As if he wanted to talk to somebody in the last moments.
The students, and teachers of the Yale School of Drama went to his funeral, with not a soul missing. The news of his death didn't even get to Jelena and Gyula Marton, though, their fate drove them about four thousand miles from New Haven of Connecticut, by then, in two different directions