Free Under the frog by Tibor Fischer Page B

less demanding lifestyle.
    Considering the inordinate amounts of time he spent in
contemplation of four-legging, Gyuri found it hard to account for the sudden
amputation of his desire. Watching Timea was delightful, worth the money in
itself but a curiously abstract experience like admiring some art in a museum.
Gyuri suggested that Pataki go first.
    It was terrible. His callousness had simply packed up on
him: out of order. He was annoyed with himself for wanting to do it, and at the
same time, he knew that once he was out of range of the brothel, he would be
annoyed with himself for not doing it. When Pataki re-emerged, all he could
suggest was that they should leave. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Pataki
expostulated. ‘You can’t throw away a perfectly good fuck!’ He returned to
claim the unused coitus.
    Gyuri learned there are people who can take their deceased
mother’s watch to a brothel and there are people who can’t. And if you’re one
of those who can’t, you can’t. It was an expensive lesson and one that was not
likely to have any future applications because he wasn’t going to have any more
deceased mothers or deceased mothers’ watches.
    He wished Pataki would hurry up. He wanted to go home since
he had the feeling he was going to cry.

January 1949
    They spent the last hour telling camel jokes.
    ‘The new Foreign Legion officer arrives at the fort in the
middle of the Sahara desert,’ explained Ladányi. ‘And he’s being given the
introductory tour by the sergeant and he listens attentively but eventually he
says: “This is all very interesting, Sergeant but there’s a rather delicate
matter I’d like to inquire about. We’re going to be out here for years. I mean
what does one do when the juices start to build up?” “Well, sir,” says the
sergeant pointing to a camel tethered in the yard, “when an officer is missing
the ladies’ company, that’s what we have Daisy, the regimental camel for.” The
new officer is rather shocked to hear this but says nothing. Months elapse and
finally after a year in the Sahara, he snaps, runs screaming across the yard
and flings himself on the camel. As he’s pumping away, the sergeant comes up
and coughs discreetly. “It’s none of my business, sir, but the other officers
prefer to ride Daisy to the brothel in the next village.’”
    For a Jesuit, Ladányi had an astonishingly good fund of
camel jokes. Gyuri and Neumann could hardly get any in. Ladányi was rather
hogging the camel section but it was a very long journey, and Gyuri certainly
didn’t have enough camel jokes at his disposal to cover a fraction of the trip
to Hálás.
    Ladányi had been a little vague at first about what he had
to attend to in Hálás, the hamlet where he had been born and raised. ‘I might
need a bodyguard,’ he had said to Gyuri. Gyuri would have been glad to do a favour
for Ladányi anyway but it was flattering to be thought of as large and
dangerous (though Gyuri had brought Neumann along in the event of any bona fide
bodyguarding being required. As a water-polo player and a very large person,
Neumann was going to have the last punch on any subject. Gyuri had seen
Neumann, when two drunk and quite large firemen had merrily announced that they
were going to thrash the living daylights out of him, pick them up and throw
them across Rákoczi út where they had hit a wall with unpleasant bone-breaking
sounds. It had to be some sort of record, but sadly throwing firemen wasn’t a
recognised sport.)
    ‘The new Foreign Legion recruit arrives at the fort in the
middle of the Sahara desert,’ Ladányi resumed. ‘And he’s being shown the ropes
by an old sweat, and he finally summons up the courage to ask the question that’s
on his mind. “Look,” he asks, “we have to spend years out here, what do you do
about the urges?” “‘What we do,” the old sweat elucidates, “is we go out, find a bunch of
bedouin, ambush them and find relief with their