Budapest is described warmly but it’s the Hungarian language that attracts the lion’s share of the author’s admiration. His unbridled enthusiasm radiates from the central character. If your desire to learn Hungarian needs rekindling, 'Budapest' could provide the spark of inspiration.
Buarque delights in ambiguity, in dissolving the borders between people, places and, indeed, paragraphs. He's poetic, romantic, yet often frustrating. He'll lead you down certain roads, hiding ‘round corners and disappearing down side-streets at every opportunity. At times, the side-streets become the thoroughfares, resulting in an intriguing but exhausting journey.
The author’s dedication to a weaving plot made my relationship with narrator, Jose Kosta, a little turbulent. Unlikely situations and dubious decision-making sometimes wrecked my suspension of disbelief as Buarque stretched the plot to fit the skeleton of his post-modern ambitions.
Rather like Charlie Kaufman’s Adaptation, the self-referential plot is folded several layers thick. It’s impossible not to appreciate Buarque’s craftsmanship and imagination but equally, it's impossible to ignore his vanity. He treats his readers as Kosta treats his women and colleagues: with an air of intellectual superiority. How much you are wowed by his resolution will probably influence how much of this you're willing to forgive.
With such hefty subject matter, you might expect a heavy slog but I found myself book-in-hand as I waited for the metro, as I got off a tram, as I rode a turbulent bus to Budaörs. Reading it in Budapest was like watching a play from the centre of the stage. After ten days, I put it down, having been educated, touched and thoroughly amused.
Gyuri, son of a bourgeois family, confined by the Soviets’ capsized social order, does all that he can to avoid joining the army: namely, being good enough at basketball to be employable. Tales of the naked travels of the transport workers’ team fit in well with my own experience of Hungarian humour.
Above all, Fischer finds plenty of time to talk about life. Growing up is still growing up, even if it means more crouching in cellars and police cells. Parents are still parents, even if they’ve lost the will to participate in society. On a personal level, problems are much the same, occupation or no occupation: “1950 was a good year, I almost slept with four women.”
Under The Frog is irrepressibly funny. This doesn’t undermine the significance or the devastation of the events that took place. Moreover, it puts them into the proper perspective. Too often, vast swathes of history are swallowed up in a cloud of misery, which distances us from the people and their lives. Here, the triumphs and tragedies are real, human and all the more poignant.
