Cinquecento, centocinquanta: our Roman holiday

My wife Marianne said, “cinquecento.” I said, “centocinquanta.” It could have been the other way round. These recitals of Italian numbers belonged strictly together. We could not have said “ottocento” or “novecento”. It had to be cinquecento. I shall return to them a little later.

For the moment let me just say that by quoting them I am reminded of a wonderful holiday we had in the summer of 1959. It became a sort of adage, part of our private language between us. If at any time either of us said “cinquecento”, the other one was obliged to reply with “centocinquanta”. We did that for many years: Fifty? Sixty? I cannot remember.

There is of course a story behind it, going back to 1955, the year when we got married in Budapest and talked for the first time about travel, international travel, to cities where people spoke another language. What is it like when two people try to communicate with each other and they speak different languages? Do they gesticulate? And what about shopping? Do you point  at the merchandise you want to buy?

It was difficult for us  to imagine the situation. We would have loved to have had that experience. Alas, in the Hungary of 1955 such travel was not possible. Nobody had a passport in his or her pocket.  Marianne thought that the travel ban did not apply to her, owing to the school she had attended. From the age of 11 she went to a school run by the Maison Française, where teaching was in French. She ranked first in the class, which meant that in the summer of 1949 she was due to have a three-week holiday in France — all expenses paid.

But fate intervened. One day in 1949 a government edict was posted in the official journal that from that day Russian was the only foreign language allowed to be taught in school. The Maison Française was closed, with immediate effect. Marianne’s dream was shattered.

Soon, however, she regained her optimism. She learned from a friend who heard it from another friend that the Government was contemplating issuing passports for visits to friendly Communist states: Poland, Czechoslovakia, East Germany, Transylvania (Romania), the Baltic states (then part of the Soviet Union). “Which one would you choose?” I asked. “Prague,” she said. “They are civilised people.” Then she asked in turn: “What’s your choice?” “Any one of them,” I replied, then added after a moment’s hesitation: “Not East Germany: they were Nazis, now they are Communists.” “Same thing,” she said. We were on one of the bridges over the Danube. I looked round. There was nobody near. “Please be careful.” I lowered my voice: “Wait until we get home.”

By the summer of 1957 the situation had changed radically. We left Hungary in November 1956, after the demise of the Hungarian Revolution. We lived now in England and were proud owners of refugee travel documents that allowed us to travel anywhere within Europe. Fantastic freedom. The decision was ours. Which country? Which city? Where should we spend that first holiday in the West?  It was obvious. It had to be Paris. There were no other contenders. Paris, it was. We spent all our savings on that trip. We wanted luxury. We booked a three-star hotel in the Quartier Latin: the Hotel Moderne. We could hardly believe our luck! We were in Paris.  Paris was the city in which Hungarian poets preferred to starve, living in tiny garrets. They did not have enough to eat, but a stroll on Boulevard St Michel amply compensated them for all those missed meals. They loved Paris. Yes, Paris was our first love too.

In reality we were a little disappointed, as often happens to first loves. Three-star turned out not to be luxurious, and French shopkeepers tended to overcharge us (e.g. giving back the wrong change). That dampened our enthusiasm a little. By the year of 1959 we were looking for fresh love. By unanimous decision it was Italy. And we were already there. The proof was provided by the conductor giving us a toll ticket for a section of the Italian autostrada. We gave him a 500 lira banknote. He said: “Cinquecento.” The ticket cost 350  lira. He gave us back 150 lira, saying: “Centocinquanta.”

We were absolutely delighted. We had been waiting for that all our lives: a foreign country, a foreign language. We had just had a direct (admittedly brief) conversation with a citizen of that country and we understood every word of it. We had everything a young couple could have desired — and we were well aware of it. We had a car (a pea-green A 35), we had just had a good meal and we had a ticket for the Italian autostrada, like everyone behind us. And the music of that language was incredible: “Cinquecento, centocinquanta.” We knew, of course, that Cinquecento was not merely a number. It meant a century of Italian Renaissance art, (1500-1599). We knew all that from books. We knew of Leonardo da Vinci, we knew of Michelangelo, we knew of his David, and of his Moses. We knew of Titian and Tintoretto and Veronese. Four years earlier we had been less demanding. We would have been happy with Prague. But now we wanted to see the Sistine Chapel and see with our mental eyes Michelangelo busy on the scaffolds. Now everything was possible. Two more days and Rome beckons. And Venice on the way back. Unbelievable!

We had many more holidays in Italy, in Europe and elsewhere. We easily accepted our good fortune; the excitement faded away. I suspect this is a conspiracy of the deities to limit the happiness of ordinary mortals.

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