Edward Limonov was a late arrival, taking his fellow Russians – who loathed him – by surprise. He had been living in Paris, where he had written the punk autobiographical novel It’s Me, Eddie. His reason for being in Budapest, it seemed, was to insult the Hungarians by praising the Russian soldiers who were sent in to thwart the possible revolution in 1956. He was unstoppable in his condemnation of all the countries in the Soviet bloc. He was not consistent, though. If he was attacking those nations for anti-Semitism and other forms of racism, why did he turn his venom on the Jews? And, indeed, the Arabs? He was playing the role of anarchist, antagonist and denigrator of the status quo up to, and beyond, the very hilt. He was twice evicted from meetings, when he was dragged out screaming.
On the last day of the conference a representative from each country was chosen to thank the hosts and to offer a few general comments. I was elected to speak on behalf of the British writers, and I said how moved we had been by the scenes at the cemetery and how much we had enjoyed the experience of seeing Budapest and meeting poets, novelists and historians we had hitherto admired from afar. There had been only one severely disruptive influence, but I would desist from naming him.
Limonov knew who I was referring to, as did everyone present. That night we had a party on a boat cruising up and down the Danube. I danced with Madame Robbe-Grillet, who was encased, as ever, in tight-fitting black leather. It was long after midnight when we returned to the hotel, where a small group of us – Angela Carter, Richard Ford, Amitav Ghosh, Gianni Celati, Christopher Hope and myself – decided to order champagne as a farewell nightcap. The Russians, minus Limonov, were seated nearby, drinking beer and vodka.
We were into the second bottle of Mumm when Limonov appeared, wild-eyed and spoiling for a fight with anyone. He clearly intended that I was to be that anyone. He strode over to my chair and looked down at me.
‘Are you for or against capital punishment?’
‘That’s a strange question to ask at two in the morning,’ I replied.
‘Answer me,’ he demanded. ‘For or against?’
‘I’m against it, of course.’
‘I thought so, you fucking Western liberal.’
I took a breath, and said, ‘What is it with you? You’ve been foul to everybody all week. Do you have a problem? Are you by any chance a closet transvestite?’
Hearing this, Limonov picked up the empty champagne bottle and struck me on the head.
I can’t recall how long I was unconscious. There were scuffles. The Russians darted over to our table, grabbed Limonov and threw him into the lift. When I had come to, the biggest of the Russians asked me what I had done to annoy Limonov. I told him, and he thanked and embraced me.
‘You were lucky it was a champagne bottle,’ Angela remarked. ‘A wine bottle might have broken.’
Limonov reappeared, shouting, ‘Have I killed him? Have I killed him?’ The Russians dispatched him again.
I had a sore head for weeks afterwards, and often had to lie down to ease the pain, with the ever-attentive Circe at my bedside.
So there was Limonov in the company of his hero, who invited him to use the machine-gun that had been strategically positioned to kill or injure as many innocents as possible in the city below. Limonov accepted the invitation fulsomely, spraying bullets indiscriminately, joyful at the prospect of polishing off a Muslim or two.
A decade after the incident in the Hilton, I visited Sarajevo. I met men and women and children with missing limbs, and several with a missing eye – the lasting mementoes of the gunfire that came at them from the surrounding hills, where Karadžić was now in hiding, protected by his private army. They all said how lucky they were to be alive.
In Banja Luka, two days later, I was shown Karadžić’s office in the council building. His name was still on the door. Someone was expecting him back.
In the spring of 2002, Edward Limonov was in prison in Moscow, awaiting trial for drug-dealing and fraud.
Crime Passionnel
I somehow knew the woman was from Central or Eastern Europe before I discovered she was Polish. I attained that knowledge simply by observing the way she dressed. Her elegant clothes had a dated look about them – tailored suits in the lightest of tweeds; dainty, wasp-waisted jackets with fur collars; sequinned pink or mauve jumpers; crisply pleated skirts; shiny court shoes. I had seen such outfits on well-to-do women in Budapest, Prague, Bucharest and Warsaw. They conjured up a vanished conservative age, when fashion was muted rather than ostentatious. Her slightly podgy prettiness suggested a diet of sausage, dumplings, sauerkraut, roast pork and beer.
She came into the park with her dog, an Alsatian whose coat she brushed lovingly. She smiled and said good morning to everyone, but little more than that. She always looked as if she had just visited her hairdresser, for her dark brown hair was never less than perfectly coiffured. In winter, we regulars trudged through the mud in our wellington boots, but she wore galoshes over her shoes. She was shy and modest in her demeanour, yet she made an impression on us as she moved gracefully in our midst.