He showed off Cserdi, where the population was three-quarters Gypsy, to prove that it could be as ordinary as anywhere else. But he knew it was not. The stereotype that most non-Gypsy Hungarians carried in their heads was all too often true: his people (“us”, not “they”, for his people’s sins were his, he took them on himself) were work-shy, cheated, stole, and lived on handouts if they could. The jails were full of dark faces.

He had never moaned, taking any job he could get after a few indifferent years of school: sweeping floors, packing monitors, eventually becoming production manager in a mobile-phone company. Here was the lesson for “all of us”: Gypsies had to work! If they took responsibility, gained self-respect, hauled themselves up by their bootlaces, prejudice might begin to fade away. This was the task he set himself as mayor of Cserdi. It was heavy, but he set about it logically. Gypsies belonged nowhere, but if they got land, they could farm it. There was unused land in the village, a rubbish tip; once they had cleared away 15-20 lorryloads of rubble, they could plant potatoes. They then rented 1,200 hectares more.

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