Portraits of a Marriage

by Sándor Márai

  He lifted up my cadre papers, waved them about, and said he was no fool, either. Did I believe him when he said he was no fool? Of course I believed him, I said. In that case I should think over very carefully what he was about to say. The bar where I was a drummer was a classy place, he said. Lots of people go there, mostly decent democratic people, but not just them—others too. The People’s Republic needed citizens who were loyal to the people, because the place was crawling with enemy agents. He lit a cigarette at this point but didn’t offer me one. He carried on staring right through me. There was no shining a desk lamp in the eyes, the way they have in the books when they grill a guy. There was nothing, just a desk and a man. And there were iron bars on the windows in case the visitor should feel nervous and take a fancy to leaping through the window for a stroll in the sunshine. And on the other side of the door there was always that strange shuffling. And the smack of boots on the stones below. And, occasionally, a word of encouragement when some visitor was too slow in answering. That’s all.

  Then he started speaking to me like he was the smart kid in a school full of idiots. He had the spiel off by heart. What he said was that music, night, and drink loosened tongues. So while I am drumming I should listen hard. He was very patient in explaining this. But, fact is, it was like a lesson learned at school. He told me what to look out for. He was wise to how people behaved in bars. I was to keep my eyes on any relics of the old world, the world of the gentry—guys who still had cigarettes and appetite enough to console themselves with drink. Then I was to look out for the new sort, the sort who aren’t Commies but just pretend: pigs desperate to stick their snouts in the trough, people who waste no time sticking on all the right badges. He taught me patiently, almost lovingly, the way teachers in kindergartens teach the kiddies. He went on to say there was a whole new society out there, and it included all sorts of people. Honest, sons-of-the-soil rulerists, smart city-avenue turbanists,* highbrow writers the lot of them, “progressive” horn-rimmed-glasses types with pipes in their mouths, the sort who sit on the fence cheering on old-style proper Communists, encouraging them to finish their dirty work for them, to do away with the old world and get the new one ready … And when they do get rid of the old world, the rulerists, the turbanists, and the horn-rimmed-glassesists are all there, waving them a cheery “do-si-donya” and “well done,” adding, “now fuck off back to the Urals.” Then they get off the fence, and politely, cleverly, take over anything of value that still remains in this pretty little country, and stow it away in their ample pockets. But in order for them to do that, the old-style Commies have to fuck off back to the Soviet Union first, those that are still alive, anyway—that is, after Uncle Joe had finished buggering the comrades about, maybe because they weren’t the best of buddies, not the way they should have been—not, at least, how the boss pictured it—or simply because, like the fools they are, they wormed their way into the affections of the Father of the People, and took jobs that did for them later. Or they were Trotskyists. Or Spanish Civil Warists. And while the old guard are still feeling the backs of their necks just to make sure their heads are still there, they, the rulerists, the turbanists and the rest, all the “progressives,” start putting it about that there is a different, neater, better way of being a Communist. But the Party begs to differ on that matter—I noted the glint in his eye as he said this—because these educated wise guys who want to set about teaching the masses scientific Marxism don’t have a clue that the masses despise them and don’t believe a word they say. You have to have rotted five years down the mines with them, a long way underground, before they believe you. Then you have to have worked your way out of the mines and spent the next five years at a bench with a vise screwed into it, snips and hacksaw in your hand, cutting sheets of metal. If, after all that, you do start talking about Marxism and Leninism, they might just listen to you. But people who sit on the fence and shout encouragement to the masses, telling them to struggle on because the time will come when they, the progressives, will teach them the finer points of Marxism—well, they’d get a few dirty looks, I promise you, he said. You want to look out for this type, he said, because that’s the sort of people you find in bars now. You could tell from the way he said it what he thought of those who were desperate to dip their snouts in the trough without ever having worked down a mine or in a labor camp … he despised them as much as he did the gentry. He had it all off pat, the way you learn things in school.

  My heart beat fast, faster than I ever beat with my drumsticks, because I could see that when he picked out someone he’d make sure they couldn’t wriggle out of it, or escape … though he might enjoy watching them try. I was looking for the emergency exit, but all I saw were walls and bars on the window. Once he paused for breath I quietly asked him to tell me straight what he wanted me to do.

  He took a sniff, then told me never again to call at number 60, never even to come near. Once a week I was to ring a number. When someone answered, I was simply to say, “I’m Ede, greetings to the old man.” The voice would then say he’d be delighted to meet me, but where and when? The best place would be City Park, on a bench. Or, in winter, near the marshalling yard at Lágymányos, where there are lots of nice little places that serve liquor. You can spend hours there chatting away in private, in a cozy tit-to-tit. He listed the kind of people to watch at the bar, in the order of importance. If I see someone going into the toilet and then, shortly, another guest walking in after them, I have to hurry after them to check if one of them has left a secret note or some cash. I am to leave the cash there and immediately ring the number he gave me, he said, and they would take care of the rest as an emergency, a matter of priority. The People’s Republic looked after its own, he said, and rubbed his finger and thumb together in the old “money” sign. As a drummer you can pretty well see and hear everything that’s going on in the bar.

  Then he coughed, as if to say now he was coming to the succulent plump heart of the matter. The comrades. I had to watch even the comrades, he said, lowering his voice. Because not every comrade was genuine, a true, up-to-his-elbows, worker of the state—there were some who just pretended to be comrades. If I saw the liquor had loosened their tongues, that they were leaning together, whispering quietly, and, say, this was toward dawn and I could see they were getting too cozy, all on the same wavelength … I was to find out and report their names.

  He went on like this for an hour, then he summed up. He said I was to make sure I worked hard. If I did, my papers would end up filed away in the records and I’d have a nice, peaceful life, having helped lay down the foundations of happiness in the people’s democracy. He picked up my own file and waved it about. Then he leaned back in his chair, took his glasses off, and started wiping the lenses. A shiver ran right through me as our eyes met. My legs were stone cold from my knees down to the tip of my toes. What it came down to was that he wanted me—a drummer—to sing for the AVO, to sing like a fucking canary. He folded his arms and calmly gazed at me.

  I mumbled something about needing time. Naturally, he said, polite as ever. You have till noon tomorrow. He gave me a nice friendly good-bye smile, all teeth, like the handsome guy on those old Lysoform ads used to. I went back to my pad, no longer thinking how nice it would be to go hear Lawherring at the Opera. I lay on my bed till the late afternoon. I ate nothing. I drank nothing. My throat was dry and I felt like shit.

  It was getting on to dusk by the time I managed to sit up. I put on my tuxedo. It was time to go to work. But then, as I was putting my black tie on, something stirred in my stomach. Or was it my head? I don’t know even now. All I knew was that I was in a hole. These guys had picked me, a drummer, to sing for them. I was to be like those waiters in the hotels, like those chambermaids in the embassies, like those smart chicks with sharp ears who work in offices. I didn’t need to be told what they wanted me to do. I chewed it over a long time. I didn’t need to sign up for day courses or attend a night class. I knew the score without all that. It
was clearer than daylight that those they had once fingered were theirs for keeps. I was stone cold sober and shivering. It was evening before I set off to work.

  It was a real nice evening, just like spring. Some of the band was already hanging around the bar. Two were old buddies, family, and I trusted them. The sax guy from Zala who brought me up to the capital, he was a brother. The pianist reckoned himself a highbrow. He was a quiet guy who was only in the band because he needed the cash; I didn’t think it was him that shopped me. The accordionist had been doing jazz for years, sometimes he’d be called home at dawn … it might have been love interest, but it might have been an AVO pimp. I wasn’t sure about him. I just felt a great sadness thinking the glory days, my pure music days, were over. There is no greater sadness for an artist than the sense that the savor’s gone out of his art, that it’s time to give up everything he has ever learned. Don’t go thinking I’m crazy or that I’m pulling some tragic act. Everyone in the business knew I was the best drummer in Hungary … I tell it how it is, no false modesty. Sweetheart told me as much. She knew what she was talking about. She’d worked for rich Jews in London, a refined bunch, who taught her a lot.

  That night it was late before the place started buzzing. It was midnight when the first big payers appeared. All three were secretaries of state. They wore striped pants and fancy ties. There were many shortages in the country at the time but there was no lack of secretaries of state, not so anyone complained, anyway. They’d go around in huddles, like field mice after rain. These were fine, handsome examples of the type. They’d brought female company with them, and it’s likely the chicks too were state workers because, I tell you, friend, they carried plenty of flesh on them. They weren’t about to go on diets. The waiters hurried over to show them to a table near the band and they settled down there. They gave us a nice genial smile. They were in a good mood and you could see from their clothes they were new in the job, that they’d been something else before. I recognized one of them since I’d seen him in the bar before, selling rugs on the installment plan. Best not ask where he found the rugs. A lot of people were collecting rugs from bombed houses at the time.

  Two regulars arrived with them, the poet Lajos Borsai and the war correspondent Joe Lepsény. They were in every night, holding forth in the bar. The poet made his living after midnight by wearing his patriotic heart on his sleeve and blubbing about his terrible life. He worked out which new customers were worth milking, then made his way over to their table. If they were already a little over the limit he’d pull his mother’s photograph from his pocket and his voice would fill with emotion as he showed it around. He had two mothers … one, a dignified woman, with her hair wreathed round her brow the way Queen Elizabeth had it when praying at the coffin of our great national hero Ferenc Deák. The other was a tiny, humble-looking little old lady dressed in peasant costume, complete with head scarf. He’d size up the guests before deciding which mother to produce. This time he sat down with Baron Báróecsedi, who had arrived with his latest bride, a muscle-bound retired police sergeant. His taste ran to that kind of thing. The baron was a regular too. The poet began in a broken voice:

  “This time of the year the yellow clover is just coming into bloom in my little village back home …”

  But the baron wasn’t in the mood. He glared at the poet. Báróecsedi was a pretty fat guy, and a little on the jealous side. He blinked suspiciously at his bride, the retired policeman. They looked at each other with pouting lips, like the lovers in that famous picture, the one Sweetheart once showed me in the museum in Rome, Cupid and Psyche.

  “Look, Mr. Borsai,” he growled. “I’d be grateful if you left these Christian agricultural matters out of it. I am a nervous old Jew with a bad stomach. I am not impressed by the fact that the yellow clover is in bloom. If it’s in bloom, let it bloom,” he added angrily.

  The poet was offended and went to sit with the secretaries of state. “Cigars for the press!” he cried.

  The waiters rushed to bring the cigar tray and the poet picked up a fistful of Hungarian Symphony cigars from a tin box, stuffing them into his pocket. One of the secretaries of state, the muscular one, who had been given a medal of some sort, waved the headwaiter over and told him he should add it to the bill as official state expenses. Joe Lepsény, the war correspondent, seemed reluctant and refused, despite the others encouraging him to fill his pockets too.

  “No thanks,” he sniffed. “Tomorrow morning I’m due at the supreme council of the Ministry of Economics.”

  Full of respect, one secretary of state asked him whether there was an important decision about to be taken.

  “No idea,” the war correspondent replied disdainfully. “But they have American cigars.”

  They looked at him with envy because it was rumored that Joe had been nominated to the State Committee for the Administration of Forfeited Estates. It was one of the most prized positions in the People’s Republic. The sax player said he started drooling every time he thought of what would happen if a Forfeited Estate and Joe Lepsény were left alone in a room together. You know, the estates … rare paintings, antique furniture, all the stuff the gentry left behind when they hit the westbound trail in fear of the Russkies arriving. The sax player was in seventh heaven thinking of this, his solos sounding more melancholy than ever. Everyone looked respectfully at Joe Lepsény, who remained a war correspondent even though there was no war anymore. He wore riding boots, a windbreaker, and a deer hunter’s hat with a chamois tail stuck in the band, as well as a red-flag badge in his buttonhole. Later, after the revolution, he turned up in the West. He claimed to be an aristocrat from Budapest, but someone ruined the story by saying he was nothing of the sort but a laundry worker from one of the city slums. That wasn’t generally known in the bar back then. In any case this was not time to start playing at comrades, because the place was really coming alive.

  It was gone midnight and there were no tables left by the time the president of the Emergency Committee arrived with his disooze friend and a sidekick—everyone knew the sidekick was head screw at the town prison—so they had to produce an extra table from somewhere and make a place for it near the band. There was a great deal of running about, because it was a real honor for the bar to have such a famous man be a customer. I have to admit he was quite a guy. No one had heard of him a year ago; then he surfaced like that monster at Loch Ness in Scotland that’s been in all the papers. The saxophonist blew a brief fanfare to celebrate the great man’s arrival, his cheeks puffed out like apples, while I added a discreet and respectful drumroll.

  Then they turned on the purple light because wherever the disooze went you had to have proper mood lighting. The proprietress, a famous lard-bucket of a woman, who carried on as before supplying nonprofessional women to her select clients, didn’t know where to put herself in all the excitement. She personally filled the celebrity guest’s glass with bourbon. Everyone watched, deeply impressed. The secretaries of state looked on in awe because the president of the supreme council outranked ministers. He was master of life and death, since politicals who’d been condemned to death turned to him with their last appeal for mercy. If he’d had a bad day he rejected the appeals and they were got ready for the drop. No one ever asked him what he did and why. The proprietress whispered in the pianist’s ear that she had had her finger on the pulse of the market for thirty years, that she knew every unlisted telephone number in town, knew where exclusive goods might be offered to big spenders, but that she had never seen such glittering company in the bar all together at any one time.

  Báróecsedi bowed from his seat to greet the president, who responded with an indulgent wave. The president was a big-time trophy Communist, a high-class medal shining in his buttonhole, but it was the baron and his bride, the waxed-mustached police sergeant, those all-but-extinct creatures, remnants of the old world, that he greeted most warmly—more warmly than he did the secretaries of state or Joe Lepsény, that upstanding, badge-wearing Party
notable. I watched it all and remembered what I’d been taught in the morning: that real Commies, the true, dyed-in-the-wool, long-in-the-tooth sort, felt a deep-seated, jaw-clenching hatred for those who had only lately adopted republican colors. They loathed them more spectacularly than they did the old guard of boujis and barons. I watched everything like a hawk, since from that time on, every moment I spent there, I was, for all purposes, in my office. I was at work.

  The president looked like something out of a fashion magazine, like an English lord dressed for the club, a lord, what’s more, bought brand-new from the shop. Suit, shoes, everything—it was all made to measure. He smiled graciously at everyone, like a proper emperor who knows he has absolute power and can afford to be charming, generous, and condescending. The disooze he’d arrived with had been his night-and-day companion for a while—she was a fine, fat piece of trophy flesh herself, famed for attending every show trial at which the president showed some guy the way to the gallows, because such things amused her. She was a dyke. She sang in a hoarse whisper and specialized in torch songs. The boss turned the lights down low so it was purple everywhere, like patchouli. We waited awestruck to see what the celebrity guest would order.

  The big-time guest must have had a hard day, because he closed his eyes as he drank and seemed to be lost in thought. Then he whispered something to the disooze, who obediently took her place at the mike, and in a cigarette-stained voice, straight from the heart, she crooned a heartbreaking ballad.

  “You’re the one light in my darkness!”

  I only had to touch the drums very gently, tapping them with my fingertips. The saxophonist marked time, carefully watching the head screw as if he thought some plot was being hatched. The screw was constant companion to the president, just in case the great man had a brain wave that needed immediate acting on. Here in the bar he was the one who could give concrete form to the president’s thoughts and carry ideas through. The tear-jerking ballad being over, the secretaries of state clapped their hands raw. Báróecsedi spread his arms to show how transported he was, that no dyke could sing more beautifully than this dyke had just done. He knew what he was talking about: he was in the business himself. The president stood up, kissed the artiste’s hand, and led her back to the table. The head screw also leapt up and busily set to polishing the chair the lady was about to sit on with the sleeve of his jacket. The poet covered his eyes, as though such heavenly raptures were too much for him. He really got off on it.