by Sándor Márai
“Do you believe in God?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think?” he asked timidly. “I think we will survive.”
They looked at each other. Tibor leaned towards him carefully and, very gently, touched his face with his hands, first on the left side, then on the right. For a moment they stared at each other, then Ábel threw himself to the ground, facedown in the earth. He was shaken by wild uncontrollable sobs, his hands scrabbling in the mud as he pressed his face into the softness, his whole body racking and tossing. He wept quietly, at the back of his throat, with a slight wheeze. Then he stopped moving and lay there a long time while his weeping subsided. When he sat up he wiped his face with his muddy hands and looked wearily around him.
“It’s finished, I think,” he said slowly, with surprise. “I’m quite certain now that we will survive.”
He looked straight ahead and gave a shiver.
“I wasn’t so sure of it before.”
AT PRECISELY TWO O’CLOCK THEY STOPPED OUT-SIDE the pawnbroker’s. It was the only two-story house in the passage. The gray heat spread everywhere, thick as glue. Metal shutters covered the entrance. They rang at the side door and waited, and when no one answered, Tibor turned the door handle and led the way in. The damp sour smell of cabbages greeted them in the dim stairwell, where narrow wooden steps led up to the pawnbroker’s apartment.
Plaster was peeling from the wall. Dirt, cobwebs, a squalid sense of neglect enveloped them.
“Are you scared?” asked Ábel.
Tibor stopped and looked around.
“No,” he said uncertainly. “Not exactly. What I feel is loathing, just as the actor said I would. And the air is foul.”
He turned round.
“Leave it to me and don’t say anything,” he said quietly.
They had dined at the riverside café, having spent the remainder of the morning in silence. Only occasionally did Tibor emerge from the water and venture onto the shore to lie on his back, gently rocking. They had undressed in the same cabin, their talk general and louder than usual, Ábel laughing a lot, rather nervously, and once outside they shouted ribaldries at each other across the banks. They seized every chance of rendering the memory of what had earlier passed between them as uninteresting as possible. They talked of things that were of no great consequence, of their plans, of what the future might have to offer should things work out well, providing that the insignificant event that was waiting for them—the enlisting and what Kikinday had tactfully referred to as “setting off on their travels”—did not prevent them. Tibor wanted to set up a stud farm in the lowlands. Why specifically a stud farm he could not say, but he confessed that he had been reading up on the subject and had secretly struck up acquaintance with horse dealers. Having dwelt on this for a while he suddenly stopped as if he had just woken up and courteously asked: And you?
Ábel shrugged. “Might go abroad,” he said.
The sky was gradually clouding up. There was a distant rumbling but the rain couldn’t quite rouse itself to fall. They were helpless. They couldn’t think of anything more to say. Ábel went into the cabin first, then waited in the street while Tibor got dressed.
There were two doors along the upstairs corridor and they looked and wondered what to do. But before they could knock one of the doors opened and Havas stepped out.
Later, when Ábel thought back to this afternoon, to these days generally but specifically to this afternoon and this night, it was, above all, to the shock he experienced the moment he saw the pawnbroker emerge through the door of his apartment. Havas is standing in the doorway, wiping his walrus mustache with the back of his hand, smiling, he bows a little, and, using one hand only, fusses with the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. As he smiles his eyes are almost entirely obscured by the rings of fat that surround them. He makes a welcoming gesture towards the door and allows them to pass through it ahead of him. His breath reminds Ábel of kitchens, of washing-up and cold lard. That might be because the hall too smells strongly of stale food and the table of the room into which they are ushered is covered with the neglected remains of food in bowls, on plates, and in cups. None of this would strike him as shocking were it not for some glimmering memory, larger than life, that he has seen all this and experienced it before. But at the same time he knows for a fact that he has never been here. It was a dream, a dream in which he had met Havas, who had appeared, exactly as he has just done, in his doorway, wiping his walrus mustache with the back of his hand, buttoning up his collar with the very same smile. It is as if he has experienced it all: the smell of cold food, everything down to the last detail, the smell, the quality of light, the sounds, all exactly the same. He knows that this is the only possible way for the pawnbroker to appear, smoothing his mustache, fussing with his collar, but never before has he been quite so shaken by a sense of déjà vu, to the extent that he takes a startled step back. But the pawnbroker fails to notice his shock, bows low before them and ushers them into the room, then closes the door.
“Please be so good as to take a seat,” said Havas, pushing two chairs up to the table. “I assume the young gentlemen have had their dinner. I would be greatly obliged if they would permit me to continue mine.”
He waited courteously while Tibor indicated that they did not mind, then sat down, tied the napkin around his neck, and took a brief survey of the pots and plates.
“I do believe I had got this far,” he eventually said and pulled a dish of what looked like pâté towards him, dipped into it with a soup spoon, and pushed the spoon into his mouth. “Do not be astonished that I eat meat without bread,” he said, chomping with what seemed like a modest smile. “Bread is fattening. Meat is not. I have got used to doing without bread altogether as you can see. May I offer the gentlemen something?”
“Please do not trouble yourself, Mr. Havas,” said Tibor.
“A nip of kontusovka? No?”
The uncorked earthenware bottle lay on the table within easy reach.
“A sickly overweight person like me has to be very careful what he eats,” he said, taking a swig from the bottle. “I have to maintain a diet of sorts.”
He waved his enormous hand over the table with its bowls, plates, cups, and salvers where slices of meat, pâtés, and various kinds of sausage lay in cold melted fat. There was no fresh food anywhere. The pawnbroker was clearly a carnivore, and kept every small remnant of meat.
“I’m a lonely old widower and must watch what I eat,” he repeated, cutting a slice of beef, picking it up, and biting substantial chunks out of it.
“So I have worked out my own diet. Flesh is the most easily digestible material, gentlemen. It breaks down so readily. I only have to cook twice a week, on Saturday and Wednesday. Nothing but meat. I can’t eat in restaurants,” he said closing his eyes, “because the portions I allow myself there are so minuscule they attract too much attention. You get to an age when you don’t want to draw too much attention to yourself. In my case,” he hesitated as he licked a finger shining with grease, “I have to eat two pounds of meat at any single sitting.”
He picked up a hunk of half-chewed ham on the bone, raised it to the light and took a bite out of what was left on it.
“I feel positively ill otherwise,” he declared. “I must have precisely two pounds of flesh, without bread, once at dinner, once at supper. I cook such meat as will keep for a few days. I have to watch that there is some variety too. I have an extraordinary digestion. It will accommodate four or five kinds of meat, and indeed desires two pounds of it, but if I eat only one kind, say for instance two pounds of beef at dinner, my stomach demands attention by the afternoon. Pâté is my chief source of nourishment. I keep a constant supply of various pâtés because they keep best without going bad. Sometimes I have to eat in the afternoon too. May I offer you a slice?”
He pushed the gray pâté in front of them.
“Ah well, as you please.”
He took a big bite out of the ham,
his teeth tugging at an obstinate shred of meat, and tore some gristle from the bone.
“I take the odd sip of kontusovka between bites. This is genuine, pure, Polish kontusovka. It keeps your stomach in order. One’s intestines are constantly in rebellion, gentlemen, and kontusovka works through the system like a hose, like a fireman’s hose, a squirt or two puts out the fire, brings peace. I commend it to you.”
He put his head back, raised the bottle to his lips, and took a few gulps. He looked round with red eyes.
“I believe,” he said uncertainly, “that with the gentlemen’s kind permission, I might finish now. Please allow me to put the food away.”
He stood up with difficulty, picked up several dishes at once, put his thumb through the handle of a bowl, opened the doors of an old shelved cupboard in the corner, and put the food back there in precise order, one dish at a time, throwing the chewed ham bone into a box by the stove. Once he had put everything away he carefully turned the key in the cupboard.
“I am a lonely widower with family troubles,” he complained, “and I cannot allow myself the luxury of servants. My habitation is cluttered with objects whose care I cannot leave to strangers. In any case I like being at home by myself.”
He dropped the key into his trouser pocket and stood at the window so the room suddenly darkened for a moment. He searched for a cigar, lit it ceremonially, then sat back in his chair, and made himself comfortable, skillfully adjusting his stomach. With elbows on the table he blew the smoke in the general direction of the lamp and focusing on a spot above their heads asked:
“What can I do for the young gentlemen?”
The smell of decaying rancid fat was so intense Ábel felt as though he were choking in the room. They sat for several long minutes, silent and unmoving. Havas’s manner of eating, his sheer being, had overwhelmed them: it had the power of some inflated natural phenomenon. They could not have been more surprised if he had dragged a live kid into the room, dismembered it in front of them, and proceeded enthusiastically to consume it. The room was full of blackflies. The smell of the food had attracted them through the half-open window and they fell furiously to stinging legs and faces.
“There’ll be a storm,” said Havas, scratching the back of his hand. “The blackflies are acting up.”
He smoked his cigar patiently, prepared to wait. The room was full of curious objects. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling but not one had a light in it. A huge camera was propped on a tripod by the wall. A crowd of tin tankards jostled dustily on top of a cupboard. There was a row of seven-branched candelabra ranged on a table as for an exhibition and various musical clocks were fixed to the wall, not one of them with moving hands.
“A first-class piece of machinery,” said Havas, who had followed their glance to the camera. “Nothing I could do. It was never redeemed: I was stuck with it. There are so many articles on my hands. Are the gentlemen acquainted with Vizi the photographer? He specialized in baby portraits. Now he’s abroad. His wife brought it in. She was left without a penny. She knew nothing about photography. I’m looking after it for the time being. Should Vizi return he can have it back. Its estimated value is two hundred crowns. He can go back to photographing new babies and their firstborn siblings. Do you remember him? He took your pictures too, gentlemen. He stood behind the box, wiggled his hand for your amusement, and said: watch the birdie! A ridiculous profession. Once I had a picture of that sort taken too. I lay naked on a bearskin, my strong little legs kicking in the air. Who would ever think that was me? Imagine me lying naked on a bearskin now like a well-behaved infant, kicking my legs…But Vizi can have his camera back. Havas has a heart.”
“It’s a fine collection you have here, Mr. Havas,” said Tibor, quietly clearing his throat.
They ran their eyes politely and admiringly round the room as if that had been the sole object of their visit, as if they wanted no more than to inspect the private collection of a genuine aesthete. There was a decided orderliness in the room, though not one you could detect at first glance. A casual visitor might have thought he had strayed into the chaos of an overcrowded junk shop, but once his eyes had gotten used to the half-light and had adjusted to the mess before him, he would have noticed how everything was in its proper place. A stuffed fox stood on top of an American traveling trunk. An empty birdcage hung on the wall. Ábel’s attention was caught by the birdcage. It seemed such an unlikely object for Havas to possess that he couldn’t help asking if Mr. Havas was fond of birds.
The pawnbroker was busy with his bottle of kontusovka, sniffing the top of it.
“Dear God,” he muttered with distaste. “They’re making cheap imitations of this now. It comes from Poland, so the fakes must be made there too. Genuine kontusovka burns your throat…Birds?” He turned to face Tibor. “We get what we get. It was pawned like the rest if you please. It was offered to me though I cannot think why I accepted it. I’m not a pet shop. But it was such a tiny singing sort of bird…a siskin, if you know the species, gentlemen. A person gets lonely. It sang when I woke in the morning. You wouldn’t believe, gentlemen, how quickly a lonely person such as I can get used to a singing bird. Trouble was, he couldn’t get used to meat. He only sang for two days.”
He looked straight ahead, seemingly lost in a sad memory.
“Why should I buy him seeds and millet, I thought, when I have so much meat? Swallows eat flies. Why shouldn’t a siskin eat meat too? The cupboard is always full of meat. I gave him tiny snippets of the finest veal. He couldn’t get used to it.”
He waved the matter away.
“I couldn’t keep him long. I am not, I repeat, a pet shop. This was a piece of speculative business, you understand, gentlemen? I never take animals as surety. But Havas has a heart and one day a lady comes in, a lady of mature years who has seen some troubles in her time, and pushes this cage over the counter. What is your ladyship thinking of? I ask her. What is the value of a siskin? Now I really have seen everything. Tears and words. It was this thing and that thing. She desperately needed four crowns. She was expecting some money in three days’ time and she swore by all she loved that she would bring it in because this bird was everything in the world to her. Call this business! I said to myself. But she wouldn’t go away and the bird started singing. Three days, I said, fine, because I was in a good mood and I have a heart. The young gentlemen cannot begin to imagine what people bring in. People of the utmost refinement…the entire town. Naturally, I don’t say anything. But the bird kept singing. It’s hungry, I thought. But it didn’t eat the meat and then it stopped singing. I knew it would remain on my hands. What would a lonely widower want with a caged bird?”
He propped his heavy brow on his hands and stuffed the cigar into a cigar-holder.
“Now imagine, gentlemen. On the third day the lady returns. She stands at the counter. Here are the four crowns, my dear sweet Mr. Havas, may God reward you for your kindness. May I please have my bird back? What bird? I say. She begins to tremble and stands there, her mouth wide open. The bird, Mr. Havas, she says, my bird, the siskin you kindly agreed to take for a couple of days, my darling little siskin? And she grips the bars on my counter. I look at her and think, yes indeed you should return that bird. The problem was that it was no longer singing.”
He indicated the litter basket full of bones and leftover food in front of the stove.
“Fortunately the cleaner only comes in last thing in the evening. So I let down the shutters, go up to the apartment, search through the litter basket, and find the little creature. It was already rather stiff. Lucky I still had it, I thought, now Havas, go out and show the client that you don’t lose anything through carelessness in this business. I picked the little bird up, and placed it in a box, properly packaged as the contract regarding all returned articles requires. It was no bigger than a pocket watch. I tie the box round with string, as is proper, and seal it precisely as required by the contract. I pass it back over the counter to her and wait for her to say s
omething. What is this, Mr. Havas? she asks and turns the box round in her hand. For God’s sake, what is it? You should have seen the lady, gentlemen. She was wearing a pair of knitted gloves that only half covered her hands. She had a little black straw hat on her head, worn high like this. One siskin, I answer. I wait. She breaks the seals, tears the string, and there’s the siskin. She lifts it out, holds it in her palm, and gazes at it. I thought she was going to make a scene. But just imagine. There was no shouting, all she said was: oh, oh.”
“What did she say?” asked Ábel and leaned forward.
Havas gave him a glance. “She said: oh, oh,” he repeated. “Nothing else. Nor did she go away but just stood there with the bird in her hand, the tears dropping from her eyes. Then I grew angry because isn’t this just the kind of thing that happens when a man listens to his heart? Why cry for the bird, your ladyship? It wouldn’t touch meat. Are you not ashamed of yourself, all this fuss about a bird? Ashamed, Mr. Havas? she asks. Then I got really angry, as I always do when I pay too much attention to my heart, then have to bear the consequences. Does your ladyship not know there is a war on? I said. Are you not ashamed to weep over a bird when so many are dying day after day? You should be ashamed of yourself, I said, and slammed the shutter down. I am not an evil man but my heart wasn’t up to it. Do you know what she said? Who should I cry for? she asked. Then I started shouting: You scarecrow, you bird fancier! Millions die and you have no one to weep for? No one, she answers. Then weep for those millions, I tell her, and by this time I don’t know whether to shout or laugh. Can you imagine what she said to me then? I don’t know those people.”
He half filled a glass with water and drank a long draught.
“I don’t deal in birds. Imagine, gentlemen!” He smashed his fist down on the table. “I’m sorry. But I get into such a temper each time I think of that old woman and her siskin. One should pay no attention to one’s heart. I accept everything: silver, binoculars, slightly used clothes, but birds, no.” He raised his head defiantly and blew out a dense cloud of smoke that he dispersed with his hand. “No, and again no.”
