Balint went round at once to the apartment house in Museum Street where Laszlo had had his flat. By the entrance door he found a sign posted: FOR RENT. FURNISHED ROOMS WITH PRIVATE ENTRANCE. THIRD FLOOR. He went in search of the hall-porter, who confirmed that, two weeks before, Count Gyeroffy had given up his flat, packed up all his possessions and left.
‘Did he leave an address?’
‘No, but I believe he went back to Transylvania. I don’t really know.’
Chapter Nine
BEFORE GYEROFFY WENT TO VARAD, and afterwards to Kolozsvar where he had the unfortunate encounter with Wickwitz, he had promised Fanny Beredy to remain in Transylvania only for two or three days before returning to go with her, and the rest of her court, Szelepscenyi, d’Orly, Solymar, Devereux and the two nieces, to Milan to hear a new Puccini opera. Fanny hoped that the trip might help wean her lover away from his foolish wasteful life and she had also thought how wonderful it would be to travel together, to stay in the same hotels, spend the nights in each other’s arms, and do so many things that were impossible for them in Budapest where their every move was sure to be seen by someone they knew. When a week had gone by and Laszlo had not returned, she sent him a telegram: no reply. She sent him another and another. Still no reply. Fanny was deeply hurt and, telling herself that her lover needed to be taught a lesson, she swallowed her disappointment and left for Italy with the others.
Gyeroffy got back to Budapest the day after Fanny had left. He arrived late in the evening. In the depressed and self-tormenting mood that he had been unable to shake off since his discovery of Wickwitz’s perfidy and unscrupulous behaviour, nothing would have induced him to remain alone in his cold little furnished apartment. The mere thought of it filled him with repulsion.
All the time in the train from Transylvania, during which he had felt impelled to reassure himself every few minutes that the great wad of banknotes was still safely in the inner pocket of his jacket, for that large sum of money was the sacred ransom by which he would redeem Fanny’s pearls and his own honour, he had been obsessed by the thought that he himself was no better than Wickwitz. You are a scoundrel, he said to himself, just like Nitwit. By what right did you insult him when you are just as guilty as he is? And, as the train rumbled on he kept on repeating to himself to the rhythm of the train’s movement: You’re as bad as he is … as bad as he is … as bad as he is … as bad as he is …
He had to go out. But where? He went to the Casino, his legs seemingly finding their own way with no conscious direction from his head. He just dashed out, unchanged, only pausing long enough to throw some cold water on his face and wash his hands. On the way he kept on touching the packet in his pocket, that sacred packet which must not be lost as it represented all that he had left in the world. When that had gone there would be no more!
It was midnight when he walked up the Casino steps.
A ball was in progress in the great ground-floor rooms. Carnival had lasted longer than usual that year and the huge building resounded with the music of the band. As Laszlo walked through the hall they were just carrying into the ballroom the cotillion favours, those little delicate nosegays of flowers, and the sight pierced Laszlo’s heart sharply. All this life was finished for him now. Never again would he set foot here, immaculately dressed, to lead the dancing. Here, too, he had failed. He almost ran to the stairs so as to escape the sounds of music and gaiety that came from the ballroom. In the hall there were a number of little groups of men discussing politics, arguing and making statements. Laszlo hurried past and disappeared up the stairs.
In the big card-room on the first floor poker was being played for small stakes. Gyeroffy decided not to join in but had a small table brought close to the play and told them to serve his dinner there. He ordered a bottle of absinthe, the most potent of the waters of Lethe, hoping that thereby he could drown the self-accusatory feelings that gnawed at his heart. Time went by and some of the onlookers from the big game at the baccarat-room upstairs came down and told how play was higher than ever upstairs, with astronomical sums being won and lost. Laszlo automatically felt his inner pocket to be sure that the packet of money was still in its place. He went on drinking in silence, talking to no one. Later on someone else came in and told everyone that the Black Cockatoo, the Croatian millionaire Arzenovics, was ‘losing his shirt’ upstairs. It seemed that he had had the most amazing run of bad luck. A little later someone else put their head round the door and said the same thing.
Laszlo got up and went into the little anteroom from which led the stair up to the baccarat-room. He paused, listening. From above nothing could be heard except the soft chink of counters and the occasional phrase: ‘Je donne … Non! Les cartes passent.’
He stood there for a long time his fingers just touching his jacket where he could feel the wad of money in the inside pocket.
Then slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, automatically, he started up the stairs.
For a while Laszlo watched the play, standing mesmerized behind the seated gamblers. There were never less than twenty or thirty thousand crowns on the table. Donci Illesvary, young Rosgonyi, Wuelffenstein and Gedeon Pray were all there and whether they bet high or low they always won. Stacks of chips were ranged in front of Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi and across the table from him sat Zeno Arzenovics; but no one was standing near Zeno, for onlookers don’t like to stay too close to a loser. All those not playing were grouped behind Szent-Gyorgyi across the table: it was as if everyone were laying siege to the rich man from Bacska who, his elbows spread wide on the baize-covered table and seated between two empty chairs, stood his ground with a stony, expressionless face. Each time he lost he calmly noted the sum on a slip of paper by his side. The only sign that these continual losses were becoming a serious matter even for him was the chewed-up state of the cigar in his mouth. ‘Sixteen! Banco!’ He lost again. ‘Twenty-four! Banco!’ That went too. And so it went on. Arzenovics did not win once; but one of the others at the table won twenty-eight times running, and most of what he won had been lost by the Black Cockatoo.
A little voice inside Laszlo said: ‘You could win all you need on a single hand!’ but Gyeroffy did not move. The voice went on: ‘Try it! The money’s on the table: you’ve only got to grab it! You can stake ten or fifteen thousand, that’s all you need, and there’s plenty in your pocket. Remember Napoleon’s ‘La victoire est aux gros bataillons!’ But Laszlo stood fast, not moving, only his hand fingering his waistcoat pocket. Then Pray, who was sitting next to the empty chair on Arzenovic’s right, won nine times running. ‘You idiot!’ muttered Laszlo’s little voice. ‘If you’d joined in as I suggested a lot of that would be yours. Go on! Join in! Just with the four thousand that’s your own, if you must, but at least with that …’
At this moment the Steward came round to see if anyone needed more chips or wanted to cash in their winnings.
‘Here! Bring me a float!’ said Laszlo as he passed, and sat down in the empty place between Zeno and Pray. It was considered lucky to sit on the right of a big loser. When the taille came in front of him Laszlo uttered those decisive words: ‘Passe la main!’ Some time went by before the cards came his way again. They remained for a long time on the other side of the table. In the meantime Laszlo ordered his bottle of absinthe to be brought up to him and, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine, took several large swigs to chase away the unwelcome feeling. The pack came round to him at last. Zeno, on his left, won a single coup. Laszlo put two thousand crowns on the table. He won. He won four more times and when the fifth time came he lost but, even though he had not halved, some twenty thousand remained on the table in front of him, for his last bank had not been matched.
Now Laszlo was flooded with a strange sense of liberation, his conscious mind hardly registering what was going on around him. He felt as if he were floating in a great sea, on the crest of waves that themselves were merely the surface of profound unknown depths. He was like a man who, after days thirsting in a water
less desert, could at last plunge his body in a cool mountain stream. In this instant he was almost happy, freed of the nagging thoughts and self-reproaches that had recently so haunted his imagination. Now he thought of nothing but the game, the esprit de taille – the way the cards were running. This was the only thing of importance in the world: for this one had to know if one really wanted to win.
Laszlo no longer played with the elegant disdain which has so won Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi’s admiration when he had started playing eighteen months before. At that time everything had seemed unreal, the chips signifying only numbers, not money; for then all that mattered was that he should be accepted as an equal among them, accepted and respected. But later, firstly when he had lost Klara by breaking his word to her and even more so since the day when Fanny had paid his debts by pawning her pearls, Laszlo had played with a fierce intensity, intent only upon winning. Win! Win! At all costs he must, must win … and, as a result, he played with intense determination, his nerves stretched ever tauter by the knowledge of his mounting losses and rapidly approaching ruin.
The time had come when any heavy loss would mean disaster.
The game continued for a long time as fast and furious as when Laszlo had first come in to watch. Now that he was playing the pile of chips in front of him sometimes grew and sometimes dwindled almost to nothing. At nearly half-past four the run of the cards changed. Arzenovics suddenly began to hold better cards, winning outright several times running. Gyeroffy, still on his right, started to swim with the bank, though by no means betting high. In a few moments he was losing heavily. A chill ran down his spine. Now he was really in deep water, for he was playing with money that was not his. He knew that he must not do this, must not run after his money, but if he did not, what was he to do? Somehow he had to win back what he had lost. Twice more he tried to come to the surface, like a man drowning; and twice more he sank to the depths, losing all he had staked. The Black Cockatoo still held the bank, but Laszlo sat back in his chair, the world darkening around him.
He closed his eyes, but fiery circles danced before him and he came to his senses only when the Steward announced that five o’clock had struck and everyone else started to get up and leave.
‘How much do I owe, please?’ said Laszlo as he got up from his chair beside Zeno.
‘Wait a moment, I’ll just add up! Seventy-two, yes, that’s it.’
‘Thank you, I just wanted to know.’ said Laszlo, and walked slowly to the door and down the stairs. He fingered the thick wad of notes in his pocket to pay. He had eighty-six thousand. It was there, still there …
It was daylight when Laszlo walked home. Market carts were rumbling through the streets and the refuse collectors’ bells tinkled as they stopped in front of one house after another.
Laszlo slept until the late afternoon. Then, lying in the darkened room, he took stock of his position and passed judgement on himself. He sentenced himself to social death. From this, he realized, there was no escape. The choice was simple – public disgrace or secret shame. Either he would be thrown out of the Casino for not paying his debts, and out of society, too, of course, or else he could pay his debts and forget about redeeming Fanny’s pearls, thereby living a lie, living without honour, no better than that Wickwitz whom he had publicly insulted for doing precisely the same! He had to choose one of these alternatives; there was nothing else open to him. It would be terrible to live on, shunned by everyone and branded as a fool and a defaulter, but it would be even more terrible to have to live with his secret shame if he did not honour his debt to Fanny. The first would be more bearable, for all his worldly ambitions had crumbled to dust anyhow during the last year. He said to himself that everything had to come to an end sooner or later, and that if social ruin was to be his fate it was better that it should come of his own free will and by his own decision.
He sat for a long time at the desk he had placed in the window and where once he had worked so hard upon his music and with such a will. Now it was covered in dust, unused for many months, and on it was the packet of banknotes, worth more than he had lost the previous night, which was to be the ransom for Fanny’s pearls, wrapped in brown paper and tied with thread, untouched. And so it should remain. This was her money, not his, and if he were to use a cent of it he would be a thief as well. That he would not do.
Now that his mind was at last made up he felt a calm indifference spread over him, as if he were making plans not for himself but for someone long since forgotten.
For the next two days Laszlo was extremely busy. First of all he went to the jeweller’s in the Dorottya Street where he was told that Mr Bacherach had gone away for a few days but was expected back soon: at two o’clock on the day after next he would, no doubt of it, be back in the shop. Then he went up to the old quarter near the royal palace, to the house in Donath Street, gave his notice, paid for the last quarter’s rent and sold his furniture, naturally for far less than it was worth. Then he packed up all Fanny’s things – her silken wraps, kimonos, cosmetics, slippers, everything he could find that belonged to her – and had it all posted to the Beredy Palais. Then he arranged for his piano to be sent to Kozard.
It took Laszlo two days to get all this done. On the second day he gave up the Museum Street flat. He removed all his clothes from the cupboards and carefully packed them in his trunk and suitcases. As he did so he became aware of the new grey morning coat which he had worn only on the day of the King’s Cup race and never again since. It was lying on his bed, the striped trousers beside it and on the floor the black and beige shoes with their wooden lasts in place. It was as though the corpse of his former life lay there on the bed, empty, inert, disembowelled. He folded everything carefully and as he picked up the waistcoat, a little betting slip fell to the floor from the breast pocket; the number nine looked reproachfully up at him from the threadbare carpet. He picked it up. It had been the tote ticket for that ill-omened bet, the bet he had lost. His superstitious words came back to him; suddenly ringing in his head he could hear his reply when Fanny had asked him how much he had risked: ‘Not much! Only my life!’ How true that had been! He thought about it for a few moments, then slipped the little paper back into the pocket from which it had fallen and packed the whole suit as if it had never meant anything to him. He felt no excitement or emotion of any sort: he might have been packing away the life and memories of someone he did not know.
A little before midday, the telephone rang. It was the secretary of the Casino reminding him that precisely at noon that day the forty-eight hours’ delay would be up and that if Count Gyeroffy’s debts had not by then been settled, his name would be posted on the blackboard.
‘Thank you! I understand,’ said Laszlo, and rang off.
So his name would be on the board, which wasn’t black even though they called it so. In fact it was a large rectangle of smooth green felt in a frame two metres wide. On it, fastened only by a drawing pin, would be a little slip of paper with a name written on it, nothing more, but everyone knew what it meant … if the person whose name appeared there had not settled his losses within one week he would automatically be scratched from the list of members. Laszlo had once seen there such a name, though now he could not recall whose it was. It hardly mattered, for now it would be his, pilloried there for all to see – Count Laszlo Gyeroffy – just that, no more. It would remain there for a week and then it would disappear … for ever.
The telephone rang again. This time it was Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi’s butler saying that his master would like to see Count Gyeroffy at once if that were possible. Laszlo automatically replied that he would, only later wondering why he had been summoned and regretting that he had not refused to go. However, he had said he would and he could hardly back out of it now. Therefore he picked up his hat and gloves and went out, but not before putting the packet of money in his pocket, for Mr Bacherach would be in his shop at two o’clock.
Count Neszti lived quite close by in a house surrounded by a garden in Ho
ranszky Street. It was a strange house and everything inside bore the imprint of its owner’s tastes. The floors were covered with the skins of lions and tigers, killed of course by Count Neszti himself, and the walls were closely patterned by the stuffed heads of more wild game also shot by the owner of the house. Under these trophies, low bookcases contained every issue of the stud book and on the chimney-shelf were arranged a multitude of great cups and trophies which his horses had won all over the world during the past three decades. When Laszlo came in he found Count Neszti seated in a deep armchair, the remains of his breakfast on a table beside him. He was smoking a pipe because he liked it, and because he believed that every pleasure should be indulged even if it were not the fashion.
‘Come along in,’ he said in his usual swift monotone. He gestured Laszlo towards a chair. ‘Sit down, I want to ask you something.’ He put up his monocle. ‘Did you know that your name has been posted on the blackboard?’
‘I know.’
‘Well? Can you settle … or not?’
Laszlo hesitated for a moment, his elbow pressed tightly against the wad in his pocket.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’ He looked Szent-Gyorgyi firmly in the face. Count Neszti let his eye-glass drop. He lifted a hand to his face and twirled his long drooping moustaches. Not a muscle moved, his features might have been carved from granite.
‘So you can’t! I thought as much.’ He, too, paused for a moment. Then he passed a hand over the smooth marble-like surface of his bald skull before asking: ‘How much is it altogether?’
‘Seventy-two thousand on word of honour and five thousand signed for.’
‘And what do you intend to do about it?’ said Count Neszti with ice in his voice. Laszlo continued to look the older man in the eye, but he did not answer or move, only his fingers imperceptibly caressed the money in his pocket.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 76
