From these dark thoughts it was once again Wun-Hi who distracted him, dancing out on to the centre of the stage and this time really surpassing himself. Fanning his face with his long pigtail, he launched into the famous vaudeville song:
Chin Chin Chinaman
Muchee muchee sad!
He afraid allo trade
Wellee wellee bad!
Noee joke, brokee broke
Makee shutee shop!
Chin Chin Chinaman,
Chop, chop, chop!
The effect was so great that the show was held up for several minutes as the applause refused to abate.
It came from everywhere, from the boxes, the stalls and the gods. Leaning right out of his box and completely forgetting himself, Ákos was clapping too, melting, utterly bewitched, into this rapture of approval, and hammering out the rhythm of the ditty on the sill of his box. He no longer cared whose glasses were focused upon him. He was swept along by the fever of the crowd, as was his wife. They laughed so much that tears streamed down their faces.
“Chin Chin Chinaman...” the woman chortled.
“Chop, chop, chop,” Ákos echoed playfully, pointing back at her, slicing the air with his finger.
But there was more to come. Now it was time for the topical stanzas of the song, clumsily adapted to reflect the local political issues of the day. Sárszeg was also “wellee, wellee bad,” because it was a sea of mud, had no sewage system and its theatre ran without electricity. The audience roared.
The Lord Lieutenant, himself implicated by the joke, none the less tried to set an appropriate example by graciously condescending to beat his palms together to show that he appreciated the severe, but not unjust, criticism of the general state of affairs.
He only sprang to his feet–and then like a jack-in-the-box–when it was suggested that the Hentzi statue was also for the “chop, chop, chop.” At this he withdrew to the depths of his box. As the representative of the Hungarian government of the day there was, after all, little else he could do.
In this highly charged atmosphere the show came to a close. Ákos registered to his surprise that the curtain had fallen for the last time and the audience was already thronging towards the cloakroom.
For a few moments he remained in his seat studying the programme and rubbing the sweat from his palms. He took his neatly folded handkerchief from his frock-coat pocket and wiped his burning face. The woman searched under the box seats for her handbag.
By the time they reached the foyer, the crowd had thinned.
Arácsy, standing before the box office, gave Ákos a thoroughly unctuous greeting and squeezed his hand. Ákos expressed his enthusiasm for the performance and promised they would come again. But then the stage door opened and the prima donna came running over to the director.
Without even removing her make-up, she had merely slipped on a light silk gown and was ready to hurry off somewhere.
The old man looked at her hesitantly.
Arácsy introduced her.
Ákos bowed before the prima donna no less courteously than he had bowed before the Lord Lieutenant at the beginning of the evening.
The woman offered her hand and Ákos took it.
“Congratulations,” he stuttered, “You were magnificent.”
“Oh, I hardly think so,” replied the prima donna, feigning modesty.
“Truly, madam, truly you were. And I am not one for flattery. You were quite magnificent.”
“Really?” lisped Olga Orosz, letting out a husky chuckle.
An overpowering fragrance wafted about her, the latest perfume, Heliotrope.
The warm, soft little paw would not let go of the man's hand. Not until some moments had passed.
Ákos went back over to his wife who was waiting by the exit.
“The way she laughs,” the woman remarked. “Just like on stage.”
“Yes, she plays her part quite naturally.”
They strolled through the still warm night. Only when they reached Széchenyi Square did the woman speak:
“They say she's in love with Zányi.”
“No,” replied Ákos. “She's in love with Dani Kárász. She's going to marry him.”
At that moment an open landau thundered past them, drawn by two splendid, lively bays. Inside, pressed close together, sat Olga Orosz and Dani Kárász.
The old couple watched the carriage disappear.
VII
in which the couple talk to a fledgling provincial poet
At midday on Tuesday their table at the King of Hungary, which the waiter had reserved for them, remained empty.
Ákos ate with the Lord Lieutenant. His wife took the opportunity to lunch with an old friend, Mrs Záhoczky, the widow of a colonel and the president of the Catholic Ladies’ Association, at whose home the ladies of Sárszeg would congregate every Tuesday to discuss, over coffee and whipped cream, preserves and assorted pastries, matters of everyday business.
Lately they had proved themselves particularly zealous in the charitable field. They had founded an orphanage, a Mary Society for young ladies, and a Martha Home for serving girls, where one could be assured of finding reliable staff. Their attention had even extended to the rapid spread of poverty in the town, and they provided free meals and clothes to a number of the poor, quite irrespective of religion. All their members made sacrifices, each according to her means, and they were looked upon with gratitude by the whole town.
Mrs Vajkay's husband came for his wife at around six o'clock. He related to her all that had occurred at the Lord Lieutenant's lunch.
There must have been about forty people present, he said, among them the Budapest commissioner, a most obliging gentleman. They had all had a splendid time. The consommé was served in little cups, not in bowls as at home or at the King of Hungary. There were two types of fish, followed by fillet steak in a sauce with ham dumplings. There had been a choice of dessert, which he had found himself too full to try. He had, however, allowed himself half a glass of French champagne.
His wife, for her part, described the afternoon tea. Above all she extolled the milk loaf, which was particularly fresh and spongy.
On the corner of Széchenyi Square they ran into Miklós Ijas.
Everyone ran into someone in Sárszeg, like it or not, several times a day. For the town was so constructed that wherever one was headed, one's route unavoidably led across the square. The townsfolk hardly bothered to greet one another, and merely signalled with their eyes. Such encounters were not occasions of any great excitement. It was rather like members of the same large family meeting one another in the hall of their own home.
The only point of interest was the time at which such encounters would occur. Everyone kept his own hours. Mályvády, for example, would always come striding across the square at exactly half past seven, followed by his pupils, to whom he was as friendly and benign out of school as he was strict once the first bell had sounded. His pupils stumbled behind him carrying cardboard boxes, discs and iron rods for their physics experiments. Sometimes they could even be seen bringing tame rabbits or sparrows which their teacher would place inside a bell jar, deprive of air and summarily execute. Szunyogh would appear just after eight and, hearing the little school bell announce the commencement of classes, would often break into a run, struggling in his overcoat which he wore with the collar turned up, for he was terrified of the headmaster and did not care to be seen arriving late. At nine Dr Gál would make his first appearance. At ten Priboczay completed his familiar manicural manoeuvres outside the pharmacy. At eleven Környey would pass in the driving seat of a light gig, whisked along by a strong, iron-grey horse, belonging to the fire brigade. Just before twelve the actors sauntered across the square, and from noon till dusk the Panthers brought the town to life, installing themselves either in the King of Hungary or in the Széchenyi Café.
Ijas would set off on his travels at about eight in the evening when he finally got away from the editorial office of the Sárszeg Gaze
tte. He'd trudge along the side streets with his only companion, Ferenc Freund, a red-faced, jovial, sharp-witted Jewish boy who understood him, encouraged him and even dabbled a little in poetry himself. But more frequently he'd walk alone, as he did now.
In spite of their fleeting introduction at the theatre the day before, Miklós's unexpected appearance on the square set Ákos Vajkay's mind racing. There had been a time when he had sat young Ijas on his knee and pressed apricots into his mouth. But that was long ago. He hadn't mentioned it at the theatre, for the boy was sure not to remember.
At one time the Vajkays had been frequent guests in the Ijas household, at their tidy, hospitable villa in Tarliget. That was until a dark coincidence all but swept the fine and famous family off the face of the earth.
One evening János Ijas, Miklós's father, a man of considerable social standing in the county, was arrested at his villa in Tarliget by two detectives and taken away.
The case was something of a mystery. After all, his name alone served as sufficient pledge of his honour, and he was known to be a man of considerable means. And if it was true that he squandered money and sometimes risked his hand at cards, he was nevertheless respected as a thoroughly honest man. It was rumoured that the whole affair had been some kind of mistake, that he had been reported by his secret enemies and that there was no evidence against him whatsoever. He had, it was alleged, once sold a property through an intermediary who had accepted the sum of 1,500 forints from a first buyer, but then, when a second appeared, prepared to pay a higher price, had made a separate deal with him. The first buyer, who had thus lost the property he sought, reported Ijas to the authorities by way of revenge, claiming that he had never been reimbursed, and that the sale had already been officially registered.
The details remained somewhat obscure before the public, but Ijas was detained on remand and was refused bail at any sum. Whether or not the hearing ever actually took place, no one could remember. But it was a fact that poor old János Ijas was not released from jail until some eighteen months later, mentally and physically a broken man, whereupon he went abroad and died. Anguish had already driven his wife to the grave during his imprisonment.
At the time the newspapers had written this and that about the case. Especially when the tragedy of the father was followed by that of his eldest son. Jenő Ijas had been stationed in Sárszeg as a lieutenant in the Hungarian army. Because of the rumours surrounding his father's case, proceedings were taken against him too, in order to establish whether, under the circumstances, he could still be considered worthy of his commission. The lieutenant did not wait for the outcome of the investigation. One morning he walked out to the Tarliget estate and there, beneath the huge walnut tree, shot himself in the head with his service revolver. In a farewell letter he pinned to his military tunic, he wrote that this was the least he could do to defend his father's honour and good name.
Only the fifteen-year-old Miklós was left alive. He was taken in by his relations, who brought him up on the Hungarian plain. Here he rode and exercised in the open air, while doing his fair share of eating and sleeping. Later he applied to study law at the University of Kolozsvár but never sat his exams, and learned English instead. When the scandal died down in his home town, he suddenly turned up in Sárszeg, to everyone's surprise, as a journalist.
Because of his awkward situation, Miklós kept himself to himself. Even Feri Füzes picked a quarrel with him and spoke ill of him to others. The Gentlemen's Club refused to grant him membership. Thus he spent his mornings in the Café behind a newspaper and his afternoons in his rented digs, writing. He was seen as something of an eccentric, an ardent devotee of the latest artistic fad, the Secession. The only reason he was out strolling now was that he carried a poem in his head. He had set out in the vain hope that it would take shape along the way, but the words spun in nebulous circles and remained worn, dull and vacant. He sauntered bareheaded in his English suit and slither of a lilac tie, a trilby in his hand. His thick chestnut hair plunged over his steep forehead, exuding eternal youth.
Glimpsing the Vajkays he looked up and hurried over towards Ákos. The day before he had found something deeply sympathetic about the old man's timid, wavering reticence. He stretched out his hand.
“Hello, Ákos.”
Vajkay shook his hand warmly, as if apologising, in everyone's name, for all that had happened.
“Hello, young man.”
Ijas faltered for a moment, then asked:
“Which way are you heading?'
“Home.”
And because he couldn't decide what else to do, and was weary of brooding over his poem, Miklós strung along with them.
“If you don't mind,” he said.
Ákos bowed, the woman lowered her gaze. Young men always made her feel awkward.
They ambled on through the mild evening air in which the houses of Sárszeg stood immobile with a certain false pathos, as if they were still waiting for something to happen.
“Have you much to do at the Gazette?” Ákos asked, simply making conversation.
“Enough.”
“I can well imagine. To write a newspaper every day. All those articles. In these hard times, with the world all upside down...that Dreyfus business...the strikes...”
“Five thousand are on strike in Brazil,” Mother ventured warily.
“Where?” asked Miklós.
“In Brazil,” Ákos repeated with conviction. “Why, only the other day we read about it in a Budapest daily.”
“Possible,” said Ijas. “Yes, I remember reading something,” he mumbled indifferently.
He breathed a deep sigh.
“I'm working on something else right now.”
He was thinking of his poem, which would appear in the Sunday edition of the Gazette, and he gave a twitch of his lips, affecting sensitivity, as he always did when alluding to his unrealised literary ambitions and seeking recognition.
But the allusion was wasted. Ákos had never read his poems. Mother might well have, but she never looked at the authors’ names. She didn't think it important.
They reached the corner of Petőfi Street, which stretched deserted, deep into the silence. Miklós stopped.
“What a miserable wilderness this is,” he said. “How can people bear to live here? If only I could get to Budapest. I was there last week...Ah, Budapest!'
To this he received no reply. All the same it seemed to him they had listened without ill will. And as his confidence in the elderly couple grew, he was overcome by an urge to open his heart to them.
“It was the first time I'd been to the capital,” he began, “since my father died.”
He had mentioned his father. The one person whose name no one dared to speak and whose death had lain silenced under a cloud of shame. This drew the Vajkays closer to the boy.
“Ah, yes, poor fellow,” they said together.
“You knew him, didn't you?” said Miklós, looking at Ákos.
“I did indeed. And liked him. And respected him. He was a very dear friend.”
Their pace slackened. Ákos knitted his brow. How children suffer for their parents, and parents for their children.
Then the woman spoke.
“Our families used to meet. They came to us, we went to them. You, Miklós, were only little then, six or seven. You and Jenő would play at soldiers. We'd sit out on the veranda. By that big, long table.”
“A damn good man,” Ákos interrupted.
“I can hardly remember his face,” said Ijas gravely.
The three of them had arrived beneath a gas lamp. Ákos stopped and looked at Ijas.
“He was about your height. Yes, about as tall. You're a lot like him. But your father was more strongly built.”
“Later he lost weight. Grew terribly thin. He suffered a great deal. We all did. My mother was always in tears. My brother...you know. And me.”
“You were just a child.”
“Yes, and I didn't really understand it
all then. But later. It was hard, my dear Ákos, very hard. They wanted me to be a lawyer. I could probably have found a position in the county administration. But the people...I went to Hamburg. On foot. I wanted to run away to America, where all cheats and embezzlers go.”
He laughed. This laugh offended Ákos. Was it possible that someone could speak so openly about his inner feelings, could confess almost boastfully about what hurt inside? Or maybe it no longer hurt. After all, he had laughed.
“But I didn't go to America,” Miklós continued. “I stayed here. Just for that, I stayed here. I began writing. But believe me, I'm more distant from anybody now than if I had gone to America.”
How so? Ákos couldn't understand. It was just high-flown, childish bravado. But he looked closely at the boy and gradually noticed something about his youthful face. It reminded him a little of Wun-Hi's, hidden behind a mask of thick make-up. It was as if Miklós too wore a mask, only a harder, more rigid one, petrified by pain.
“To me it makes no difference now,” Ijas began again, “what Feri Füzes says, or anyone in Sárszeg, or anywhere else.”
He seemed to mean what he said, for he spoke in a harsh voice and strutted with steely resolve.
At any rate, they were strange fellows, these bohemians. They lounged around doing nothing and told you they were working; they were frightfully miserable and yet would tell you that they were perfectly happy. They had more troubles than others but seemed to bear them better, as if they fed on suffering.
Even Zányi hadn't seemed terribly distraught at being deserted by Olga Orosz. At the Lord Lieutenant's lunch party he had entertained the ladies with great ease, gesticulating with a lightly bandaged hand. Tonight he'd get made up again, and on with the show. Szolyvay was often so short of money that he couldn't even afford dinner and had to borrow from Papa Fehér; even so, he showed no lack of self-esteem. And this poor, unfortunate child, who had every reason to complain, simply bragged, speaking of life to one who had already lived so long, advising him, lecturing him and defying all dissent.
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