csárdás
finished to loud cheers, Halics’s breast was bursting with pride and he could barely refrain from bellowing at the approving crowd: “See! See! That’s me! That’s Halics!” The next two turns of
csárdás
were even more spectacular, Halics surpassing himself with a series of complex, quite inimitable manoeuvres, though he did interrupt these with one or two statuesque poses in which he would all but freeze, with his left or right arm above his head, his body seemingly hollowed out, waiting for the next heavy beat so that he might extend his extraordinary and unique moment of glory with more demonic caperings around the puffing and whooping figure of Mrs. Kráner. Each time a dance was over Halics, would demand a tango, and when Kerekes finally relented and struck up a well-known tune, beating out the rhythm with his great heavy boots, the headmaster could no longer resist and strode up to Mrs. Schmidt, who had been woken by the racket around her, and whispered in her ear: “May I have the pleasure?” Once they started, finally he could clap his right hand on Mrs. Schmidt’s back, the scent of her cologne immediately overwhelmed him and held him entranced, so the dance began a little clumsily, if only because he was desperate to hug her close and lose himself in her hot, radiant breasts; in fact he had to exercise supreme self-control to maintain the “obligatory distance” between them. But it wasn’t an altogether hopeless situation because Mrs. Schmidt dreamily pressed herself ever closer to him, so close, in fact, he thought his blood would boil over, and when the music took a still more romantic turn she actually rested her tearful cheeks on the headmaster’s shoulder (‘You know dancing is my one weakness . . . ’). At that point the headmaster could bear it no longer and awkwardly kissed the soft folds of Mrs. Schmidt’s neck: then, having realized what he’d done, he immediately straightened up but didn’t get to apologize because the woman silently yanked him back to her. Mrs. Halics, whose mood had changed from fierce and active hatred to dumb contempt, naturally observed all this: nothing could remain hidden from her. She was fully aware of what was going on. “But my Lord, our Savior, is with me,” she muttered, firm in her faith, and was only wondering why judgment was so slow in coming: where was the hellfire that would surely destroy them all? “What are they waiting for, up there?!” she thought. “How could they look down on this seething nest of wickedness “straight out of Sodom and Gomorrah” and yet do nothing?!” Because she was so sure that judgment was imminent, she waited ever more impatiently for her own moment of judgment and absolution, even though, as she had to admit, she had sometimes — if only for the odd minute — been tempted by the devil himself to take a nip of wine, and then, under the influence of the Evil One, been constrained to look with sinful desire upon the devil-possessed Mrs. Schmidt’s undulating figure. But God exercised firm governance over her soul and she would fight Satan alone, if need be: just let Irimiás, he who had risen from his own ashes, arrive in time to support her, for she could not be expected, all by herself, to bring an end to the headmaster’s invidious assault. She could not help but see that the devil had gained a complete, if momentary victory — that being the devil’s aim — over those gathered in the bar, for, with the exception of Futaki and Kerekes, they were all on their feet, and even those who could not grab a part of either Mrs. Kráner or Mrs. Schmidt stood close to them, waiting for the dance to end so they could take their turn. Kerekes was tireless, beating out the rhythm with his foot behind “the billiards table,” and the impatient dancers would not allow him any time to rest and drain a glass between numbers, but kept putting ever more bottles beside him on the table, so he should not flag in his efforts. Nor did Kerekes object but kept going, one tango after another, then simply repeating the same one over and over again, though nobody noticed. Of course Mrs. Kráner couldn’t keep pace; her breath came short, the sweat poured off her, her legs were burning and she didn’t even wait for the next dance to finish but suddenly turned on her heels, left the excited headmaster and dropped back in her chair. Halics ran after her with a pleading, accusing look: “Rosie, my dear, my one and only, you’re not going to leave me like that are you? It would have been my turn next!” Mrs. Kráner was wiping herself down with a napkin and waved him away, gasping, “What are you thinking of! I’m no longer twenty!” Halics quickly filled a glass and pressed it into her hand. “Drink this, Rosie darling! Then..! . . .” “There won’t be any “then”!” Mrs. Kráner retorted, laughing. “I don’t have the energy, not like you youngsters!” “As concerns that, Rosie dear, I’m not exactly a child myself! No, but there’s a way, Rosie dear! . . .” But he was unable to continue because his eyes now wandered to the woman’s rising and falling bosom. He took a swallow, cleared his throat and said, “I’ll get you a croissant!” “Yes, that’d be nice,” Mrs. Kráner said gently once he’d gone, and wiped her dripping brow. And while Halics was fetching the tray she gazed at the ever energetic Mrs. Schmidt who twirled dreamily from one man to the other in the course of the tango. “Now, let’s get this down you,” said Halics and sat down very close to her. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, one arm around Mrs. Kráner — without risking anything since his wife had finally fallen asleep by the wall, Silently they munched the dry croissants one after the other, which is how it must have happened that the next time they reached for one their eyes met, because there was only one croissant left. “There’s such a draught in here, can’t you feel it?” the woman said, fidgeting. Halics, gazed deeply into her eyes, his own eyes squinting because of the drink. “You know what Rosie darling,” he said, pressing the last croissant into her hand. “Let’s both eat it, OK? You start from this side, me from the other, until we get to the middle. And you know what, sweetheart? We’ll stop the draught in the door with the rest!” Mrs. Kráner burst out laughing. “You’re always pulling my leg! When’s that hole in your head going to heal up? Very good . . . the door . . . stop the draught . . . !” But Halics was determined. “But Rosie dear, it was you who said there was a draft! I’m not pulling your leg. Go on, take a bite!” And so saying he pressed one end of the croissant into her mouth and immediately clamped his teeth round the other end. As soon as he did so the croissant broke in two and fell into their laps, but they — their mouths just opposite each other! — stayed there unmoving, and then, when Halics started feeling dizzy, he summed up courage and kissed the woman on the mouth. Mrs. Kráner blinked in confusion and pushed the passionate Halics away from her. “Now now, Lajos! That’s not allowed! Don’t act like a fool! What are you thinking!? Anyone might be watching!” She adjusted her skirt. It was only once the window and the glazed part of the door were bright with morning that the dance was over. The landlord and Kelemen were both leaning on the counter, the headmaster had flopped across the table next to Schmidt and Mrs. Schmidt, Futaki and Kráner looked like an engaged couple leaning against each other and Mrs. Halics’s head had dropped onto her chest. They were all fast asleep. Mrs. Kráner and Halics carried on whispering for a while but had not strength enough to get up and bring a bottle of wine over from the counter, and so, in the general air of peaceful snoring, they too were eventually overcome by the desire to sleep. Only Kerekes remained awake. He waited until the whispering had stopped then got up, stretched his limbs, and silently and carefully set off to skirt the tables. He felt around for bottles that still had something left in them, then removed them and set them out in a row on “the billiards table’; he examined the glasses too and whenever he found a drop of wine in one he quickly downed it. His enormous shadow followed him like a ghost across the wall, sometimes drifting onto the ceiling, then, once its master took his uncertain place again, it too rested, in the corner at the back. He swept the cobwebs off the scars and fresh scratches of his frightening face, and then — as best he could — he poured the remnant wine into a single glass and, puffing, set greedily to drinking. And so he drank on without a break until the very last drop vanished in his great gut. He leaned back in his chair, opened his mouth and tried belching a few times, then, not succeeding, he put his hand on his stomach and rambled his way into the corner where he stuck a finger down his throat and started vomiting. Having finished he straightened up and wiped his mouth with his hand. “So that’s done with,” he grumbled, and retired behind “the billiards table” again. He picked up the accordion and struck up a sentimental, melancholy tune. He swayed his enormous body back and forth in time to the gentle lilting of the music and when he got to the middle of it a tear appeared in the corner of his numb eyelid. If anyone had appeared then and asked him what suddenly bothered him he wouldn’t have been able to say. He was alone with the puffing sound of the instrument and he didn’t mind being overcome, quite swept away by the slow military air. There was no reason to stop playing it and when he got to the end he started it again, without a break, like a child among sleeping adults, full of a happy sense of satisfaction since, apart from him, no one else was in any position to listen. The velvety sound of the accordion stimulated the spiders of the bar to a new frenzy of activity. Every glass, every bottle, every cup and every ashtray was quickly veiled over with a light tissue of webs. The table- and chair-legs were woven into a cocoon and then — with the aid of one or other secret narrow strand — they were all connected up, as if it were a matter of some importance that they, flattened in their secret, remote corners, should be properly advised of every slight tremor, each microscopic shift, and would be so as long as this strange, all-but-invisible network remained intact. They wove over the faces, hands, and feet of the sleepers too then, lightning-quick, retreated to their hidey-holes so that given one barely perceptible vibration, they should be ready to start again. The horse-flies who were seeking safety from the spiders in movement and night tirelessly described their figures of eight around the faintly flickering lamp. Kerekes played on, half-asleep, his semi-conscious brain full of bombs and crashing planes, of soldiers fleeing the field, and of burning towns, one image rapidly succeeding the other with dizzying speed: and when they entered, it was so silent, and they so unnoticed, that they stopped in astonishment, surveying the scene before them, so Kerekes only sensed, rather than knew, that Irimiás and Petrina had arrived.
Irimiás Makes a Speech
My friends! I confess, I come to you at a difficult time. If my eyes do not deceive me I see that no-one has missed the chance to be present at this fateful meeting. . . . And many of you, trusting, no doubt, that I will be ready to supply you with an explanation for recent events , events that no sane person could describe as anything but an incomprehensible tragedy, seem to have arrived even before the time we arranged only yesterday . . . But what can I say to you, ladies and gentlemen? What else can I say but that . . . I am shaken, in other words, I am cast down. . . . Believe me, I too am utterly confused, so you must forgive me if, for now, I cannot find quite the right words, and that, instead of addressing you as I should, my throat, like yours, is still tight with the shock we all feel, so please don’t be surprised if, on this devastating morning for us all, I am, like you, left helpless and without words, because, I must admit, it does not help me speak when I recall how last night, as we were standing in horror by the lately discovered body of this child, and I suggested that we should try to grab some sleep, we are once again gathered together in the hope that, perhaps now, on the morrow of the event, we might be able to face life with a clearer head, though, believe me, I am as utterly at a loss as you are, and my confusion has only increased with the morning . . . I know I should pull myself together, but am sure you will understand if just at this moment I am incapable of saying or doing anything except share, deeply share, the agony of an unfortunate mother, a mother’s constant, never-to-be-alleviated grief . . . because I don’t think I need tell you twice that the grief of losing — just like that, from one minute to the next — those dearest to our hearts is, my friends, quite beyond measure. I doubt if anyone now gathered here could fail to understand any part of this. The tragedy involves each and every one of us, because, as we know full well, we are all responsible for what has happened. The hardest thing we must face in this situation, is the obligation, through clenched teeth, with lumps in our throats, to examine the case . . . Because — and I really must emphasize this most intensely — there is nothing more important, before the officials arrive, before the police begin their own inquiries, than that we the witnesses, we in our positions of responsibility, should accurately reconstruct events and discover what brought about this horrifying tragedy resulting in the terrible death of an innocent child. It’s best we prepare ourselves, for we are the people the official local agencies will regard as primarily responsible for the catastrophe. Yes, my friends. Us! But surely we should not be surprised at this. Because, if we are honest with ourselves, we must admit that, with a little care, a touch more foresight and some proper circumspection, we could have prevented the tragedy, couldn’t we? Consider that this defenceless creature, she who we might rightly regard now as God’s little outcast, this little lamb, was liable to all kinds of danger, prey to any tramp or passerby — to anything and everything my friends, being out all night, soaked through to the bone in that heavy rain, out in the wild wind, easy prey to all the elements . . . and, through our blind thoughtlessness, our unforgivable wicked thoughtlessness, she was left wandering about like a stray dog, here in our vicinity, practically in our midst, driven here and there by all kinds of forces while never straying too far from us. She might possibly have been looking through that very window, watching you, ladies and gentlemen, as you danced drunkenly through the night, and as, I cannot deny it, we ourselves passed, passed while she watched us from behind a tree or from the depths of a haystack, while we were stumbling, rain-beaten and exhausted past the well-known milestones, our destination Almássy Manor — indeed, her path lay near to us, so close to us we might have reached out and touched her and no one, you understand, no one hurried to help her or strained to catch her voice, because it’s certain that at the moment of death she must have cried out to us — to someone! — but the wind blew away the sound, and she was lost in the tumult you yourself were making, you, ladies and gentlemen! What brought about this terrible combination of chance factors, you will ask, what pitiless whim of fate?.. Don’t misunderstand me, I am not accusing any particular person here . . . I am not accusing the mother who might never again enjoy a night of peaceful slumber because she cannot forgive herself for the fact that, on this one fateful day, she woke too late. Nor do I — like you, my friends — accuse the victim’s brother, this fine upstanding young man with a bright future, who was the last to see her alive, just two hundred yards from here, barely two hundred yards from you, ladies and gentlemen, you, who, suspecting nothing, were patiently waiting for us to appear, only to fall into a dull drunken sleep . . . I am not accusing any particular person of anything and yet . . . let me put this question to you: are we not all to blame? Would it not be more befitting if, instead of offering cheap excuses, we confessed that, yes, we are indeed guilty? Because — and in this respect Mrs. Halics is undoubtedly right — we should not kid ourselves, hoping to put our consciences at rest by pretending that all that has happened was merely a peculiar accident, a coming together of chance events we could do nothing about . . . It wouldn’t take me a minute to prove you wrong about that! Let us take stock, piece by piece, each one of us in turn . . . let us analyse the dreadful moment and examine its several parts, because the big question — and we should not forget this, ladies and gentlemen! — is what actually happened here yesterday morning. I went through the particulars of the night over and over again before I stumbled on the truth! Please don’t think it is just a matter of not knowing
how
the tragedy came about, since the fact is we don’t even know
what it is
that has happened . . . The details we are aware of, the various confessions we have heard, are so contradictory that it would take a genius, a man with sprouts for brains, as you put it round here, to see through the rather convenient fog and make out the truth . . . All we know is that the child is dead. That’s not a lot, you must admit! That is why, I thought later, once I could lie down on the bed in the storeroom that this kind gentleman, the landlord, had selflessly offered up to me, that’s why there is no other way than to go through the events step by step — and I remain convinced that that is the only correct procedure open to us . . . We must collate all the most seemingly insignificant details, so please don’t hesitate to recall what might appear to you to be unimportant. Think hard about what you might have missed telling me yesterday, because this is the only way we will find both an explanation and some kind of defense in the most demanding moments of the public examination to come . . . Let us use the brief time available to us, since who can we trust but ourselves — no one else can lay bare the story of this momentous night and morning. . . .
The grave words rang mournfully through the bar: it was like the continuous tolling of furiously beaten bells, the sound of which served less to direct them to the source of their problems than simply to terrify them. The company — their faces reflecting the terrible dreams of the night before, choked up with memories of foreboding images between dreams and waking — surrounded Irimiás, anxious, silent, spellbound, as if they had only just woken, their clothes rumpled, their hair tangled, some with the pressure marks of pillows still on their faces, waiting benumbed for him to explain why the world had turned upside down while they were sleeping . . . it was all a terrible mess. Irimiás was sitting in their midst, his legs crossed, leaning back majestically in his chair, trying to avoid looking into all those bloodshot, dark-ringed eyes, his own eyes staring boldly ahead, his high cheekbones, his broken hawk-like nose and his jutting, freshly shaven chin tilted above everyone’s head, his hair, having grown right down his neck, curled up on both sides, and, every now and then, when he came to a more significant passage, he would raise his thick, close, wild eyebrows as well as his finger to direct his listeners’ eyes to wherever he chose.
But before we set out on this dangerous road, I must tell you something. You, my friends, deluged us with questions when we arrived yesterday at dawn: you cut across each other, explaining, demanding, stating and withdrawing, begging and suggesting, enthusing and grumbling, and now, in response to this chaotic welcome, I want to address two issues, though I might already have broached them with you individually . . . Someone asked me to “reveal the “secret’, as some of you called it, of our “disappearance” about eighteen months ago . . . Well, ladies and gentlemen, there is no “secret’; let me nail this once and for all: there was no secret of any kind. Recently we have had to fulfill certain obligations — I might call these obligations a mission — of which it is enough, for now, to say, that it is deeply connected to our being here now. And having said that, I must rob you of another illusion because, to put it in your terms, our unexpected meeting is really pure chance. Our route — that is to say mine and that of my friend and highly valuable assistant — led us to Almásssy Manor, being obliged — for certain reasons — to make an emergency visit there in order to take what we might call a survey. When we set out, my friends, we did not expect to find you here: in fact we weren’t even sure whether this bar would still be open . . . so, as you see, it was indeed a surprise for us to see you all again, to come upon you as if nothing had happened. I can’t deny it felt good to see old familiar faces, but, at the same time — and I won’t hide this from you — I was at the same time concerned to see that you, my friends, were still stuck here — do protest if you find “stuck” too strong a word — stuck here, at the back of beyond years after having often enough decided to move on, to leave this dead end and to seek your fortunes elsewhere. When we last saw each other, some eighteen months ago, you were standing in front of the bar, waving goodbye to us as we disappeared around the bend, and I remember very clearly how many great plans, how many wonderful ideas were ready just waiting to be put into action and how excited you were about them. Now I find you all still here, in precisely the same condition as before, in fact more ragged and, forgive the expression, ladies and gentlemen, duller than before! So, what happened? What became of your great plans and brilliant ideas?!.. Ah, but I see I am digressing somewhat . . . To repeat, my friends, our appearance among you is a matter of pure chance. And while the extraordinarily pressing business that brooks no delay should have brought us here some time ago — we should have arrived in Almássy Manor by noon yesterday — in view of our long-standing friendship I have decided, ladies and gentlemen, not to leave you in the lurch, not just because this tragedy — though at some remove — touches me too since the fact is we ourselves were in the vicinity when it happened, not to mention that I do faintly remember the victim’s unforgettable presence among us and that my good relations with her family impose on me an unavoidable obligation, but also because I see this tragedy as a direct result of your condition here, and in the circumstances I simply can’t desert you. I have already answered your second question by telling you this, but let me repeat it, just so there should not be any later misunderstanding. Having heard that we were on our way you were too hasty in assuming that we were intending to see you because, as I have already mentioned, it hadn’t occurred to us that you would still be here. Nor can I deny that this delay is a little inconvenient, because we should have been in town by now, but if this is the way things have fallen out let’s get something over with as quickly as possible and draw a line under this tragedy. And if, perhaps, any time should remain after that I’ll try to do something for you, though, I must confess, at the moment I am utterly at a loss to think what that could be.
. . . . .
What has fate done to you, my unfortunate friends? I could be referring to our friend Futaki here, with his endless, depressing talk of flaking plaster, stripped roofs, crumbling walls and corroded bricks, the sour taste of defeat haunting everything he says. Why waste time on small material details? Why not talk, instead, of the failure of imagination, of the narrowing of perspective, of the ragged clothes you stand in? Should we not be discussing your utter inability to do anything at all? Please don’t be surprised if I use harsher terms than usual, but I am inclined to speak my mind now, to be honest with you. Because, believe me, pussy-footing and treading carefully around your sensitivities will only make things worse! And if you really think, as the headmaster told me yesterday, dropping his voice, that “the estate is cursed” then why don’t you gather your courage in both hands and do something about it?! This low, cowardly, shallow way of thinking can have serious consequences, friends, if you don’t mind me saying so! Your helplessness is culpable, your cowardice culpable, culpable, ladies and gentlemen! Because — and mark this well! — it is not only other people one can ruin, but oneself! . . . And that is a graver fault, my friends, and indeed, if you think about it carefully, you will see that every sin we commit against ourselves is an act of self-humiliation.
The locals were huddled together in fear and now, after the last of these thundering sentences had died away, they had to close their eyes, not only because of his fiery words but because his very eyes seemed to be burning holes in them . . . Mrs. Halics’s expression was pure sackcloth-and-ashes as she absorbed the ringing denunciation, and she stooped before him in almost sexual ecstasy. Mrs. Kráner hugged her husband so close that he had, from time to time, to ask her to loosen her grip. Mrs. Schmidt sat pale at the “staff table” occasionally drawing her hands across her brow as if trying to wipe away the red blotches that kept appearing there in faint waves of ungovernable pride . . . Mrs. Horgos, unlike the men who — without precisely understanding these veiled indictments — were spellbound and feared the ever fiercer passion rising in them, observed events with a keen curiosity, occasionally peeking out from behind her crumpled handkerchief.