Low Mass begins at half past eleven.
It is attended by the upper crust of Sárszeg society: county dignitaries, senior civil servants and other well-to-do citizens who have distinguished themselves from their fellow mortals. They are accompanied by their wives and nubile daughters, who in turn are followed by spruce young men, secret suitors who converge behind the pillars in the background and gather around the font. The girls sit beside their mothers, casting the occasional glance at their prayer books, leaning back in their seats, eyes to heaven, sighing at every sounding of the carillon. They dab their eyes with tiny handkerchiefs as if in tears. Pungent perfumes bolt through the air, one answering the other. A veritable concert of fragrances. Which is why they often called it “scented Mass.” It wasn't merely a matter of spiritual elevation; it was a social event.
The Vajkays’ absence from church did not pass unnoticed. Their customary place, at the end of the second bench on the right, remained unoccupied.
In his damp, courtyard-facing study, Ákos lay on the Turkish rug which covered his couch. It was an uncomfortable couch, short and narrow, like all their furniture. It couldn't even accommodate Ákos's spindly frame. The only way he could stretch out his legs was to hoist them over the back rest. But Ákos had grown so used to this position he hardly noticed it any more.
Although he wasn't cold, he wrapped himself in a thick camel-hair blanket. He gazed up at the patterns on the ceiling, then, wearying of this, reached out, without rising, towards his bookshelf, and from among his numerous volumes of
Aristocratic Families
and the
Almanach de Gotha
, pulled out Volume XIV, by Iván Nagy, on the families of Hungary. He thumbed through it listlessly.
The book provided no surprises. He already knew its every detail, every letter, inside out. The volume soon fell from his hands, and Ákos began to ruminate:
“Vanilla noodles. What exactly can they be? I've never tried them, never even seen them. I've no idea how they might taste. Vanilla I'm fond of. That strange, almost exciting smell. Must be rather nice to have the smell tickle the nose while the taste flatters the tongue. I wonder if they serve the yellowish noodles with that black African spice sprinkled on top? I've only ever glimpsed the name, in passing, between the curd dumplings, fruit sorbets and hazelnut gateaux. As if I'd dreamed it somewhere. Still can't get it out of my mind.”
He knitted his brow and tried to banish these silly, demeaning thoughts from his mind.
“Skylark's a good cook. That's undeniable. At least, everyone says so. Of course she is. And not just good, first-rate. They can't find words enough to praise her cooking. In the old days, when we still invited folk for dinner, they made quite a song and dance about it. Even that scoundrel Géza Cifra. Yes, even him. It's true her methods are...unusual. She never uses paprika, for example, or pepper, or any other spices. And she's rather sparing with fat as well. She's economical, that's all. And quite right, too. Our modest savings won't last for ever and she can't, mustn't, touch her dowry. I simply wouldn't let her. Certainly not. Besides, heavy food is bad for you. Nice light French cuisine, that's what we like.”
He sat up and sniffed the air around him. Strange. The smells of the restaurant still lingered about his nose, stubbornly, unavoidably, assertively. That stuffy fragrance, fragrant stuffiness, that cruel, aromatic combination of caraway, onions fried in fat, and the pleasantly bitter hop breath of beer. He leaned back on his pillow.
“
Noix de veau
. Another puzzle. One imagines walnut segments, sweet and oily, but that's not what it is. Soft, juicy pieces of tender meat that melt at once in the mouth. Not to be sneezed at. Especially after one of those tempting hors d'oeuvres on the menu. Crayfish bisque, caviar à la russe. Absurd, macabre names. Scrambled eggs with chicken livers, pike in white wine, brains in browned butter. Enough. Enough of this stuff and nonsense.”
He straightened his pillow and sought a more comfortable position.
“Skylark has a weak stomach, poor thing. Although she's plump, she can't take heavy food. And she's often sick. It's in all our interests to eat sensibly. And just think of her wonderfully nourishing fricassees and risottos. Especially the risottos. Ah, the risottos. And her pale sponge fingers. And semolina puddings. No one could say she starved us. Not in the least. If only they served food like that in restaurants. Actually, it wasn't
so
bad there...but at home. Yes, good home cooking.”
Ákos had grown tired. He shut his eyes and surrendered himself to whatever came to mind.
“Yesterday, for example. What did we have yesterday? Consommé, chicken risotto, bread-and-butter pudding. I remember exactly. Nothing more, nothing better. Now Weisz and Partner, he had something else. Goulash, that's what it was. Delicious, to be sure: rich, blood-red goulash soup with hot paprika from Szeged, the liquid dripping from his steaming potatoes. How I adored that in my younger days, when poor Mama was still alive. Goulash soup, veal and beef stew–God only knows when I had them last. I never dared ask for things like that. Out of consideration for
her
, I suppose. Not even when we went to a restaurant.”
His eyes welled with tears as if something had stirred inside him.
“Is it a sin? They say the devil torments the fasting hermit. If it is a sin, it's all the sweeter for being so. What do I care? One can't deny these things exist. Goulash soup exists, out there in the world, on the table, on Weisz and Partner's plate. And on the menu too, between the saddles of mutton and herdsmen's cutlets. Beside the tenderloins of pork and the rump steaks. And then all the other things on the menu–they exist too. The sides of pork, the Transylvanian mixed grills, the lamb chops. Not to mention all the dishes with English, French, and Italian names: beef-steaks, tournedos, fritto misto, breathing their foreign aromas. Then the cheeses, light and creamy, thick and heavy, the Camemberts, the Bries, the Port-Saluts; and the wines, red Bull's Blood from Eger, sweet muscatels, light Chardonnays, and Fair Maid from Badacsony, in tall and slender bottles. Fair Maid. Beloved Fair Maid. Ah, my sweet, Fair Maid...”
The door opened.
The woman came in from her cleaning. She had been doing the housework all morning. It was now past one and she had only just finished. She was clearly out of practice.
She entered quietly. She thought her husband must have dozed off. But Ákos's eyes opened in alarm at the noise.
“Were you asleep?” asked the woman.
“No.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I wasn't.”
“You look pale.”
“Nonsense.”
“Is something the matter?'
Ákos rose from the couch with a guilty conscience, like a child caught up to some prank in bed. He didn't dare meet his wife's gaze, he felt so ashamed.
“You're hungry,” said the woman. “That's what is is. You're hungry, my dear. You haven't eaten again. Not since last night. Let's go to the restaurant. It's getting late. We won't get a table.”
They hurried. It surprised them how quickly they reached the King of Hungary. They found the restaurant in utter commotion. Plates clattered, wine stewards scurried and waiters scampered. Even the head waiter flitted to and fro on the swallow's wings of his tailcoat. He scribbled calculations on the back of a cigarette box, gave change, plucking silver coins from his palm, listened to complaints and trotted into the kitchens only to re-emerge moments later to reassure his customers that all was well. In spite of the regular Sunday commotion, his expression remained as calm and collected as ever.
The Vajkays headed towards the table they had taken the day before. But there sat a spirited threesome already well into their meal. That was all they needed. All the other tables were taken too. They waited. But on Sundays, in the comforting knowledge that Sunday is a day of rest, people eat more studiously than at other times. They spend that little bit longer picking their teeth and rolling bread pellets with which they are content to play for hours.
With a few clipped words the head waiter begged their pardon, before taking off again on his swallow's wings.
The woman suggested they might look in on the other restaurant in town, the Baross. Ákos paced sulkily up and down; he was frightfully hungry, and the sight of all the food only fired his appetite. Suddenly two arms began to wave in the air towards him. At the horseshoe table beside the palm trees the enormous figure of Bálint Környey rose to his feet and called out to them:
“Over here!'
“Won't we be intruding?'
“Of course not. Come and sit down; we've already finished. Here, or over there.”
The Panthers had finished lunch and the table was thick with crumbs. Now they only smoked and sipped their drinks. At the Vajkays’ arrival they all rose to receive their new guests, even Szunyogh who, owing to his state of perpetual inebriation and his 180 pounds, found it hard to move on his spindly legs. A series of introductions followed.
As hosts the Panthers were most obliging. They rang for the waiters, who immediately swept the table, brought clean plates and glasses, and pressed menus into the hands of the new arrivals.
Ákos sat at one end of the table between the commander in chief and Szolyvay, the comic actor.
Mrs Vajkay sat at the head of the table beside Priboczay, the lilac-haired pharmacist from whom she bought digestive tonics and face powder for Skylark. Her other neighbour was a tall, elegant gentleman in a top hat. She had noticed him the day before, but didn't know who he was. Even now she hadn't caught his name.
The gentleman ceremoniously kissed her hand, as was customary with a lady of repute, and thoroughly overwhelmed her with his refined and unobtrusive attentiveness. He recommended one dish and advised against another; as one who dined there every day, he knew the kitchen intimately.
His face was candid and reassuring. He must have just been shaved, for traces of rice powder could still be seen on his chin and the not unpleasant fragrance of the barber's shop still wafted from his skin.
Suddenly the head waiter came over to him, whispered something in his ear, then drew him aside to one corner of the restaurant. Here the waiter handed him a letter, to which a courier was awaiting a reply. The letter was from Olga Orosz, the prima donna with whom he had been living over the summer. She had to see him now, just one more time, before they parted for ever. Would he be so kind as to hurry to her at once? Her formality of expression was a mark of their estrangement. Imre Zányi crumpled the letter into his pocket and signalled that there was no reply. He was used to farces of this kind.
Mrs Vajkay took advantage of his absence to ask the pharmacist the young man's name. Hearing that it was Imre Zányi, the leading man, she was thunderstruck. She had–as she explained to Priboczay–initially imagined him to be some youthful priest, but his fashionable morning coat and unaffected, wordly manner had immediately led her to suspect otherwise. So it was he! She had never seen him on stage, but had heard a great deal about him.
The actor returned to his place at the table. He continued to devote his every attention to the woman, asking her questions and listening to her replies with his handsome narrow lips pressed tightly together. Then he began to recite a torrent of extracts memorised from French conversation pieces, raising his hand somewhat preciously to his brow, a gesture he employed with special predilection on the stage. The woman was enraptured. Not since her girlhood had she encountered such an agreeable and gracious young man. How refreshing, how polished, how bohemian, and yet how courteous! She made a point of expressing her delight at having finally made his acquaintance. At this the actor sprang to his feet, gave a low, almost over-theatrical bow, and replied that, on the contrary, it was he who'd had the good fortune to meet such a genteel and distinguished lady.
At the opposite end of the table the men talked politics. They spoke of state delegations, constitutional crises and of Prime Minister Kálmán Széll.
“Ah, yes,” Környey sighed. “A visionary statesman and a first-rate brain.”
Priboczay, who was an old forty-eighter, became visibly heated.
“No doubt because he went to Vienna for the unveiling of the Albrecht statue. He, prime minister of Hungary. For shame!'
“Tactics,” Környey replied.
“Tactics,” Priboczay nodded bitterly. “And when they ordered our boys out to the Hentzi statue in Pest? That was tactics too, I suppose? Bánffy would never have done such a thing. Never. Your man's a common toady.”
“
Raison d'état
,” Feri Füzes commented.
Now Priboczay was really fuming.
“Right, Law and Justice? Isn't that the party slogan?” he hollered to provoke the young government supporter. “Schwarzgelb mercenary, Viennese lackey!'
Feri Füzes could not allow the Hungarian prime minister's name to be slandered in this fashion. Enough was enough. As a man with an almost superstitious deference towards all figures of authority, he ventured to reply:
“And what of your famous Ferenc Kossuth? I suppose he's going to hand us a free-trade zone on a platter? Together with Hungarian supremacy?'
“You leave him out of this. He's the son of our great father Kossuth. You wouldn't understand such things, my boy.”
Feri Füzes blushed. Then, with a certain peevish superiority he observed:
“I have every respect for Lajos Kossuth and his politics. But just like everyone else, Lajos Kossuth has his good points and his bad points.”
And he looked about him for support.
But at this everyone had chuckled, including Környey, and even the oldest and staunchest of sixty-seveners, for they all knew that Feri Füzes, although the perfect gentleman, had less than his fair share of grey matter.
For a moment Feri Füzes was at a complete loss. Then he asked himself how such behaviour could possibly offend a proper gentleman, and looked for someone else to provoke. But the others soon placated him and he went on smiling his familiar smile.