Kornel Esti (25 page)

XV

In which Pataki is anxious about his little boy, whereas
he
is concerned for his poem.

ONE WINTER EVENING HE WAS IN HIS STUDY, WRITING TO HIS publisher. His pen was flying over the paper, but suddenly he became aware that he could no longer pay attention to what he was saying. He could hear other voices:

He tossed his letter aside. Wrote down those words. Then waited to see if anything would come of it, or whether—as was often the case—the celestial telegraph had broken off, as if there were some remote fault in the transmitter.

This time, however, the lines kept pouring out, completing and illuminating one another. He opened his ears wide. He could hear other voices. He turned his gaze to the green curtain that covered the window. Even through that he could see the starry vault of heaven.

For a long time he jotted down one thing after another. He knew precisely what he meant to say when he’d finished.

He was simply astonished.

He read it over several times. Crossed out three lines in the middle. But had to put them back in. There was not a letter of it that could be altered. It was fine as it was.

He went to his typewriter and made a clean copy.

As he was tapping out the final lines there came a ring at the door. The maid showed in Pataki.

“Hello,” he called from the typewriter without looking round. “Grab a chair. I’ll just be a moment.”

Pataki was standing in the half-light. His face could not be seen.

He could see Esti at the desk, his tousled hair in the golden light of the standard lamp, wreathed in tobacco smoke, as he hammered on at the keys.

Pataki didn’t sit down. Just stood there.

They hadn’t seen much of each other for a while.

His arrival must have been quite a surprise. Esti didn’t speak, however, he hadn’t the time. He went on tapping. After at last typing in his name he pulled the sheet out of the typewriter. He said:

“I’ve been writing a poem. Care to hear it? Two pages of typing.”

Pataki sat in an armchair in the far corner of the room. Esti read slowly, syllable by syllable, so that he should understand every letter of the poem:

The poem had a great arc, rising surely, smoothly, and descending slowly, gently. He was convinced that this piece of work would stand the test of time, and that years hence he would think happily of that winter evening when he had conjured it out of nothing. The concluding section, in which everything was consummated—just a few atmospheric words, a few exclamations—pleased him especially.

He laid the typescript on his desk.

“It’s beautiful,” came Pataki’s voice out of the gloom after a brief pause.

“You like it?” Esti queried, because as soon as he was praised he assumed the role of the doubter. “You really like it?”

“Very much,” replied Pataki.

He got up from the armchair. He came, slowly, into the pool of light from the standard lamp. He took hold of both of Esti’s hands. He said solemnly:

“Look, I’ve come to see you because I’ve never before been so close to suicide.”

“What?” Esti was startled.

“It’s young Laci,” Pataki stammered. “Young Laci.”

Esti switched on the chandelier. He saw that his friend was deathly pale and trembling from head to foot.

“What’s happened?” he asked. “What’s the matter with him?”

“They’re operating within the hour.”

“What for?”

“Appendicitis.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. Sit down, Elek, come and sit here. Don’t be silly. Would you like a glass of water?”

Pataki took a gulp.

“Oh, I’m finished,” he sighed. “I know I’m done for. But there was no way I could stay in the hospital. We took him in this morning. Now they’re getting the poor boy ready. I couldn’t bear to watch. His mother’s with him. The taxi’s outside. I’ll go in a minute.”

“How long’s he been ill?”

“Well, I’ll tell you all about it. How did it all go, now?” he said, pressing a sweaty, white hand to his face. “Laci complained a week ago that his stomach was hurting. Always had a stomachache, etc. We thought it was indigestion after Christmas. He’d had a lot to eat over the holiday, etc., etc. So we gave him something for it. Purgatives, not too much food, etc. But it got no better. Then this morning he was sick. We called Rátz straightaway, then Vargha, then the professor, Elzász. Turned out it was appendicitis. They’re operating at nine o’clock.”

“Right. So is that all?”

“He’s got a high temperature. Hundred and four. A temperature like that could mean that the appendix is septic.”

“There’s always a high temperature with appendicitis.”

“What worries us is that it might be perforated.”

“That’d bring on the shivers. Has he been shaking with cold? There you are. Don’t worry. There’s no perforation.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, yes.”

“But they’re going to give him a general anaesthetic.”

“Get them to use a local.”

“Can’t be done. Simple as that. Elzász says it’s out of the question.”

“Then they’ll use a general.”

“Only thing is, he’s got a weak heart. Ever since he had scarlet fever his heart’s been so weak he’s had to take it easy all the time, he’s even been excused from gym class. Oh, if anything happens to that boy I won’t survive it. You know what I mean, I wouldn’t survive for a moment.”

“How old is he?”

“Nine.”

“Nine? He’s quite a big boy. Elzász operates on children of two and three, and even then nothing goes wrong. And what’s more, the life force in children is nothing short of miraculous. Those young cells, those unused organs, bursting with life, they don’t even catch things that grown men die of. You can feel perfectly safe. They’ll whip the appendix out, and he’ll be perfectly all right. Up and about inside a week. Tomorrow, no, today even, in an hour and a half, you’ll be laughing about the whole thing. Both of us will.”

Pataki calmed down. After pouring out his terror he had become empty, and looked in amazement round that untidy, stuffy study.

“Disgraceful,” said Esti suddenly, and grimaced. “It’s disgraceful. There I was, boring you.”

“With what?”

“With this trash.”

“What trash?”

“This poem.”

“Oh. No, you didn’t.”

“Of course I did. When you, my poor friend, were in such a state — without any cause, I’ll observe—I treated you to my latest brainchild. Well, that’s hellish, really hellish.”

“No. Honestly, it still did me good to hear it. At least it took my mind off things a bit.”

“Were you able to pay attention?”

“Yes.”

“Did it interest you?”

“Of course.”

“And what’s your considered opinion of it?”

“That it’s excellent. One of your significant poems.”

“Only significant?”

“Very significant.”

“Look here, I’m not fishing for compliments. You know I’ve always loathed that sort of thing. But I need you to give me an honest opinion. Whenever I write something I always think it’s my very best work. Can’t do otherwise. I expect you’re the same. Then I gradually get used to it being there, begin to tire of it, start to have my doubts as to whether it was worth bothering with. For that matter, our whole profession’s a waste of time. Who the hell cares about our heads aching when everybody’s head’s aching? So tell me.”

“Like I said, it’s magnificent.”

“I’m sure myself about the first part:
Because I see the distant roving gleam of the star
… That was inspiration, pure inspiration. But later on—about the middle—it struck me—I felt it before, when I was reading it out—that it’s not so good.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Where the shorter lines come in. You don’t remember?
Carbuncle, you glowing
… Isn’t that false? Isn’t it pompous and verbose? Isn’t there a kind of discontinuity there?”

“None whatever.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Absolutely.”

“And the whole thing, Elek, to your ear, isn’t it a bit rhetorical?”

“Rhetorical? Personally, now, I really like a lovely rise and fall, and I’d never keep rhetoric out of poetry altogether.”

“I see. Well, I have a thorough dislike of all forms of rhetoric. That’s not poetry, it’s sugarcoating. Be honest, tell me the truth. I’d rather tear the whole thing up and never write another line if this is rhetorical.”

“You’re always getting things wrong. It isn’t rhetorical. Not at all. And then, what a splendid ending.
To live, to live.
That’s marvelous. You’ll see, others will like it just as much. Have you shown it to Werner?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, do. He’ll be delighted with it. I know him. I bet he’ll print it on the front page in bold Garamond. You’ll never have had such a success. The whole thing’s masterly, masterly.”

Esti rustled the typewritten sheets in his hands. Pataki took out his pocket watch.

“It’s ten to nine.”

“I’ll go with you.”

They got into the car which was waiting outside the house. They raced through the dark, snowy streets. The father was thinking whether his son would survive, the poet whether his poem would.

At a bend Pataki said:

“If it
is
septic, it can go wrong.”

Esti nodded.

Later he spoke:

“I
will
take out those three lines in the middle, it’ll be simpler.”

Pataki approved.

After that they said no more.

Each was thinking of the other:

“How petty, how selfish.”

When they reached the hospital, Pataki raced up to the second floor. Esti went after him.

Young Laci had been sedated, was drowsy, and was just being rolled to the brilliantly lit operating theater on a tall, narrow trolley.

XVI

In which Elinger pulls him out of the water, but he pushes Elinger in.

THE BATHERS SWAM OUT TO THE MIDDLE OF THE DANUBE
, into the wake of the Vienna boat, squealing as they were rocked and tossed by the huge waves. Esti sprawled on the shore every morning in his swimsuit and envied the lively company. He could swim better than anyone there, but his imagination also functioned better than theirs. Therefore he was a coward.

One day he made up his mind that, come what may, he was going to swim to the other bank.

His muscular arms flailed the water. He had reached the middle of the Danube before he realized it. There he stopped for a moment. He took stock of himself. He wasn’t out of breath, his heartbeat was normal. He could have gone on for a long time. It crossed his mind, however, that he wasn’t afraid, and that thought, that he wasn’t afraid, frightened him so much that he immediately became afraid.

He turned round. The bank from which he had set out, however, looked farther away than the other. And so he struck out for the far side. In this direction the water seemed unfamiliar, deep and cold. He got a cramp in his left leg. When he kicked out his right leg, its muscles knotted too. As was his custom, he tried to turn onto his back, but only wallowed, rolled, went under, drank a couple of gulps, vanished for a moment or two, and then sank downward, enveloped in the dark veils of the water. His hands beat in desperation.

This was seen on the bank. The shout went up that someone was drowning in mid-river.

A young man in blue trousers, who had been leaning on the rail by the changing rooms, flung himself into the waves and swam powerfully toward the drowning man.

He arrived in the nick of time.

Esti’s head had just emerged above the water. The lifesaver took a grip on his long hair and dragged him ashore.

There he quickly regained consciousness.

When he opened his eyes he looked at the sky, then the sand, then the people who were standing there in the golden sunlight, their unclothed bodies gleaming silver. Another gentleman, similarly unclothed and wearing dark glasses, was kneeling beside him and taking his pulse. Evidently a doctor.

The group that had formed around him was looking with keen interest at the young man in blue trousers, the one who—as he discovered—had recently snatched him from the jaws of death amid frenzied public curiosity.

He came up, extended his hand and said:

“Elinger.”

“Esti,” Esti introduced himself.

“Oh, maestro,” the young man was deferential, “ who wouldn’t know the maestro?”

Esti tried to conduct himself like a person that “everyone knew.”

He was in some perplexity.

In the past he’d been given all sorts of things. As a boy a splendid stamp album, a gold ring as a present from his godparents, later a number of appreciative reviews, even an academic prize, but more than this he had never before received at one time. Only once, from his father and mother.

This new acquaintance had given him back his life. If he hadn’t happened to come bathing that afternoon, or if at the crucial moment he’d been lighting a cigarette instead of immediately diving in headfirst, Esti would by now have been down among the fish on the riverbed … in some unknown place … goodness knows where … Yes, he was reborn. He had now been born a second time, at the age of thirty-two.
^*

He got up and gripped the young man’s hand.

He mumbled:

“Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.”

“Thank you,” he said, as if by way of acknowledging receipt of a light from someone in the street, and because he sensed the inadequacy of words he gave emphasis to his feeling by stress, and repeated warmly “Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

‘My life?’ thought Esti, then said aloud: “What you did, sir, was magnificent. It was heroic. It was human.”

“Only too pleased.”

“But I can’t express … can’t express,” Esti stammered, and at that took the young man’s other hand too and shook both vigorously.

“Oh, not at all,” stammered the young man.

“After all this, we ought to get to know one another. I don’t know if you’d be free?”

“Any time, maestro.”

“Today? No, not today. Come round for a coffee tomorrow. Wait a minute, let’s say the evening. You know, the roof terrace of the Glasgow. Nine o’clock.”

“You do me a very great honor.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Certainly.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

The young man bowed. Esti embraced his soaking form and left. As he made for the changing room, he looked back at him more than once and waved several times.

At nine precisely he appeared on the roof terrace of the Glasgow. He looked for his man. At first he couldn’t find him anywhere. At the tables, grass widows were cooling themselves in front of electric fans, drinking Buck’s Fizz with other women.

At half past nine Esti began to feel anxious. He had a spiritual need for this meeting. It would have grieved him if they were to miss each other, if he were never again to see his greatest benefactor as the result of a misunderstanding. One after another he called the waiters and asked about Elinger.

It then turned out that he couldn’t even describe him. All that he could remember was that he wore blue trousers and had a gold front tooth.

Finally, right by the elevator, where the waiters went in and out by the potted plants, he caught sight of someone sitting with his back to the public and waiting modestly. He went over to him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Elinger?”

“That’s right.”

“So here you are then? How long have you been here?”

“Since half past eight.”

“Didn’t you see me?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you come over?”

“I was afraid of disturbing the maestro.”

“What an idea! We don’t know each other, do we. That’s very interesting. My dear fellow, come along. Over here, over here. Leave that. The waiter will bring your things over.”

He was half a head shorter than Esti, thinner, less muscular. His reddish-blond hair was parted in the middle. He was wearing a white summer shirt, a belt, and a silk tie.

Esti stared into his face. So this was he. This was what a hero was like, a real hero. He looked at him long and closely. His brow was firm, gleaming, evincing determination and decisiveness. Esti felt life around him, real life, which he had forsaken in favor of literature. The thought flashed through his mind of how many interesting spirits lived in obscurity, unknown to the world, and that he ought to get out and about more. It was principally Elinger’s simplicity that charmed him, that great simplicity that he had never had at his disposal, because evidently even in his cradle he had been laby rinthine and complex.

“Let’s have something to eat first of all,” he proposed lightly. “I’m ravenous. I hope you are as well.”

“No, I had tea not long ago.”

“That’s a shame,” replied Esti absently as he studied the menu. “A great shame. Well, you’ll have some dinner. Now then, what is there? Pike-perch as a starter, right. Green peas, just the thing, as well. Fried chicken, cucumber salad. Gateau. Strawberries and cream. Excellent. Beer, wine afterwards. Badacsonyi. Mineral water. Everything, please,” he added expansively.

Elinger sat in front of him, eyes closed, like someone who had done something wrong.

The roof garden with its electric lights blazed up into the sweltering sky. Down below, the city with its dusty houses and bridges panted in the black African darkness. Only the line of the Danube gleamed dully.

“Undo your collar,” Esti advised, “it’s still as hot as hell. I’ve been writing all day wearing nothing. All I had on was my fountain pen.”

Elinger said nothing.

Esti laid a hand on his and said with warm interest:

“Now tell me something about yourself. What do you do?”

“I work in an office.”

“Where?”

“First Hungarian Oil.”

“Well, fancy that,” said Esti, and didn’t know why himself, “fancy that. Married?”

“No.”

“Neither am I,” Esti laughed to the heavens, which on that elevated roof garden seemed somewhat closer to him.

“My life,” said Elinger mysteriously and significantly, “has been a real tragedy,” and he showed anemic gums above his gold tooth. “I lost my father very early, I wasn’t yet three. My poor widowed mother was left alone with five children, whom she raised by the work of her two hands.”

“All this is raw material,” thought Esti, “uninteresting and lacking in content. Only that which has form has interest and content.”

“Thank God,” Elinger went on, “since then we’ve all been successful. My sisters have married well. And I’ve got a bit of a job. I can’t complain.”

They both ate heartily. After telling the story of his life Elinger had nothing else to say. Esti tried now and then to revive the flagging conversation. He asked Elinger when and how he’d learned to swim so very well. He replied with laconic objectivity, then sank into uncomfortable silence.

After the strawberries the French champagne was brought in an ice bucket.

“Have some,” Esti urged. “Come along. How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Then I’m the elder. If you’ll permit …”
^*

At the end of the meal Esti announced:

“I’ll be at your disposal at any time—understand that—at any time. Not like people that say ‘any time’—I mean now, this minute, tomorrow, in a year’s time, in twenty years’ time, as long as I live. Any way that I can. Heart and soul. What you did is something I’ll never forget. I’ll be eternally grateful.”

“You embarrass me.”

“No, no. If it hadn’t been for you I’d certainly not be dining here today. So feel free to call on me.”

When the time came to pay, Elinger reached for his wallet.

“Now put that away,” Esti stopped him.

Once again he expressed his good will.

“You absolutely must come and see me. Give me a call first. Make a note of my number.”

Elinger wrote down Esti’s number. He gave him the number of First Hungarian Oil. Esti wrote it down.

“Why did I do that?” he wondered as they parted. “Never mind. Next time there’s any lifesaving to be done I may be able to call him.”

The telephone number lay unused on his desk for a long time, then vanished. He didn’t call him. Nor did Elinger call. Months went by without any sign of life from him.

Esti, however, often thought of Elinger.

People that we’ve long been expecting mostly show up just when we’re having a shave, are cross at having broken a new gramophone record, or have been getting a splinter out of a finger and our hand is still bleeding. The petty circumstances of life never permit ceremonious, decorous meetings.

Before Christmas it was freezing hard. Esti’s mind was on anything but swimming and drowning. It was a Sunday, about half past eleven. He was getting ready for a lecture which began at one.

Then Elinger was shown in.

“Glad you’ve come at last!” Esti exclaimed. “What’s new, Elinger?”

“I would have come before,” said Elinger, “only my mother’s been ill. Seriously ill. Last week she was taken into hospital with a brain hemorrhage. I’d be grateful if you could …”

“How much do you need?”

“Two hundred pengős.”
^*

“Two hundred?” said Esti. “I haven’t got that much on me. Here’s a hundred and fifty. I’ll send fifty round in the morning.”

Esti sent the other fifty round that same day. He knew that this was a debt of honor which he had to discharge. After all, he had received his life from Elinger on credit, and he was entitled to that much interest.

As his mother’s illness continued, he gave Elinger in lesser and greater amounts a further two hundred pengős, and then, when she died, three hundred and fifty more after the funeral, which he himself raised on credit.

After that Elinger called several times. He got from him, on various pretexts, on his word of honor, small, trifling amounts. Sometimes twenty pengős, sometimes just five.

Esti paid out with a certain delight. Afterward his feeling was one of relief. He simply couldn’t stand his presence, those bloodless gums, his gold tooth, and his boring chatter.

“This fellow,” thought Esti, waking up to the truth, “is one of the biggest idiots in the world. It took somebody like him to save my life. If he were any brighter he’d surely have left me to drown.”

One day, when Esti came home in the small hours, there was Elinger sitting in his study.

He informed Esti cheerfully:

“Just imagine, I’ve been given the sack. Without notice or severance. And I’ve had nowhere to live since the first. I thought I’d come here for tonight and sleep here. If you’ll let me.”

“Naturally,” replied Esti, handing him a clean nightshirt. “You can sleep here on the couch.”