Feri Füzes was to meet the opponent's seconds in the club dining room so that statements could be drawn up and the thorny affair, which had been dragging on for weeks, could finally be settled, for better or worse, according to the proper protocol. Provocation, duel, court of honour, sabres, plastrons, five paces forward, to the finish–these were the words that buzzed through Feri Füzes's head as his pointed patent-leather shoes creaked their way across the asphalt.
It was he who patched up Sárszeg's wounded prides and damaged honours; the perfect gentleman, a regular cavalier. He exuded eau de cologne and cavorted about with a foolish, sickly grin that never left his lips. He wore his smile just as he wore his chic boater in summer or his fancy spats in winter.
County carriages flew by. Liverymen sat up on the boxes in dapper blue and white-piped uniforms, their hat ribbons fluttering in the wind. Then the burly figure of a gentleman with a bushy, yellow moustache appeared on the pavement of Széchenyi Street. Bálint Környey.
By profession, Bálint Környey was commander in chief of the local fire brigade. But in reality he occupied a far more elevated position in Sárszeg society. He was everybody's friend or acquaintance and turned up absolutely everywhere. President of the Panthers’ Table, fabled drinker, fêted sportsman, he could break a silver forint coin in two with his bare hands. It was he who set the prizes for the Sárszeg Student Games, and he who organised the Grand Venetian Night with floodlights and fireworks on Tarliget Lake each summer. Even now the billboards were still plastered with tattered flyers announcing this splendid July event to the citizens of Sárszeg.
He greeted the young editor with a wave of his stick. Ijas returned the greeting coolly. To local people he was just an editor; they had no idea what a poet he was.
The clocks had struck eleven in Petőfi Street and still all was silent. Even Mr Veres sensed this silence from the depths of his dark, insalubrious workshop. The Vajkays usually rose on the dot of seven. Skylark would open all the windows, airing and cleaning the rooms inside.
Today the old couple had overslept. The nightlight still flickered beside the carriage clock.
When they first opened their eyes it was already twenty to twelve. They were surprised to find themselves alone. For a moment they pricked up their ears, but no sound came from their daughter's room next door. The anxieties of the previous day still hung heavy on their hearts, and as they woke they lived the whole day over again.
But another, no less painful sensation now presented itself besides. Their stomachs began to rumble: a loud, hollow sound, silencing all other complaints and demanding their undivided attention.
While they slept, dreams had provided illusory nourishment, smothering their hunger with thick and coloured veils. But no sooner had they dressed than they could feel their emptiness, and pressed their palms against their burning stomachs.
“I'm starving,” said father.
“Me too,” said Mother.
And they laughed at their own frailty.
No wonder they were famished. They had forgotten supper the evening before and had only pecked hurriedly at lunch. Such meals are never filling.
“Quickly, tea.”
“Yes, tea.”
Mother went into the kitchen to make tea.
The Vajkays didn't keep a maid. Skylark's nanny, Örzse, a liveryman's daughter, who had been with them since the age of twenty, had left them six years before. Since then they had taken on the odd girl here and there, but these never stayed more than a couple of weeks. Skylark was so strict, keeping everything locked away, especially the sugar, and so demanding that the maids all fled before their time was up. They didn't want a new girl in their home now; after all, they had to be careful with money, had to count every penny. Besides, the girls all stole and gossiped nowadays. And anyway, what could a maid do that they could not? Skylark and her mother did everything themselves, and better too. Cleaning was a joy, and as for cooking, they loved nothing more. They were always boiling or baking something.
Mother and Father drank their tea. But this did not stave off their hunger. It merely cleansed their stomachs, increasing the emptiness. Their thoughts turned at once to lunch.
Already some weeks earlier it had been agreed that, for these few days–it was only a week, after all–they wouldn't cook at home. Skylark, who presided in all culinary matters, recommended the King of Hungary, Sárszeg's largest restaurant, as the one place where the cuisine was still tolerable.
The three of them detested restaurants. And although they had hardly visited this one, they could talk about it for hours with sneering condescension. The dishwater soups, the tough and gristly meat, the carelessly concocted desserts they served up to poor, unsuspecting bachelors, who had never tasted
good home cooking
. Not to mention the disgusting state of the kitchens. Oh, for a home-made soup, a homemade stew, or a home-baked pastry! They had often expressed such sentiments to Géza Cifra.
Somehow they had to overcome the disgust they had artificially cultivated beyond all proportion. On the way to the restaurant they comforted each other, braving themselves for the dubious event. When they stepped inside the King of Hungary they immediately wrinkled their noses and screwed up their eyes. An enormous, clean and friendly dining hall stretched out before them, with a ceiling of frosted glass, lit, even by day, by four weighty chandeliers.
Ákos led his wife to a table and sat down.
In the middle of the impeccably laundered tablecloth stood a bunch of flowers. Beside it were two small silver dishes freshly heaped with salt and paprika, a pepper pot and jars of mustard, vinegar and oil. To one side, on a splendid glass platter with a silver rim, lay apples, peaches and, in little wicker baskets, fresh and crusty rolls, salted croissants and small white loaves sprinkled with poppy seeds. Just then two pastry boys came through the door in bright white caps, carrying a long wooden board packed with a battalion of vanilla slices, whose rich egg fillings shone a gorgeous gold beneath their crumbling red-brown pastry crusts, sprinkled thick with icing sugar. The old man stole a fleeting glance at these delights with a certain vague contempt. He picked up the menu, then handed it to his wife.
“You order. I can't even bring myself to look.”
“What would you like?'
“Whatever,” Ákos mumbled, “Whatever you want. It makes no difference to me.”
He looked around him. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant place. Certainly not as bad as he had imagined.
By now nearly all the tables were full. He recognised no one, and no one recognised him. They lived in such seclusion that they almost counted as strangers. And they felt like strangers too; as if they had stumbled into the restaurant of some altogether unfamiliar town.
Then Ákos did spot one acquaintance. Opposite, all on his own, sat Weisz and Partner. Old Mr Weisz went everywhere alone, without his partner, whom few had ever seen. But everyone called him Weisz and Partner all the same.
Looking up from the cloud of tepid steam that rose from the silver bowl before him and misted up his pince-nez, Weisz and Partner greeted Ákos with an absent-minded nod of the head. He was utterly engrossed in the serious business of eating. He stared wide-eyed at the neatly diced red meat of his goulash soup as he ladled it into a porcelain bowl printed with the curlicued monogram KH. Using the back of his soup spoon, he mashed his perfect egg-shaped potatoes into a smooth puree. He ate quickly and with great relish. The remaining, wonderfully oily liquid he mopped up with morsels of bread roll pinned to his fork.
The waiter arrived at the Vajkays’ table and poured a clear consommé into their plates. Small pea-shaped croutons, made of pancake mix tossed in fat, swam on its glistening surface. They ordered chicken risotto, which they often made at home, followed by bread-and-butter pudding. Ákos ate with a healthy appetite and was not slow to clean his plate.
“How was it?” asked his wife, who felt herself unqualified to judge in such matters. She was the lightest of eaters, and would only nibble from the tip of her fork.
“Passable,” the old man replied. “Actually quite...” For a moment his voice became higher, more enthusiastic, then he seemed to change his mind. “Quite passable,” he concluded, correcting himself in time.
After paying the bill, they sat at their table for a while looking sombre and a little bemused.
The silvery clattering of cutlery resounded all around. The diners dug into their meals with great conviction, aware that they were carrying out a most important task. Lonely men sat jealously guarding their dishes; whole families made themselves thoroughly at home, tying napkins around the necks of their little boys and girls.
Ákos repeatedly leaned over to his wife:
“Who's that?'
“Don't know.”
“And him?'
“Don't know him either.”
Beside them sat a group of army officers, recently returned from the garrison at Bilek.
The dashing young men munched crusty rolls between their strong white teeth and lifted anchovies with their toothpicks from the oily depths of narrow tins. Ákos observed them gloomily. As soon as they began to laugh, he lowered his gaze. Their glances offended him. They belonged to a world of happy households, eligible daughters and handsome dowries; a world so very different from his own. To disguise the discomfort he felt whenever they turned his way, he picked up the menu and read it wearily from top to bottom.
In a far corner of the restaurant, beside a potted palm tree and beneath a portrait of Franz Josef dressed in Hungarian military garb, sat a larger gathering, who lunched here every day at noon. The waiters swarmed around them, bowing and scraping eagerly. Chewing at spicy sausages and knuckles of pork, they knocked back one mug of beer after another. Here Ákos recognised two more acquaintances. One was their family physician, Dr Gál, a short-sighted man who divided his time, in the most fashionable of circles, between the Café, the restaurant and the theatre. Exactly when he found time to see his patients remained a mystery. The other was Priboczay, the quiet, convivial pharmacist, who took his place at table as the Panthers’ deputy president. He sat passively nodding his head, whose thinning fair hair had lost its lustre years before but still refused to go grey and shone a pale lilac colour as if it were dyed.
But the cream of Sárszeg society were also present.
Papa Fehér, manager of the local branch of the Agricultural Bank; Prosecutor Galló, who had already delivered his stern indictment speech against the heinous Swabian highwayman; and many others.
Feri Füzes had settled the conditions for the duel, and very grave they were, too. Gentleman that he was, he spoke of this to no one–apart from Dr Gál, whom he drew to one side at the corner of the long table, where, grinning more broadly than ever, he announced that two gentlemen would be crossing swords at dawn, at the accustomed spot in Sárszeg forest, and that the good doctor might care to stand by with his surgical instruments at the ready. To the finish, naturally, to the finish.
The door swung open every five minutes, and the new arrival would disappear into this billowing gathering of men.
Just after one o'clock, when school had finished, the teachers began to arrive: Mályvády, the maths and physics master, and Szunyogh, the Latin teacher.
Dr Gál instructed the latter to sit down beside him at once. Without uttering a word he clasped Szunyogh's wrist between his forefinger and thumb, and, holding his gold pocket watch in his left hand, began earnestly taking the teacher's pulse.
Poor Szunyogh was already in a wretched state. Some two years earlier he had begun to exhibit the unmistakable symptoms of delirium tremens, and his family had carted him off to a sanatorium. There he made a slight recovery, but as soon as he was out again he slumped back into his old illness.
There was a time when he had shown prodigious talent, but in Sárszeg he had surrendered himself to the bottle and become a notorious alcoholic. His students whispered that he kept a hip flask in his pocket and would dash out into the corridor during lessons to take a swig or two. For months now he had been unable to sleep; he could never get warm and, even throughout the summer, wore a thick overcoat and lined his shoes with cotton wool so his feet wouldn't freeze. His puffy cheeks and double chin glowed brick red, and his baby-blue eyes swam with tears. He was always drunk well before noon.
His ice-cold wrist trembled in the doctor's warm hand. He sat there in the restaurant, the collar of his winter coat turned up, gazing as sheepishly at the doctor as his students gazed at him.
Dr Gál pressed the lid of his pocket watch shut with a quiet, golden click. He looked Szunyogh in the eye. As always he appealed to the teacher's better self. One by one he extolled the beauties of life, reminding Szunyogh of his wife and charming daughter. He spoke of the teacher's former ambition, of the articles he had once published in the
Philological Review
. And he did nothing to disguise the horrid fate that would soon await his friend if he failed to change his ways. Szunyogh listened attentively, his blond eyelashes blinking, his torso swaying to and fro, and his emaciated legs shivering beneath the table. Accepting the physician's sound advice, he ordered himself a modest glass of table wine.
The Vajkays were just about to leave when Bálint Környey strode in, accompanied by two other gentlemen.
One was Szolyvay, the popular comedian. The other was a tall and smartly dressed actor in an elegant top hat. He was Imre Zányi, the celebrated leading man, the idol of every woman and girl in Sárszeg.
Until then the gathering had been growing increasingly spirited; but now the general din soared to new heights. Környey was greeted with a thundering roar of laughter, properly befitting the arrival of the Table's honoured president. For his part, Környey stood before his companions, hands behind his back, as if inspecting his Panther troops.
“Greetings, gentlemen.”
The Panthers’ Table had been formed some twenty years before, with the not unworthy aim of popularising the consumption of alcohol and promoting gentlemanly friendship.