Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [18]
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