Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [21]
They didn't hurry. They strolled sedately on the swept asphalt, criss-crossed with clinker bricks, returning the greetings of afternoon strollers who seemed to have become more amicable with the passing of the dreadful heat. They gave themselves up to the easy afternoon atmosphere.
The bells were ringing. Ding-dong, the bells rang constantly in Sárszeg. At morning Mass, at vespers, at funerals...so many funerals. There were three coffin-makers in Széchenyi Street, one after the other, and two stonemason's yards. Hearing the endless peal of deafening bells and seeing all these funeral concerns, the unsuspecting visitor might have imagined that people didn't live in Sárszeg at all, but only died there. Meanwhile the dealers sat inside their shops, among the coffins and tombstones, with the blind faith, shared by all in their profession, that it was precisely their wares everybody needed. And secure in this blithe conviction, they made their handsome fortunes, brought up their broods of children and kept their families in considerable style. Ákos peered through the open door of one such concern. Bronze coffins catering for every shape and size, from the tallest adult to the smallest child, stood upended in a tidy row. The shopkeeper was smoking a cigar, his wife reading a newspaper, while their angora cat sat preening itself inside an open wooden coffin. It wasn't such a terrible sight.
A slanting shaft of sunlight tumbled through the thick glass jars of the St Mary Pharmacy. On the painted signboard outside, the name of Priboczay shone in thick gold letters. Beneath it stood an image of Mary, the pharmacy's patron saint, trampling a snake underfoot, with the pagan Aesculapius close by. Everything glistened.
Every imaginable monstrosity. Even the display of surgical instruments sparkled: glittering silver forceps, shiny rubber gloves, gleaming collapsible operating tables. An anatomical dummy, with twinkling amethyst glass eyes in its trephined skull, proudly displayed its bloody heart, its bistre liver and green gall bladder, and the twisting intestines of its lacerated stomach. The Vajkays had never dared look at all this before. But now they did look. And it was horrible. Horrible, yet interesting.
Then the other window displays–how enticing they all seemed! So many messages and promises beaming out towards them. What can I do for you, sir; at your service, madam; all life's paraphernalia, take your pick. Brand-new goods, never been touched, to replace the old and worn. Silk purses, exquisite velvets and first-class fabrics in tasteful piles, handkerchiefs and walking sticks, perfume bottles tied with satin ribbon bows, meerschaum pipes and humidors, scrunchy cigars and gold-tipped cigarettes.
They stopped in front of Weisz and Partner's, admiring a pigskin suitcase with an English press-stud lock, so different from the shabby old canvas cases they had at home. And then that crocodile-skin hand-bag. The woman simply couldn't tear herself away. How splendid, how absolutely charming! Ákos drew his wife gently by the arm; it was time to move on.
Among the notepads and pencil cases in the window of Mr Vajna's stationery store stood rows of books whose covers had already faded in the blistering sun. These literary novelties from Budapest came as quite a shock to the old man, who had long grown used to the arid, antiquated style of his noble records, deeds and documents. Fierce and fashionable volumes of poetry glared back at him with diabolical, sneering faces; naked male bodies and delirious women with their hair down and their staring eyes wide open.
Ákos read their phoney, pseudo-modern titles over and over again: Deathrun–In the Night of Life, Aspasia Mine: I Want You! The woman nudged her husband with a smile. But Ákos only shrugged. Yes, such