Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [25]
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