Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [27]
Feri Füzes blushed. Then, with a certain peevish superiority he observed:
“I have every respect for Lajos Kossuth and his politics. But just like everyone else, Lajos Kossuth has his good points and his bad points.”
And he looked about him for support.
But at this everyone had chuckled, including Környey, and even the oldest and staunchest of sixty-seveners, for they all knew that Feri Füzes, although the perfect gentleman, had less than his fair share of grey matter.
For a moment Feri Füzes was at a complete loss. Then he asked himself how such behaviour could possibly offend a proper gentleman, and looked for someone else to provoke. But the others soon placated him and he went on smiling his familiar smile.
Ákos did not take part in the debate. What did he care for either Kálmán Széll or Ferenc Kossuth? Weightier concerns and deeper questions played upon his mind.
He sat immersed in his own thoughts, his morning dreams still swimming through his head, his face heavily shadowed by his own bad conscience. He glanced towards his wife, who was already eating.
Seeing this, he appeared to reach a momentous decision. He frowned, put on his spectacles and plunged into a fastidious study of the menu.
He couldn't see it too clearly because, in places, the ink of the hectograph had smudged and faded. He reached into his upper waistcoat pocket for the magnifying glass he normally reserved for deciphering litterae armales, and, the strength of his spectacles thus doubled, examined the menu in detail.
Applying no less rigour and self-sacrificing passion to the study of this document than to the search for some sixteenth-century Vajkay of Bozsó whose descent remained uncertain, he scoured the family tree of noble dishes for the entry he had been dreaming of unceasingly since the day before. On this occasion it was between the stuffed sirloin and the pork chops that the name “goulash” humbly but meaningfully stood. No sooner had he hit upon it with his finger than the waiter set it down before him.
“Smells delicious,” commented Feri Füzes.
The comment annoyed Ákos. What had it to do with Feri Füzes how the goulash smelled? Ákos would decide for himself. And with that he lowered his gristly, pale, almost cadaverous nose towards the red liquid in the silver bowl, steeping himself in the dizzying delight of inhaling the goulash's fragrant vapours deep into his lungs. Feri Füzes was quite right, it really did smell superb. And as for the taste! It was simply indescribable.
He devoured the goulash greedily, polishing his plate with squares of bread, just as Weisz and Partner had done the day before.
“Ilonka,” the Panthers called out, “over here! More rolls, more croissants.”
And along came Ilonka, the owner's fifteen-year-old daughter, who filled the empty wicker baskets with rolls and pastries. She sauntered around her father's establishment, her head filled with hopeless theatrical dreams. She wanted to be an actress and tread the boards of Sárszeg's Kisfaludy Theatre. She spoke to no one of her secret ambition, only gazed incessantly at Imre Zányi, longingly, silently, unhappily, sighing as she passed him on her way to the next table. She was as pale as a damp bread roll.
“What'll you drink?” asked Környey.
“Forgive me,” said Ákos, “but not a drop has passed my lips in fifteen years.”
Szunyogh pricked up his ears.
“But a dish like that,” the commander in chief urged, “cries out for lubrication. Come on, old chap, just the one glass.”
“Perhaps a sip of beer,” said Vajkay, casting a quizzical glance at Gál, his family physician. “Less alcohol. I'll have a glass of beer,” he called to the wine steward. Then, as an afterthought: “The smallest glass you have.”
Ákos took a couple of temperate sips, the white foam clinging to his grey moustache. This he sucked into his mouth and swallowed.
Then he ordered breast of veal, followed by vanilla noodles, which, luckily for him, were still on the menu, and were excellent. Then he ordered cheese–Emmenthal–and two apples