Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [28]
“Won't it disagree with you, Father?” his wife interrupted at one point with a smiling reproach. She was still being entertained by the actor and the pharmacist.
“Of course not,” the others replied, including Dr Gál.
“Another glass of beer,” they proposed with gusto.
“That was plenty,” Ákos protested. “A veritable Lucullan luncheon,” he added with a chuckle and felt that his meagre stomach was now quite bloated.
From his inside pocket, Bálint Környey took out a silver cigar case with an elegant engraving of a gun dog adorning its lid. He pulled down the leather flap separating the two rows of cigars and, without a word, set the case down before Ákos.
Ákos took a splendid dark Tisza cigar, tore off the band and, without waiting for the comedian to hand him his pocket knife, bit off the end. Szolyvay at once supplied him with a light.
Observing this, his wife's jaw dropped a little, but even Dr Gál seemed reluctant to dampen Ákos's spirits and, without the slightest protestation, continued talking to his friends.
The old man sucked at his cigar with all the voraciousness of a baby at the breast, the succulent, bitter teat glistening with his spittle. The smoke caressed his long-chastened palate, the familiar fragrance tickling his nose, overpowering his brain, soothing his ancient, torpid blood and stirring long-forgotten sensations within him. What did he care for the chatter that surrounded him? For constitutional law, for Viennese intrigues, for Dreyfus or Labori? He leaned back into his chair and began digesting.
Later, however, he too ventured the odd remark. He spoke mostly to wise old Szunyogh, who, like a deep-sea diver, brought to the conversation a wealth of treasures from the depths of his enormous erudition, which by now lay long submerged beneath a sea of wine and schnapps, including a few choice remarks on the medieval Latin of royal letters of donation, which interested Ákos. Enveloped in a cloud of smoke, the gathering huddled warmly together. The restaurant was now all but empty. Only they entertained no thoughts of going home.
It was half past three when a middle-aged man in a grubby, soft-blue shirt and a worn, smoke-coloured overcoat appeared, who didn't belong to this gentlemanly gathering.
“Your most humble servant,” he whined by way of greeting, bowing like a Gypsy.
The others addressed him in the familiar form and immediately invited him to sit down.
He was Arácsy, director of the Kisfaludy Theatre. He clasped an umbrella in his hand, which, even on fine days like these, he always carried with him, perhaps to inspire pity, perhaps to evoke the trusty staffs with which the nation's journeymen, the actors, beat the highway on their endless travels. He constantly complained of gloom and doom, and his voice, which had once declaimed the tribulations of stage heroes, was now no more than a plaintive whimper. Who would have thought he owned a pretty little house in Sárszeg and a pretty little vineyard out of town? Not to mention a tidy sum in the Agricultural Bank.
A half-hour visit to the King of Hungary after lunch and a friendly chat with the good gentlemen of Sárszeg formed part of his daily round. Noticing Ákos, he immediately set to work on the new acquaintance.
Assuming the most modest and friendly of smiles, he expressed his amazement at having as yet been denied the honour of seeing Ákos at the theatre.
“I'm afraid we lead a rather quiet life,” said Ákos, turning to stare into space, “in our humble home.”
“But I sincerely hope you will now do us the honour,” said the theatre director, placing a pink theatre ticket on the table before Ákos.
It was for a box in the stalls.
“I don't know,” said Ákos, glancing at his wife.
The table fell silent. Husband and wife conferred.
“You see,” said the woman blushing, “we don't usually go to the theatre,” and she gave a peculiar shrug of her shoulders.
At this Imre Zányi piped up:
“We'd be honoured, my dear lady.”
“When is it for?” asked Mrs Vajkay.
“Tomorrow evening,” the leading man was quick to reply. “What is it we're playing?'