Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [45]
Tonight there is a ball in Tarkő, and the Thurzó girls, Berci and Feri Olcsvay have driven over there in two carriages, together with Aunt Etelka. They begged me to go with them, but I declined. I said I had nothing suitable to wear. I really shouldn't enjoy myself without you, and, to be honest, I didn't find the prospect of an evening with the Thurzó girls especially alluring either. And anyway, last night, at about one o'clock, my tooth (the one I last had filled) started aching so much that I had to wake up Aunt Etelka. Don't worry, it didn't hurt for long, because I rubbed my gums with rum and the pain died down. But I was afraid it might flare up again, so I stayed at home, holding the fort with Uncle Béla. He's already gone to bed now, and I'm sitting in my cosy little room, writing to you.
But what a selfish thing I am! I ramble on about myself, bragging and complaining, and have completely forgotten about you, all on your own. Is Father very busy? Is he working on another family tree? Is Mother, poor dear, growing weary of all the housework? Is the food at the restaurant absolutely ghastly? Are you in good health? Are you missing your naughty, ungrateful daughter just a tiny bit? Did you find the pantry key, which, at the last minute, I left under the blue tablecloth?
I'm with you in my every thought, and sometimes when I laugh here, I suddenly grow sad, because I see the two of you sitting in the dining room alone, my poor, dear parents. I'm actually quite ready to come home. They're trying dreadfully hard to make me stay another week, but however nice a little more holiday would be, I wouldn't stay for all the tea in China. I shall be home, as promised, on Friday evening with the half-past-eight (20.25) train. I can hardly wait to embrace you both again.
I must hurry to conclude these lines. I want to send them off tonight with the coachman who'll drive out to Tarkő after midnight for the girls. A hundred kisses and embraces from your loving daughter
Skylark
That was all. There the letter came to an end.
Ákos sighed. He carefully slipped his spectacles back into their paper case.
The letter still lay open on his knees.
A single name kept coming to his mind. He muttered it to himself under his breath:
“Olga Orosz.”
And it wasn't the Tarkő plain he saw before him in his mind's eye, nor the divan on which his daughter slept, nor the Thurzó girls, but, even more clearly than on stage two days before, he saw Olga Orosz, kissing Sir Reginald Fairfax on the mouth.
She wouldn't understand this letter. Nor would she understand why its every word cut him to the quick, why its every observation was so special–that a path now wound its way down from the hill, that the rhododendrons were in bloom, that they already lit the lamps at six, and were preparing for the harvest. Olga Orosz would laugh at all this with her husky, throaty trill.
The children, the little cops and robbers who had till then been playing in the park, were now gone. Dusk was falling. In the country, after sunset, every child belongs at home.
Now common soldiers strolled through the park, gently swinging the calloused hands of their housemaid sweethearts–hands that fitted snugly in their own thick palms. From this coarseness something sweet might yet be born. Little parlour maids, buxom cooks and sluttish Soldier-Suzies in grubby dresses came arm in arm with these rough peasant lads who'd curse in the barracks, be clouted and clapped in irons by their sergeants, but now ambled along quite harmlessly.
Their blue eyes were glazed with dumb delight, caring about nothing, no one. Their boyish faces and pug noses red with schnapps, they looked like lost orphans, wandering dreamily through some enchanted garden of love, the women leading them onwards. Every now and then the couples stopped and gazed deep into one another's eyes. They sat down on wooden benches near the bushes, waiting for it to grow completely dark.
How squalid it all was, here