Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [46]
Ákos reeled with hatred, staring at the couples with an open mouth. He was startled by a light touch on his hand.
“So here you are.”
His wife had been looking for him. They had arranged to meet in the park before going to dinner.
“What happened?” she asked after Ákos had risen to his feet and they had walked about ten paces.
“Nothing,” said the man. “That is, Skylark's written.”
“Where's the letter?'
“Here,” said Ákos, reaching into his pocket.
But he couldn't find the letter. Neither in one pocket, nor in the other.
They hurried back to the bench.
But it wasn't there either.
The letter had disappeared somewhere, fallen to the ground, perhaps, and been whisked away by the wind, along with all the torn newspaper sheets and other rubbish.
Ákos tried to suppress his irritation.
“What did she say?” asked his wife.
“She's fine. Having a wonderful time.”
“And her health?'
“She's perfectly well. Only a slight toothache.”
“Poor thing.”
“But she rubbed rum on it,” said Ákos. “Good, strong rum, and it went away.”
This comforted the woman.
They dined with Környey, and not in the worst of spirits. They stayed until eleven o'clock. Because the roast pork and red cabbage were rather greasy, Ákos took the exceptional liberty of allowing himself half a bottle of wine.
IX
in which is comprised a description of the shindig, the Panthers’ famous weekly revelry
AND AS for Thursday...Well, Thursday was simply Thursday.
A Thursday was no ordinary day. It was not marked with red letters in the calendar, but in Sárszeg it was no less notable than a Sunday. For Thursday was the day of the shindig.
The Panthers held their shindig in the clubhouse. It was the one day of the week when they could be truly alone, free of any trace of influence of womankind. The women of Sárszeg looked forward to these Thursdays with trepidation. Their husbands would stumble home at dawn, or later still, and all day long they'd be surly, red-eyed and thoroughly sick.
Ákos recalled these Thursday evenings with disgust, and when, the day before, Környey had ceremoniously invited him to join the Panthers at the club, he had racked his brains for excuses. Poppycock, insisted Környey, unmoved. Ákos explained that, unfortunately, he and his wife were already expected somewhere else. Not good enough, came the reply. And thus it went on until Ákos had finally promised to make an appearance early in the afternoon. Just for a few minutes, mind, a quarter of an hour at the most. A quarter of an hour and no more. He'd shake on it? Ákos extended his hand, out of weakness, rather than resolution, and gave his word of honour. Now there could be no turning back.
In the afternoon he allowed himself a prudent hour's sleep and woke refreshed. Wearing dove-grey gloves and carrying a silver-pommelled cane, he stepped into the foyer of the clubhouse, opened the huge glass door and climbed the steps to the first floor.
In the hall he met an old acquaintance, Básta, the liveried attendant, on his way to the library with two large china bowls in whose vinegary water sprigs of lettuce swam, and slices of hard-boiled egg. He set them down on an empty bookshelf–where the food always stood on Thursday evenings–and, clicking his heels before the honourable gentleman, relieved Ákos of his cane and led him inside.
The courtesy was superfluous, for Ákos knew his way around. Nothing had changed at all since his last visit.
In the reading room–as of old–sat the solitary figure of Sárcsevits, a rich, laconic bachelor of independent means, who now, as ever, was reading Le Figaro. He always read Le Figaro, and thus was generally held to be a cultivated European.
To the left stood the more spacious drawing room, furnished with leather couches.
The Panthers could already be heard deep in conversation.
Ákos made his way towards them.
When he first opened the drawing-room door he couldn't see a thing.