Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [47]
Some thirty or forty figures slowly emerged from the general haze. For a moment Ákos stood bewildered.
Then they spotted him, and he was greeted with cheers of jubilation. The Panthers, those moustachioed wild beasts of revelry, leaped from their seats, sprang towards him and spun him to and fro among them.
“Ákos,” they cried from all corners. “Good old Ákos! Come in, come in and join us.”
Total strangers introduced themselves, younger men who immediately addressed him in the familiar form.
“Servus humillimus, pleased to meet you, where have you been hiding all these years?'
There were also those who scolded him:
“You've a lot to answer for, old man. But you'll make up for it tonight.”
The voice of Környey, however, rang out above all others:
“Forgive ye the repentant sinner!'
Roars of laughter pealed throughout the Panthers’ den.
Környey stood two heads taller than his comrades in a gold-piped, cornflower-blue military tunic.
He crushed the brittle bones of Ákos's narrow hand in his iron clasp, famed for twisting silver forint coins, and, as head Panther, welcomed him with a certain stiff and formal conviviality. There was something austere, almost frightening about him.
He did not tarry long with Ákos. For on Thursdays Környey had to dash to and fro, welcoming new arrivals and discussing urgent culinary matters with the staff. Even now he was called away to the library to inspect the salad. He had more to do on such occasions than at the time of the great steam-mill fire.
All in all, Ákos's appearance had created quite a stir.
Priboczay embraced him, pressing the old man's face to his own and refusing to let go. Finally he planted a tender, masculine kiss on Ákos's cheek.
The chemist was in tears. His eyes were as weak as his heart, and whenever he met an old friend they melted, like hair in a fire, from the sheer warmth that coursed through his whole being.
He rummaged for his handkerchief.
When he had dried his tears, he took Ákos by both hands and held him beneath the chandelier to examine him more thoroughly.
“My dear old fellow,” he said in astonishment, “you look so much younger.”
“Nonsense.”
“So help me, it's true,” he insisted. “You're in excellent colour.”
All who stood around them mumbled in agreement.
Ákos's face had indeed filled out from his afternoon nap, the skin exuding a rosy, priestly glow. His forehead also wore a tint of red, as did the two loose bags of skin beneath his eyes.
“By Jove,” said Priboczay, “you've turned into a proper cavalier.” And he looked down at Ákos's dove-grey gloves.
These Ákos removed at once.
“And how tall you stand,” Priboczay continued. “None of that stooping any more. Canis Mater! What have you been taking? What have you done?'
“I've been to the barber's,” stuttered Ákos. “Maybe that's it.”
“No, no, you've grown younger. Ten years younger. Five at the very least. The quiet life, eh?'
A thin, sly smile hid in Ákos's moustache, where the Tiszaújlak wax still held firm. He didn't know where to look.
“I'm old, my friend,” he said at last, “an old fossil just like you, like all of you.” And he hung his head in mock self-pity.
Priboczay took him by the arm and led him round the room, introducing him to those smaller groups of Panthers who already sat sipping their drinks in the background or gossiping in the window bays.
And yes, they had indeed grown old. Some of the Panthers had gold teeth; most wore dentures or gum plates. Gone were the thick black curls he used to see on Thursday evenings; and what was left of them was covered with rime. Only the moustaches were haunted here and there by the odd, spectral brown hair. Some of them had grown completely bald, their bare skulls round and shiny like ivory billiard balls, or pointed like eggs.
The tables, however, remained unchanged: the black marble tables crowded with battalions of slender wine bottles and mouldy water carafes.