Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [49]
“Join us,” he said in his grating voice.
It was an opportunity not to be missed. The taroc players fêted Ákos like some celebrity from distant climes. The large, special, grey-backed taroc cards tempted him too. It was all too much to resist. Ákos finally surrendered.
“To hell with it!'
Reassured, Környey withdrew.
Ákos settled down at the table, on whose marble top the odd drop of wine sparkled, spilled from the bottle at pouring. Also on the table lay neat black slates with the names of the players written with sticks of carefully sharpened chalk.
Galló dealt.
Ákos took the nine cards in his hands, his practised fingers ordering them with lightning speed, greeting the images which spoke of ancient worlds and happy times: the juggler with his human-headed lyre and sword, the hoop-skirted Spanish lady with her castanets, the top trump in gaudy clown's garb and a two-headed hat, the giant twenty-one, the squatting Turk with his long-stemmed pipe, the honours who beat all other cards, hence their name. A delightful, familiar crew. Lovers embracing by a wall, an ancient soldier bidding his sweetheart farewell, a ship setting out across the seas. A splendid hand indeed.
The players inspected their cards, then looked at each other no less intently. They blinked cunningly, for their faces were as important as their cards. What were they scheming, what tricks had they in store, what traps and machinations were being prepared?
“Pass,” said Ákos.
“Pass,” said Kárász, who sat beside him.
Ákos took great pleasure in his meditations. He even lit a cigar to oil the machinery of his mind.
Taroc is not one of those upstart, good-for-nothing games they dream up nowadays. Its roots reach way back into the past, and it boasts the noblest of ancestors. It stems from Asia, like our heroic forebears, and demands a meandering, eastern frame of mind, along with concentration, imagination and perpetual presence of spirit. It is like a wily tale with a crafty introduction, an intriguing exposition and a surprisingly sudden denouement. It demands much racking of brains, but is not intellectually dry. It is a thoroughly enjoyable game which took the work of several generations to chisel into its present, ingenious form.
Kárász drew a three from the pack.
“I call twenty,” he said.
Doba and Ladányi passed again.
Ákos twirled his moustache.
“Double,” he announced merrily.
The others ruminated.
Ákos and Ladányi, gradually warming to each other, played as a pair, while Doba assisted Kárász, who sat facing Ákos. They glared at one another.
Judge Doba was surprised at just how alert the old man was.
Ákos took a long, hard look at the judge. He sat in silence, just as he had sat at the theatre beside his flirtatious wife, who wore her hair like Olga Orosz and numbered even the penniless Szolyvay among her lovers–at least so Szolyvay said. Did the poor, likable judge know this? Did he at least suspect? He never spoke of it. Even now his face reflected nothing but a certain weary indifference.
He answered Ákos's double with:
“Redouble. Tous les trois.”
“Aha,” said Ákos to himself, “tous les trois, tous les trois.”
On this he pondered, which was, perhaps, his great mistake.
He, the seasoned matador, had not paid sufficient attention to the run of the cards, and by now there was nothing for it–the game had reached a fateful turn with Doba and Kárász gaining the upper hand.
Those who stood around them watching were amazed.
“Impossible!'
“This calls for a drink,” said Kárász.
Werner, the Austrian lieutenant rifleman, who had been sitting beside Ákos in total silence, poured the wine. He and his battalion had been based in Sárszeg now for some four years, but he still couldn't speak a word of Hungarian. And German he could speak only when he was sober. At times like these, however, when he'd been drinking, his German deserted him. Even his mother tongue, Moravian, refused to come to his aid. He was an excellent Panther, all the same, and was having a splendid