Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [50]
“Not drinking?” said Ladányi to Ákos. “It's only a light Szilványi,” he added, emptying his glass.
The words “light Szilványi” sounded so delicious that Ákos couldn't resist.
Ladányi embraced him.
“That's my Ákos,” he said. “Only would you mind doing me one small favour? Get rid of those damned sunflowers from your garden.”
“Whatever for?'
“They're black and yellow, old man. Can't stand the sight of those Schwarzgelb colours, not even in flowers.”
To this they filled their glasses once more.
Ákos not only knocked back the light Szilványi, but also all the other wines they set before him, the light wines from grapes grown in sandy soil and the heavy mountain wines
He totted up the scores with his chalk.
“So, how do we stand? Double, redouble, four points; tous les trois, two; four kings, one. Seven points all in all. That's seven kreuzers. Here you are.”
He paid, and wiped his slate with the little yellow sponge provided.
He lit a new cigar and even removed his spectacles. This was always a sure sign of his good spirits.
By now he was no different from the others. He could no longer see the party from the outside as he had on first entering the room. He didn't even notice the suffocating smell of smoke. He seemed entirely at ease, as if he had merely slept throughout his long years of absence and was now carrying on where he had left off. A brittle crust seemed to crumble and flake from his person, the top of his head began to sweat and his snowy hair seemed to melt on top of it. In his eyes, too, happy tears glistened. His ears glowed red, as old friendships revived and blossomed.
But now it was back to business, to the new game, and revenge. Ákos braced himself as the cards were being dealt, unfastening his shirt cuffs and drawing together all his strength. Then he threw himself at his adversaries with all his old confidence.
“Out with the eighteen!” he cried at once.
Where could it be, the coveted, happy eighteen? Who on earth could have it? For the moment, however, Ákos continued playing his hand.
Winking cunningly at the other players, he threw his remaining trumps on the table before them: ace, twenty-one, nineteen, and finally, after a calculated pause, he produced the missing eighteen himself.
“Ha!” the others shouted. “He had it!'
“He called his own hand!” they chuckled, unable to believe their eyes.
“He's impossible. The old Ákos, the one and only.” They embraced him one after the other. “You've got the devil in you, old boy,” they roared. “This calls for a drink.” And the thunder of their laughter shook the window panes.
One game spilled into another, with Ákos shrewdly holding his own, uncovering every plot and scheme, averting every ambush. It was a long, long game.
But not for Ákos or the other players. What did they know of time, since falling captive to the magic of the cards? For all card players enjoy the intoxication of complete forgetting, and enter a separate universe whose very contours are defined by the cards.
“Vole, bull, juggler.” Ákos's words flew through the smoky air. “Juggler, joker, final trick.” His opponents hissed and gasped in disbelief.
Ákos gave them all a thorough thrashing. Only then did he glance at the clock ticking away on the wall before him. It was already after half past nine. He was suddenly seized by an inexplicable melancholy.
For a moment he hung his head, crestfallen after his unaccustomed frivolity. He stared straight through his companions as if they were not there at all.
The waiters announced that dinner would be served.
They made their way into the library, where dinner was taken on Thursday evenings.
Sárcsevits had still not finished Le Figaro. He sat to one side, beneath an electric light by the wall, and went on studying every word. The others planted themselves down at the table, which was decorated with flowers.
It was a doughty Hungarian dinner: chicken stew, pasta with curd and bacon, noodles with ground poppy seed and walnut, and mouldy, smelly cheeses to follow, which went superbly