Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [52]
Galló glared stonily into space, as if still squinting at the accused in court, refusing to be moved, repelling every last appeal to sentiment. Doba was undoubtedly thinking of his wife, wandering, God knows where, in the night. He had sunk so deep into sorrow and self-torment that he himself seemed to take fright and, as if coming up from the depths for air, drew a deep breath. Ladányi was looking directly towards Vienna, on his face the patriotic grief of four hundred years of servility to the House of Habsburg. Priboczay melted, his eyes becoming two melancholy pools of tears. Feri Füzes crooned, Olivér Hartyányi growled, Szunyogh hung his heavy, drunken head, swinging it slowly to and fro like an elephant. Környey waxed bellicose; Mályvády, Sárszeg's great patron of the natural sciences, grew facetious; Kostyál became cantankerous; while Máté Gaszner seemed to have completely lost his mind.
Even Básta, the attendant, had finally forgotten all decorum and, no longer standing to attention–he was, after all, himself a genuine Szekler Magyar–mingled like a brother with the other gentlemen. The waiters passed on tiptoe. They could sense that something extraordinary was happening here which it would be ungodly to disturb.
Sárcsevits had finished reading Le Figaro, right down to the last letter of the smallest classified advertisement. He gazed at the revellers and shook his head. He felt nothing at all. Only that it seemed a shame to waste so much time and energy. What improvidence, what nabobish profligacy, to squander all our experiences, to spill them carelessly, along with all the wine, on to the floor! Somewhere on the banks of the Seine, from so many good intentions, from so many colours and emotions, whole buildings could be erected, whole books could be penned. If the good gentlemen would only say what was going on in their minds at such times, more books could be written than the entire collection of the Sárszeg clubhouse library, which no one read anyway, apart from him and prosecutor Galló, and perhaps poor Olivér too, who desired, before finally climbing into his grave, to know a thing or two about this pitiful world.
But the others had no time for such things.
The leader of the Gypsy band began to play “May Beetle.” Ákos raised his hand and stopped him. This was Ákos's song.
He called the Gypsy over and made him place a mute on the bridge of his violin. When the leader struck up again, Ákos launched into the song. At first his voice wavered a little, but soon it grew more confident, distinguished, almost arrogant. A restrained but pleasant tenor voice. Ákos drew a languid arch with his forefinger as he raised it slowly to his temple.
May beetle, may beetle, softly you hum,
I shall not ask you when summer will come...
Sárcsevits stood up. With a smile he turned to Feri Füzes who stood beside him.
“Is that old Vajkay?'
“The very same.”
“I'd heard he was a surly old troglodyte.”
“Not at all,” replied Feri Füzes stiffly. “He's a most jolly and sociable fellow.”
While the gentlemen were at dinner, the drawing room was swept and aired. By the time they returned, a neat and tidy room awaited them. The warm atmosphere had disappeared with the smoke and a cold severity could be felt in the air.
In such conditions it was no longer possible simply to pick up where they had left off that afternoon. Wine was replaced by schnapps; taroc and trumps by poker and pontoon. The fun and games were over. Now came the time of the serious drinkers who stood for no frivolity, and the serious card players who no longer merely toyed with fortune, but played to raze the opposition to the ground.
Ákos found himself at a pontoon table where the stakes were five forints and they drank Kantusovszka and other Polish brandies. Környey made it his business to see that everyone drank his share.
Ákos proved