Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [57]
Ákos came into the bedroom.
“Father,” she said quizzically, in a voice that mixed astonishment with reproach.
Her husband stood in the middle of the room. He didn't even remove his hat, which sat crooked and impertinent on his head. He no longer wore his glasses. He had lost them somewhere along the way.
“What is it?” his wife asked faintly.
Ákos said nothing. He glared at the woman, the smelly stump of a cigar still smouldering between his teeth. No matter how he chewed at it, he couldn't draw any smoke. He wore a surly scowl.
He's drunk, thought the woman suddenly. She was no less horrified by the thought, and by the apparition of the rigid, mysterious figure who stood before her, than if a complete stranger had broken into her bedroom in the dead of night.
She leaped out of bed. Without even reaching for her slippers, she ran over to prop her husband up.
“Sit down.”
“I'm not sitting down.”
“Then lie down.”
“I'm not lying down either.”
“What then?'
“I'm staying where I am,” Ákos stammered, leaning against the doorpost.
But then he did move.
He went as far as the table and slammed it hard with his palms.
“I'm staying where I am,” he growled menacingly. “Just for that,” he repeated, “I'm staying where I am.”
He was stubborn, like a child. His wife let him be.
“Fine, you stay where you are.”
“Matches!” he commanded.
The woman fetched the matches from the bedside table. Ákos lit up, sucking the flame into his crumbling cigar, which suddenly caught fire and singed his moustache. He spat left and right, ejecting the cigar from his mouth with his tongue and spitting once more after it on the floor.
Flecks of spittle sparkled white on the polished wooden floor.
“Cigar!” commanded Father.
His wife rummaged for his wallet in the breast pocket of his mouse-grey jacket and took out a cigar. Ákos bit off the end and lit up again.
Only now did she manage to coax the hat from his head and the cane from his hand. But still the man didn't move.
“You've had too much to drink,” said his wife with a conciliatory smile, as she tried to bring him to his senses. When she noticed that her husband had taken offence, she added softly, “You've had a bit of a tipple, haven't you?” and she gazed at the man who stood before her, dead drunk.
The old man plunged his hands into his trouser pockets and rummaged. Suddenly he turned out both pockets.
Gold, silver and copper coins tumbled out, clattering and jangling across the floor, hiding themselves away under the furniture.
“Here you are,” Ákos shouted. “Money!” He dug out another handful of coins. “For the two of you,” and he dashed the money to the floor.
The coins screeched as they hit the ground.
Mrs Vajkay almost shrieked herself.
There was something deeply sinister about this confusion in her own orderly home, although she could not say why. They both detested gambling and had nothing but contempt for “serious” card games.
The woman searched for the fallen coins which had rolled into dark corners and come to rest. All she asked was:
“Have you been playing cards?'
Ákos stared at her, then took a few deliberate and defiant steps forward to demonstrate how far he was from being drunk. He staggered all the way over to the bedside table. Here, however, he could keep his balance no longer and came to a complete standstill. With the cigar still burning in his mouth, he keeled over like a tree, landing face down on the bed.
“You'll burn the bedclothes,” Mother wailed. “You'll set the whole house on fire.”
“What if I do?” Ákos growled. “At least it would burn down. And we'd be rid of that too. Who cares?” he said sadly. “Who cares?'
“Really, Ákos,” his wife interrupted, brushing the glowing ash from the quilt and pillows.
Somehow she managed to lift her husband to his feet. Again he had the cigar in his mouth and puffed vigorously as she hauled him over to the table. She slipped a chair beneath him and he sank into it.
“Honestly,” said the woman as she sat him down. “What on earth's the matter?'
“With me?” asked Ákos with a shrug.