Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [59]
“You've been having a ball, haven't you?” Ákos repeated. “A ball in this house? Have you been raising the roof, Mother?'
“I was waiting for you,” said the woman plainly. “And I played the piano.”
“I bet you did,” said Ákos accusingly. “You've been having a ball.” Then, accusingly, “A ball.”
But he had hardly finished uttering these words when a sudden spasm seized his throat and he collapsed into the armchair, sobbing.
His dry sobs shook his whole body as he howled, without tears. He slumped forward across the table.
“Poor thing,” he moaned, “poor thing. It's her I pity.”
He could see Skylark standing before him, just as in his dream. From behind a fence she stared at him like one possessed, begging him to help her. She was almost braying with grief.
“God, how I pity her, oh, God!'
“Why do you pity her?” asked the woman.
His wife wanted no part in this performance, even though she had the easier role to play. Though dazed by the unaccustomed lateness of the hour, she still had all her wits about her. She had neither witnessed her husband's dream nor read her daughter's letter, which had left such a deep impression on Ákos.
“You must never pity her,” said the woman, trying to placate her husband with cool, calm words. “You've no reason to. She's been away. And she'll come back. She has to enjoy herself too, you know. Don't be so selfish.”
“How lonely she is,” Ákos whispered, gazing into space. “How absolutely alone!'
“She'll be home tomorrow,” said Mother, affecting indifference. “She'll be here tomorrow evening. And then she won't be alone, will she? Now come to bed.”
“Don't you understand?” the old man retorted heatedly. “That's not what I'm talking about.”
“Then what are you talking about?'
“About what hurts right here,” and he beat his fist against his heart. “About what's in here. Inside. About everything.”
“Come and get some sleep.”
“No,” Ákos replied bullishly, “I refuse to sleep. I want to talk at last.”
“Then talk.”
“We don't love her.”
“Who doesn't?'
“We don't.”
“How can you say such a thing?'
“It's true,” Ákos cried, striking the table with his palms as before. “We hate her. We detest her.”
“Have you gone mad?” the woman shouted, still lying in bed.
As if to provoke his wife still further, Ákos raised his voice, which already rasped and faltered.
“We'd much rather she wasn't here. Like now. And right now we wouldn't even mind if she, poor thing, were...”
He could not pronounce the terrible word. But this way it was yet more terrible than if he had.
The woman sprang out of bed and stood before him to put a stop to this enormity. She turned a deathly white. She wanted to make some reply, but the words stuck in her throat. For in spite of her frenzied indignation, she couldn't help wondering if her husband's outrageous suggestion might be true. She gaped at him, utterly astounded.
Ákos did not speak.
By now his wife was waiting to hear more. She almost longed for him to speak, to come out with everything at last. She sensed that the hour of reckoning had finally arrived. It was something she had often imagined, but never believed would really happen, least of all to her and at a time like this. She sat down in the armchair opposite, every part of her trembling. Yet she was still resolute, even a little curious. She did not interrupt when her husband began to speak again.
Ákos took up where he had left off.
“And wouldn't it be better? For her too, poor thing. And for us. Do you know how much she's suffered? Only I know that, with this father's heart of mine. What with one thing and another. The continual whispering behind her back, the laughter, the scorn, the humiliation. And we too, Mother, how much have we suffered? We waited one year, two years, hoping, as time passed by. We believed it was all a matter of chance. We told ourselves things would get better. But they only got worse. Always worse and worse.”
“Why?'
“Why?” echoed Ákos. Then, in the quietest of voices, he replied, “Because she's ugly.”
The word had been uttered. Spoken for the first time. Then silence.