Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [60]
The woman leaped to her feet. No, this was not what she had imagined after all. Whenever they talked about her daughter, carefully avoiding this one issue, she always thought that one day they'd nevertheless return to it, to discuss it in greater detail, point by point, over several days perhaps, she and her husband, and maybe the odd relative. Béla, Etelka, a kind of committee almost, but not like this, not so openly, with such vulgar, prosaic simplicity. Her husband's words had put a sudden end to the possibility of any further argument or discussion. It hurt her, disgusted her, this merciless sincerity. Her husband had insulted a woman, had insulted her own flesh and blood. And, as if confronted by nothing more or less than this one insult, she cried out angrily, resentfully:
“No. No!'
“But yes. Yes! She's ugly. Frightfully ugly,” Ákos shouted, revelling in every word. “Ugly and old, poor creature. Like this,” and he pulled the most hideous of faces. “As ugly as I am.”
He struggled out of the armchair to reveal himself in his true light, and stood beside his wife.
Thus Skylark's aging parents stood face to face, barefoot, almost naked, with no more than a shirt between them. Two shrivelled bodies from whose embrace a daughter had once been born. They both trembled with emotion.
“You're drunk,” said the woman contemptuously.
“I'm not drunk.”
“It's blasphemy.”
“Even if she were lame,” Ákos roared, “or a hunchback, or blind, she couldn't be uglier,” and now he was really crying; thick, hot tears washed his ash-smudged face, his tormented soul.
The woman, however, drew herself up to her full height.
“Enough,” she said suddenly, with an entirely unfamiliar severity of tone, and with such purpose in her eyes that she seemed a complete stranger. “Enough!” and here she raised her voice. “I absolutely forbid you to say such things about my daughter. She is my daughter. Our daughter, and I have to defend her against you. Shame on you!'
“What?” Ákos stammered, recoiling.
“I won't have it,” said the woman, beating her fist on the table. “I simply won't stand for it. You spoke of nonsense earlier on. Well, here's your nonsense.”
Ákos awoke from his drunken stupor, as if the day were beginning to dawn within him.
“All right then,” he conceded, “let's be reasonable. I'm a reasonable man, after all.”
“Well, you're not a bit reasonable right now. You come home at all hours, turn the place upside down, throw money all over the floor, try to set my house on fire and then talk all kinds of nonsense. What you need is a good night's sleep.” With that she made straight for the bed.
“Mother,” said Ákos, calling her back. “Stay a while longer,” he begged.
The woman stopped still.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “With all this crying, all this shouting? I really can't understand you.”
Her voice was cold and stern.
She paused. Then, a little more gently:
“All right, so she won't marry. So what? Plenty of girls remain single. She's thirty-five years old, someone may still come along. You never know. Just when we least expect it. Do you want me to approach people in the street? Or put an advertisement in the paper? For a Vajkay girl? Come on, for heaven's sake.”
Mother stopped talking. Ákos waited for her to go on. Her words did him good. The crueller the better. He wanted more, only harder, sharper.
After a while the woman continued:
“Or say she does get married. Just for the sake of argument. Suppose she does. To whoever proposes. Because there's always someone. Do you really think that marriage is such a heaven these days? Janke Hernád got married. Mrs Záhoczky told us all about it. How she came to the last Ladies’ Society ball, her eyes red from weeping. Married some card-playing nobody who gambled the whole dowry away in half a year. And now where are they? Magda Proszner's husband beats her. Beats her, I tell you, and drinks. As for Biri Szilkuthy, you know her story. She was here today, pouring her heart out. Shame you didn't hear her. Is that what you want so badly? No, let