Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [65]
It was no small task to make everything as it should be, the five rooms, the hall, after a week of disorder.
They stumbled to and fro and the harder they worked the longer it seemed to take them.
It was nearly half past seven. Ákos picked up the umbrella and opened it out in the room to make sure the framework hadn't rusted. He pulled on his old, nut-brown overcoat which dangled loosely front and back and made him look rather thin.
They were just about to leave when he suddenly crouched to the floor. By the back leg of the wardrobe he had caught sight of a gold coin. He picked it up and gave it to his wife.
“Put this away.”
Then, when they reached the street, it was the woman's turn to stop short.
“Wait,” she said. “I'll take this back inside,” and she pointed to her new crocodile handbag. “I don't really want it now. Not with this.”
Ákos nodded.
The wind howled. It crashed into the old man, spun him round and tried to wrench the umbrella from his hand. It blew impertinently into his face and completely took his breath away. It lifted the woman too, as she came hurrying after her husband. They climbed into a carriage.
The station stood deserted. There was not a soul in sight.
The rain quickened, streaming down the sides of the dirty carriages which were thick with summer dust. In the distance a few green flames flickered above the empty track. Coal smoke drifted everywhere and the satanic smell of sulphur filled the air.
It was after half past eight, but not a single handbell had sounded. Darkness descended over the warehouses.
Only from the window of the telegraph office came the glow of lamplight. Here in happy seclusion, protected from the droning wind and rain, sat the telegraphists in idyllic calm, bent over their desks like fantastic silkworm breeders, winding into spools the long, white threads that bound the whole world tightly into one. In the freight sheds porters leaned back on rough, wooden boxes daubed with all kinds of figures and letters scribbled gloomily in tar.
The Vajkays sat down at a neatly laid table in the glass-roofed station portico.
After nine, Géza Cifra came in from the station manager's office, whose door creaked noisily on rusty hinges as he entered. He must have been standing in for someone as he was doing the evening shift again.
He wore a heavy autumn coat and hurriedly rolled the red armband with the winged wheel insignia over his sleeve. He held a handkerchief to his mouth, so as not to inhale the musty air, and wiped his nose.
He was very pale. No doubt he too had gone to bed at dawn.
In the steamy air his profile seemed almost demonic. Mrs Vajkay felt he'd be capable of anything: deception, corruption, maybe even murder. And he looked so ill. She could hardly recognise him at all. The old couple exchanged glances, diagnosed the worst and, with a silent nod, buried the boy once more. By March, at the latest, it would all be over.
He hurried over to them, if only to clear the air after yesterday's misunderstanding, or simply to know its cause and see how the land now lay. With a croupy voice he inquired:
“Is she coming today?'
“Yes.”
“Then there's plenty of time,” and he took out his pocket watch as was his wont. “The Tarkő train is two and a half hours late.”
He offered this information quite indifferently and then withdrew. For the Vajkays, however, the news was anything but indifferent.
“I hope nothing's wrong,” said Ákos, almost inaudibly.
“I shouldn't think so,” his wife replied in the same whisper.
“Then why's it so late?'
“You heard him. He didn't say.”
“You should have asked him.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I should send a wire.”
“Where to?'
“That's true. The train's already on its way.”
But Ákos rose to his feet all the same. Leaving his umbrella behind, he staggered out among the tracks, tottering over the wet gravel to find someone who could provide a reassuring answer to his questions. He splashed about in the pouring rain. But the porters were already snoring on their wooden benches, fast asleep. Beside the engine room he came across a grumpy, dirty workman