Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [71]
“Tickets, please. Tickets.”
Luggage was being wheeled away on trolleys.
“I can't see her,” said Ákos.
The woman made no reply.
If only to steady herself, she then said in an undertone:
“Perhaps she missed it and will come tomorrow.”
Had these doubts lasted a second longer, it would have been the end of them both.
But far away in the darkness, with a wavering, almost ducklike waddle, a woman was approaching. She wore a black oilskin hat, not unlike a swimming cap, and a long, almost ankle-length, transparent, waterproof cape. In her hand she held a cage.
They stared at her blankly. Terrified of another disappointment, they didn't dare believe it was she. They didn't recognise the oilskin hat, nor the waterproof cape. As for the cage which the woman, who had no other luggage, swung in her right hand, and at times raised up to her chest, this they simply couldn't understand.
The woman was hardly four or five paces from them when Mother glimpsed the outline of a porter behind her, carrying the brown canvas suitcase, bulging at both sides. Then she saw the wicker travel basket too, bound with packing twine, and the flask, the water flask, and, on the porter's shoulder, the white striped woollen blanket. Yes, yes, yes!
She cried out frantically:
“Skylark!” and, almost beside herself, rushed to embrace her daughter.
Father let out the same cry:
“Skylark!” And he too held the girl in his arms.
But while they were thus united, abandoning themselves entirely to their delight, a third voice called out too, farther off in the darkness, a derisive, nasal echo, rather like a cat's miaow.
“Skylark!'
It was one of those mischievous urchins who, for a couple of pennies, would carry people's bags into town. He had witnessed the theatrical outburst from a freight wagon and, finding the scene thoroughly amusing, had imitated the poor couple's voices, before quickly ducking out of view.
All three of them woke with a start from the spontaneous joys of reunion. The smiles froze on their faces.
Skylark strained her eyes towards the station building, but saw no one either on the platform or on the track. She thought she must have been mistaken and acted as if she hadn't heard. She walked on with her mother, who slipped her arm into hers.
Ákos trudged along behind with the porter. But more than once he glanced towards the wagon, his eyes piercing the darkness. He recognised that voice. It sounded like all the others, only more brazen and blunt. At one point he even stopped and took a few steps into the night towards it. But he soon turned back. Instead he swiped the air with his umbrella, dealing it one almighty blow, clearly meant for the insolent youth. Then he caught up with the two women.
Skylark was in fine spirits, witty and jovial.
“My dear parents aren't even pleased to see me. Well, well, they don't even recognise their own daughter.”
“Of course we do,” said Mother. “It's just that hat.”
“Doesn't it suit me?'
“Yes. Only it's so unfamiliar.”
“It's a bit on the tight side. It flattens my hair,” she said, straightening her hair with her free hand. “It's from Aunt Etelka. The cape too. So that I shouldn't get drenched.”
“It's a lovely cape.”
“Isn't it just?'
“Yes. Only it makes you different. So interesting. So independent.”
“Aunt Etelka said so, too.”
“And this?'
“Oh, yes. The cage.”
“What is it?'
“A pigeon.”
They reached the exit. Skylark again raised the cage to her heart and, while Ákos handed her ticket to the inspector, who was more than ready to go home, she coddled and cossetted her darling bird.
“Tubi. He's called Tubica. I won't let anyone take my Tubica. I'm taking my Tubica home myself.”
Outside the station, Father wanted to flag down a hackney carriage. But Skylark caught his arm and wouldn't let him. The unnecessary expense. Besides, the walk would do them good after so much sitting. The porter could carry the luggage.
Ákos gave the man the umbrella. From beneath his heavy load, the porter kept peering back to see how far they had fallen behind.
It was no longer