Skylark - Dezso Kosztolanyi [75]
“Well, what do you think?'
“You look nice,” Father replied. “Splendid.”
Skylark had finished hanging her clothes in the wardrobe and was just shutting the door when she suddenly said:
“Oh yes, did you get my letter?'
“Indeed we did,” said Father, quick to reassure her.
“Was it frightfully painful, my poor dear, that beastly tooth of yours?” asked Mother.
“Of course not. It went away in no time. It was nothing.”
“Which one was it?'
“This one.”
Skylark stood beneath the chandelier, her mouth wide open so that her mother could see, obligingly thrusting her forefinger deep inside to point out a decayed, brown tooth, half of which was missing. The other teeth at the front were like tiny grains of rice, set a little far apart, but white and whole.
“Dear me,” said her mother, stretching up on tiptoe, for her daughter was a good deal taller than she. “You'll have to see the dentist. You can't leave it like that.”
Ákos didn't look.
He couldn't bear to witness any form of physical suffering, illness or wound.
He only stared at his daughter's face as she opened her mouth. And there, in the electric lamplight, beneath the chandelier, he could see, still more clearly than when she had gone away a week before, that a soft but indelible ashen haze had descended over her skin, like a thin, hardly visible but none the less durable cobweb. It was age, indifferent and irreparable, which he had finally accepted on his daughter's behalf, and which no longer caused him any pain. As the three of them stood there together, they really did seem quite alike.
“So, how is everyone?” asked Mother.
“They're all very well, thank you.”
“Aunt Etelka?'
“She's fine.”
“Uncle Béla?'
“Likewise.”
“So they're all well.”
In Tarkő it had been exactly the same.
“So, how is everyone?'
“They're all very well, thank you.”
“Your mother?'
“She's fine.”
“Your father?'
“Likewise.”
“So they're all well,” they had said.
But Skylark made no mention of this. All she added was:
“They send their kindest regards.”
And, unbuttoning her blouse, she began to get ready for bed.
“So you enjoyed yourself?'
“Tremendously.”
“I can't even begin to tell you tonight,” she added. “But tomorrow. I'll speak of nothing else all week.”
“At least you had a good rest.”
“Yes.”
“And you?” Skylark began, raising her voice a little in mild self-reproach. “And you, my poor things? I can imagine how awful it must have been. The food at the King of Hungary.”
“Awful,” Ákos replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Actually,” said Mother, playfully affecting pride, “your father was wined and dined by the Lord Lieutenant.”
“Really?'
Skylark cast a penetrating glance at her father.
“There's something not quite right about Father. Something I don't like. Come over here, my sweet. Let me have a good look at you.”
Father went over to her obediently. He didn't dare look his daughter in the eyes. He was frightened.
“How pale you are,” said Skylark, lowering her voice. “And how thin! Your little hands too, how thin they've grown!'
Skylark placed her bony but none the less pleasantly feminine hands on her father's and stroked his aged wrists as if they were a child's. Then she kissed them tenderly.
“Now you're in my hands,” she said in an almost manly voice. “Father dear, you have to put on weight. Do you understand? I'll cook for you.”
“That's true,” Mother brooded. “What shall we cook tomorrow?'
“Something light. I've had all I can take of fatty country cooking. A caraway soup, perhaps, and meat with rice. Perhaps a little semolina. And there's the cake, too.”
“And then there's washing day to think of,” Mother mumbled. “Next week.”
Father said good night and withdrew into his bedroom, shutting behind him the door that separated it from his daughter's room. He could hear Mother discussing all the niggling details of housekeeping with his daughter, who was already in bed. Then the conversation turned to the washerwoman and Biri Szilkuthy, who had split up with