They Were Divided - Miklos Banffy [45]
Regina believed that he came only to see her and whenever she thought of this her heart seemed to throb high in her throat.
And, of course, in one sense she was right: Laszlo did look for the moments when he would be sure of finding her alone, but it was not her young beauty that drew him to seek her out, indeed he had never even noticed it. He had not even seen that the child was swiftly turning into a desirable young woman. For Laszlo there were two reasons why he chose those moments to go into the shop, and these two reasons were quite enough for him. The first was simply that Regina, unlike her father, poured generous measures of brandy and often of the best without Laszlo having to ask for it; and the second, which for the young man was probably the most important, was that it meant he could talk about himself and about that magical past when he had had the world at his feet and which had been so cruelly snatched from him. He could talk about the Casino Club, and the Park Club, about dinners and dances in great private houses where he, as elotancos, would lead the dance. He could talk about the perfections of Countess Beredy and of her exquisite little palace overlooking the ramparts of old Buda, and of the great white country castle of the Szent-Gyorgyis. He could describe the grandeurs of princely parties at the Kollonich palace near Lake Balaton, recounting over and over again how the state-rooms were decorated and how they all led out of one another, how the sunlight gleamed on the myriad gilt bindings of the books in the library, how the park was laid out like an English garden and how the shooting parties were organized with precision and stately attention to precedence. Above all he could talk to his heart’s content about everything that related to his love for Klara. He could describe her little room where once, and only once, they had kissed; he could tell of the dresses she wore and of those little bouquets of saffron-yellow carnations that she always carried as a symbol of their love. He could tell Regina everything, even if that everything was now long lost to him, and through no one’s fault but his own. In fact he did not tell everything to Regina. He never told her Klara’s name or anything about her except those things by which she was surrounded, her dresses, scents, flowers, the rooms through which she moved and the little capes she would put round her shoulders when going out of doors. Her name and her person were too sacred to be mentioned or described, in much the same way as certain primitive peoples hold it taboo to say the name of their god. For Laszlo the brandy washed away any hint of self-recrimination and left him only with the euphoria evoked by his memories of gaiety and beauty and grandeur.
During the previous winter old Marton had occasionally fed his master on roast hare. He never spoke about how he had obtained it, indeed he never spoke about it at all but merely put it on the table. Laszlo was too listless and filled with his own sad thoughts to notice and at that time merely ate automatically whatever was put before him. But when the first snows of Laszlo’s second autumn in the cottage began to fall and old Marton served up roast hare again, his master looked up and said, ‘Hare? Where did you get that?’
He was not particularly interested, and had asked the question only for the sake of something to say.
‘It came.’
‘What do you mean, it came? Did somebody send it?’
Marton did not reply but gathered up the dishes and, with much clattering of plates and knives and forks, put everything on a tray and carried