Sunflower (11 page)

“The person who brought me here assured me zero wouldn't count,” the Colonel bellowed.

Mr. Zöld raised a palm to his ear, as if unsure he had heard the Colonel's words right—although for the past fifteen minutes the debate had been over this very point. Mr. Zöld merely shook his incredulous head, and asked in tones of deepest injury:

“What could the Colonel mean by that? And anyway, who was the idiot who duped him into believing such nonsense?”

“It was Jalopy!” the Colonel sullenly replied.

“Jalopy,” Mr. Zöld echoed, and emitted a gentle peal of laughter. “What a rascal.”

“Jalopy!” shouted the other players, amidst ironic and derisive guffaws, upon hearing such an absurdity.

Mr. Zöld, pleased as Punch, resumed his seat, and the Colonel, muttering, sucked on his cigar, with only an occasional glance of his bloodshot eyes around the table. Meanwhile in the next room the much-derided Jalopy was the recipient of a cold compress applied by Madame Guszti's ring-laden fingers. Ah, the glitter of those rubies, emeralds and turquoises on this woman's marvelously white hands! What a manicured, soft and delightful female hand—Jalopy could have spent all day admiring it. He resolved that, were he to marry, his wife's fingers would be lavish with rings—even if he'd have to beg, borrow or steal.

Diamant, having crept unnoticed into the card room, now stood, hands in pocket, behind Kálmán. The older man thoroughly despised these whiny, jittery, loud and insolent cardplayers who were incapable of concealing their jubilation or disappointment. Why, back in his days as a celebrated player, he and his confrères would wager entire fortunes without batting an eyelid, and lose without complaint! Yes, back in those days the women left at home started to pray the instant their men stepped out of the house...

Diamant watched the game's progress in silence, with a disdainful smile, the unlucky gambler's bitter, scornful expression, observing the sizeable stakes swept away by the croupier. Some of the gentlemen's faces had already developed a deathly pallor; trembling hands fingered coins after repeated losses; others clutched charms, lucky pennies, as if already fondling the barrel of a revolver, shoulders hunched, like hills crushed by ice, faces stiff in craven prayer to Fortuna, like fire victims before a burnt-out hovel; frenzied groans emerged from throats as players whimpered at unfavorable turns of the ball; one lip-biting, twitching gentleman uttered shouts of “But my dear Géza!” as if that was all he could remember; eyes practically rolled out of their sockets following the thalers and guilders like the rear wheels of a cart, or else they cast hopeful glances toward the croupier's pile of winnings, as if expecting the soiled banknotes to turn into a white dove that would ascend with a flutter of wings.

The Colonel had by now lost all he had and stood in grim thought, his evening coat dangling crumpled like a circus attendant's. The henchmen behind the croupier stood shoulder to shoulder, beaming with delight, nudging each other and casting malicious glances at the Colonel, as if they could think of nothing more amusing than a player who had been cleaned out. The spirit of camaraderie egged them on to cruel and inane jests. An old gentleman, absorbed in his calculations, received a playful tap on his bald pate. When he turned around, the culprit was already hiding under the table. But with all their clowning they maintained a deeply respectful and submissive attention to Mr. Zöld's back.

“Fifty forints on the zero,” the Colonel yelled out, a drowning man's call for help.

Mr. Zöld snatched back the ball as it spun out. Treacherous and evil was the look he directed at the ashen-faced Colonel.

“Let's see the dough,” he said softly.

But the Colonel had no “dough.” He fumbled futilely through his wallet. He had not a penny, much less fifty forints.

“Let's see the dough,” repeated Mr. Zöld. “You can't play without it.”

“But I'm a Colonel,” roared the officer, straining his voice.

Mr. Zöld's hand wave was pitying; the other players cast grumpy glances at their fleeced companion who was obstructing the progress of the game. (“It's already the second time tonight.”)

Diamant took Kálmán by the elbow.

“Let's go. We'll only get in trouble here. I bet the Colonel will sign an I.O.U. and keep on playing. I've seen it happen plenty of times,” growled the fat, prematurely old Jew. “Look, it's almost dawn; why don't we go have some breakfast...I know a small tavern open all night right here on Franciscans' Place. You're my guest.”

With a reassuring wink, Mr. Diamant revealed a ten-forint banknote peeking from his vest pocket.

Where did he get the money? Possibly the landlady had pressed it furtively into the palm held out behind his back as she crossed the room, all violet-scented party-going briskness. Or perhaps the banknote had been found on the floor, under the chair of some frenzied gambler, by the eagle-eyed Mr. Diamant, who never loitered in vain around the card tables.

Ten forints was a lot of money. Enough to make the heartsick Kálmán cheer up, and nearly shake hands, as Mr. Diamant did, with the cagey old doorman who let them out through the secret passageway. (Only later did it occur to him that he had been received in this house like a lord while his money and credit had lasted, in the days when he would lightheartedly fling Eveline's perfumed banknotes on a number on the green baize, confident that the kind maiden's rosewood moneybox would be forever at his disposal. But Eveline had gone far away since then...At the gambling salon they soon noted his penury, no matter how Mr. Kálmán tried to hide it. The fiacre, naturally on credit, would still wait for him all night on Posta Street; he still bestowed the usual two-forint tip on the doorman, and with a blasé expression chewed on a thick Havana cigar, while observing the progress of the play. In the adjoining room, where he felt sure he was out of sight, he would ask winning players for a small, gentlemanly loan, in strictest confidence. However, Mr. Zöld's hawkeye saw everything, and no longer was seat number ten reserved for him at the table.)

On the predawn street a tiny woman and a lanky gentleman were walking arm in arm, apparently taking their daily constitutional.

Diamant, who knew everyone in town, purred with satisfaction.

“This is what happens when you sell yourself to a woman. Mr. X gets married, but he can only take his dwarf wife out for fresh air in the dead of night...I remained a bachelor, although I had my chances...To marry like Zöld, that would have been easy.”

The morning light reflected from windows of the Inner City's antiquated houses like lantern rays shining from the Rákos cemeteries. Former burghers of the Inner City, now turned to water and dust, were sneaking back into their old apartments. The light gilded the faded shop signs. Diamant pointed at the lit-up windows on high:

“That's where they sleep, the good, the pure, the decent ones, the happy families, the untouched daughters. Ah, if I could have had the love of an honest woman just once! If only my fate had brought me an innocent, lily-white, heavenly creature, I'd now be going to the Jesuits' red-brick church to give my thanks, instead of this...”

Diamant grabbed Kálmán's arm, and spoke as emotionally as a romantic hero. (Kálmán eyed him incredulously: maybe his friend had had too much champagne—although Diamant for decades had been quaffing champagne like water.) His eyes were as doleful as a ghost's, his voice dolorous as a cello sounding behind a curtain.

“My life's been spent among women of ill repute. I was no lady-killer, no, I wasn't even handsome, and what's more, I never spent much on women. I just sat and smoked quietly and kept their company night and day. I'd give offhand answers, you'd never see me bend down to pick up their dropped jewelry or flowers; a glass of beer from me made them more delighted than a bottle of champagne bought by a count; some mornings I'd take them to the carnival peep show on a one-horse buggy, order hotdogs, have their fortunes told, things like that made them unforgettably grateful. At night I stood in the back at the nightclub, along with the applauding waiters, but the girls would still notice me. Every now and then I gave them a flower, and they'd dance all night wearing it in their hair and saved it in a glass of water in the morning. I offered them cheap Sport cigarettes, because I knew they didn't really care what they smoked. I'd drop in at their rooms in the afternoon, like some relative paying a family visit. Then they'd tell me about family matters, unlucky love affairs, and show me the fiancé's photo or love letters received from some simpleton. On rare occasions I'd let drop a word of advice, a mere suggestion. But mostly I smoked in silence, and solemnly listened to their Tarot readings. I pretended to believe all their superstitions, nodded sympathetically when they reviled a treacherous friend or expressed their disgust with the monotony of life. I'd put on my glasses—black horn-rims—when they consulted me about their contracts, and I coached them about making a statement when they were in trouble with the police. I never told them they were pretty, or that I loved them, I simply sat and sat, smoking, taking it all in, quietly, acting serene and wise. That's how I possessed the diva and the flower girl. Neither my body nor my soul really craved them, for I'd always dreamed of something else, something unreachable.”

Thus spoke Diamant, and he pointed his cherrywood walking stick at the windows in the gray dawn light:

“There...up there...where the whole family sits at the fully laid table, cups of fresh coffee steaming on the red placemats, and where even before their ablutions the girls of the house smell of hyacinth, from the kiss exchanged with the potted plant on their windowsill, first thing in the morning. Their hands are white and translucent, just right for the little green can they use for watering their flowers. At times I felt a drop of water fall on my face...That was the entire extent of my acquaintance with pure, innocent maidenhood. Their polka-dot kerchiefs, the hair brushed straight back, those earlobes, those corals paling and blushing in turns, the down on the nape of the neck, cheeks cool as springwater, forehead full of godfearing faith, melancholy temples, dreamy curls, aloof noses and those resigned lips always shut tight, as if they would speak only once, and for the first time, on the wedding night—all this I never saw from up close, and could only imagine the flowery scent of their breath. Innocent, gentle, churchgoing, white-footed were the women whose acquaintance I'd always craved, and instead I got actresses and somersaulting jezebels. If only once a pure maiden's palm had caressed my forehead, I would have been a different man. If only once, just once I'd have noticed that in the world outside it was Easter morning, and my heart full of love for a springtime woman—I would have walked a different path. Not once did a chaste woman smile at me, or take my hand, and inquire about the salvation of my soul...I merely stood on tiptoe behind dancing girls' sagging petticoats. That's why I never got anywhere in life. Soon I'll be fifty and ready to die like a dog.”

Kálmán felt a voice humming in his throat, a psalm that would have to be sung as soon as the organist gave the signal:

“Eveline, Eveline...Pure virgin, sweet Eveline.”

But he held his peace, for she was the sole treasure of his life.

Lovers, every last one of them, these strange participants in the card game of life, tend to see all other men as inferior knaves.

While Mr. Diamant mused over his wasted life like a melancholy jack of diamonds, Kálmán, in his jaunty heart and cocky complacence, reflected that he happened to possess the very woman whose praises the wise fat man just sang.

An upsurge of woes and sorrows, to a lover's ears, sounds like mere lyrical plashing of white-capped waves.

What a fool, the Hungary of his day deemed the poet Kisfaludy, when he sounded his plaintive lover's lyre! The blue hill of Badacsony, the dreamy, fleecy cumulus clouds evoked sadness only in a few similarly afflicted hearts. Few folks had cared to remember that, wandering through the greengage woods on the vineyard-studded mountain, was an unhappy swain for whom all of life, the entire universe depended on the whim of a young girl's eyes.

Even the man in love is always ready to laugh at another one—apart from his own emotions, are there still other varieties of that fancy ivy that entangles the heart? Love can be a most ridiculous and childish thing, as long as it amuses or torments others.

It is the clown's pancake makeup daubed on our fellow men's faces.

Or a flamboyantly long pheasant feather stuck in a dunce's cap.

Or worthless filberts used by children and old men in games of chance.

Everyone appears ridiculous when in love.

Only the daring ones admit the extent of their torments over a woman. Therefore the lyric poet is actually surrounded by a hostile audience when he sings of his folly. And as for an overweight, barrel-toned, beer-bellied and prickly-chinned man, already suffering from all kinds of bodily ills, to talk about love, why, the weary corners of his mouth are more suited for obscene or scornful phrases than plaintive verses...

That dawn Kálmán made a silent vow that he would never again hold forth about love. Henceforth he would only hum to himself, “Eveline, I love you so,” like some solitary autumnal fly droning among reeds and rushes.—Kálmán was a redblooded young man, who would have died rather than be heard singing those songs crooned daily by tenors the world over (songs that women never tire of hearing).

“Damn!” exclaimed Mr. Diamant who in his thoughts had been making wedding arrangements with Inner City misses at the Franciscans' Church and would have gladly approved the young maiden's wearing long, laced knickers, such as her grandmother had worn to the fair on St. Gellért's Hill. Possibly deep down in his heart he had desired a wife who would knit her stockings herself—just as the same men who profess to set things right in the world end up guzzling booze from dancing girls' shoes.