Sunflower (17 page)

“My dogs are as well acquainted with Mr. Pistoli, as doormen at the Orpheum with a spendthrift count. We can't help what's about to happen. Squire Pistoli is lord of the neighboring estates and must be entertained as a guest in the dining room until he feels like rolling on toward some other archipelago. You know, Malvina, we are dependent on each other in these isolated parts. No one comes this way, only the tax collector, and we do our united best to keep him permanently drunk.”

Miss Maszkerádi shrugged, then tore open the window, although for a moment she entertained the notion that the wild squire might send a bullet her way from down below.

“Come on in, you wretched dipsomaniac!” she yelled into the darkness. “But you better shave off your beard first, because we'll glue it to the table with candlewax.”

But Pistoli was not quite done with his preparations. He approached midnight serenades as solemnly and ceremoniously as a small-town quadrille organizer his duties. Have you ever seen a master of ceremonies at a quadrille willing to forego even one of the figures in the customary repertoire? The young misses and their partners are raring to go, their eager feet ready to dance the
csárdás
till dawn—while the pompous quadrille director leads, like Moses did the Jews, the entire company through a labyrinth of one elaborate old figure after another. Why, figure number six alone has thousands of tricky variants. (As for me, I was always happy just to be able to find my partner after all those artful dodges, and continue the kind of tantalizing conversation that used to be initiated during the quadrille by most young gentlemen of the better sort in the Hungary of old.)

Pistoli was a past master of the midnight serenade.

He knew every single dreamy melody that had ever been played beneath a shuttered window by a Gypsy band in Hungary. He was familiar with the Lake Balaton songs, the fantasias of Boka, Lavotta and Csermák; nor did he neglect the waltzes of József Konti. The ladies he had conquered through his serenades had instructed him thoroughly in what a woman likes to hear in a half-dreaming state. Last but not least came Mr. Pistoli's favorite song, the one that had so often served as overture as well, a nocturnal signature as it were, sent up toward those silent windows: “
Cloudy sky above the forest
...” This was the song Mr. Pistoli crooned, posted under the linden trees. He had a rather pleasant, resonant baritone; after all, in those days in the provinces one had to have some musical accomplishment to win over a woman's heart. When the song ended and the undertones of the contrabass had vanished into the night like the final note at a wedding, Pistoli, hat in hand, approached the window where the shutters had been thrown open. First of all, Eveline lit the customary match (much to Miss Maszkerádi's annoyance), then spoke a few words thanking the excellent gentleman for his thoughtfulness.

“I just wanted to pay my respects,” Pistoli solemnly replied.

The manor house had a verandah that was still unused this early in spring. Upended garden chairs, wickerwork tables, flower stands, white stakes topped by iridescent glass globes, hammocks and swinging chairs lay heaped on this verandah, as if summer were in permanent exile. Eveline invited Mr. Pistoli and his musicians to step in here. A table was set right side up, and Eveline returned from the interior of her house with bottles of wine and glasses, while Miss Maszkerádi dragged forth a ham from the larder. The Gypsies received plum brandy, which they knocked down from a black jug in their corner, keeping track, on the sly, of how much slivovitz passed down each gullet. The garden candelabras lit up part of the courtyard. Sleepy servants peered out through windows and the huge hounds paced growling in the yard, forbidden to nip at the Gypsies' legs. Mr. Pistoli, swaggering and strutting between the two girls, asked them repeatedly how they were able to live without a man. Maszkerádi looked away; her writhing lips seemed to be uttering silent curses, while Eveline affably replied to her guest that until this day she had not thought of marrying, but from now on she would consider Mr. Pistoli's wise advice.

“To the best of my knowledge, thus far every woman in your splendid family has married,” Mr. Pistoli somberly observed.

“I am the last surviving member of the family,” said Eveline. “The last one to bear the name of Nyirjes de Nagynyirjes.”

“Oh, that can be helped, as long as one stays on good terms with the king. You must know the ways and means, which axles to grease, and if you're not afraid to take some trouble, the honorable family name can be saved for posterity. For all of us, here in Northeastern Hungary, live for the sake of history. After us there will be no more Hungarians of the ancient sort, our kind. Our morality, our customs, the noble traits of our lineage will be extinct. Hungary, as we know it, will not be here much longer. The newfangled, modern types will displace us from the land of our ancestors. This is why I feel so sad on account of every unmarried Hungarian maiden. Children, more and more children must be born to Hungarian women, to ensure the survival of our kind.”

Pistoli declaimed his words in the form of a toast. He clinked glasses with the girls, and waited, expecting to be contradicted, but the two young ladies preferred to remain silent. Miss Maszkerádi, eyes downcast under long eyelashes, patiently held her peace, although the visitor's eyes did not leave her for one second.

“I happen to be a widower...And a widower is a wretched man. In his cold bed what can he do but remember the way it used to be, under the former dispensation. Everything in his house reminds the miserable widower of woman's almightiness, her splendor and her joy of life—and this after he'd just about learned how to make a woman happy. A widower never beats his new wife, for he knows all too well how much that hurts. If he gets irate, he takes out his anger on the pipe stem, for memories wafting from the graveyard make him forgiving amidst the troubles of this world. All day long the widower stays silent like a snail in its house. Twirling his mustache, brushing his boots, inspecting his pockmarks in the mirror, he winks an eye, like the wise man he is, not wanting to catch his servants in the act of stealing. After a bad night, a widower, at the very most, might scold his boots. Otherwise his face is wrapped in a perpetual smile, like an actor's, while he keeps his clenched fists out of sight under his vest. Nor does he intend to flourish them ever again after the funeral. He'll hold his peace forever now, silently wagging his head over the transience of this world, and he feels unspeakable contempt for those men who, desperate to sound cheerful, are constantly boasting, praising the graciousness of their deceased wives. Every girl worth her salt ought to marry a widower, for he will appreciate her, spoil and pamper her, be as gentle with her as one taming a wild dove.”

Miss Maszkerádi swallowed as lightly as a dreamer, wary lest her lovely dream fade.

“Just what I need,” she breathed, raising her eyelashes, the blade of her knife-sharp glance flashing against Mr. Pistoli's white vest.

“Life,” Pistoli went on, in rather measured accents, weighty, halting, like a wise old county magistrate, “life is no joke, my dear young lady (who could be my daughter). For the farsighted, the folks in the know, life is a deer park, where gentle breezes and fragrant grape leaves keep you company, complete with afternoon foot-soakings, peaceful snoozes, fine hounds and desirable wenches, the hell with all care; a long life, a nice pipe from time to time, mellow dinners: that's the way to spend life, life that digs your grave even now, steadfastly, like the ever-burrowing mole. To want nothing, and ask only for peace and quiet. Hope for nothing besides fair weather on the morrow. Trust no one, believe no one, think no extraordinary thoughts, just live, live, and love; fall asleep, and wake up healthy...Wear comfy slippers and pass the night in a feather bed. Live out a happy and long old age, the best part of life. To get an honest night's sleep, and then a snooze after lunch, let out a few whoops, fight and make up. Will you marry me, you glorious rosebud?”

He reached out and took Miss Maszkerádi by the arm.

The stern young lady did not resist. Dreaming, she sat on, only her eyelashes glowed, darkling as spent stars. When she spoke, it was almost as if she were talking to herself:

“Life is a great masked ball, my good sir,” she spoke musingly, as if picking her words from somewhere afar. “I can't really tell: are you actually asking for my hand?”

Pistoli did not wish to rush matters, for he had learned around women that a judiciously even and sedate comportment always works better than rash, impulsive behavior. Enjoying his moment in the limelight, he took his time stuffing his small pipe. After a prolonged and painful sigh he motioned at the Gypsy band to step forth and play his favorite song. Hearing this tune, his eyes bulged like old maids crowding in a window. His foot, tapping, created a racket like ghosts riding roughshod under the table. He raised both hands repeatedly, a paterfamilias trying for a moment's quiet among unruly offspring. Finally he slammed his fist on the tabletop like a highwayman. The Gypsies ceased. Pistoli's head swung left and right a few more times.

“My life...is at your disposal,” he said, in a husky voice. “I'm ready to jump from any church steeple at the crack of dawn, if that happens to be your wish.”

“Then you really love me? When nobody loved me till now,” Miss Maszkerádi murmured.

“I'm past the midpoint of my life, I've eaten the better part of my bread, like they say, and I've never loved anyone but you,” was Mr. Pistoli's solemn reply.

“But Mr. Pistoli!” exclaimed Eveline.

“Let's stop fooling around. Miss Eveline, I'm here to betroth the young lady, your guest. I beg you to give her to me in marriage.”

Mr. Pistoli, having said this, lowered himself onto one knee, much to the amusement of the ladies of Hideaway. The Gypsies underscored this with a tremolo flourish of strings, meanwhile nearly smashing the sides of the contrabass, whereupon the dogs began to howl, waking the haystack-embedded watchman, who was already approaching at a run.

“I am in love like a common vagabond. I implore you to forgive me.” Mr. Pistoli turned clasped hands toward Eveline.

“Let's not get all mushy,” Miss Maszkerádi interjected dryly. “In this house it's always Eveline who winds up the musical clock to play the tune from grandma's time. I happen to be a seriously world-weary woman, my fine young man. Let's talk turkey now, like traveling salesmen in the waiting room at the train station. What will you give me if I marry you?”

Pistoli dusted off his knee. In his frustration he gave a twist to his thick mustache like a pork butcher left holding the knife while the squealing pig runs off. Women he very much preferred to address in theatrical tones like a wandering comedian, ranting and raving, “slain,” only to move on, without wasting one serious word all his life. As a rule he bestowed his favors on women only as long as they believed his lies. Like lunatics, these women stared goggle-eyed, nostrils flaring and quivering, ears pricked up at his never-before-heard avowals, and gazed out through the window in a prolonged brown study. Yes, Mr. Pistoli's favorites were women prone to hysteria, whom he would sniff out seven counties off. He would rub his hands together in ecstasy hearing news of a woman who had had her hair shorn because she fancied it singed her shoulders. He capered like a billy goat when a woman confessed to him that she had swallowed her child. And he was utterly elated meeting a young wife at Munkács, who confided in a whisper that ever since her chin sprouted a man's beard she's been afraid to look in a mirror. He dealt with these women like a lion tamer, and packed up as soon as he tired of the fun.

“What will I give you?” he mumbled and surveyed the scene. “First of all, I give my name, which only locals mispronounce the way they do, as Pistol. It is an ancient Florentine name brought by my ancestors to the court of
Louis the Great
. In these northeastern parts a noble coat of arms still means something. The closed crown above the shield carries some weight in these parts. Mine contains pelicans, seven of them, the mother feeding her brood with her own blood. For the Pistolis were always known for self-sacrifice.”

“As for me, I'm a freethinker,” replied Miss Maszkerádi. “Let me repeat, in this house Eveline is the one who respects all those ne'er-do-well, windbag forefathers, dropped from peasant wenches' wombs, or all those granddams that lay down with every drunken retainer or purring pageboy. I live by myself and for myself, like a tree, alone in a field. I've always been proud of being companionless. But let's drink, my good Mr. Suitor, for all this talk gives me the dry mouth.”

Maszkerádi grasped the goblet, kicked away her chair in the manner of a traveling circus equestrienne, and leaning close to Mr. Pistoli, locked the winsome twin blades of her eyes into his. Draining her glass, she tossed it into the garden among the shrubs.

“Let no one else ever drink from it again. For I drank your health, Mr. Pistoli.”

“I won't mind if you call me Pistol, like the women around here,” said the overjoyed gentleman, rollicking with laughter. “I can already see that you don't wear tin pants like the feminists.”

“No sir, mine are lacy and dainty, fit for any man's eyes,” was Maszkerádi's rapid riposte.

She pulled up her fur coat a ways. Her two shanks reminded him of the forelegs on the noblest breed of rat-catching terrier. Her two feet pointed straight forward, clad in diminutive fur-lined slippers. Her black stockings stretched taut like youthful desire. There was a flash of lacy underpants that made Mr. Pistoli snatch away his gaze, as if he'd looked at the sun.

“Not so fast,” he growled, all sly reticence, “there's nothing wrong with flannel underwear, either. Those were the days, when women stayed hale and fair in flannel.”

“Why then, take my word for it, Eveline's the one for you, my good sir,” warbled Maszkerádi, oriolelike. “That esteemed young lady still wears linen purchased by grandma from the itinerant Uplands cambric vendor.”