Temptation

  The buzz of lies around this dark little space was as monotonously soporific as the buzzing of bees around a hive. Everybody whispered here, as people generally do behind the scenes. The bar was the stage where people would try and stick, as best they could, to the script demanded by society, but here, beside the bathrooms, was real life, and people talked in whispers. This was where husbands whose wives and wives whose husbands were inside on the dance floor made rendezvous. This was where impatient gentlemen conspired with the waiters who promised them, for a fee, to mix something into the hard-hearted lady’s drink that, take my word for it, sir, will do the job. This was where gentlemen smoking nervously could make the acquaintance of ladies from someone else’s party who they could never approach in the bar. This was where jealous men would come to blows, and this was where members of the Officers’ Club playing at duels would exchange calling cards. This was where, one memorable night, that unknown man in the grey suit had the well-known banker called before flashing some official document and telling him, in a theatrical whisper, to “come with me, please, quietly.”

  Inside, meanwhile, they were doing the Charleston, which was all the rage at the time, and by dawn, the entire bar was shouting along with the singer that:

  My baby’s got dark tresses

  Her eyes are black abysses

  Her hair dark as the raven,

  Her skin black as her race, and,

  She makes the mirror smile

  When she undresses

  Couples pulsed about the little dance floor pressed against each other amid balloons and coloured lights that pierced the clouds of cigarette smoke, along with the flashes of jewellery and feminine whiteness, to the sound of the bass drum and the lingering flutes, and to me—who had never seen anything like it—it all seemed as beautiful and unreal as some gripping fairy tale.

  I liked this nocturnal world, I liked this great, rococo debauchery—what sixteen-year-old boy wouldn’t? I made good money, too—my pockets were full of tips—and I could eat and drink as much as I liked. A huge, active woman known to everyone simply as Iluci presided over the kitchen. Iluci had a heart of gold. She was well into her fifties, and must have weighed a hundred and fifty kilos, but despite her age and size, she kept a lover so young that the first time I saw him, I thought he was her son. She was a rosy-cheeked brunette with sparkling eyes who loved her drink, and song, and dirty jokes, but who went straight to church from work on Sundays, where she would faithfully confess and take Communion. She took to me at once and stuffed me like a goose. She fed me exotic-tasting and incredibly expensive hors d’oeuvres that three or four guests had already paid for anyway, and laughed at me on the first night when I asked her for some water.

  “You don’t want to catch cholera, do you?” she asked, pointing at the bottles of champagne that the waiters—by this time of night—used to bring back sometimes half full from the bar. “Whatever’s left in the bottle, we pour down the drain,” she said. “So I’d rather you drank it to my health instead.”

  I got used to these heavenly circumstances, but on that first night I simply couldn’t control myself. I stuffed myself to bursting on the unfamiliar delights and washed them down with the best French champagne the way horses guzzle water when they’ve been ridden hard.

  Suddenly I found myself in a hell of a good mood. The world had never seemed so safe a place as on this dawn. The only thing I didn’t understand, as I ambled back to my post, was why my legs were so unsteady. Not that I was too concerned, though. On the contrary! Let the worriers worry—I wasn’t going to any more, by God. I felt strange, that’s true, but it was a good sort of strange, so I was all for the strangeness if it wanted to continue. The voice inside me was singing:

  Why, Mr Stux, what’s this,

  You know it’s wrong—

  Have some patience, sir,

  The night’s still long.

  I only noticed that I was singing along with the band when I felt a guest’s gaze upon me. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Fortunately he, too, was thoroughly tipsy and, instead of telling me off, he gave me a rousing Hungarian chorus of:

  “Forever young! Isn’t that right, my friend?”

  “ ’Course it is!” I replied. “Long as we keep off the water!”

  At that, the guest threw me an Egyptian cigarette and, moved, I decided that this whole bourgeois–proletarian thing was a lot of stuff and nonsense. I mean, take this bourgeois for example. He was a good enough sort! What cause did I have to be angry at him? I liked all the upper-class gentlemen now, and liked the upper-class women even more. One or two of them smiled at me when they saw me so cheerful. “Oh, sweetheart,” I sighed after the prettiest ones, once the bathroom door had closed behind them, “if only I could come with you! If only I could have a little feel of all that!”

  Why, Mr Stux, you’re so decadent!

  Why do I feel that you’ve been

  Heaven sent?

  From where I was sitting, I could only see a corner of the bar. It was inhabited by rather a funny couple—I’d been keeping an eye on them all evening. The funny thing about them was that when they’d come in, they’d been terribly measured with each other; the man had insisted on calling the lady “madam”, and madam had behaved accordingly. And then they “warmed up to each other” so suddenly, and so passionately, that I couldn’t take my eyes off them. I would have liked to know how these gentlemen did this. I watched them like a dog its quarry. The man was a handsome, “forceful” sort of Transylvanian squire, greying at the temples, with something of the Gypsy to his face. He’d been staying some three weeks, but I hadn’t seen the woman once. I liked the look of her, and why deny it? I was just as excited as her partner. She was a thin woman with mischievous eyes, all soft and blonde and—ooh, yes please. By the time I went out to the kitchen, they were thoroughly entangled, but what was that compared to what I was seeing now! The woman was almost lying down tipsily beside the man, whose hand . . . No, I told myself, you’re seeing things. Am I really that drunk? Because it looked as if one of the gentleman’s hands were feeling about beneath the woman’s skirt, while the other held his cigarette so steady I was forced to wonder if these two hands were controlled by the same body at all.

  In the end, I couldn’t resist the temptation, so I got up and went closer. No, I wasn’t imagining things. There was definitely something moving beneath her skirt.

  But I was brought up short. For the man whispered something to the lady and then suddenly stood up and made his way straight towards me. There’s going to be trouble, I told myself, this geezer’s really going to give me hell for spying on them.

  But the “geezer” did no such thing. He handed me his cloakroom ticket and gave me a friendly smile.

  “Right away, sir,” I said, relieved, but when I made to leave, he put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Wait,” he said softly, and slipped five pengős into my hand as he glanced briefly but meaningfully at the girl and then back at me again.

  That was all an experienced woman-smuggler needed. I immediately understood the situation.

  “Yes, sir, I see, sir,” I replied in that refined, decadent voice that is close but not familiar. “Right away?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “But be careful. The lady’s had a lot to drink. You understand?”

  “Of course.”

  When I came back from the cloakroom, they were both waiting for me in the doorway. The lady really had had a lot to drink, more than a lot, actually, but that just made her all the more desirable. Her eyes said “take me to bed” so strongly that it made me, too, hot all over. When I helped her into her mink stole, I inadvertently touched her shoulder, and she must have felt the excitement inside me, because she turned around and smiled.

  I rushed out into the lobby to see if the way was clear, and I was pleased to see it was. They’d turned off the big chandeliers long before and only a few soporific lamps twinkled in the half-light; there was no one on the horizon. I went ba
ck to fetch them, or rather, I opened the door and signalled them to come.

  The lady was worryingly unsteady on her feet, but fortunately we didn’t meet anyone and I took them up in the lift, the daytime lift, which no one used at night. They stood there pressed against one another, pressed very tight, as the man hummed and the woman closed her eyes, while I couldn’t take my drunken mind off what these two were about to get up to in their room.

  They got off at the third floor, and I was about to head back down when I saw the woman totter. She leant against the wall, pressed her hand to her forehead, and swallowed heavily, as if there were something stuck in her throat.

  “What’s the matter?” the man asked, a little frightened.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, barely audibly. “I’m dizzy.”

  The man called me over.

  “Could you bring us up a strong black coffee?”

  “Yes, sir, right away.”

  “Hurry.”

  Despite my best efforts, it was a half an hour before I managed to take them the coffee, because I had to stand in for the cloakroom girl meanwhile. When I finally got up there, no one replied to my knocking. I assumed the gentleman had thought it best to take the lady home, but since they had already been charged for the coffee, I opened the door with my key to deposit the coffee with its rightful owner.

  The entrance hall was dark, but the doors were wide open and I was brought up short so suddenly the tray almost fell out of my hands. Across the darkened salon, I could see that back there, in the illuminated bedroom . . . What was that? I wondered. Am I drunk? At first, it seemed as if I were looking at a statue, a seated female nude, but . . . how did that statue get onto the bed . . . and . . .

  I don’t know how long I stood there watching them. It could have been moments, it could have been minutes, or it might well have been much longer. At a certain moment, the hot coffee spilt onto my hand and that made me snap out of it. I put the tray down on the table in the salon and then I felt my way, dizzily and drowsily, out through the darkened entrance hall.

  I managed to make my way to the lift, but start it I could not. It had been too much for one night, this and the French champagne.

  There was a fiery breeze blowing through my breast, blasting, singeing my heart. I sat dizzily down on the velvet seat and fell into a sort of semi-dream state. My mouth was dry, my tongue felt swollen, and I was unbearably thirsty.

  I observed myself dully, uncomprehending. What was this? What had happened to me? But then the dizziness passed and I was a big lad once more.

  “Forever young!” I muttered to myself. “I’m thirsty, that’s all.”

  And since I didn’t intend to catch cholera, I went down to the kitchen and had a glass of champagne.

  •

  As to how I got home, I don’t know. I suspect that I didn’t know even at the time. My parents weren’t home, and that had a very good effect on my mood, which had already been pretty good to begin with. I was pleased with my parents.

  “Well done!” I said aloud, and immediately noted that I was now talking to myself, which is to say that I was drunk, or rather not that I was drunk, because if I were drunk, then I wouldn’t know that I was drunk. “Well done, anyway,” I said aloud once more, and went into the room.

  The shutters were closed, and that also drew my approbation. Look at that—the old folks had thought of that, too! “Well done. Very well done.” After all, isn’t that what parents were for?

  I started to undress. It was so dark that I couldn’t see my own hands, but I didn’t open the shutters. The hell with all that blasted light! Really kills the mood. The world was so ugly in the morning, filthy, smelly and nauseating. The streets were full of week-old corpses dragging themselves along, a bunch of grumpy sourpusses. And the looks they gave you! Idiots. What did they know?

  Why, Mr Stux, what’s this,

  You know it’s wrong—

  Have some patience, sir,

  The night’s still long.

  Oh, if that little blonde had been alone in that bed . . .

  If . . . Well, and why not? It could happen. Doctors, for example, get called out at night all the time. Let’s assume the man’s a doctor, and . . .

  What would she have thought if I’d suddenly walked in from the darkened salon? She’d given me a good once over when I’d helped her into her stole. She really had that look. Or was it just my imagination? And anyway, it’s not like she could have said anything. I was just bringing the coffee. They’d asked for it. At worst, she would have pulled the covers up. But she might not have. Her Excellency hadn’t.

  Oh . . . but she was something else . . . That red hair . . . those sweet little breasts peeking out of her nightgown . . . oh yes. How amazing she must look naked, with all that red . . . Shame she shaves her armpits. It’s so nice when you get a little flash of hair down there . . .

  That little blonde shaved her armpits, too. She wasn’t bad, either, the little blonde. Not a bit of it! I tell you, when I saw her there on the bed . . . whoooo! . . . Lying in bed with a woman like that, my God! Or rather, she was sitting. I wouldn’t mind giving her something to sit on . . . oh yes . . . yes, yes . . . How am I ever going to get to sleep in this condition?

  Why, Mr Stux, you’re so decadent!

  Why do I feel that you’ve been

  Heaven sent?

  I was buck naked by now, but it still didn’t want to subside. I felt about in the dark till I found my father’s cigarettes and matches. The flame flashed in my hand and I was chilled with horror.

  There was someone else in the room.

  Someone was laughing behind my back.

  I turned around so fast the match burned my finger. It was Manci. She was lying in bed, giggling.

  Of course. She, too, only came home in the morning. I’d forgotten she even existed. Why did she even exist?

  “What you laughing at?” I snapped.

  She didn’t reply, she couldn’t. She was laughing so hard she could only make inarticulate noises.

  “What you laughing at?” I asked again, shouting this time, but she just kept on giggling hysterically.

  “Give us a fag,” she said at last, exhausted.

  I felt my way to the bed in the dark. Manci lit the cigarette slowly, awkwardly, and never took her eyes off me.

  “Where were you?” she giggled.

  “With my girl,” I replied angrily.

  That just made her laugh even harder.

  “Why are you still laughing? Don’t you believe me?”

  “No, sport, I don’t. I don’t buy it,” she guffawed.

  “Why not?”

  “You fool! Who comes home like that from a girl?” she laughed, and I felt her hand upon me.

  The inexplicable disgust I had felt for her from the very first moment took such powerful hold of me then that I pulled away with almost childish horror. I was behaving like a frightened little virgin, I thought in shame, and I didn’t know what to do. Her warm, dirty touch felt good, shamefully good, infuriatingly good, and yet I wanted to run away. Yes, I was once more a little scared of her.

  There was silence. Our two cigarettes glowed sharply in the dark.

  “Tell me,” she said then, “you ever been with a woman?”

  “ ’Course I have!” I snapped indignantly, and to show her how experienced I was, I added cockily: “Who hasn’t?”

  “What woman?”

  “All sorts.”

  “You go to brothels?”

  “No.”

  “Where, then?”

  “To hers.”

  “She got a flat?”

  “And how!”

  I accompanied this with sweeping hand gestures, suggesting great, terrible secrets, because now I wanted more than anything to pique her curiosity. I wanted her to be curious, to ask, so I could answer. I no longer felt fear and revulsion—the desire to talk overrode everything.

  Manci sat up.

  “She rich?”

 
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Some man give her the dough?”

  “Nah.”

  “Well, then?”

  “She’s a lady. Married.”

  “What’s her husband do?”

  I hesitated. Back then, I still hesitated.

  “Why don’t you answer me?”

  “Promise not to tell anyone?”

  “Oh, my dear,” she laughed, “if I told you the half the things I’ve heard from men . . .”

  I liked her treating me like a man like that. Yes, here was a woman you could talk to.

  “All right, I’ll tell you,” I said graciously, and leant in closer. “He’s a minister,” I whispered. “An ex-minister.”

  Manci gave a whistle.

  “Well, I’ll be . . . only an excellency good enough for you, eh?”

  I pulled on my cigarette, almost hard enough to swallow it.

  “Here, Manci,” I asked excitedly, “have you . . . you ever heard anything about her sort?”

  “ ’Course,” she said. “Plenty. She likes ’em young, is all. She pick you up at the hotel?”

  “What d’you mean picked me up? You can’t pick me up just like that.”

  “Leave it out, dear. She give you money?”

  “I don’t need her money, I’m not a kept man!”

  Her cigarette glowed. I could see her smiling.

  “So she’s just playin’ with you.”