Temptation

  I looked at him in surprise.

  “You got somebody?”

  “Not yet. Once I’m in society.”

  “You want to marry for money?”

  “ ’Course not. I’m going to love my wife. And I’m only going to marry someone very clever and very pretty. Or do you think only poor girls can be pretty and clever?”

  “No. But what’ll you do if you fall in love with a poor girl?”

  “That’s why I want to get into society. If I only know rich people, I won’t end up falling in love with a poor girl, will I? Well, then. Yes, sir, I’m going to marry for love.”

  What can you say to that! Yes, he really would end up marrying for love. I felt very stupid compared to him. I just lay there in silence and stared at the sky. The sky was as blue and noncommittal as Franciska’s eyes.

  “Tell me,” I said, “you an atheist?”

  “Me?” he said, practically incensed. “What are you talking about? Only Reds and Jews are atheists. I render unto God what is God’s, and to Caesar what is Caesar’s.”

  “But your way of thinking, it’s hardly religious.”

  “Why not? Because I’m realistic? I think like the society I live in. Society’s Caesar, isn’t it? And the Bible doesn’t say you should render unto a good Caesar what is Caesar’s, it just says render unto Caesar. And what the Caesars were like back in those days, you should know from school. Were they all so good? Come on, tell me.”

  “No.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “So you see that I’m on firm religious ground.”

  How do you argue with that? He was right again. Yes, he knew how to make his luck. He was going to make something of himself. And Elemér thought a simple boycott would take care of him. Poor Elemér. Poor believers. I looked up at the sky because I didn’t want him to see my face.

  “Here,” I said. “What d’you say about this thing with poor Gyula?”

  “It’s terrible,” he said equivocally. “Poor boy.”

  “But do you think someone really did report him?”

  “I don’t know. But what difference does that make, anyway?”

  “What difference? If they hadn’t reported him, he wouldn’t have committed suicide!”

  “He didn’t have to go committing suicide. Besides, as a Catholic, I don’t agree with suicide. He was weak, that’s why he died. It’s a shame, but that’s how it is. The weak fall by the wayside.”

  “But Gyula wasn’t weak. He was stronger and healthier than you.”

  Franciska looked at me suspiciously.

  “Looks like it takes more than that, my friend,” he said, and I felt both mockery and glee in his voice.

  “What does it take, then?”

  He shrugged.

  “The stronger come out on top. The rest doesn’t matter.”

  I fell silent. Why hadn’t Gyula managed to come out on top? Strong, healthy Gyula. Was it because he wasn’t “strong” and “healthy” enough to snap other people’s necks? Or because he dared to dream a little? Because he took that syphilitic tramp for the heroine of some great romance? Franciska didn’t dream—no sir. Franciska was “realistic”. He would have simply used a condom. Is that what life boiled down to?

  “And the rest doesn’t matter?”

  “No.”

  “And is that all right?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, and shrugged. “And to be honest, I don’t care. The fact is that’s the way it is, and I don’t fight the facts. I’m realistic.”

  “And what if you were weaker?” I asked suddenly and crept closer to him. “Take us, for example. I’m stronger than you. What would you do if I tried to strangle you right now?”

  The blue apathetic eyes surveyed me calmly.

  “I’d shoot you,” he said, completely naturally.

  “You got a gun?”

  “Sure. You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “There you go, then,” he smiled. “It all comes down to things like that.” He took a thin little black Browning out of his back pocket. “It’s loaded,” he said.

  There was silence. I looked more closely at the pistol. It was a tiny, delicate, almost effeminate thing. Like a toy, I thought. But if he shoots me, I’m finished. Yes, it seemed life really did come down to things like that. My heart beat fast. I was gripped by mortal fear.

  Franciska smiled.

  “Let’s go,” he said lightly, but there was hidden menace in his voice. It was an order.

  I stood up. The pistol was still in his hand. He was holding it in his left hand as he dusted himself off behind with his right. The glorious victor, I thought. I looked at his satisfied baby-face, his blue, noncommittal eyes, his confident smile, and at that moment something happened within me.

  It’s hard to explain these things, perhaps impossible. I used to feel this in school when I was young, whenever I would stand up to my class, which could have torn me limb from limb like a wild beast, and come out stronger. The blood rushed to my head. I was no longer quite myself. Only sleepwalkers can feel so secure. It’s ridiculous, I thought, even as I was doing it. You’re an idiot. He’ll shoot you. But then I could think no more. I was carried away by passion, blood, instinct or something else, for which there are no words.

  “Go on and shoot me if you can,” I said hoarsely.

  Franciska went white.

  “Are you mad?” he asked with a twisted, forced smile. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m going to give you the beating of your life now,” I said without raising my voice at all. “And you’ve got a gun. Let’s see who comes out on top.”

  Franciska gave a nervous, dismissive wave.

  “Go to hell,” he said, and made to leave.

  I gave him an almighty slap. Franciska raised his gun, but I smacked it out of his hand. He screamed.

  “Heeeeel—”

  That was as far as he got. I stuffed my handkerchief into his mouth and smacked him so hard on the head, he fell to the ground. I sat on his stomach.

  “There,” I said. “Now here we are, the two of us. Let’s see who comes out on top. I could beat you to death, but I won’t. You know why? ’Cause that would get me in trouble, too. You see? I learn quickly. I’m only going to beat you half to death, because that won’t cause me any grief. And why not? Because you’re not going to rat on me, the way you did with Gyula. And you know why, you realist? Because if you do, I’ll tell them you were trying it on with me, and who wouldn’t believe me? Everybody knows you’re a fag. You think your German’ll smooth things over for you? That he’ll have me kicked out of the hotel? You’re wrong. ’Cause if he does, I’ll write the whole thing up for the papers. And if you bribe the papers, I’ll report you to the police. And if you bribe the judge, so what? Because, meanwhile, I’ll make up all sorts of things about you and that German and the upstanding gentlemen in the management who let things like that go on in the hotel. But there won’t be any need for all that. You know why? Because you’re all realists. You’re scared. You’re scared of the obvious, what you can feel—of this. You’re not afraid of ghosts. But it’s a ghost that’s sitting on you now—Gyula’s. Don’t believe me, realist? Then listen up—this smack is from Gyula, the dead Gyula. How does it feel to take it, my friend? Did you really think that you, the weak, would always be on top, and we, the strong, would stay forever on the bottom? Did you think we had qualms? Just because we dared to dream? Well, you’re out of luck, my friend, because even the likes of me have dreams. Not just the likes of Elemér. And some of us are filthy peasants who haven’t forgotten how to use our fists. Get that into your head, you realist!”

  I laid into him and didn’t stop hitting him till he passed out. Then I took the handkerchief out of his mouth, pocketed the Browning and walked down to the river. It was only there I felt how tired I was. I sat down on the riverbank steps, right beside the water. The pistol clunked on the stone of the step.

  I looked around. There was nobody about. I took out
the gun and threw it into the Danube. Then I just sat and watched the river. There was a splash and concentric rings trembled on its surface; then it became so smooth I could see my face in it. I smiled.

  “Dear Lord,” I said, half aloud. “Thank you for filling my heart with noble dreams and for giving me rough, peasant hands to back them up with. I know they’ll help us through. I know, with them, we’ll get them in the end.”

  My head drooped down onto my chest, my eyelids grew heavy. I remembered old summer evenings when they had me reaping wheat from sunup till sundown at fourteen. That was when I’d last felt this tired and this satisfied. The moon shone onto the mowed field. I looked at it, and it was a pleasure to behold. I had done my work well. I would amble home with the other peasants, our heavy, tired steps resounding darkly under the moonlit poplars. At the Cultural Circle, the Gypsy music was playing for the upper classes, and we too were singing—but ours was a different tune:

  I’m every bit as tough as you

  I can make order just like you

  14

  ABOUT NINE O’CLOCK THAT EVENING, the telephone rang.

  “Is that you, Béla?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Elemér.”

  I shuddered. What could he want? Maybe Franciska had snitched on me, and . . . I quickly closed the door of the booth so no one would overhear.

  “Yes?” I said apprehensively.

  “Could you wait for me in the morning?”

  “Why?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Has something . . . happened?”

  A small silence. Then:

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you in the morning. Meet me at the front door at eight thirty.”

  “All right.”

  I looked at the clock. It wasn’t even nine thirty. I had to wait another eleven hours. Eleven hours is six hundred and sixty minutes, and those are minutes in which great ideals don’t much count. I thought of the hard days of starvation, the six hours of walking, the nights filled with coughing. Of Berci, my mother, the bottle of lye. And I asked myself: was it really worth it?

  A frightened silence took hold inside me. If I told myself yes, the voice inside me answered: no. If I told myself no, the voice inside me said: yes.

  Yes. No. Yes. No. Who was right?

  Was it Franciska yet again? Yes. Yet again. He wouldn’t do something that stupid. He’d say: what does it get me? Only I could be that stupid, I scolded myself, but my heart was deeply proud of my “stupidity”. I was proud that I wasn’t as “smart” as he was. And I was indescribably jealous of him.

  •

  Elemér was punctual as always, “ridiculously punctual”, as the boys used to say. He wasn’t early and he wasn’t late. He stepped out of the front door at precisely the moment the minute hand on the electric clock on the corner touched the six.

  “Walk with me? I’m going to police headquarters.”

  I shuddered involuntarily when he said police headquarters.

  “I’m dropping off the registration cards,” he said, and pointed to the bundle he was carrying.

  Of course, I thought, he goes there every morning. I’m really losing it.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and we set off together.

  We walked in silence beside one another. Elemér was clearly waiting for me to start the conversation, but I didn’t say a word. I was focused only on my rep now. I walked along beside him, hands in my pockets, chin pressed down onto my neck, the way I did when I was a child.

  Eventually, it was Elemér who broke the silence.

  “You heard?”

  “What?”

  “Franciska’s in hospital.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” I asked with forced calm.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “How would I?”

  “You’re the one who saw him last.”

  “There was nothing wrong with him then.”

  I didn’t look up, but I could feel Elemér looking at me.

  “Well, he’s in a pretty sorry state now,” he said. “The doctors are afraid he might have internal injuries.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yes.”

  No use denying it, it wasn’t Franciska’s internal injuries I was worried about. I was more concerned with my own potential injuries. I looked up, but Elemér’s face didn’t reveal a thing. It was expressionless as always. Pokerface, I thought to myself angrily.

  “And what are they saying in the hotel?” I ventured.

  “They say it was a car accident.”

  “A car accident?!”

  “Yes.”

  I almost believed it. And why not? I thought, encouraged. Things like that do happen.

  “You don’t mean he was run over by a car?”

  “No.” Elemér was silent for a moment. “I think this whole car accident is nonsense.”

  There was something strange in his voice. I didn’t dare look at him.

  “How come?”

  He didn’t reply straight away. I could feel that he was looking at me again.

  “I think somebody beat him up.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I visited him in hospital.”

  “Despite the boycott?”

  He pretended not to have noticed the ironic tone.

  “Yes,” he said. “I was afraid he might land someone in the same trouble he did Gyula.”

  He said it so simply, in such a straightforward way, it was as if he had been entrusted with the care of all our souls and he had to answer for us with his life. I was ashamed.

  There was more silence. It took me a long time to summon the courage to ask:

  “And what did he say?”

  “Same thing.”

  “That it was a car accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he didn’t say anything else?”

  “No.”

  “And is that what he told the management?”

  “Probably.”

  “So you’re not sure? I mean . . .” I fell suddenly silent, afraid I’d let something slip.

  Elemér gave me an inquisitive look.

  “You meant, did he snitch on anyone?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “I doubt it,” he said, still looking at me hard.

  I could feel myself blush. But I couldn’t stop myself asking.

  “How come?”

  “Because whoever it was would no longer have a job. The management don’t tend to stand for that sort of thing.”

  So it’s all right, then, I thought, relieved. But then I asked myself in fright: then why does he want to talk to me?

  We had come into view of the great yellow building that was police headquarters. I have to find out, I thought. Anything’s better than this uncertainty. But how . . . how was I meant to ask without incriminating myself ? I slowed down.

  Elemér looked at me.

  “Do you want to go down to the river for a few minutes?”

  “Yes,” I answered greedily.

  We cut across the square and went down to the river. There were no passers-by here, only a few boatmen hanging around the empty quay. We sat down on the stone steps of the riverbank. It was a fine, calm morning, the sun sprinkling the Danube with fragments of silver, the water lolling sleepily.

  “Did you beat him up?” Elemér asked out of nowhere.

  He looked at me so openly with his cat’s eyes—already growing wrinkled—that I couldn’t lie to him.

  “Yes,” I nodded.

  Elemér didn’t say anything. He just looked out at the water pensively for a long while, and then asked with his typically matter-of-fact, almost scientific curiosity:

  “Why d’you do it?”

  I was annoyed by his incredible calm. I shrugged my shoulders testily.

  “You know well enough.”

  “I do,” he replied. “The question is do you?”

  I looked at h
im, uncomprehending.

  “If you get this upset, you’ll never understand,” he replied in his dry, professorial voice, but his cat’s eyes, old before their time, were full of benevolence. “Look,” he said, “I want to talk to you seriously. Tell me why you did it.”

  I shrugged again.

  “You can see I was right.”

  “In what way?”

  “He didn’t dare report me.”

  “He didn’t. And?”

  “What do you mean ‘and’?” I said, more and more agitated by the minute. “He just laughed at your precious boycott. It has no effect on him. This he won’t forget in a hurry. The next time he’s thinking of snitching on someone he’ll remember his ‘car accident’. He’ll look twice before crossing the road.”

  “Maybe,” nodded Elemér. “But that wasn’t the only reason you did it, was it?”

  “No,” I replied, and I was seized by a vague, suffocating anxiety. “How did you know?” I asked with childlike wonder.

  “That’s how it started with me, too,” he replied softly, simply. “That’s how it starts with everyone. You come up against an insignificant little crook, and you think you’ve started a crusade against all the crooks in the world. You wouldn’t have risked everything for Franciska. The feeling that made you act was great. The act itself was small. You can’t take care of this with your fists.”

  “That’s the only way to do it!” I replied heatedly. “I realized that just yesterday. Have you ever really talked to Franciska?”

  “No.”

  “There you go, then. If you’d heard the things he was saying, you wouldn’t be saying what you just said. You think you can convince his sort? ’Course you can’t. You can’t, and you know why you can’t? Because . . .” I suddenly stopped. What I wanted to say seemed so harsh, so upsetting, that I didn’t want to say it. But then my gaze met Elemér’s, and when I saw in his eyes that awful, unshakeable calm, I was overcome with rage. I went ahead and told him, almost screaming: “Because they’re right! Get it? They’re right!”

  “Well, of course,” Elemér said without any surprise at all. “That’s just it. If you want to get somewhere in today’s world you more or less have to be like Franciska. You can’t change these people. You have to change the world instead, Béla, that’s the point. Then their truths will no longer be true and their depravity won’t be necessary. You think Franciska’s any worse than the rest of them? ’Course he isn’t. Listen: today’s world belongs to the Franciskas. Everybody has a Franciska inside them, but they don’t always pin their colours to the mast right away. You’ll find thousands of decent, upstanding people who—when push comes to shove—would be just the same. And then you get the bourgeoisie bemoaning how terrible people are. But that’s all rubbish. People aren’t good and people aren’t bad. People are people. They want to live and they live how they can. There’s only one way for them to live today, so they live like that. What else could they do? You have to run with the pack, the bourgeois will tell you, and in a way, they’re right about that too. You have to run with the pack. Or stand up to it. There’s no third option. You have to choose between the two. Do you see now what I’m getting at?”