Temptation

  “No,” he whispered. “He’s a snitch. At least, he used to be. Whenever the workers asked for a pay rise in a factory, the management would get him in and he’d come and sniff out the ‘instigators’. They were going to beat him to death a couple of years ago; that’s when he vanished from Angyalföld. Now he’s doing something else, I hear.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” said Elemér, because at that time, he really didn’t know.

  From then on, the Constable would come by the hotel twice a week. He was a thin, dark, gangly character who behaved as if he were some eminent and tremendously busy doctor. He would leap out of his rickety little car with an air of importance, sweep into the hotel in an ominous hurry, observing everything with a jumpy glance. There was a nervous tension in his very being—he walked with quick and hectic steps so that at first I refused to believe he had an artificial leg. He leant demonstratively on his stick, which legend had it, hid a sword. Márton apparently saw it once. He was always in a hurry, always slightly het up, and he burst into the hotel twice a week as if a patient were dying in one of the rooms, and only he could save them.

  He made everyone call him “Doctor”, though—as it later turned out in court—he had no right. He had only done three years of medic al school when, instead of healing, the state started training him for something that was more closely aligned with its inclinations. He became an outstanding soldier, one of the first military pilots. After the loss of his left leg, he volunteered again for active service and kept on flying bombers with one leg, or rather with one artificial leg. He was on the front pages, his picture was in all the papers, he had a private audience with the King and a rather excitable poet wrote an ode in his honour: he became a national hero. He was all of twenty-two.

  Three years later, peace broke out and national heroes were temporarily no longer in demand. His former classmates were by then rightfully calling themselves “Doctor”; most had even married and set up practices with their wives’ dowries. But the national hero would have had to go back to being a student—and a rather impecunious student at that—his civvies faded and outgrown, eating in canteens and begging for grants and charity. Not to mention the fact that he would have had to study, study all the time so that—if he was lucky—and in three years’ time he too found a rich wife—he could open a practice in one of the humbler side streets. This, of course, he didn’t fancy at all—what national hero would? Though he did, obviously, want to be a doctor—otherwise, he wouldn’t have had everyone call him that. There were a good many things to blame for the fact that his interventions in the human body were with the bayonet and not the scalpel, and to be fair—he was the least of them. He personally blamed the Communists and the Jews, which—on a human level—was also understandable, because it meant he once more had someone to stick his bayonet into and didn’t have to feel useless. He became a Freikorps officer for Horthy and killed conscientiously and with great professionalism, but unlike my Deputy, had principles, and so got nowhere.

  One day, they dissolved the Freikorps, his day in the sun was over, and he had to go back to his outgrown student civvies. Meanwhile, the country became wonderfully “consolidated”. The Social Democrats he had been murdering for Horthy now extended to the same Horthy the “calloused hand of the workers”, while the wealthy Jews were breathlessly telling the outside world that Horthy had mellowed and it was now OK to do business with him. They brought him British, French, Italian and even American capital, in return for which His Excellency the Anti-Semite appointed his pet Jews to positions of rank and honour. At the same time, he signed the most brutal “racial purity” laws, but those only affected the poorer Jews, about whom the rich Jews cared just as little as the rich Christians. The poor, whether they went to synagogue or church, only got poorer than before the war, while the rich only got richer. But there was peace and order in Hungary for whoever could put up with it—and whoever couldn’t could go jump in the Danube. The number of suicides grew day by day, until in the end we held the record, beating the rest of the world hands down. To cut a long story short, the world “consolidated” all around the Constable.

  Even his comrades from the death squads grew middle class eventually. They got jobs, families, accountants and doctors, and some even started getting bellies. Only the Constable stayed thin and true to the cause, and his eyes still burned with the old hatred. He hated everyone. The Whites for abandoning their principles, the Reds for not giving up theirs, the Jews for being Jews, and the Czechs, Serbs and Romanians for being Czech, Serb and Romanian. His only hope was the youth. He sought spiritual solace in the university youth movements. It was through them and with them that he wanted to fulfil his heroic dreams. But the youth were not at all heroic in nature. Their fathers had dreamt so much in the nightmarish dark of the last fifteen years that they were done with dreaming. These were weary, sober youths who dreamt only of a modest but secure position, and if they managed to secure one with the help of some well-placed uncle, immediately married—preferably someone with a dowry—and never came to another meeting again. But the Constable just kept on dreaming, his passion youthful, his temples greying. He joined every new right-wing party, organization and secret society and took part every time someone was beating up Jews or workers. He would turn up even at the impromptu and unforeseen fights, to join in, panting, at the last minute. Apparently, he always left word at home where he was, like his former classmates the real doctors, before running off to raise hell at the ring of a telephone, no matter where he was—in company, at the theatre or with his lover; God forbid he should miss out on a little National Rebirth.

  At the same time, of course, he had to make a living. He made some money being a police informer for a time, but “consolidation” eventually put an end to that, too. The chastened unions now kept the workers so strictly in check that the factory owners no longer needed him. That’s when he went freelance. He was received in a number of well-to-do homes, and could—on a friendly basis—buy up the clothes and even underclothes that ladies and gentlemen no longer wanted, for next to nothing. These he would then sell on, in attractively low instalments—but at all the higher price—to those for whom this was the only way to get hold of one or two nicer bits of clothing. He was primarily focused on waiters because he made the most profit on tailcoats; and thanks to his high-society connections, that really was his “speciality”. He frequented only the finest establishments. He was always friendly with the management—unlike his clients, whom he always patronized, talking to them as if they were his subordinates. He would call waiters twenty years his senior “son”, which—however strange it sounds—increased not only his standing but also his turnover, for the very finest places demanded the very height of servility from their staff, and they were impressed by his “aristocratic demeanour”. He walked among them like a strict but kindly general ready to listen to the wishes of his troops and—if they were worthy—grant them. His former batman, who now served him in a general all-round capacity, carried the suitcases full of stock behind him like an aide-de-camp, and whenever the Constable spoke to him, he would snap immediately to attention. He would “look in” at the hotel twice a week, during lunchtime for the day shift and between eight and nine for the night shift, when the bar was still quiet. He really did only “look in”, because he never spent more than fifteen minutes there. He negotiated with the speed of an express train, conveying to his clients the sense that as a national hero and future general, he had certain commitments to his country and couldn’t go around wasting his precious time on rabble like them; and besides the whole thing was just a distraction to him anyway.

  “It’ll be war again soon, anyway,” he would sometimes say, hopeful and confiding. “It really doesn’t matter what one does till then. It’s not worth starting anything really serious.”

  From the moment he first appeared at the hotel, other clothes merchants couldn’t cross our threshold. He had the Jews to thank for that, for the Major,
who—given the hotel’s Jewish clientele—could hardly take part publicly in attacks on Jews, lived his passions vicariously, so to speak, through him. But our hotel wasn’t the only place the Constable didn’t have competition—he didn’t brook it anywhere. There was always a Major in the management who took him under his wing for political reasons, or the opposite of the Major who, for political reasons also, was scared of him. It was a good, solid business and gave him a useful sideline as well. For in hotels and restaurants of that size, there was always something going on that the management was unlikely to approve of, and the Constable could sniff these things out like a bloodhound. Apparently, he was constantly sniffing around us as well, or at least so Elemér said.

  As for Elemér, it goes without saying that he immediately instigated a boycott against the Constable. I was a keen supporter and I suspect that it was more on account of my fists than Elemér’s world view that the boys didn’t buy from him. I once smacked Gábor for buying a tie from him, and wouldn’t let it rest till he’d taken it back.

  This was the man I was going to turn to.

  I recoiled, at first, from the thought, and was ashamed that it had even occurred to me. But since I could find no other solution, I eventually started bargaining with myself. I told myself this and that, that it was an emergency, and anyway, it was only a shirt and a pair of underpants; that hardly meant abandoning my principles. Besides, only the waiters on the night shift would know about it, and they never met the boys on the day shift, and even if they did, they’re hardly going to talk about my shirt and underpants. As for the Constable, I’ll pay him off quickly and that’ll be that, once and for all.

  What was I going to pay him with? Simple. I would just say I’d earned a little less at home—who was going to check?

  It all seemed as simple now as it would have been unimaginable the day before. I always gave my mother everything I made, down to the last fillér, and I was a strict and careful bookkeeper. Whatever I received or consumed at home, I would immediately record in my “Owed to” column, not to mention the five pengős a month to “my mother for lodging”. I have these notes in front of me now, and I can see I recorded even the thread with which she altered my father’s suit for me. What’s more, I also credited three hours’ “wages” to her “account”, at a much higher level than what her upper-class clients paid her. My mother had presumably long forgotten the promise I made her when I arrived and she had no idea that I was still clinging to it obstinately. I think she thought it a sort of childish enthusiasm from the beginning, but I took it deadly seriously always. I wanted to pay her back for every fillér, with cumulative interest to boot, and I had already pictured how wonderful it would be when one day I would lay out my accounts before her and say—humbly but manfully—“you see, Muther, I’ve kept my word”. Yes, that had been my thinking up till now. Suddenly, it all seemed laughable and childish.

  “Nonsense!” I mumbled.

  It was late, I dressed quickly. Until now, I had thought I looked quite well in my father’s altered suit, but looking in the mirror through her eyes, I felt pretty pathetic. What if she sees me on the street like this? I shuddered to think, and could once more feel her mocking gaze upon me. I decided to talk to my old man after all. He’d been promising me that new suit forever now, it was really time he made good on it. But the more I thought about it, the less I liked this solution. For what kind of suit would he buy me? Best-case scenario, he’d buy me the same as he used to buy himself. And, to be fair, his suits were quite nice, and were apparently made from English cloth, and were decently cut, but—who knows what that sort of thing depends on?—they still didn’t quite seem to cut it. Or did I only think that because they were his suits? Maybe. But how was I to know? That blue suit the head waiter had bought from the Constable, on the other hand, still had the baronial crown embroidered into it. And if I could buy a shirt and a pair of trousers from him, why shouldn’t I get a suit at the same time? What difference would that make? It was hardly going to change anything . . .

  But the instalments wouldn’t be so easy to manage. These “crowned” clothes cost a great deal. I couldn’t just scrimp the payments from my wages—my mother would notice. I thought about that for a while, but then shrugged. She wouldn’t have to notice. I would tell her myself. When the Major had taken exception to my shoes, she’d gone running to buy me a new pair, though we didn’t have so much as a crust to eat at the time. Why couldn’t I simply tell her he’d taken exception to my clothes? If she had the money for the theatre and silk I-don’t-know-whats, then she was hardly going to die without my instalments. I was doing her a favour, anyway. Other parents supported their children. Only I was fool enough to hand over everything. It was ridiculous. And when you thought about it, one shirt and pair of underpants wasn’t going to be enough. From now on, I would have to change my underwear daily, since I could never know when she was going to ring for me. Yes, I was going to buy three shirts and three pairs of underpants, and anyone who didn’t like it could lump it. I’d need a tie as well—I’d almost forgotten. You can’t wear a suit like that without a tie. And I didn’t have any socks, either—unheard of!—not a single pair. I was still wearing footwraps like a filthy peasant, while she was flouncing around in silks and having a ball. The old man had even bought her a hat. Disgraceful. She’s living high on my money. Just let her make a fuss—I’d give her a piece of my mind.

  I was just gathering my things to go when I heard the front door open. I steeled myself for a frontal assault with my mother, but it wasn’t her—it was my father. Before, I would have cut out my tongue rather than talk to him about this sort of thing, but now I seized the opportunity, knowing that with him, I’d have an easier time.

  I wasn’t wrong. The old man was incensed, and not because the Major had taken exception to his old suit, but that my mother dressed me in it. That she was only doing so because he hadn’t bought me a new one never even occurred to him in his fury. He was honestly outraged, especially when it came to the money.

  “You’re still giving her your wages?” he said, clapping his hands together. “I don’t understand your mother. What is she thinking? I can support my family myself, goddamn it. From now on, you do with your wages what you want, you hear? And if you don’t have enough for something, don’t let it bother you. You come see your old man, by God! D’you need cash?”

  In actual fact, I didn’t really need money, since I hadn’t yet handed over my wages, but I still said to him, for the first time in my life:

  “Well . . . if you could spare a little . . .”

  He pulled out a ten pengő note. He pulled it out of his waistcoat pocket with two fingers the way other people pulled out a used tram ticket. He spat on it, and then stuck it to my forehead, the way the lords did with Gypsy musicians at balls.

  “That’ll do for tonight,” he winked. “If she’s a pretty piece, I can give you more.”

  And that was that—he didn’t waste any more words; the matter, as far as he was concerned, was settled. Well, well, I thought, when I got to the street, you just have to be a little bit clever. Before, I hadn’t even had two pengős twenty to buy my English language book, and now I had a crisp ten pengős in my pocket. Yes, you just needed a little cleverness was all, I nodded, like someone who’s cracked the mysteries of life and the universe, and amazingly enough it didn’t even occur to me that just yesterday I had looked down on this kind of cleverness.

  I decided straight away to buy the English book on my way in, but by the time I reached Vilmos Császár út, I had changed my mind. Another time, I shrugged, the way clever boys do, the important thing right now was to have enough cash. From now on, I couldn’t walk around without cash, things weren’t like they were before. After all, this was a lady we were talking about, a Countess whom even Horthy’s son had apparently courted. I was pleased with myself and the world as a whole. I was whistling as I walked into the hotel.

  Needless to say, everyone in the bar wanted to kno
w what had happened to me last night. I didn’t lose my head, I was prepared for the questions and I lied smoothly enough to make even Franciska jealous.

  “Nothing happened,” I said, off-hand. “I served the champagne and went home.”

  “What about the Deputy?” the head waiter mocked.

  “He was very gracious,” I answered lightly. “Gave me a ten-pengő tip!”

  With that, I produced the note my father had given me and stuck it under his nose.

  “He must have been extremely drunk,” the head waiter grumbled angrily, but left it at that.

  All his threats of “seeing to me later” from the night before came to nothing; he moved on without a word and never mentioned the affair again. Well, well, I repeated to myself, you just need to be a little bit clever. I’ll buy some handkerchiefs, too, three proper ones and one of those silk doodahs to have poking out of my top pocket. Then I set about devouring my dinner hungrily, had a glass of champagne, smoked a cigarette like a man well pleased with his work, and wandered up to the bar.

  It was Friday, the Constable’s day. He used to “drop in” on Mondays and Fridays with soldierly precision between eight and nine. It was now eight thirty. I decided to buy a hat as well. That was when Elemér entered.

  My enthusiasm for shopping vanished. I stood before him as if I’d stolen the money I was going to spend directly from him and he was about to expose me. I didn’t dare look him in the eye. I could feel myself blushing to my roots, and that made me even more embarrassed.

  “What happened to you? Why didn’t you wait for me this morning?”

  “I didn’t feel well,” I mumbled, staring at my shoes like my mother.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No, I just . . .” I shrugged for want of anything better, “don’t feel well.”

  Elemér gave me a searching look. Had he heard something already? flashed through me in fright. What could he have heard? He can’t object to my having put one over on the Deputy—quite the contrary in fact! Or had Franciska been talking? I stole a glance at him, but the stiff, grey face gave nothing away. He drew a book out of his pocket.