Temptation

by Janos Szekely

  These potential killers were gentle folk; hardly any of them touched a drop. They were homebodies, generally—quiet and good-hearted. They liked to read their wives the paper of an evening or explain the way a steam engine worked to their children, play a few hands of cards with the family for beans instead of money, or play their harmonicas out on the open walkways. They liked pottering around fixing up the house, making repairs, hammering or drilling this and that. They liked sitting quietly in the windows in the evenings, and putting the world to rights with the neighbours over a pipeful of tobacco. Of course they argued as well, I don’t deny it, but when the chips were down they would go and help even the people they’d been quarrelling with, any way they could.

  It was more or less the house that kept the locksmith’s baby. I often watched them dandling the child, and couldn’t believe that these gentle, tender hands could kill. They were victims’ hands, not killers’. Whatever good was left in their larders and their hearts they took to this child, and if it’s true that the human heart is filled with hidden treasure, then Little Mózes could have given any maharajah a run for his money.

  “Who knows?” Áron the Sabbatarian once said. “We might even be feeding our saviour in him.”

  Áron did sometimes say strange things like that, and no one took the slightest notice. The women smiled indulgently, but Áron was deadly serious.

  “Don’t laugh,” he said to the women. “Someday these new slave masters, too, will be afflicted with plagues like Pharaoh, and then a poor little Mózes just like this one will arise to lead the slaves, and he’ll take them out, just like that other Mózes did, and on that day, you’ll see, the Red Sea will part again.”

  “ ’Course it won’t, Áron dear,” said the locksmith’s wife with a dismissive wave. “Unnatural things like that don’t happen in this day and age.”

  “Don’t they?” The Sabbatarian looked at her. His thin, vellum-like nose was almost transparent in the blazing sun and his greying reddish mane looked as if it were ablaze. “I think it’s far more unnatural,” he said, “that you wanted to strangle the boy though you love him to death. Why did you want to strangle him? Because you couldn’t give him any milk. Why couldn’t you give him any milk? Is there no milk to be had? Read the papers! They’re always moanin’ there’s far too much around, they don’t know what to do with it! Or take little Rozi here. How she wants a baby, but she can’t have one, ’cause her man can’t get a job. Because there ain’t no building work. Why ain’t there? Is it because there’s too many flats? I don’t need to tell you there ain’t—more than one of you are living seven to a room. Or is it because there’s not enough wood to build with, or stone, or iron, or mortar? There’s enough to plaster over the sea! Or is it ’cause they don’t have the money to buy it with? There’s so much money even the banks don’t want it, they hardly give you any interest. If you want to hear unnatural things, my dear, you just have to read the papers. All the farmers are complaining there’s too much wheat and you can’t get rid of it, but none of you have bread to give your children. And if some boys go steal a loaf because they’re starving, they go lock ’em up like they were murderers.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Mátyás’s wife sighed, bursting into tears.

  Her tears now infected the others just the same as the laughter had after Herr Hausmeister’s speech. The women cried, every one of them cried. Mátyás’s wife who was sleeping with Herr Hausmeister, the locksmith’s wife who’d wanted to strangle her son, little Rozi who so desperately wanted a baby, and Máli, who did away with little babies on credit. Auntie Samu was crying too, who lived off fencing other people’s stolen goods, and all the others cried, who went out stealing through her window. They were all mourning something that had been unjustly taken from them, and all of them could have been charged with taking something unjustly from someone else.

  It was a fine summer’s day. The sky was blue, the grass was green, the dogs were barking and the poor women cried. It was Sunday, but not many people went to church, because it’s hard to walk on an empty stomach. Some of them didn’t believe in religion anyway and some believed in a new, secular religion, while some believed in nothing at all. But now they all nonetheless believed in something, in the same thing, because a shared fate will give people a shared faith. And if someone just then had struck up “The Internationale”, they would all have sung along; but perhaps they would all have sung along to a Fascist song too, because their minds were addled with suffering and hunger and because they were so desperate they no longer cared about anything; they didn’t care what happened as long as something, anything, anything would just happen.

  But nothing happened. It was Sunday and the dogs were barking in the scrapyard. No one sang, no one prayed. The walkways were shrouded in silence, the windows seemed to be yawning. The house was quiet, so quiet a chill ran down my spine.

  5

  IT WAS THESE QUIET PEOPLE WHO spoke in my poems. Their silence was my message. It had been their awakening I dreamt of during those long nights of my childhood, and my life hadn’t rhymed since I’d forgotten those dreams. I didn’t have anything to write about, and I didn’t have anything to live for. Something had been crippled inside me. My thoughts could not escape her bed; my better self was snoring away and there was no one left to wake it. Elemér didn’t come round any more, and with him went my conscience-pangs. I thought of them, when they came to mind in some anxious, lonely hour, the way a blind man might remember when his eyes still hurt. It didn’t hurt any more; it didn’t even hurt. I was blinded totally.

  My conscience only stirred on those rare occasions when I bumped into my mother and saw the state she was in. I would then tell myself, again and again, that I would talk to the Constable, but the next time he came into the bar, the fear always overwhelmed me and I didn’t dare say a thing. I found him repellent. I mostly used to slink out to the corridor so I wouldn’t have to talk to him, but these days I didn’t dare do even that, for I had noticed that he had his eye on me.

  “You’ve been very busy lately,” he called after me once tersely. “Where are you off to now?”

  “I’ve got things to do,” I replied awkwardly.

  “Are they urgent?”

  “N-no,” I stuttered.

  “Then come here,” he said, gesturing me over. “Let’s have a chat.”

  That was how he always began. He gestured me over, like a general gesturing to a private, drew me into a corner, sat me down, offered me a cigarette and said “Let’s have a chat.” I didn’t know why he wanted to “chat” to me specifically, but I always got this heavy feeling when he looked at me with his yellow, blinking eyes, that he knew all too well. He spun the threads of these conversations like a thin, irritable spider. I could feel he wanted to catch me in his web.

  One night, when I was alone in the bar, he appeared unexpectedly. He came blowing in as always and his hurried, impatient steps echoed disconcertingly in the empty bar; his wooden leg made a strange, creaking sound.

  “Are you alone?” he asked softly.

  “Yes, sir,” I said from atop the ladder, because I happened to be changing the light bulbs in the chandelier.

  “Come down,” he said in a strangled voice, glancing nervously at the door.

  I climbed down.

  “Where’s the head waiter?” he asked.

  “In the kitchen,” I replied with growing nervousness—he’d come so close I could feel his breath.

  “Get him to let you off,” he said, whispering now. “Tell him you’re not feeling well, or . . .” he gestured impatiently. “Tell him whatever you want.”

  In my fright, I dropped a light bulb, which crashed to pieces on the floor.

  “Why should I tell him I—”

  “You’ll find out later,” he cut me off impatiently. “Change into your civvies and wait for me in front of the Vigadó. And not a word to the others. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I nodded anxiously, “but—”


  “What do you mean, but? Get on with it, go!”

  “The head waiter isn’t going to believe I’m not feeling well.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The Major knows all about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Stop asking so many questions. Just be in front of the Vigadó in ten minutes.”

  I didn’t have much time to wonder. The head waiter took his time giving me a piece of his mind, and then I had to change all my clothes, so by the time I reached the Vigadó, panting, the Constable was already waiting for me in his car.

  “Get in,” he said impatiently.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I got in and the car sped off. I thought he would finally tell me what he wanted, but he didn’t say a thing. He leant, silent, over the steering wheel, staring out at the street grimly and swearing softly whenever a car got out in front of him. He always seemed this angry and het up, even when he was bargaining over a tailcoat or a pair of trousers. His eyes were always in a blaze like a fever patient’s and he drew his thin, cruel mouth shut so tight that his jaw was in a constant tremble. I had the feeling he was smouldering inside and that he could go off at any moment like a bomb.

  He headed for Buda. The rickety little car panted across the bridge. It was a fine night—there was a warm fragrant breeze from the hills and the moon made silvery scales on the Danube. Where is he taking me? I wondered anxiously. What does this all mean? My mouth went dry, my heart was beating fast. I couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “Where are you taking me, sir?”

  He didn’t so much as glance at me.

  “To dinner,” he said, his voice curt and dry, and then relapsed into silence.

  His answer stirred me up even more. To dinner! . . . So he doesn’t want to tell me where we’re going. Why not? What does he want from me? Where are we going?

  The car headed uphill. I’d never been this way before. Crooked, dark, meandering streets wound before the speeding car, the wind howling in the draughty bends. There were few street lights and lots of cats, flat-footed little single-storey houses hobbling along up the hillside. The car rattled heavily in the dark, the cats meowed and the Constable kept swearing. There were no cars, no people up here; the streets were laden with the dark and silence—there wasn’t even a policeman anywhere. These streets were uninhabited, they’d begun demolishing the houses. Vacant sites stood out darkly amid the abandoned yellow houses, the wind blowing creaky, abandoned doors open and shut and whistling through broken windows. My mind brought up horror stories and I was seized with childish fright. In one of the bends, something heavy bumped against my leg. I felt it—it was a large screwdriver. I might need that later, I thought with a shudder and squeezed it tight between my feet. But this proved to be an unnecessary precaution, at least for the moment.

  We really did stop in front of a restaurant. The upper classes called these hidden little restaurants, so studiously whimsical, in the Buda hills “little inns”, though they were neither little nor inns. They were furnished in a folksy, peasant style, it’s true, but they charged enough for a dinner for a peasant, if it came down to it, to live on for a month. It was a one-storey whitewashed building with tiny, flower-filled windows. It looked like a modest village home, but there was a white-gloved doorman to greet the guests; he spoke fluent German with a monocled Prussian and greeted a party of Frenchmen with a hearty bonsoir. There was a whole row of cars lined up before the entrance and I was struck by the heady smell of perfume as Gypsy music filtered out from within.

  We went in. The place was made to look like a peasant house inside as well, but it was a very upper-class peasant house—they must have spent a fortune making it look so homely. This was a rich kind of poverty, a wonderfully wealthy poverty—I thought of peasant houses in my village and felt I was being made fun of. The maître d’, in tails, was making crêpes Suzette with mysterious gestures like an alchemist; there was French champagne and Russian caviar on the tables, while husks of corn hung off the crossbeams—it was all terribly folksy. The moustachioed, paunchy innkeeper was roasting something on a spit on an open fire in a sort of fireplace; his fat sausage fingers were adorned with rings and his face was grave and transcendent like someone sacrificing to his god, who knew full well that his clients, too, believed in none other. This was the only sizeable space—little rooms opened off it, where lovers could whisper together like conspirators huddled in dark corners.

  The real action, though, was in the courtyard. Flower-bedecked tables stood beneath the ancient walnut trees with little nooks behind them, overgrown with vines in the murky semi-darkness. Most of these nooks were inhabited by couples, apparently unmarried; the Gypsy violinist would sidle up to play a sentimental tune beside the lady, the band accompanying him softly from the podium. The tables had candles in windproof holders, the moon bathed the walnut trees in liquid silver. The foreigners must have gushed, back home, about the charming, happy country they’d visited. When the violinist had finished his tune, he started going round the tables, collecting money in his hat; the foreigners must clearly have found this charming, too, and judging by their faces they didn’t spend too much time wondering why someone who worked in such a fancy restaurant had to make his living begging for donations.

  Everybody knew the Constable. The staff made a big fuss of him, but I seemed to see an uneasiness behind their soft, subservient smiles. They’re afraid of him too, I thought.

  He knew a lot of the guests, as well. He greeted people left and right, stopping occasionally at a table. He was on first-name terms with the gentlemen, but greeted them by their ranks.

  “Hello, Your Honour . . . How are you, Your Lordship? . . . Nice to see you, General.”

  He did not greet them all alike. He apportioned his smile with as much punctilious care as a pharmacist his poison. His Honour got a little less than His Lordship, while the General got even more. But suddenly, he began to flicker like the candles on the table, dripping humility and awe:

  “Your humble servant, Minister,” he gushed, bowing deeply. Only Horthy himself could have elicited a bigger smile. “The former Minister of Defence,” he whispered to me, and I could see him watching me out of the corner of his eye for the effect.

  Why has he brought me here? I wondered. What does he want?

  The waiters danced around him like dogs wagging their tails.

  “Would you care for this table, Doctor? Or would you like something a little farther from the band?”

  They got nothing of his smile; he didn’t even deign to respond. He pinpointed a nook and was there like a shot.

  We sat down. Three of the waiters came kowtowing—the head waiter, another waiter and the sommelier—but the Constable still took no notice. He was no longer in a hurry. He leant back in his chair, took out his monocle with a casual gesture, wiped it leisurely with his handkerchief and inserted it into his right eye; but instead of studying the menu, he turned his attention to the other guests. The head waiter, waiter and sommelier stood to attention before him. I didn’t dare look at them—I was horribly ashamed.

  The Constable’s attention was caught by one of the tables; he grimaced bitterly. I followed his gaze but could see nothing special about the party by which he was so disgusted. They were elegant and clearly rich; their appearance and manner was no different to those of the other guests. But the Constable thought differently.

  “What is this?” he snorted at the head waiter. “A synagogue?”

  The company in question pretended not to have heard him, but a few minutes later they stood up and paid.

  “At last!” the Constable said, nice and loud so they would hear, and laughed derisively.

  I saw red. I felt as if I had been humiliated, and it was as if I could still hear that terrible chorus from behind the bushes: old Roz-ee’s son, where’s your faa-ther gone? . . . These Jewish ladies and gentlemen would probably have forbidden their children my company just like Sárika’s parents, but my heart was now with them
nonetheless. My hand made a fist, my heart thumped in outrage.

  The Constable ordered; he didn’t bother to ask me what I wanted. He had chosen a splendid meal—the problem was, I couldn’t taste it at all. My stomach, it seems, was protesting against the good doctor’s dinner and refused to get its juices flowing. My mouth was dry and all I wanted was a beer. I drank greedily and drained the enormous mug almost in one go. The Constable immediately ordered a second, and wanted to get me a third, but I was ready. I had observed in the hotel bar that gentlemen, when engaged in a negotiation, tried to get the other party drunk—and I had a suspicion this was a negotiation.

  But of this the Constable gave no indication as yet. He spent the entire dinner staring at the women, making quiet, indecent comments and telling coarse, lewd anecdotes.

  Suddenly he said:

  “I hear you’re lucky with the ladies.”

  “Me?” I muttered faintly, and felt myself blushing to my roots.

  “Why, shure!” he said with a Jewish drawl, because he loved to affect a Jewish drawl. Then he winked at me: “I’m a little bit jealous myself, you know.”

  I was beginning to think that this strange dinner had something to do with room 205, but I soon realized it didn’t. As to why he’d made that comment, I only understood much, much later.