Temptation

by Janos Szekely

  Over?

  I replaced the receiver slowly, with particular care. I’m going to go up there, and . . .

  No! No you won’t, said my peasant common sense. You’re going to go see the head porter and ask him to give you the evening off. Then you’re going to go home and buy a bottle of pálinka on the way. Then you’re going to sleep. You’ll get this day over with. Otherwise, you really would go up there, and . . .

  And?

  And nothing. You’re going to bed. This day is over.

  I stepped out of the booth. I can’t have been more than twenty paces away from the head porter, but I can still remember those twenty paces. There was some sort of unnatural hypersensitivity inside me, and yet it all seemed so dreamlike. I walked on the soft carpet like a man on quicksand who knows he could sink at any moment.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the head porter asked.

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  He looked at me strangely, and it seemed to me, for a long time. Then he said:

  “Off you go.”

  I went. I went home. I bought a bottle of pálinka on the way.

  But the day was far from over.

  7

  I COULD SEE FROM THE CORRIDOR that the light was on in the flat. It must have been around eight. The northern star was dozing sleepily over the courtyard, and there was a bluish obscurity hanging over the walkway. Old Gábor was sitting out in front of his apartment, drooling. Someone was playing the harmonica on the second floor.

  I tried anxiously to guess who it could be at ours. Manci? My mother? There was no one in the kitchen. I opened the door into the room. Then I just stood there, completely speechless.

  There was my father in the petroleum-scented half-light. The smoky lamp cast a jerky, uncertain light over him, his shadow shifting strangely on the wall. He was sitting at the table beside my mother, and I looked at him in shock. He’d gone grey. There were silver streaks in his coal-black hair, and it was as if it were something more than his hair that had gone grey. He was pale, all skin and bones. His Adam’s apple protruded from his thin neck, and the baggy, almost pathetic clothes hung off his body. Dappermishka had grown worn. He’d aged, like my mother. The last time I’d seen them together, they were kissing in the gate under the crimson clouds, tipsy, carefree and young, singing in the morning wind, and my father had tossed the Hausmeister a whole pengő. All that seemed so unlikely now. Two faded, ageing people sat at the table beside a smoky lamp running out of petroleum.

  My father smiled at me, and I tried to smile back.

  “Good evenin’,” I said hoarsely.

  “Good evenin’,” my mother said.

  My father said nothing. He stood up, came over to me, and did something he’d never done before: he hugged me and kissed me. I could see his eyes grow moist and suddenly, I could no longer control my frayed nerves. I burst into tears. My mother, too, started crying, sniffling softly.

  “Well, you two are a barrel of laughs,” he said, forcing a chuckle.

  My mother laughed, and I started laughing too. All three of us laughed.

  Then there was an incomprehensible silence around me. I could see them looking at me, puzzled, and it was only then I realized that I was still laughing. I was making hoarse, inchoate noises, shaking with nasty, unhealthy laughter. I couldn’t stop. I tried gritting my teeth together, but it still took several minutes for me to quieten down. I muttered something disingenuously, tried to laugh it off. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was still standing there the way I’d come in, with my hat still on, the bottle of pálinka in my hand.

  “What’s that?” my mother asked, clearly just to break the silence.

  “Pálinka,” I said awkwardly. “A . . . um . . . guest gave it me. Would you like some?” I asked my father.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t touch the stuff any more.”

  We both stared at him, stupefied. There must have been something very wrong with Dappermishka if he didn’t want his pálinka.

  “You ill?” my mother asked him in fright.

  My father laughed, this time for real.

  “The hell I am!” he said. “I could drink anything, even the petroleum out of that lamp. It’s just that I’ve come off the sauce, and I don’t want to go back on it.”

  “A little drop won’t hurt,” my mother encouraged him, but Dappermishka had principles.

  “I can’t drink a little, my dear. I can’t do anything by halves. It’s all or nothing with me. It’s my nature. Believe it or not, I’ve even given up cigarettes.”

  “Cigarettes, too?” my mother repeated, her eyes full of concern. “What’s got into you, Mishka, dear?”

  “Into me?” my father laughed again. “All it is, my love, is I want to be a decent, upstanding citizen from now on, and I can’t do that by halves, either. Since I got ou—” he said, swallowing the end of the word when my mother cast an anxious glance at him, “so . . . um . . . anyway, for the last two months . . .”

  I didn’t hear much of all that followed: that half-word kept hammering away inside my head. Got out . . . So he’d been in prison.

  Prison. That’s impossible. Then he wouldn’t have written to my mother that . . . what was it again? Oh yes.

  It may be that by the time these lines reach you I, too, will be home, but I also might never see either of you again.

  No, he couldn’t have written that in prison. In prison, you know when you’re going to be released. So why would he have thought he might never see us again?

  What had happened to this man? Where had he been? What had he done? What had made his hair go white?

  “Did I hear you right earlier?” my mother asked. “You’ve been um . . . for two months? . . .”

  “Yes,” my father nodded, “two months yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you come home?”

  “Why?” he stared stiffly and shrugged. “I didn’t want to show up like some beggar.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Down . . . um . . . there, down there. I was looking for work. Only there ain’t much work in the countryside, and I didn’t want to come back to the city empty-handed.”

  “That’s silly,” my mother said. “Didn’t you give us plenty when you had some to give?”

  “It’s easy to give when you’ve got enough. It’s when you ain’t got enough that separates the men from the boys. I wasn’t born a beggar, my love. I slept in the forest instead.”

  “And? How did you get on?”

  “Oh, I got on all right. Moved on, that is.”

  “I can see you found some work. Heavy work. You can tell, just lookin’ at your clothes.”

  “That’s right,” my father smiled. “It was bad for them, and not much good for me.”

  “Oh dear,” my mother gestured. “It’s a dog’s life, this. Ain’t fit for humans.”

  She gave a deep sigh, but my father did not join her. He moved cheerfully round beside her, and then said with a wink, in his old Dappermishka voice:

  “I brought you something, though.”

  “You did?”

  “That’s right. You can’t keep Dappermishka down. Couldn’t get you no silk, so I got you some paper instead.”

  “What?”

  “Some paper. Here, look.”

  With that, he produced a document, folded into four, from his pocket.

  “What’s this?” my mother asked.

  “Papers, can’t you see?”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “Official papers.”

  He made her drag each word out of him. You could see he was enjoying the act terribly.

  “And what do them official papers say?” pressed my mother.

  “What do they say? Let’s see . . .” he said, unfolding the papers deliberately slowly. “It says here, it says . . .” his voice now became terribly official, “it says that Mihály T., forty-three years old, Roman Catholic, residing in Budapest, wishes to marry . . . Here, you read it!” />
  Even my mother’s lips went pale as she read it. The papers trembled in her hand, her eyes were full of tears.

  “Aw, don’t cry,” joked my father. “You ain’t signed it yet. There’s still time to change your mind.”

  My mother laughed, but the tears kept streaming from her eyes.

  “Mishka,” she stuttered, “you . . . you’re a real . . . a real . . .” She couldn’t find the words, no matter how hard she tried. “A real sailor,” was all she managed in the end.

  The lamp hissed heavily, it was almost dark in the room.

  “Did you hear that?” my mother sniffled. “Did you hear that, Béla?”

  “I heard,” I said gruffly. “I ain’t deaf.”

  “Come over here,” she told me, “come read it yourself.”

  She handed me the document and waited for the effect. She waited in vain, I said nothing.

  “Don’t you get it?” she asked excitedly. “This here document says . . . it says . . .” her voice faltered with her tears, “that . . . that . . . from now on . . . you won’t be illegitimate.”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, “that’s what it says.”

  I tried to pretend I didn’t have anything much to do with the whole thing, but I really had to grit my teeth to stop myself from laughing or crying again. I thought of that night long ago when Piroshkamydear took her Istvány away from old Rozi’s, with me just watching them walk, from afar, down the main road, the three of them, the half-pint mother on the left, the great big father on the right and the boy István in the middle, his parents each holding one of his hands. And the postcard that came a few days later, the postcard on which instead of István Cs., he wrote István K., and we bastard children read it over breakfast and all at once fell silent and didn’t dare look at one another.

  “Old Roz-ee’s son, where’s your faa-ther gone?”

  I could hear the mocking cries that even now sometimes woke me from my sleep and in my mind I went and stood out in the middle of the high street to tell the village:

  “You can shout all you want now! You can shout all you want!”

  Mihály T., forty-three years old, Roman Catholic, Budapest resident, spent two months sleeping in the forest, but did not come home empty-handed. He was a gentleman at heart. He’d brought us a present.

  •

  And boy, did I repay him.

  I still can’t talk about this completely candidly, so I’ll keep it brief. Let’s get it over with. It happened the next evening. I was having my dinner when a waiter called in the door:

  “András, go up to reception!”

  I could see as soon as I got to the lobby that it was her standing at reception. My heart jumped into my mouth, expelling all the air.

  It must have been half past seven. The people from reception were having their dinner. Elemér was standing in for one of the senior staff. He was standing in front of the pigeon holes when I reached the desk, with his back to me—he did not see me straight away.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” I muttered nervously.

  She nodded, but said nothing. Elemér took out a bunch of letters from the slot for 205, then turned and came over to the desk.

  “Somebody wants you,” he said when he saw me. “I think it’s your father.”

  He pointed towards the entrance. There stood my father beneath the overbearing marble columns, gilded stucco and crystal chandeliers, and in this flood of pomp and light, he looked even more shabby and miserable. I tore my glance away and loudly, so she too would hear, said:

  “That’s not my father!”

  That’s how it happened. I have nothing to add.

  “Come with me,” I whispered to my father before he could say anything, and rushed out into the street.

  My father scanned my face.

  “They didn’t make a fuss about me asking them to fetch you, did they?”

  “Um . . . well . . .” I huffed, “they don’t much like it. What brings you here?”

  “I wanted to talk to the head porter. I thought maybe he could get me into the hotel, too.”

  My stomach started twitching.

  “He’s not in,” I said, my mouth all dry, and though I knew he’d only gone to get his dinner, I quickly added: “I don’t think he’s coming back any time today.”

  “Would you ask him for me?” he asked, unsuspecting.

  “I could,” I mumbled.

  “Tell him,” my father cleared his throat anxiously, “that um . . . I’ll do anything . . . the most menial task.” He smiled wanly, avoiding my gaze. “Surprised, ain’t you?”

  “Why should I be surprised?”

  “Well, that I . . . that it’s come to this. Oh, well, never mind, damn the whole thing anyway. Your mother can’t buy bread with pride.” He looked out above me, as if he were scanning the sky. “You noticed how poorly she’s lookin’?”

  “Yes,” I nodded, my stomach trembling.

  “I don’t like her cough at all. It’s a nasty cough she’s got.”

  “Yes,” I nodded once more.

  Then we just stood there in silence.

  “Well, so long, then,” he said at last, awkward and anxious, and left quickly, as if he were fleeing something.

  I watched his crooked back recede in the night and thought: maybe he killed someone. And I loved him like never before, and felt as guilty as if I had killed someone.

  •

  I was gripped by a perverse fear. I didn’t dare go back into the hotel. I felt I couldn’t look Elemér in the eye. I wandered the side streets feverishly, like a murderer hiding from his judges.

  It was very warm and unusually dark. Clouds steamed in the low, starless sky, and there was a heavy, suffocating humidity in the air. I didn’t want to think. Just one glass, I told myself, and went into the first bar I found.

  It was a grim little bar. There was a single bulb to light it, hanging above the cobwebbed gas lamp, half burned out and completely hopeless. A hunchbacked old man kept bar, a dirty cat purring about his legs—the solitary guest. I drained the pálinka standing, paid, and made to leave, but suddenly changed my mind.

  “Another.”

  There was a tin clock above the old-fashioned bar mat, a fly perched on its minute hand. It was a quarter to eight. What could happen? I thought. They relieved me at eight. Elemér thought I was talking to my father, and by the time the head porter got back, the night-shift boys would have arrived.

  “Another,” I said.

  I took myself off to a corner and drank non-stop till half past eight. Then I told myself: he must have gone home by now. I paid, got up and wandered, dizzily, out of the bar.

  Outside, it was spotting with rain, but the heat hadn’t eased. Big warm drops kept falling sleepily, as if the steam were making things sweat. I panted back to the hotel, my heart beating erratically. We had to “present” ourselves when we went off duty, but fortunately, the head porter was occupied with a guest and didn’t bother so much as looking at me. I made it to the changing rooms without incident and began to change.

  When I saw myself in the mirror, I was seized with a virulent hatred. I had never been as revolted by a human face as I was now by my own.

  “Yuck!” I said aloud, spitting at the mirror.

  I stumbled out, dazed. The basement was empty, I saw no one. But when I stepped out of the staff entrance, someone touched me on the shoulder in the darkness.

  I shuddered. It was Elemér. He was standing in the doorway, looking at me.

  “You been drinking?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  Elemér turned away. He was silent for a long time, then he said, without looking at me:

  “That won’t make things better.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” I asked him standoffishly.

  He didn’t reply. We stood in the spitting rain in silence.

  “You going home?” he asked at last.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll walk with you to Nyugati.”

  “What f
or?”

  He didn’t reply to that, either. We walked in silence for a while. Suddenly, he took my arm.

  “Béla,” he said, quiet and careful, “come back to your senses. Can’t you see what’s happened to you?”

  “Let’s say I can. So what?” I looked at him defiantly. “Stop beating around the bush. Say it and get it over with.”

  “Say what?”

  “What you’re thinking. That I’m rotten to the core.”

  Elemér now looked at me. His prematurely ageing cat’s eyes were unusually gentle, and yet in some indefinable way still strict.

  “I think,” he said simply and calmly, “that the society is rotten to the core that lands an otherwise decent seventeen-year-old in this situation. And that you feel so corrupt because you tried to get into that society, even though you knew full well what it was like. You can’t be a halfhearted bourgeois, either, Béla. It’s either or. You can’t paddle around in the floodwaters and be in Noah’s Ark at the same time. We are the Noahs of this age. We can’t be mixing with them. Do you see? We can’t mix with them. We have to lock ourselves in the Ark of our convictions, looking out at their world through its windows. Don’t you remember what the Bible says about Noah? Then the Lord shut him in.”

  He’s talking like a Sunday School teacher, I thought angrily, and couldn’t pay attention. Images kept swaying through my dizzy head, bleeding one into the other. Her at reception, the way she nodded, curt and distant, Franciska on Gellért Hill as he said, with that degenerate smile: Why shouldn’t I do it, if it’s to my advantage? And my father, who might have murdered someone, and my mother who was coughing nastily, and what if the Constable chooses to have me thrown out right now?

  “In the society of the future,” Elemér was explaining in a dry, stentorian tone, when I suddenly started screaming at him.

  “Leave me alone with the society of the future!” I yelled. “We’re living in 1930! Miklós Horthy is in the Royal Palace, the peasants can’t make enough to eat working fourteen hours a day, and if I drop dead, the society of the future isn’t going to resurrect me. Tell me what to do in this society! Or do you think a cancer patient will really suffer less if you can prove to him that in a hundred years’ time there’ll be a cure for cancer? You’re always only concerned about society’s problems. But go on and tell me, since you’re so smart, what am I supposed to do about my problems?”