Temptation

  What would I do if Exfix opened the door? Or if . . .

  It doesn’t matter.

  None of it matters any more.

  I knocked.

  The echo in the corridor multiplied the sound frightfully. I waited in alarm. Nothing. Had she not heard? Or had she not wanted to hear?

  Someone started coughing nearby. Had I woken her from her sleep? What if she came out and . . .

  Let her come. Nothing mattered any more anyway. I knocked again.

  Nothing. Nothing! The minutes passed and the empty corridor filled with alarming noises. Something buzzed, something rattled . . . but what? . . . and where? The silence was suffocating. Could I still be drunk?

  I started banging on the door with my fists. A year before, on a chilly summer’s evening, someone had banged on her door just like this. She’d just smiled. “He’ll get tired eventually,” she whispered, and then she’d gone on to whisper something else entirely—for we were lying in bed at the time, very drunk. Who was she whispering to now? I wondered. Was it Franciska?

  Suddenly, I heard footsteps from the back stairs. I came out in a cold sweat. Who could that be at this hour? It couldn’t be a guest. Only the staff used the back stairs. Was it the night watchman? Or the Major? I had bumped into him once before like this, near dawn. Only then, I’d been in my uniform and that man, for all his high morals, knew full well where I’d been. He hadn’t asked. This time, he was bound to.

  I didn’t know what to do. The footsteps were approaching quickly. I grabbed the handle in panic. The door opened.

  Inside, it was dark and quiet. I closed the door, quickly and silently, and listened, petrified. You could hear the footsteps even through the closed door. Fortunately, Cesar was not in the entrance hall. He must be asleep in Exfix’s room, I thought, relieved. So the old man can’t have come home after all.

  Outside, silence fell, and I could no longer hear the steps. Had whoever it was stopped in front of the door? Or gone up to another floor?

  I tiptoed to the door of the salon and peeked in through the keyhole. The light was on inside. In other words, she was home.

  I knocked. No answer. Eventually, I went in.

  The room was bathed in a greenish half-light, like in some thriller. Silence. Not a soul. Only the little green-shaded standing lamp was burning in a corner, night-time insects buzzing all around it. The wind blew in through the open balcony doors, the curtains billowed in the dusk.

  Had she come home drunk? That’s when she usually slept so deeply. Or was she awake? Were they awake?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more. I headed for the bedroom.

  The door was not quite closed. I peeped in through the crack. No one. The bed was empty, the bathroom dark. Was she out? Or . . .

  I sneaked over to Exfix’s room and listened for a long time at the closed door. There was some sort of gentle wheezing from inside. Cesar? . . . Of course it was. Who else could it have been? I was really starting to lose it.

  I looked at the clock. Quarter past three. She should be home any minute now. What would she say when she came home and found me here? I’m so sorry, Your Excellency, for disturbing you at this hour. It’s my mother, you see, and a matter of life and death, and . . . Rubbish! What did she care about my mother’s life? That was no good. It was silly and all over the place. I had to be simpler, more direct. After all, it was just a question of a loan. What was a hundred pengős to her? Five bottles of champagne. She’d paid two hundred and fifty for a dress she ended up giving to a maid. Here’s two hundred and fifty pengős, Muther, we’re bound to find somewhere to live with that.

  I was dizzy, frighteningly so. All that wine, the food, the excitement, had gone to my head, and my bowels were constricting convulsively. I sank shivering into a chair with a cold chill.

  Then I was no longer aware of anything. I thought I’d just nodded off for a couple of minutes, but when I looked at the clock, I was horrified to find it was a quarter to four. She might not even be coming home. And I was just sitting there and dozing, while my mother . . .

  Oh my God, how could I have left her alone! I shouldn’t have left her side all evening; I should have dragged her with me to town in the morning. A guest has promised us two hundred and fifty pengős, Muther. If you just wait for me outside the hotel, I’ll bring it right down and then you can go and start looking for a flat. Yes, that’s what I should have said, or rather . . .

  I jumped up. It’s not too late! If I ran straight home, I’d be bound to find her still at Old Gábor’s. Off I ran.

  I only got as far as the entrance hall. I heard her voice from outside. She was talking to a man, their steps approaching fast. She wasn’t bringing someone home, was she?

  I sneaked back and ran desperately from room to room. I didn’t know where to hide. Under the bed? No, that was no good, it was very low. The wardrobe? Nah, she’s bound to open that.

  In the end I ran out onto the balcony and hid in the corner behind the deck chair. By that time, the front door was open, and you could hear her laughter from the hall. It was a strange laugh with tiny, hoarse, strained trills, the way she always laughed when she was drunk.

  They headed straight for the balcony. They cast long shadows from the room as they passed by the window and then, suddenly, there she was in the balcony door.

  “At last, a bit of fresh air,” she said, and held her face to the wind. “What heat . . . phew!”

  She leant unsteadily against the door frame, fanning herself, her head thrown back.

  “Give me a cigarette,” she called inside. “The box is on the table, see it?”

  “Yes,” replied the man, bringing the box.

  I didn’t want to believe my eyes. The “man” I had pictured as a gentleman in tails was actually a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old Gypsy boy, one of those unfortunate, ragged scamps who hung around outside the cabarets and bars all night and would play a few bars for the well-to-do as they rushed out to their cars, hoping for a few coins, till the police or a doorman moved them on. He was still clutching his violin under his arm, and you could tell he didn’t understand what was going on. He was a handsome Gypsy lad, his face a dusky brown, fire in his eyes.

  She looked at him with a sultry little half-smile.

  “Have one yourself,” she said in that high voice of hers, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

  The Gypsy boy grinned, out of his depth, nonplussed.

  “Missus,” he whispered, “ain’t there going to be trouble?”

  Her Excellency laughed.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I dunno,” he shrugged, “this is . . . such . . . such a . . . such a fancy hotel,” he muttered, “and I thought, um . . . when you was asking me into that great fine car, that there was a dance and you wanted me to play for yous, and . . . and missus has had a lot to drink . . . and I don’t want no trouble.”

  “Silly!” she said, and touched the tip of his nose playfully with her finger. “Give me a light.”

  The boy dug some matches out of his pocket nervously. She held her cigarette for him as if she were offering her mouth and as she leant forward, her breast touched the Gypsy boy. The match trembled in his hands, and his big black eyes caught flame with excitement. She blew her smoke into his face and laughed soundlessly.

  “You’re a handsome boy,” she said, out of the blue, and drew the violin out from under his arm with a slow, dreamy motion, laying it down on the deck chair. “Come, let’s have a drink,” she whispered, and, taking him by the arm, took the boy inside.

  My limbs were numb from squatting so long. Now that they’d finally gone inside, I moved, but so clumsily that I lost my balance and ended up shoving the deck chair.

  “D’you hear that?” the Gypsy boy started.

  “What?” she asked while—to judge from the noise—shaking a cocktail.

  “There’s somebody out there for sure,” the lad whispered, terrified.

  “Oh, pish!” she laughed.
“It must be the balcony next door. Come on, let’s have a drink. Cheers!”

  “Your health.”

  I lay low in the dark like a frog playing dead. I was covered in sweat, hardly daring to breathe.

  Inside, there was silence for a while. Then:

  “Missus!”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s somebody out there, sure as anything.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I swear!” the lad insisted. “Have a look.”

  I heard her get up and approach the balcony. My heart skipped a beat. I was sure she’d spot me, but she barely stuck her nose out the door.

  “No,” she said, “there’s no one here.”

  With that, she went inside and locked the door.

  It was a dark and stuffy night, lightning flashing in the sky above the Buda hills. A warm, humid wind whipped the textile shade covering the balcony, the Danube growling menacingly below.

  Time passed. I had no idea what time it was. All I could hear through the closed door was the odd word here and there, the clinking of glasses, her laughter. All the while, I was picturing my mother slipping away from the dancers, spiriting Old Gábor’s kitchen knife away beneath her blouse when no one was looking. Inside, they’d be dancing the csárdás, the Gypsies playing wildly, as suddenly the drunken house woke to a terrible scream. The wailing sirens of the ambulance, the clatter of the running policeman’s sword, a crowd gathering, faces pale as they carry a black coffin down the stairs.

  I was so helpless, I almost burst into tears. I had to get out of there. I had to go home before it was too late! But how, how?

  About thirty or forty minutes must have gone by like this. Then the door sprang open and I was shocked to see the Gypsy boy come out on the balcony. Alone. Without her.

  Inside, there was silence, deathly silence. The Gypsy boy kept moving about the balcony, all het up—he sat down, got up, couldn’t stay still.

  Where was she? What had happened? I was overcome by the terror of long-forgotten village nights, those nerve-wracking winter nights when the old women told us tales of bloodthirsty Gypsies as we shucked the corn. I was beginning to think that Her Excellency was lying dead on the floor inside when suddenly I heard her voice from within.

  “Gazsi!” she cooed.

  “Yes, missus.”

  “Come have a bath, too.”

  My stomach cramped up horribly. So she made everyone take a bath before. How proper.

  The Gypsy went running. I could have a word with her while he was having his bath, I thought. I knew, of course, that it was hardly the best moment, but what could I do? It didn’t matter. None of it mattered any more.

  I crawled in from the balcony on all fours. There was no one in the salon. I crawled across the thick carpet noiselessly, listening, sniffing the air, like a beast in the wild. The bedroom door was open, and she was standing there in a dressing gown before the bed, her back to me. There was a light on on the night table, jewellery flashing underneath. Just one of those little trinkets could save my mother’s life, I thought.

  At this point, the water started gushing in the bathroom, splashing loudly. There was no chance of him overhearing me now, I told myself, and stood up slowly, carefully. She threw off her dressing gown and climbed naked into bed. By then, I was standing in the bedroom door. She screamed, terrified.

  “Shh!” I hissed and was beside the bed in a single leap. “Quiet!”

  Fear sobered her up.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded quietly.

  I was incapable of giving her an answer in my excitement, though I had been rehearsing feverishly what I was going to say to her since the moment I’d left home. God knows how many versions I’d come up with, but none of them now came to me. All I could say, awkward and stammering, was:

  “Give me two hundred and fifty pengős.”

  She raised her head angrily but, it seems, thought better of it. Her voice was almost calm when she spoke.

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred and fifty,” I repeated, slightly relieved. I’ll take a taxi, I thought, that way it may not be too late.

  She reached into the nightstand and slowly lifted her eyes to mine.

  “Blackmail, is it?” she asked softly, hoarsely, a small, pearl-handled revolver flashing in her hands. “Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree, you dirty peasant!” she whispered, aiming the pistol at me. “Clear off!”

  “Please,” I stammered, “please hear me out . . . I—”

  “Clear off!” she repeated. “Get out of here before I shoot you like a dog.”

  I could see it was no use.

  “So shoot me, then!” I cried. “I’m not leaving here till I get that money.”

  She had clearly not been expecting that. She hesitated for a moment or two, and then, quick as a cat, sprang to the other side of the bed and scrambled for the telephone. As she did so, I grabbed a diamond ring off the nightstand and was gone.

  I didn’t hear what she said, or if she’d made the call at all. I ran headlong down the back stairs and out of the staff entrance. There was a taxi just passing, so I clambered on and gave him the address of our pawnshop.

  “Hurry!” I cried. “There’s an extra pengő in it for you.”

  I had all of fifty fillérs. No matter, I thought. Maybe it’s still not too late.

  The car hurried through the deserted streets. We were in Újpest in half an hour.

  “Wait for me,” I said to the driver outside the pawnshop. “Back in a minute.”

  The gate was still locked. I leant on the bell impatiently. I must have been in a hell of a state because the sleepy old Hausmeister gave me a very suspicious look.

  “Who for?”

  “The pawnshop.”

  “Now? In the middle of night?”

  “It’s a family thing,” I muttered. “It’s urgent.”

  With that, I handed him the money and went in. I would have gone in if the way led over his dead body—by that time, nothing mattered to me any more.

  I crossed the courtyard and rang the pawnbroker’s bell. The fish-faced little old man shuffled to the door in his shirt and underpants. When he saw me, he was absolutely furious.

  “How dare you wake me up at this hour?” he snapped at me in his high-pitched wail.

  “It’s urgent,” I said, panting. “It’s for a guest.”

  The old man stared at me with his bleary fish-eyes.

  “A guest? What guest?”

  “A guest at the hotel,” I spat testily, and pulled the ring out of my pocket.

  Fish-face looked at it, examined it, and his face suddenly changed. He gave me a flat look.

  “Why’s it so urgent?”

  “They need the money.”

  “Hm,” he muttered, with a crafty look, holding the diamond to the light.

  “Please hurry,” I said impatiently. “There’s a taxi waiting.”

  The fish-eyes fixed their gaze on me.

  “Taxi? So you’re taking taxis now?”

  I felt myself blush.

  “The guest is paying for it.”

  “Hm,” he muttered again, and then gestured for me to follow him.

  He shuffled silently through a narrow entrance hall that smelt of onions and took me into the pawnshop through the back entrance. He put on the light, sat down, took out a magnifying glass and turned the ring this way and that beneath it.

  “How much does the guest want for it?” he asked.

  Today, I know that “the guest” would have wanted four or five thousand pengős for it, but at the time, I had no idea how much it was worth. So I tried to avoid answering.

  “How much would you give them, sir?”

  But sir did not take the bait.

  “I asked how much the guest wants for it.”

  I thought it must be worth a hundred pengős, so I said:

  “Two hundred.”

  “Two hundred?”

  Fish-face gave an odd grin
. I thought I’d asked too much.

  “Oh all right,” I said testily, “make it one fifty.”

  “I don’t keep that much cash around at night,” he replied, but instead of giving me back the ring, he took it and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to call my brother-in-law,” he muttered. “He might be able to give me a loan.”

  I didn’t like where this was going. If I’d listened to my instincts, I would have grabbed the ring back from him and run off. But where? I asked myself, where? The city was still sleeping, the pawnbrokers wouldn’t open for hours, and by then it might be too late to save my mother, even with all of Darius’s gold. Besides, Fish-face hadn’t even waited for my answer, he’d just left. So what could I do? I shrugged. No matter. None of it mattered now.

  The old man came back a few minutes later and gave me an encouraging smile.

  “He’ll be right here.”

  “With the money?”

  “Yes.”

  And soon enough, the bell rang. The old man shuffled out to get the door and I looked at the clock, relieved. A quarter past five. They must still be dancing. I’ll be home in ten minutes.

  A portly policeman with a handlebar moustache appeared in the door.

  “Come along, come along!” he snapped at me.

  “Where?” I asked dimly.

  “Don’t answer back!” he roared. “Shut your trap and come along!”

  “But, sir,” I scrambled desperately, “I have to get home, I—”

  “You won’t be going home for a while,” he growled, and headed straight for me, stinking of booze.

  “But officer,” I pleaded, backing away, “hear me out! My mother . . . my mother—”

  There was a terrific blow, the policeman heaved me out, and the rest I can only remember like a chaotic dream. Curious faces. The hausmeister grumbling that he could “tell right away”. The driver screaming for me to pay him. A search, swearing, blows upon blows. The policeman heaving me into the van. The van speeding along. The van stopping. The policeman heaving me out of the van, heaving me through a door. Steps, corridor, doors, faces, uniforms. Shoved into a room. A clock on the wall. The big hand touching eleven. Five to six. Inside, everyone’s still dancing, doing the csárdás, the violinist’s still playing, and suddenly the drunken house wakes to a terrible scream . . .