The Melancholy of Resistance

The Melancholy of Resistance Page 7

by Krasznahorkai, László

  He lost him from view, yet did not lose him, because even though the houses came between them he could still see Eszter, his beloved master, whose one-hour-long excursion had, under Valuska’s intense protection, left such a strong mark on the town that no mass of mere buildings could obscure him. Everything pointed to the fact that he had passed that way, and wherever Valuska looked, the knowledge that he was still near conjured the other’s presence—so much so that after the actual parting he spent a few minutes in a kind of reverie as the effect of this extraordinary event began to fade, slowing the process down and enabling him mentally to escort his master back to the house in Wenckheim Avenue, when he could breathe again and be assured that the walk, Mr Eszter’s unexpected and wonderful foray into the world, ‘though not without its element of sadness’, had nevertheless been conducted to good effect. To have stood beside him as he left the room, to have been present as he took his first few steps in the hall, to have followed him like a shadow knowing what a tremendous advance this was in the much-desired and long-hoped-for healing process, to have watched him proceed from lounge to outside gate was cause for joy and conferred great honour on him as the proud witness of all this activity; on the other hand, simply to regard the excursion as something ‘not without its element of sadness’ now was to fail to convey the full quality of the experience, since his belated recognition of the fact that his elderly friend found every step an ordeal had, even during the walk, rather clouded the delight of being a ‘proud witness’, leaving only a suffocating air of sadness. He had believed that the moment the invalid had risen for the first time and finally left his curtained room heralded a recovery, a resurrection of his appetite for life, but within a few steps he had had to confront the possibility that the afternoon would bring no amelioration but only reveal the true seriousness of his condition, and the frightening likelihood that his public reappearance in the cause of social renewal was not the way back into the world but, more probably, a last farewell and resignation from it, an act of ultimate rejection, and this—for the first time in all their acquaintance—filled Valuska with the deepest anxiety. Feeling ill at the first breath of fresh air was a bad sign, though, since Eszter had hardly ventured from the house for as long as he could remember and certainly not in the last two months, it was not altogether unexpected, but nothing had prepared him to accept the extent of Eszter’s physical deterioration or the sad condition of the town itself, its nervous tension and exhaustion, and his own lack of vigilance left him with a terrible sense of guilt. Guilt for his lack of awareness, for having blinded himself to the truth and vainly hoped-for improvement in the short term; guilt because if any harm had come to his companion on this most trying walk he would have felt entirely to blame; and more than guilt, shame, confusion and the keenest mental torture, that instead of exhibiting a dignified and brilliant intellect to the town he could produce only a feeble old man whose best option, that of going straight back home, had been made unavailable by virtue of the promise he had made to Mrs Eszter. So they had had to go, and, unable to disguise his dependency, Mr Eszter had, without a word, taken him by the arm, and since this was a sign that his dependency was a form of delegation, Valuska had felt that if this was how things stood there was nothing for him to do but to try and divert his friend’s attention, and so he had begun to talk about the news he had been so happy to bring to his attention at two o’clock. He spoke about sunrise, he spoke about the town, about how each and every part of it had woken to a distinct and separate life as the light touched it at dawn, he had talked and kept talking but the words lacked conviction because he himself was hardly paying attention to them. He was forced to look on the world through his friend’s eyes, constantly to follow Eszter’s gaze and realize, ever more helplessly, that whatever his eyes lit on bore witness not to his own liberating convictions but to the latter’s sombre outlook. In the first moments he had believed that, freed from the close confines of his room, it would be the most natural thing for his friend to recover his strength and desire for life, that he might be persuaded to direct his attention ‘to the totality of things, not to specific details’, but by the time they reached the Komló it had become obvious that, once Eszter had laid eyes on them, these details could not be subsumed under ever more hollow-sounding words, so he had decided to keep quiet, his most valuable contribution to the trials and tribulations of their journey being to give support through honest acceptance and dumb assent. But this resolution had come to nothing, and when he left the hotel the words seemed to rush from his lips with, if such a thing were possible, even greater desperation, for standing in the food line he had heard some terrifying news that had thrown him into utter confusion. To be precise, it was not so much the terrifying news conveyed by people in the kitchen to the effect that ‘the crowd in the market square was in fact a criminal gang of vandals’ which, shortly after twelve o’clock, had robbed and would, like hooligans, have wrecked the entire drinks-dispensing facility of the Komló, for this he simply didn’t believe, discounting it as ‘fears produced by the imagination’, one of the depressingly common signs of ‘infectious terrors and anxieties’; what did, however, surprise him as he was carrying the filled lunch-box back to the waiting Eszter was something he had so far entirely failed to notice: the fact that the corridor and the forecourt and the pavement in front of the hotel were indeed covered in shards of broken flasks and bottles which people were forced to negotiate. He had felt confused and answered his companion’s perfectly understandable questions with a momentary show of hesitancy, quickly going on to talk about the whale, and later—the business with Mr Mádai having been successfully concluded—attempting to allay fears associated with the whale, fears that, to tell the truth, he himself now was prey to, for while he was certain that one sober gesture towards the heavens would ensure a rational return to life as he knew it, he was unable to forget what he had heard in the kitchen (particularly the head cook’s remark that, ‘Anyone wandering about the streets at night is risking his life!’). It was clearly a mistake to think that the ‘friendly obliging people’ with whom he had spent hours waiting in front of the circus vehicle that morning were vandals or bandits, but it was the kind of mistake, Valuska reflected, which, if only because the frightening rumours had spread so far, might leave even a man like Mr Nadabán shaking in his boots; it was therefore up to him to clear up this matter immediately, once and for all, and so, as in his imagination he was escorting Mr Eszter home, and had progressed from Városház Street to the market square, his first instinct on arriving in the midst of the still immobile waiting crowd was to pick out an individual and discuss the matter with him, the memory of the head cook’s irresponsible claim mingling and conflicting with his own more optimistic conviction (… one sober gesture … one cool intervention …). He informed the man what was being said about them, that people in town were wont to jump to conclusions; he told him about Mr Eszter’s condition, and stated his conviction that everyone should be acquainted with that great scholar; he confessed his own fears for him, proclaimed that he knew perfectly well where his duty lay, and finally begged to be excused his slight inarticulacy, but, he quickly added, he was already certain, even after these few minutes, that he was talking to a friendly spirit and that he was absolutely sure that his new friend understood him perfectly. The man he addressed made no reply to any of this but simply gave him a long hard stare from head to toe, then, perhaps noticing Valuska’s startled expression, smiled, slapped him on the back, pulled a bottle of cheap spirits from his pocket and offered it to him in amiable fashion. Relieved to see the relaxed smile on the man’s face after the stern silence of the preliminary inspection, Valuska felt he couldn’t properly refuse the offer as a token of goodwill and, striving to put the seal on his new friendship, took the bottle in his stiff fingers, unscrewed the cap, and, in order to win the other man’s confidence and convince him of ‘the spirit of mutual sympathy’ that existed between them, did not merely take a formal sip of the content
s but indulged in one great gulp. He immediately paid for his lack of caution, for the poisonously potent liquid sent him into such a terrible fit of coughing he thought he would choke, and a full half-minute later, having recovered and trying with an apologetic smile to beg pardon for his weakness, he found his words drowned out time and again by yet another fit. He was deeply embarrassed and feared that he had ruined his chances of establishing friendly relations with his new acquaintance; indeed, so real and acute was his suffering that, at the height of his agony, he unconsciously gripped the man he was talking to, and this provided a source of mild amusement not only to the latter, but to those standing in the near vicinity. Recovering his breath in the somewhat more relaxed atmosphere, he explained how Mr Eszter, for all his denials, was busy with a great work, and how, if for no other reason than this, he felt it was incumbent on all of them to restore calm in the house in Wenckheim Avenue—then, turning to his new friend, he confessed that this talk had done him considerable good, thanked the man once more for the goodwill that had been extended to his own person and apologized for the fact that he had to go, promising that next time he would explain his reasons (which were ‘interesting, believe me!’). He had to go, and attempted to take his leave, shaking the man’s hand, but the other would not release it (‘Tell me the reason now, I’d like to hear it’), so Valuska was forced to repeat what he had just said. He had to go—he tried to free his hand from the unexpected grip—but he trusted they would meet again soon, and if this was not the case he could be sought at the Peafeffer, at Mr Hagelmayer’s, or—he stared about him uncomprehendingly, not a little frightened—ask anyone at all, since the name János Valuska was known to everybody. He couldn’t imagine what the other man wanted from him or what this tug of war signified, nor why it suddenly ended when his friend abruptly let go of his hand and the assembled hundreds in the square all turned to face the truck with looks of great anxiety. Seizing the opportunity, still shocked by the strange manner of his detaining, he quickly said goodbye and walked into the thick of the crowd, and only once that crowd had swallowed him after a few steps did he look back, when he was struck by the dreadful thought that he had been mistaken, quite stupid, that he had immediately and shamefully to admit to himself that the powerful force employed against him in such a harmless fashion was no cause for suspicion, that even to suspect such was an act of rudeness on his part. What bothered him most was that by unforgivably misinterpreting the well-meant gesture he had left it unreciprocated, the shame he felt on account of his boorish behaviour being mitigated to some degree only by the knowledge that he was capable of responding to it in more sober fashion very soon after. He really didn’t understand what he had just done (the other man’s patience and sympathy merited gratitude not an irrational panic) and so—his mission to Mrs Eszter not allowing him the time to clear the matter up immediately by seeking out the man in the crowd again—he firmly determined, though he took some time to arrive at a clear explanation for the universal attentiveness, that he would most certainly make amends for his error the next time they met. It was quite dark by this time, only the streetlamps were flickering and some light was filtering through the circus back door, and since the director was not there but at the front of the wagon, only his bare faint silhouette could be picked out. ‘It’s him!’ Valuska stopped dead in his tracks; it was undoubtedly him, even in shadow form his unmistakable great girth gave him away, the often remarked extraordinary extent of him, and indeed the fact of him corresponded in every detail to the rumour. Forgetting his urgent mission for a moment, forgetting all that had just happened, Valuska wormed his way through the crowd, which had clearly grown more agitated since the director’s appearance, in order to get a better look at him, then, once he was close enough, stood on tiptoe in his curiosity and held his breath so as not to miss a single word. The director was holding a cigar between his fingers and was wearing a full-length fur coat, and this, taken together with his gigantic belly, the unusually wide brim of his hat and the vast row of chins collapsing over his carefully tied silk scarf, immediately earned Valuska’s deepest respect. At the same time it was obvious that the awe in which he was held in every part of the square was not due simply to his imposing size, but also to the fact—a fact that no one could forget, not even for a minute—that he was the proprietor of the centre of attention. The otherworldly character of his exhibit lent a peculiar weight to his person, and Valuska gazed at him as if he himself were an extraordinary sight, a man who exercised calm control over that which others looked on in fear and wonder. With the cigar that he was now holding stiffly at some distance he was clearly in absolute command of all he surveyed, and, strange as it may sound, it was impossible to watch anything but that fat cigar in Kossuth Square, for it seemed to belong to someone who, wherever he went, would stand in the shadow of a whale that was the wonder of the world. He looked tired, exhausted even, but it was as if this were the specific thing that had exhausted him, not ordinary everyday matters but one single all-consuming care; it was obviously a fatigue born out of decades of vigilance, exhaustion owing to the knowledge that any moment he might be killed by that immeasurable weight of fat. He said nothing for some time, probably waiting for perfect silence, then, once you could have heard a pin drop, he glanced round him and relit the dead cigar. As he screwed up his face against the rising smoke, taking the whole crowd in through those narrow rodent eyes of his, his expression completely threw Valuska, for this face, that look, though there can have been no more than three or four yards between them, appeared to be situated at some enormous distance from him. ‘Well then,’ he pronounced at long last, but in a manner that suggested that he had already finished speaking, or that he was preparing them for the fact that he was not about to make a great speech. ‘The show is over for the day,’ his deep voice rang out. ‘Until the ticket office reopens tomorrow we wish everyone well and are sincerely grateful for your attention. Allow me to commend our company to you once again. You have been a marvellous audience, but we must now take our leave.’ Holding his cigar away from him as before, slowly, and with some difficulty, he retreated into the crowd that obediently made way for him, climbed up on to the wagon and disappeared from view. He had said only a few words but Valuska felt they were ample proof of the director’s rare eloquence and the uniqueness of the circus (… ‘that a director should take such a fond farewell from his audience … !’), furthermore, from the crescendo of murmuring that immediately followed he concluded—a little frightened perhaps—that he was not alone in appreciating such a marvel. Immediately, that is to say, because the rumble grew louder as it passed across the square, and as it did so he wished the director would return to offer a few commonplace explicatory remarks on the fantastic monster or about the company itself so as to lighten the air of mystery that had gathered about them. He stood there in the dark, not comprehending what people around him were saying, nervously adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, waiting for the commotion, because that was what it had become, to stop. He suddenly remembered the head cook’s words and the conversation in front of the White Collar Club, and since the sounds of dissatisfaction had still not abated, he had a momentary intimation that the apparently needless fears of the local population might not be so needless after all. He couldn’t, however, afford to wait until the rumblings of disappointment died away, nor for the reasons for it to become apparent; unfortunately he had to leave without properly understanding it. Even after having pushed his way through the crowd to the opening of Honvéd Square he couldn’t quite understand it. And in any case … along the pavement on the way to Mrs Eszter’s dwelling … walking down those empty streets … his mind grew a little confused, one or other of the day’s events flashing before him, and he couldn’t see the meaning of any of them. On the one hand, memories of the day’s excursion with Mr Eszter filled him with sadness; thoughts of the town and the square, on the other, caused him to suffer acute pangs of guilt for having wasted his time: he alternated so rapi
dly between these two states of mind, both conditions so remote from his usual experience (being cast into other people’s lives, as it were, rather than marooned in his own), that he was utterly disorientated by the dizzying succession of images to the extent that nothing remained in his mind except indecision and incomprehension and an ever more desperate desire to ignore both indecision and incomprehension. On top of that, opening the garden gate he felt an all-surpassing terror sweep over him as he realized that it was long past four o’clock and that Mrs Eszter, with her implacable nature, would certainly not forgive him. But forgive him she did—not only that but it looked as if the presence of guests had diminished the importance of his mission, since she seemed hardly to be listening to his account, simply nodding irritably, leaving Valuska standing at the threshold, preparing to give details of the successful commencement of their campaign then forestalling him by announcing that ‘in view of the current serious circumstances, the whole matter had, for the moment, lost its importance’, then pointing to a stool and indicating strictly that he should remain silent. It was only then that Valuska realized he had mistimed his arrival and that there was some possibly vital conference in progress, and as he didn’t understand his role in all this, nor why the woman—her business with him being over—did not simply send him away, he sat down and clutched his knees tightly, fearful of making the slightest sound. If this was really the case and he had in fact blundered into an important meeting the committee certainly presented a strange spectacle. The mayor was dashing about the room, shaking his head in the most grief-stricken manner, then, having taken two or three such turns about the room, cried out (‘To have come to this, that a leading official should have to lurk in the bushes in people’s gardens …!!’) and, purple with rage, first tightened then loosened the knot of his tie. There was not much you could say about the chief of police since he was lying, red-faced, a damp handkerchief spread across his forehead, wearing his uniform overcoat, perfectly immobile and staring stiffly at the ceiling, on the bed, which exuded a strong stench of alcohol. But it was Mrs Ezter herself who was behaving the most strangely for she wasn’t saying anything but was obviously lost in deep thought (she kept biting her lips), now glancing at her watch, now looking significantly in the direction of the door. Valuska was overawed and sat in his place, and though, if for no other reason than his obligation to Mr Eszter, he should certainly have gone, he did not dare move a muscle in case he disturbed the tense proceedings. However, nothing happened for a long time and the mayor must have covered a good furlong walking up and down, when Mrs Eszter stood up, cleared her throat and announced that, since there was no point in waiting any longer, she had a valuable suggestion to make. ‘We should send him,’ she said, pointing to Valuska, ‘so that, while we are waiting for Harrer to arrive, we should have a clear view of the situation.’ ‘The difficult situation! The difficult situation, if you please!’ the mayor cut in, stopping dead in his tracks, with a most bitter expression, then, shaking his head again, he said he doubted that ‘this otherwise commendable young man’ was up to the task. She, however (‘I, however … !’), did not and gave him a brief, superior smile that did not invite dissent, then, turning to Valuska with the utmost solemnity, Mrs Eszter explained to him that all that was required of him was that he should go to Kossuth Square and, ‘in the interest of us all’, should carefully observe what was happening there and bring report of it back to ‘this crisis committee, in the simplest possible terms’. ‘Delighted to oblige!’ Valuska rose from his stool, having immediately understood that ‘the interest of us all’ concerned his friend, and that was why the committee had met, then, uncertainly, not knowing whether he was doing the right thing, stood to attention and announced that he was all the more prepared to offer his services since Kossuth Square was where he had just come from, and he felt obliged to clarify a point or two, specifically relating to the strange mood of the crowd. ‘Strange mood?!’ The chief of police sat up for a moment on hearing this, then collapsed back on to the bed. In a faint voice he asked Mrs Eszter to dampen the handkerchief on his brow again and to bring him paper and pencil so that he should be able to make proper notes, since he could see that this was a matter that bore heavily on his official duties as a policeman and that he should ‘assume command of the situation’. The woman looked at the mayor and he looked back at her in quiet agreement that—the invalid being supplied with another damp handkerchief in the meantime—it would be ‘best to preserve calm’, so they beckoned Valuska over and Mrs Eszter sat down beside the bed, paper and pencil in her hand. ‘So little time!’ the chief sighed in anguish, and when the woman retorted, ‘There’s enough,’ a wave of anger ran over him and, in a condescending manner, like a professional among amateurs, he asked methodically, ‘More-of-what?’ ‘Enough time, enough place. I’ve written it all down,’ Mrs Eszter responded, irritated. ‘I was asking him,’ the chief nodded bitterly in the direction of Valuska, ‘What time? What place? Where? When? Note down his answer, not mine.’ The woman turned her head away in fury, clearly in a state of extraordinary tension, unwilling to say a word for the moment, then, recovering a little, she gave the perpetually moving mayor a meaningful look then glanced over to Valuska and gestured that he should ‘simply get on with it’. Valuska shifted from foot to foot, not understanding what precisely he was being expected to do, and, afraid that the invalid’s anger might at any moment be turned against him, attempted to inform the company ‘in the simplest possible terms’ of what he had seen in the square, but after a few sentences, when he reached the part about his new acquaintance, he felt he had made a mistake, and indeed the others stopped him there. ‘Don’t go rattling on about about your impressions, what you thought or heard or imagined,’ the chief cast his melancholy red-eyes at him, ‘stick to objective facts! The colour of his eyes … ? How old he was … ? How tall … ? Outstanding characteristics … ? I won’t even bother,’ he waved in resignation, ‘to ask you for his mother’s name.’ Valuska was forced to confess that he was indeed rather uncertain about precise data of that kind, excusing himself with the plea that it was getting dark just at that time, and though he announced that he would gather all his wits and concentrate harder in case he should remember anything else, however he tried even his friend’s image seemed to consist of nothing but a hat and a grey overcoat. To general relief, but particularly his, the invalid was at that point overtaken by the healing powers of sleep, so the volley of ever more dissatisfied and ever more difficult questions came to a sudden end, and since the pedantic and impersonal level of enquiry to which he felt unequal was clearly no longer to be enforced, despite his anxiety he succeeded in concluding his account and clearing things up a little. He described the appearance of the director from the cigar through to the elegant fur coat and repeated his memorable words of farewell; he described the circumstances of the man’s departure and how this was received by the crowd; and, since he was convinced that the committee before him would interpret the foregoing events in this light, he admitted that, owing to the conditions in the market square and the town generally, he was quite at a loss what to do as far as Mr Eszter was concerned. If this outstanding scholar were to recover his health and retain his powers of creation, he needed, above all, conditions of absolute calm, calm, repeated Valuska, and not that ever more intense, and to him wholly incomprehensible, sense of agitation he had unavoidably (‘though I did everything I could to avoid it … !’) encountered this afternoon on finally leaving his house. Everyone knew that for a man blessed with such a high degree of sensitivity even the most insignificant signs of disorder were likely to be harmful and depressing, and because of this, Valuska confessed, especially because he had seen how the universal anxiety had communicated itself to the crowd in the market square, his every thought was for Mr Eszter. He understood perfectly that his own role and significance in the business in hand, compared to that of Mrs Eszter and the committee, amounted to little short of nothing, nevertheless he begged them to place their
trust in him, to be assured that they could rely on him to do whatever they demanded of him. He would have liked to add that for him personally Mr Eszter’s good was of paramount importance, and, having got so far, to state how greatly he himself was reassured by the fact that the fate of the town (and therefore of his master) was in the hands of something as impressive as the committee he saw before him, but unfortunately he was unable to express either sentiment, for the woman silenced him with a single stern gesture, saying, ‘Very good, indeed you are perfectly right, we can’t sit round chattering, we must do something.’ They made him repeat what he was to do, and he, excitedly, like a child reciting his tables, went through all the salient points—which were to note ‘the size of the crowd … the atmosphere … and the appearance, should it appear, of a certain monster’; then, once they had given up the idea of explaining this last admonition and made him solemnly promise to be both thorough and quick, he promised to return in a matter of minutes and left the committee room on tiptoe lest he should wake the occupant of the bed, who, just at that moment, groaned in his sleep. Wholly immersing himself in the dignity of having been trusted by the committee, or rather in the sense of relief that an entire ‘crisis committee’ was supporting Mr Eszter through his trials and tribulations, he carried on tiptoeing through the courtyard and only remembered to assume his normal gait once he had reached the street and closed the rickety old gate behind him. He couldn’t positively state that the visit to Mrs Eszter was exactly reassuring but at least the woman’s decisiveness had exercised a healing power which drove away anxiety and uncertainty, and though he hadn’t received an answer to any of his questions, he felt that here, at last, was someone to whom he could safely entrust his affairs. Unlike the earlier situation, where he—the unworldly innocent—had to understand and decide things by himself, he was now entrusted with a single unambiguous task, to accomplish that which he had been asked to do, and this wouldn’t, after all, be so terribly difficult, he thought. He mentally ran through the various elements of that task—ten times at least—and, before long, felt lighter in his mind concerning the matter of the unspecified ‘monster’ (having worked out that he was supposed to be looking at the whale again); he felt lighter, and, remembering the calm gaze of the woman, felt the once-disturbing fog of confusion concerning his entire mission lifting at the same time, and so, when he practically collided with Mr Harrer at the entrance to the square, the latter having addressed him in passing (‘Everything will be all right now, but it would be much better if a young man like you were not hanging about in the street … !’), he simply smiled back and vanished into the multitude though he would have been all too happy to explain his presence (‘… no, you’re mistaken, Mr Harrer, this is precisely where I should be … !’). The square was now lit by hundreds of little fires, and here and there groups of twenty or thirty freezing bodies were warming themselves at the flames, which leapt higher and higher, and since this made it easier to pass through them and to see everything a little more clearly, it took Valuska only a few unobstructed minutes to take stock of the scene before him. A few minutes without obstruction perhaps, but this ‘thorough examination’ brought no immediate enlightenment as to the sheer size of the crowd (what detail was he supposed to look out for if everything was as before?) and observing these apparently peaceful groups loitering about the fires, rubbing their hands, he felt there was nothing particularly threatening here, not even in ‘the atmosphere’. ‘No one is moving, the mood seems fine,’ he tried the words out, but they rang ever more false, and as they did so, the nature of his mission appeared ever more painful. Observing these people in secret, walking among them as if he were some enemy, suspecting them of unnamed felonies and murders, taking their most innocent gestures as evidence of an evil intent—Valuska immediately realized that he was incapable of carrying this programme through. If, in his previous state of fright, he had found the woman’s sobering power a source of strength, then a few minutes among these people gathered around the friendly warmth of bonfires—resulting in a curious and sudden sense of domesticity—relieved him of the minor but embarrassing burden of misunderstanding, a misunderstanding shared by the head cook, Nadabán and his friends and Mrs Eszter herself, implying that the cure for ‘anxiety induced by a need for a rational explanation’ (and indeed his anxiety concerning Mr Eszter too) might be found in the circus and its long-suffering audience. The undoubtedly mysterious circus and the mysteriously loyal audience, the entire mystery, Valuska admitted to himself as the vision grew clearer, might have a simple and perfectly obvious explanation. He joined a group by one of the fires but the silence of his companions as they hung their heads staring at the flames or occasionally stole a glance in the direction of the circus wagon no longer perturbed him because he clearly understood that the mystery consisted of nothing but the whale, the first sight of the whale that he himself had seen and experienced that very morning. Was it so strange, he thought as he gazed about him with a smile on his face—and he would happily have hugged every single one of them in his relief—that everyone here had been as captivated as he was by the extraordinary creature? Was it any wonder that, deep down inside themselves, they believed it might be worth waiting on some extraordinary event in its proximity? He was so delighted to feel ‘the scales falling from his eyes’, he wanted to share the experience, and therefore declared in conspiratorial tones to those around him that he found ‘the endless wealth of nature’ overwhelming, quite overwhelming, he said, adding that such a sign, on a day like this, pointed to ‘the apparently lost unity of things’—then, not waiting for a reply, he waved goodbye to the others and continued on his way among the crowd. His first impulse was to rush back with the news, but according to his instructions he was to survey the whale too (‘The monster … !’ he smiled at the fearful epithet), and so, in order that his account to the committee should be as full as possible, he determined to steal another quick glance at ‘the Emissary of the One’ if he could, and not to leave his companions in the lurch this evening, an evening that had begun so badly but now promised to end so well. The wagon was open and they hadn’t yet put the boards across, so he couldn’t resist the possibility of stepping in rather than simply having a ‘quick peek’. Now that he was alone in looking at it, the body of the whale, illuminated by only two flickering light bulbs and resting as it did between enormous tin walls in the freezing cold outside, appeared bigger and more terrifying than ever, but he was no longer scared of it, in fact, apart from a respectful fascination, he felt as if the intervening events between their first encounter and the present one had facilitated a strange, confidential, almost courteous relationship between the two of them, and he was about to give it a humorous ticking off as he was leaving (‘See how much trouble you’ve caused, even though you’ve long been unable to harm anyone …’) when he heard unexpected if indistinct voices somewhere deep in the wagon. He thought he recognized the voices, and, as it soon turned out, he was not mistaken, for having reached the door at the back which, as he had earlier surmised, led to the area reserved for accommodation, by putting his ear to the tin wall he could begin to pick out a few sentences (‘… I engaged him to show himself, not to spin stupid stories. I won’t let him out. Turn him round! …) that were most certainly spoken by the director. The sounds he heard after that—a low even grumbling followed by a kind of sharp and sudden chirrup—were perfectly incomprehensible at first and it took some time for him to realize that the director was not conducting a monologue with caged birds and bears but was expressly addressing someone, that the strange grumblings and chirrupings must in fact have been produced by human beings, the first of which was even now grumbling in rather broken Hungarian to the effect that, ‘That’s what he says, and no one can stop him whatever they do. And he doesn’t understand what you are saying, Mr Director, sir …’ Having got so far, it was clear to Valuska that he had found himself in the position of uninvited witness (furthermore, one ever less capable of suppressing his curiosity)
to a discussion or, more likely, argument, though what the subject of the argument was, or whom the director was addressing in that apparently tense atmosphere (Tell him,’ he was just saying, ‘I am not willing to risk the reputation of the company again. That last time was positively the last …’), was not quite clear, and even if he did succeed in distinguishing the new bout of grumbling from the concomitant chirruping, and interpreting the bit of vaguely Hungarian grumbling that followed (‘He says he doesn’t recognize a superior authority. And that the director couldn’t seriously think he would …’), he still couldn’t tell who was speaking or how many conspirators there were in that hidden room, at least not until the next snatch of conversation. ‘Would you please get it through into that infant’s thick skull,’ the director exclaimed, losing his temper—and being able to smell his cigar Valuska could picture the smoke snaking from his lips—‘that I will not let him out, and even if, God knows, I did let him out he couldn’t say a word. And you would not act as his interpreter. You are to remain here. I will take him out. Otherwise he’s fired. In fact you’re both fired.’ Recognizing the unmistakably threatening tone of that remark it suddenly dawned on Valuska not only that this grumbling and chirruping—which were once again succeeding each other in that order and which reminded him of nothing he had ever heard before—were linguistically related and that there must therefore be two other people in that, as he imagined, narrow if not altogether uncomfortable bedroom (the director’s person had radiated a likely need for comfort) beside the man with the sonorous and commanding voice, but that one of the two, the grumbler, must be the ticket collector with the squashed nose he had seen that morning. The very name he seemed to be stuck with, the ‘factotum’, made this all the more likely, and once he had decided this, one actor in this increasingly terrifying though enlightening conversation—which was clearly of an intimate or, so to speak, business nature—one particular member of this, as all the circumstances appeared to suggest, two-person company (something told Valuska that he had stumbled on the place where all his questions would be answered once the subject of the conversation was revealed, as it soon would be) became practically visible, and he could imagine him as clearly as if he were standing there, watching that enormous body behind the tin door as it calmly mediated between the two passionately opposing parties, between a strange and apparently inarticulate language and the language of the director. What that language was, who it was the factotum was acting as interpreter for—in other words, working out who the third person in that sealed domestic space was—lay, for now, beyond Valuska’s capabilities to discover, since neither the response (which in the giant’s grumbling translation came out as, ‘He says he’s wants me with him because he’s afraid the director might drop him’) nor the cigar smoker’s sharp interjection (‘Tell him I resent his impudence!’) was of any great help. Not only did it not help but it further confused him, since the suggestion that this so far unseen member of the whale’s entourage (not just unseen, but apparently, deliberately concealed) had to be carried (how, on one’s lap?), and that he had been hired as an exhibit which was not going to be put on exhibition, made the problem a particularly hard one to solve in any convincing way; furthermore, the imperious reaction (‘He says that is ridiculous, because it’s common knowledge he has a following out there. His followers will not forget who he is. No ordinary force can hold him, he has a magnetic power’) indicated ever more clearly that the awe-inspiring and apparently omnipotent director was in a very tight corner, faced as he was by a superior being. ‘Sheer insolence!’ the director cried, openly betraying his dependency and helplessness, and the ever more nervous witness behind the door felt a tremor pass through him, thinking that if nothing else then the terrifying power of this great booming voice must surely put an end to the argument. ‘His magnetic power,’ the voice rumbled mockingly, ‘is a disfigurement! He is an aberration, I’ll say it slowly so you can understand it, an ab-ber-ray-shun, who—and he knows this as well as I do—has no knowledge or power. The title of prince,’ the voice rang with contempt, ‘was one I bestowed on him as a business decision! Tell him that I invented him! And that out of the two of us, I alone have the faintest conception of the world about which he piles lie upon outrageous lie, whose mob he agitates!!’ ‘He says his public is out there waiting,’ came the answer, ‘and they are growing impatient. To them he is The Prince’. ‘All right,’ screamed the director, ‘he is fired!!!’ Though through this exchange, which—because of the mystery surrounding the actors and the subject of their argument—was frightening enough in itself, Valuska had all but turned to stone behind the tin partition, it was only now that terror really seized him. He felt that those imposing words from ‘aberration’ through to ‘agitates’, from ‘magnetic power’ through to ‘mob’, were sweeping him towards some ominous shore where everything he had failed to understand these last few hours, in fact every apparently meaningless phenomenon of the last few months, would suddenly resolve itself into a single picture with one dreadful outline, putting an end to ignorant certainties (such as the belief that the broken glass on the floors of the Komló, the friendly hand that seemed to manacle him in its grip, the anxious conference in Honvéd Square, and the patient waiting of the crowd in the market square had, and could have, nothing to do with each other), and that because of these ‘imposing words’ the blurred image created in his mind by the sum of his confused impressions and experiences had, like a landscape from which the fog had started to lift, begun the irreversible process of clearing, thereby suggesting the possibility that all these phenomena were symptoms of, or pointed to, a single event that meant ‘big trouble’. At this stage of hostilities it was too early to say what precisely that might be, but he suspected that even if he were to offer resistance, he would know soon enough; and he did resist it as though it were possible to place obstacles in its path, and defended himself as if this offered some hope of avoiding it, of suppressing the instinct which up till now had detected no obvious connection between the crowds that had arrived together with the circus and the local people’s hysterical sense of foreboding. That hope, however, was growing fainter by the minute, for the director’s furious outburst had drawn together the various strands of his experience so far, from the head cook’s words to the depressing conviction of Nadabán and his friends, from the memorable unrest of the crowd stiff with cold to the possibilities suggested by the so-called ‘monster’, and this consonance suggested something terrifying, if only because he was forced to admit that when he had dismissed, and indeed smiled at, local people’s apprehensions, apprehensions that seemed to have grown particularly acute in the last twenty-four hours, they were right and he was wrong. From the moment the thought had first occurred to him during the murmur of protest following the director’s notable public address, Valuska had successfully avoided drawing the appropriate conclusions and had dismissed any possibility that all the available facts supported the dark forebodings of the locals; through the time in Honvéd Square when he recognized that somewhere at the back of his own anxieties about Mr Eszter there lurked the suspicion that the general apprehension ‘had taken hold of him too on the way’, down to the present moment when he had lost even the capacity to move away from the door, he was forced to recognize that the relaxation of tension that used to follow waves of fear would not now occur, that the shadow of significance that underlay these phenomena ultimately was their true significance, that there would, in short, be no escape from the feeling of inevitability about what was happening here. ‘Fine, he says,’ so the battle beyond the door continued. ‘He’ll go freelance from now. He will part company from the director and take no further interest in the whale. And he’s taking me with him.’ ‘You?!’ ‘I’ll go,’ answered the factotum indifferently, ‘when he says so. He means money. The director is poor. To the director The Prince means money.’ ‘Don’t you give me that Prince stuff too!’ the director turned on the interpreter, then, after a moment, he added: ‘Tell him I don’
t like arguing. I’ll let him out on one small condition. That he keeps his mouth shut. Not a word. He is to be as silent as the grave.’ The weary tone of that voice, the early thunder of which had been reduced to a groan of resignation, left him in no doubt that the director had suffered a defeat, and since Valuska knew the cause in which he had been defeated and understood that there was something about the maker of that chirruping sound that the out-manoeuvred master was wanting, at all costs, to frustrate, something that would now inevitably follow with an instant and blinding clarity, he felt very much like a cat stuck in the middle of the road, paralysed by the headlights of an onrushing vehicle: he couldn’t move a muscle but stared, numb and helpless, at the inner door of the freezing truck. ‘He says,’ the voice of the interpreter continued, ‘there will be no conditions. The director gets the money, The Prince gets his followers. Everything has a price. There’s no point in arguing.’ ‘If his rabble destroy the towns they pass through,’ the director argued, exhausted, ‘there will be nowhere left for him to go after a while. Translate that.’ ‘He says,’ came the immediate answer, ‘that he has no wish to go anywhere at any time. It is always the director who carries him. And, he says, he doesn’t understand what you mean “after a while”. There’s no time left even now. Unlike the director, he believes that everything has its own individual significance. The significance is in the elements not in the whole as the director imagines.’ ‘I don’t imagine anything,’ the director answered after a long silence. ‘What I do know is that if he rouses the crowd rather than calming it, they will tear this town to pieces.’ ‘A town built on lies will continue to be a town built on lies,’ the factotum spoke for the more agitated chirruping. ‘What they do and what they will do are both based on lies and false pride. What they think and what they will think are equally ridiculous. They think because they are frightened. Fear is ignorance. He says he likes it when things fall to pieces. Ruin comprises every form of making: lies and false pride are like oxygen in the ice. Making is half: ruin is everything. The director is frightened and doesn’t understand: his followers are not frightened and do understand.’ ‘Please inform him,’ the director snapped back, ‘that as far as I am concerned his prophecies are mere blather, he can sell them to the mob but not to me. And tell him, while you’re at it, that I refuse to listen to him any longer, that I will have nothing more to do with him, will take no responsibility for his actions, and that from this moment, gentlemen, you are free to do as you please … If you ask me though,’ he added, clearing his throat for emphasis, ‘you would do better to tuck your princeling up in bed, give him a double dose of cream, then take your books out and learn to speak Hungarian properly.’ ‘The Prince is shouting,’ the factotum remarked indifferently above the now continuous, almost hysterical chirruping, not even bothering to address his boss directly. ‘He says, he is always free in himself. His position is between things. And in between things he sees that he is himself the sum of things. And what things add up to is ruin, nothing but ruin. To his followers he is “The Prince” but in his own view he is the prince of princes. Only he can see the whole, he says, because he can see there is no whole. And for The Prince this is how things must be … as they must always be … he must see with his own eyes. His followers will wreak havoc because they understand his vision perfectly. His followers understand that all things are false pride, but don’t know why. The Prince knows: it is because the whole does not exist. The director cannot grasp this, the director is in his way. The Prince is bored with him; he is going out.’ The passionate chirruping ceased along with the bear-like grumbling, nor did the director have anything more to say, but even if he had Valuska wouldn’t have heard it, because ever since those last words died away he had been backing away, much as his ears were—metaphorically—backing away from the words, in fact he backed away so far that he bumped into the propped-up snout of the whale. Then somehow everything around him was in motion: the truck slipped from under him, people were running beside him, and this great sense of rushing stopped only when he realized, in the middle of the crowd, that his new friend—to whom he wanted to reveal that what they were going to be asked to undertake was dreadful and that the words they were waiting to hear, even if they were what they had been waiting for all this time, should under no circumstances be listened to—was nowhere to be found. Was nowhere to be found because the immense burden of his discovery had suddenly descended on him, crushing and destroying in minutes every idea he had formed about the circus, the afternoon and everything else that had happened to him that day, because his head was spinning, his shoulders were aching and he was cold and could no longer see faces but merely the blurred shapes of bodies. He ran between the bonfires but, being racked with cramps, his words (‘deception’ … ‘evil’ … ‘shame’) came out in such a breathless and choking manner as to be practically incomprehensible; incapable of helping himself he persisted in trying to help others, a doomed enterprise, for while he was aware that the sum of his knowledge—after an initial period of ignorance and credulity—had suddenly equalled and exceeded theirs, he also knew that the mere existence of The Prince guaranteed that whatever he wanted to do, there was nothing to be done. ‘There’s something terrible going on,’ he wanted to say but couldn’t get the words out and was quite incapable of deciding where to go with this information. Mr Eszter was his first thought and he set off towards the avenue, but suddenly changed his mind and turned back, only to stop a few yards later as if realizing that his first course was, after all, the wisest. And though events had slowed down to this point, suddenly everything began rushing once more: the lights of the bonfires were spinning round him, people were running again, and even while trying to avoid them he noticed that a curious silence had descended on the square; he couldn’t hear anything except his own hectic breathing, which rose loudly and powerfully from inside him: it was like leaning close to a millwheel in motion. He found himself in Honvéd Square and the next moment he was knocking on the woman’s door, but however often he repeated it to himself before entering, however often he actually pronounced the words (‘There’s something terrible going on, Mrs Eszter! Mrs Eszter, there’s something terrible going on out there!’) he failed to attract the attention of either the hostess or her guests. They didn’t seem to understand him. ‘It was the so-called monster, wasn’t it? It frightened you, is that right?’ the woman asked him with a self-confident smile, and when he nodded back at her, wide-eyed with panic, she simply sighed, ‘Not surprising. Not surprising!’ her confident smile readily giving way to a more troubled look, and having led the vaguely protesting Valuska to the one unoccupied stool and pushed him forcefully on to it, she attempted to calm him by telling him how ‘even our little circle of friends here was not exactly immune to anxiety until Mr Harrer finally appeared with his good news’, and that meant that Valuska could relieve his mind somewhat for (‘Thank God!’) it was certain that the troublesome company would be leaving town within the hour, whale and prince and all. But Valuska shook his head vehemently, leapt from his seat and repeated the sentence that had been ringing in his head all this time, then attempted as best he could to explain ‘as clearly as possible’ how he had inadvertently been witness to an intense argument which proved without the shadow of a doubt that The Prince was not about to leave. ‘Things had moved on,’ said the woman, pushing the rather unwilling Valuska back on to his seat, and leaning on his shoulder with her left hand so as to improve his perception of matters—she understood why the mere presence of the criminal referred to as The Prince should have so discomposed him, it was because, ‘If I am not mistaken,’ she added softly with a superior smile, ‘you have really only just grasped the core of the problem.’ She understood perfectly, their indomitable hostess continued, raising her voice so everyone should hear her (Valuska was unable to move for the weight of her hand on his shoulder); she understood and, since she too had had the same experience, it was no mystery to her what a person might feel when confronted with the true
nature of the masked circus freak for the first time. ‘Only half an hour ago,’ Mrs Eszter’s roar rang through the small room, ‘we were given every reason to believe that the plans of this creature, this renegade hireling of the circus management, or as the unimpeachable director himself put it, in Mr Harrer’s report, this “viper in our bosom”, would be realized and there was nothing anyone could do about it, and at that point we had every reason to think it was so, but now, equally, we have every reason to believe the opposite, for since then the management, newly aware of its responsibilities, has decided on a course of effective intervention and will shortly free us of this demonic presence. Thanks to Mr Harrer’s good offices,’ Mrs Eszter continued passionately, almost transfigured, her words not really aimed at the company, but at reinforcing the idea of her own unquestionable significance, ‘we know what lurks behind the mystery of what we may boldly admit is the mortally frightening rag-bag horde that threatens us and the even more extraordinary company they follow, and since, for the most part, we no longer have anything to fear, our role now being simply to wait for news of the circus’s imminent departure, I suggest we should stop exacerbating the sense of panic in the way that you,’ she smiled down on Valuska, ‘so pathetically are doing, and instead consider, all of us, our future course of action, for after what has happened here we cannot help but draw,’ and here she glared at the mayor hunched up in the corner, ‘the appropriate conclusions. I don’t by any means suggest that we are capable of resolving all the issues here and now,’ Mrs Eszter shook her head, ‘no, of course, it would be wrong to suggest that; nevertheless, events having fortunately sorted themselves out, we may at least conclude that the town, which in most regards seems to be suffering under some curse’ (‘The curse of indecision!’ Mrs Eszter’s old acquaintance, Harrer, cried out) ‘cannot be governed in the old way any more!’ This speech, which clearly had begun before Valuska arrived and whose proud rhetorical heights and sound sense were clearly appreciated by the powerful speaker herself, a speech that was formal yet exerted its own spell of sheer logic, had undoubtedly reached a climax, and since Mrs Eszter, her eyes full of triumph, was satisfied with its effect, it now came to end. The mayor, his eyes fixed on a spot in front of him with a bewildered expression, was vigorously nodding in support, but his whole mien showed he hadn’t stopped vacillating between the desired state of relief and all-consuming anxiety. The views of the chief of police could clearly be assumed, though for the moment he was not in a position to give them: his head back, his mouth wide open, he was still sleeping the sleep of the just on the bed, and this was the only thing that prevented him from granting his assent to the foregoing line of argument of which he undoubtedly approved. So the one person who remained capable of both speaking and doing, who wholeheartedly approved of the ‘stirring and cogent speech’ (if his heart and eyes could speak they would have approved even more loudly) and could in any case proclaim himself an unconditional and almost fanatical admirer of Mrs Eszter’s, was Harrer, the bringer of good news, who stood before them flushed and confused, his fat face blotchy with emotion as if he could still not adjust to being the centre of the attention, awarded to him on the strength of his role in events. He sat under the coat hanger, his knees firmly clamped together, with the sardine tin which served as an ashtray in one hand, the other continually flicking the tiny amounts of accumulated ash from his cigarette into it as if he were afraid that at any moment a grain or two of ash might fall on to the freshly swept floor; and so he puffed and flicked, puffed and flicked, and when he thought he could safely venture it without engaging her gaze, he glanced up at Mrs Eszter from under lowered lids, then quickly looked away and flicked his cigarette once more. It was apparent though that while seeming to avoid it, eye-contact was precisely what he was seeking; that he desired the sooner-or-later-inevitable clash of eyes; that, like all guilty parties, he would give anything to be able to summon up the courage to look the judge straight in the face; indeed, he gave a most convincing impression of someone groaning under the weight of a hitherto un-revealed act of darkness he was desperately anxious to redeem, something that, for him, mattered a great deal more than the circumstances currently prevailing in the market square—a thing that led him ‘wholeheartedly to approve’ of anything Mrs Eszter might say. No wonder then that in the silence that followed her last statement, he who had fed so intensely on her words should now be left clearly hungering for more, nor that when the mayor attempted to muddy the clear picture drawn by Mrs Eszter with some fussy point of order, he should regard this not so much as a questioning of his own veracity but as a crude insult to the dignity of their hostess and leap to his feet, cigarette in hand, forgetting the difference in their rank in the moment of his outrage, and make an unambiguous gesture ordering the mayor to shut up. ‘But,’ the mayor was saying, nervously passing his hand from where it had been massaging his brow across his bald pate right down to the nape of his neck, ‘what if this so-called “prince” should change his mind and stay here! He can say whatever he likes to Harrer but that doesn’t necessarily bind him. Who knows what we’re up against? Have we not acted too hastily? The only thing that bothers me is that we might—with all due respect—have sounded the retreat a little too early, too suddenly … !’ ‘The message,’ Mrs Eszter replied with due severity—and since Valuska was trying once again to rise from the stool she leaned on him in a reassuringly maternal fashion as if putting a child’s mind at rest—‘the clear message that Mr Harrer conveyed verbatim to the director—or so one hopes—from the leading members of the community who are still present and have not so far retreated an inch, let me remind him once more, unambiguously indicated that his request for police support, whatever might have been promised him by the already ailing chief of police, was not in our power to grant.’ The mere fact, the woman emphasized, that, however brave, the number of constables at our disposal amounts to no more than forty-two, means that ordering them out to control a possibly agitated crowd is not a step that should be taken lightly, so he should think carefully before doing anything. And since, ‘as we know from Mr Harrer’, it did make him think carefully, she, Mrs Eszter, had firm faith in his decision to leave the town forthwith, and any doubt she might have had was dispelled by the knowledge that, according to rumour, he had been in such situations before, so would be aware what might happen if he failed to keep his word. ‘I saw that man and you did not,’ Harrer added, less in bad conscience, more in her defence, ‘and he is a man of such strong will, he just has to wave his cigar at his company and they follow him like sheep!’ The hostess responded by icily thanking him for his passionate support, requesting him at the same time to return to the subject in hand and search his memory for anything he might have forgotten that related to his meeting with the director. ‘Well,’ he answered quietly and leaned forward as if imparting a confidence, ‘you know how people talk, but it seems he has three eyes and weighs no more than twenty pounds.’ ‘Thank you,’ she barked at him, ‘but let me put the question another way so you should understand it. Did the director say anything else to you beside that which you have told us already?’ ‘Well … no,’ the messenger closed his eyes, alarmed at the turn of events, neurotically flicking ash into the open tin. ‘In that case,’ the woman stated after a moment’s hesitation, ‘this is what I recommend. You, Mr Harrer, should go out into the square and come back immediately to report to us if the circus has started moving. We, your worship, will naturally remain here. As for you, János, I have a personal request …’ and at this point, after a good quarter of an hour, she let go of Valuska’s shoulder only to grab his arm, since he, frightened by Harrer, the mayor, the chief of police and Mrs Eszter too, would immediately have made a dash for the door. If he thought—and she gave him an encouraging look and leaned close to him in intimate fashion—that he had got over his state of shock, there was something important he could do that she, Mrs Eszter, being unable to leave her post, could not, unfortunately, however much she desired to do so, atten
d to. The chief, said she, indicating the bed that reeked of alcohol, whose sad condition was not entirely due, as it might seem, ‘to the quantity of drink he had consumed’ but to exhaustion caused by the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, was, on this extraordinary day, prevented from carrying out ‘his paternal duties’. What she was trying to say, Mrs Eszter elaborated, was that there was no one at home to look after his two children at this difficult time, and since someone had to feed them and, ‘since it was almost seven o’clock, and they were probably frightened’, reassure them and put them to bed, she, Mrs Eszter, immediately thought of Valuska. It was only a little thing, she crooned gently in his ear, but, she added humorously, ‘we will not forget even such trifles’, and she would be extremely grateful if he would agree—seeing how busy she herself was—to take the task on. Valuska would certainly have agreed, if only because he wanted to get away from her, and no doubt he would have answered with a firm yes, but he had no opportunity to do so for just at that moment the window-pane was shaken by a noise that sounded very much like a powerful explosion, and since there was no doubt as to where it came from—for even before the sound had faded everyone in the room knew something had happened in the market square to make the crowd cry out like that, they all froze and waited in perfect silence for it to die away—or for it to be repeated. ‘They’re going!’ Harrer broke the silence that had set in after the boom, but remained stock still, precisely where he was. ‘They’re staying!’ the mayor sobbed, then having admitted that he deeply regretted leaving his home since he didn’t actually know how he would get back, the route through back gardens probably being out of the question now, he suddenly made for the bed, shook the sleeper’s legs and shouted at him, ‘Wake up! Wake up!’ The chief, who could hardly be said to have added to the atmosphere of tension in the committee’s negotiations through any over-excitement on his part, lost none of his exemplary calm despite this merciless tugging, but slowly sat up, propped his elbows on the cushion, peered round through the slits of his inflamed eyes, then—stressing his words in a somewhat peculiar manner—answered, all right, but he wouldn’t do a damned thing until reinforcements arrived from the county, then collapsed back into the bed so as to re-establish the lost thread of his dreams—a thread that had been incomprehensibly cut and for no good reason—which offered the only chance of recovery, as quickly as possible. Only Mrs Eszter remained silent. She fixed her stern gaze on the ceiling and waited. Then slowly, deliberately, she met each pair of eyes, a barely suppressed smile of excitement flickering round her thin lips, and spoke. ‘Gentlemen, this is the moment of truth. I believe we are about to resolve the situation!’ Once again Harrer hastened to agree, but the mayor appeared to harbour one or two doubts on the subject, fidgeting with his tie, his head rocking from side to side. Valuska alone seemed unaffected by the ceremoniousness of her announcement, for his hand was already on the doorknob and, when given the sign for leaving, with the heavily breathing Harrer about to follow closely on his heels, he called back from the door in a broken voice (‘… But … Mr Eszter?’), and left with such a disappointed expression on his face you’d have thought the world had collapsed about him; indeed, his every movement suggested that he was going only because he could no longer bear to stay, it being pitifully plain that he had no idea where he was to go to. His world had indeed collapsed, since the hopes he had so painfully, so desperately reposed in Mrs Eszter and the committee had been deeply disappointed: had they not committed the tragic mistake of confusing the order of the two reports (Mrs Eszter’s initial sentence, ‘Well, that’s over,’ was still ringing in his head) and gone on to assume that Harrer’s came after his, and, placing no trust in him, simply failed to hear his words at all and, what was more, owing to his agitated state taken not the blindest bit of notice of him to the extent that Mrs Eszter had actually shut him up, and didn’t this mean that he had lost any chance of relying on them to help him!? Under the circumstances it hadn’t taken him long to realize—Mrs Eszter having wholly devoted herself to the task of calming the fully justified fears of the mayor—that it was pointless trying to influence the headlong thought-processes of his resolute hostess, he had to cope with the knowledge of the terrible sequence of events in the market square all by himself. All by himself, and since he understood that no one there had been interested in what might happen to his friend in Wenckheim Avenue, he also had to deal with Mr Eszter all by himself, and as if precisely because of this, a great silence had fallen on the room as it had on the square before; that is to say he saw that people were talking around him but as for hearing it, he had heard nothing, and would not have wanted to hear anything anyway: all he had wanted was the strong hand lifted from his shoulder at last, to be able to leave this place he had come to in vain, to feel the houses rushing past him so he could forget his sense of helplessness at knowing that he couldn’t simply yield to the irresistible force of the plan he had overheard at the circus door yet had no idea what to do about it. There was indeed nothing for it but to forget this sense of helplessness in ‘the feeling of houses rushing past him’, but he stopped for a moment at the gate to beg Mr Harrer not to go there (but Harrer, seeming to be deaf, answered by raptly repeating, ‘What a woman! What a woman!’ and was already running off in the direction of Kossuth Square), then adjusted the strap of his bag and, turning his back on the market square and his fast retreating landlord, set off in the opposite direction down the narrow pavement. He set off and houses and garden fences began to lurch past him but he felt rather than saw their fevered rushing for his eyes were incapable of seeing anything, not even the square blocks of paving at his feet; trees swept by him, their trunks at a slant, their bare branches trembling with anticipation in the murderous cold, lampposts leapt out of his way: everything was galloping, everything was in flight wherever he went, but all in vain, since neither the houses, nor the pavement slabs, nor the lampposts, nor the trees with their admonitory branches wanted to come to a stop, far from it, the more he wanted to force them back behind him the more he felt that they kept appearing again and again and somehow managed to get in front of him so that really he hadn’t passed a single one. First the hospital, then the skating rink, later the marble fountain on Erkel Square flashed before him, but in the chaos of images rattling past his inner eye he couldn’t decide, however hard he tried, whether he was where he seemed to be or had utterly failed to escape the immediate precincts of Mrs Eszter’s home, then, despite all this—as if accidentally realizing his desire to put a considerable distance between himself and The Prince’s domain in Kossuth Square and to enter his own as quickly as possible—he found himself where Eighteen Forty-Eight Avenue crossed the main road out of town and woke from the numbing labyrinth he had been trying to escape to the hazy consciousness that he was standing at the entrance to Mrs Plauf’s block, pressing the buzzer to her flat. ‘Mama, it’s only me …’ he bellowed into the set once he had rung several times and understood from the crackling of the speaker that his call had been noted but answered with silence. ‘Mama, it’s me, and I only want to tell …’ ‘What are you doing on the streets at this time?!’ the intercom barked at him, so loud and sudden he lost track of what he was saying. ‘I said, what are you doing on the streets at this time!?’ ‘Terrible things are happening, Mama …’ he tried to explain, leaning closer to the microphone—’… and I want to …’ Terrible things?’ the voice snapped back at him. ‘And you admit you know about it?! And despite that you insist on wandering about the streets at night?! Tell me, immediately, what have you been up to this time?! Do you want to kill your mother?! Haven’t you done enough to ruin me yet?!’ ‘Mama, Mama, just listen to me … for a moment …’ Valuska stammered into the intercom; ‘really … I mean you no harm … I would just like to have told you to … to … to lock your doors and … and let no one in, because …’ ‘You’ve been drinking!!!!’ the voice bellowed back, quite beside itself. ‘You’ve been drinking again, despite promising me you would never touch anot
her drop! You keep drinking, though you have your little flat, but that’s not good enough for you, oh no, you must go roving round the streets! Very well, dear boy,’ the set hissed, ‘things will have to change round here! If you don’t go home at once you will never set foot in here again! You understand?!’ ‘Yes, Mama …’ ‘Then listen, listen very hard! If I hear, do you understand, if I once hear that you are hanging about in the streets and getting into trouble I’ll come down and find you and drag you by your hair if need be to the station … and I’ll have you locked up … you know where! I won’t put up with it, you understand, I won’t be disgraced by you again!!’ ‘No, certainly not, Mama … I’m going… . ’And he was going, just as he told the intercom he would, but somehow he couldn’t resign himself to having failed to convey the seriousness of the situation, so he stood there for a while lost in thought, resolving to turn round and try again, till it dawned on him that if he was incapable of recounting his experiences even to Mrs Eszter, there was practically no chance of his doing so to his mother. He couldn’t explain because she wouldn’t believe a word of what he said about The Prince and the factotum and she would only lose her temper with him again, not wholly unjustifiably, Valuska felt, for you couldn’t say she was precisely irritable, and the truth was that unless he had heard all that he had heard with his own ears, he would have been the first to cast doubt on the story or on the existence of anything so unlikely. Nevertheless—Valuska meandered down the deserted street—The Prince did exist, and that made it impossible to take a rational view of anything, since he required neither the quack mysticism of announcing himself as a celestial messenger, nor the operation of some inhuman desire to work harm in order to alter the shape of the world around him: his mere existence was enough to force it to abandon its habit of judging things by its own standards and encourage it to believe that there were principles at work here that negated its desire to label him as an unequivocal fraud. At the same time, the phenomenon of his mere existence—Valuska continued meandering—included elements both of quack mysticism and inhuman desire, as well as fraud, fury and harm, elements he did not bother to mask in the course of his haughty encounter with the director; the elements did not, however, constitute the person, but were simply the likely consequences of his clearly extraordinary and terrifying being, the full hidden significance and scope of which—apart from what could be concluded from a single stray remark—naturally lay beyond Valuska’s comprehension. He stumbled down one street after another, the words of The Prince buzzing round his head, and while the director’s characterization of The Prince’s activities as a wicked imposition remained persuasive, he was quite certain that this undoubtedly most mysterious member of the troupe was not merely a confidence trickster intent on enjoying the power reposed in him by an all too gullible public. Unlike the director, he found something profoundly terrifying in The Prince’s words, the pitiless and wholly alien clangour of them rendered all the more fearsome by the fact that they had been interpreted in piecemeal fashion by an intermediary whose grasp of Hungarian was less than perfect; he felt that this added to their profundity and, indeed, inevitability, or rather that the words implied a notion of something so utterly free and unfettered that any attempt to bind it into the disciplines of systematic thought would be vain. Vain, because The Prince seemed to emerge out of shadows of things where the conventions of the tangible world no longer applied, a place compounded of impossibility and incomprehensibility from which he radiated a magnetism so powerful that, even allowing for the regard in which he was held by those he considered ‘his own’, his status far exceeded that of a freak in any circus side-show. It was a pointless and hopeless task therefore—the houses, trees, paving slabs and lampposts began to slow down at this point—to attempt to understand something so extraordinary, but simply to give in—and he remembered the tense expressions on the faces in the market square—and allow the town to be sacked at a single word of dread command, when the sacking would include Mr Eszter’s residence (it was he himself who had unwittingly drawn their attention to it!) while Mr Eszter remained unsuspecting and defenceless; to abandon oneself to this notion and stand idly by as it happened—as everything around him slowed and came to a stop—was, he felt, impossible. He seemed to hear the screeching bird-like noises in his head again and this brought on a fresh wave of fear, so he stood still in it, knowing he could do no more than talk to people and warn them: ‘Lock your doors and stay put.’ He would tell everyone, he decided, from Mr Eszter to the brotherhood of man at the Peafeffer, from the dispersing employees of the railway company to the night porter, everyone—even the chief of police’s little brood should hear about it, he thought suddenly, and when on looking round he realized that he was but a block away from them, he made up his mind to start with the children who had in any case been entrusted to his care, then his employer, and extend his warning to the rest once he had done that. The block where the chief lived wore an anonymous look, as if pretending to be unaware of its important lodger hidden away on the first floor: the stucco had practically disappeared off the walls, a good length of drainpipe was missing further up, and as for the gate, it seemed to have solved the issue of whether it should stay open or shut by dispensing with its handle. The building could be approached only by negotiating heaps of rubbish brought out by the residents, while the path leading to the entrance from the pavement was obstructed by a stretch of detached iron railing someone happened to have left precisely in front of the doorway. Nor did the state of affairs inside offer a vast improvement on the exterior, for as soon as Valuska entered the stairwell he was hit by such a tremendous draught that his peaked cap was blown clean off his head as if by way of alerting him to the fact that nature was lord and master here. He set off up the concrete steps but the draught, instead of moderating, turned even more unpredictable: one moment it seemed to drop almost completely, the next it would assault him with renewed violence and vigour, so much so that he had to remove his cap and grip it in his hand while concentrating on breathing through his nose, and when he finally reached the right floor and pressed the bell he awaited the opening of the door as anxiously as someone who had just weathered a real hurricane. Unfortunately no one did open the door and the clamour of the bell died away together with the sound of frightened footsteps drumming in response to it, so he pressed it again, and once more, and was about to leap to the conclusion that there was someone in difficulty inside when he heard the key turning in the lock, but then the sound of drumming footsteps began once more, followed, again, by silence … It was warm in the apartment, hot even, and the walls with their rolled floral patterns blossomed in damp patches rising above the skirting board; he negotiated the coats, newspapers and shoes that were strewn across the narrow hall in the manner of an obstacle race, glanced into the kitchen and, still seeking an explanation for the curious manner of his reception, arrived in the sitting room, whereupon his frozen body was gripped by such a dreadful shivering he was quite unable to speak. He pulled at the strap of his bag across his shoulder, unbuttoned his coat and tried to stop himself trembling by energetically rubbing his numb limbs together. Suddenly he had the acute feeling that someone was standing behind him. He turned round, frightened, and indeed, he was not mistaken: there in the doorway of the sitting room stood the two children staring at him wordlessly, unmoving.’ ‘Oh,’ cried Valuska, ‘you quite frightened me!’ ‘We thought it was dad coming home… .’ they replied and continued staring. ‘And do you always hide when your dad comes home?’ The boys made no answer but remained still, gazing solemnly at him. One looked about six, the other about eight years old; the younger boy was blond, the elder had brown hair, but both had inherited the chief’s eyes. Their clothes on the other hand had probably been passed on to them by the neighbour’s eldest, for both shirt and trousers, but chiefly the latter, looked as though they had seen all too many washing days and had so far faded that practically all the colour had gone out of them. ‘I ought to tell you,’ Valuska explained
in a somewhat confused manner, feeling that they were not only looking at him but nervously weighing him up, ‘that your dad will be back late and that he asked me to … to put you to bed … Actually I have to go straight away, but it’s very important,’ he shivered again, ‘that you should lock the door after me, and whoever rings don’t let them in … In other words,’ he added in even greater confusion since the children made no attempt to move, ‘you should go to bed now.’ He began doing up his coat and cleared his throat awkwardly, not knowing what to do with them, and to stop them staring he tried smiling at them at which the younger relaxed a little, edged closer to him and asked him, ‘What’s in your bag?’ The question came as such a surprise to Valuska that he opened the bag, peered into it, then got down on his haunches and showed it to the children. ‘Newspapers, that’s all … I deliver them.’ ‘He’s a postman!’ the elder brother announced from the threshold with the annoyance and disdain befitting his seniority. “Course he’s not a postman!’ the other retorted. ‘Dad says he’s an idiot.’ He turned to the visitor once more and suspiciously took stock of him. ‘Are you really … an idiot?’ ‘No, I’m not,’ Valuska shook his head and stood up. ‘I’m not an idiot as you can see by looking at me.’ ‘Pity,’ the little one’s lip curled in disappointment. ‘I want to be an idiot and tell the king good and proper that his country is rubbish.’ ‘Don’t be stupid!’ The older one pulled a hideous face behind him and Valuska tried to gain his sympathy too by asking, ‘Why? And what would you like to be?’ ‘Me? I want to be a good cop,’ the boy answered with pride, but with some diffidence as if unwilling to reveal the full extent of his plans to a stranger. ‘And put everyone in jail,’ he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorpost, ‘all the drunkards and all the idiots.’ ‘The drunkards, yes,’ ‘the little one agreed, then shouting, ‘Death to the drunkards!’ began jumping and cavorting round the room. Valuska felt he ought to say something now so that having gained their confidence they might obey him and go to bed, but nothing worthwhile occurred to him and he closed his bag, stepped over to the window and looked out on the dark street; then, suddenly remembering that he should be on his way to Mr Eszter, he lost patience. ‘I’m afraid,’ he raised his cap with trembling hands and ran his fingers through his hair, ‘I’ve got to go.’ ‘I’ve already got my uniform,’ announced the older boy by way of response and, seeing that Valuska was ready to depart and had set off in the direction of the hall, he added, ‘If you don’t believe me, I’ll show you!’ ‘Me too! Me too!’ The younger one jumped up and down and, making car noises, steered his way in hot pursuit of his brother. There was no escape since Valuska had taken only a step or two down the hall before a door opened and slammed behind him and there they stood, to attention, with enigmatic looks on their faces. Both were wearing genuine police tunics: the smaller one’s scraped along the ground, but the one on the older boy reached only down to his knee; even though they looked comical in them—you could have got three of them into either of the jackets—the jackets were so well made, the proportions were so exact, it was clear they had only to grow into them. ‘I say … really …’ Valuska muttered approvingly and would have made his way outside but the little one produced a box from behind his back, squinted up at him and simply said, ‘Here, look!’ So Valuska was forced to admire a sharpened stick which, he was informed, ‘was to poke the enemy’s eyes out’, after which he had to admit that the Swedish razor was probably best fitted ‘to cut the enemy’s throat’ and, lastly, conceded that the splinters of ground glass in the stoppered jar would certainly be effective enough ‘to dispose of anyone’ if smuggled into their drink. ‘That’s nothing … ! I gave him all those things, they’re for kids in infant school … !’ the older one commented disparagingly from the kitchen doorway. ‘But if you want to see something really interesting, look here!’ And so saying he drew a real revolver from his pocket. He laid it in his palm then slowly closed his fingers about it so that Valuska, retreating instinctively, could hardly get his words out. ‘But, well … how did you come by this … ?! “That’s not important now!’ The boy shrugged and tried to spin the gun on his index finger, without success, for the sheer momentum sent it clattering to the floor. ‘I’d really like you to give that to me… .’ Valuska said, making a frightened grab for it, but the boy was faster, snatched the revolver up and pointed it directly at him. ‘That’s a very dangerous thing …’ Valuska explained, holding his hands out before him. ‘You shouldn’t play with it …’ and then, since the gun didn’t move and because both of them were staring at him exactly as they had when he first arrived in the sitting room, he began to back away mechanically until he reached the front door. ‘Fine,’ he said, pressing the handle behind him. ‘I am really scared. But … now …’the door opened, ‘do put it back where it belongs or your dad … will be cross with you … Go to bed now, quietly …’he slipped through, ‘be good and go to sleep’; at last he could carefully close the door on them and mutter, more to himself than anyone else, ‘… and lock up everything … don’t let anyone in …’ He heard the laughter inside, he heard the key turn in the door, then, clutching his official peaked cap, made his way down the stairs through the violent gusts that broke about him. Two pairs of staring eyes were fixed on him nor could he free himself from their piercing, penetrating rays; having trembled in the heat of that chaotic room, now that he had left the building he began to shake with cold. He shook with cold in the chill that penetrated him to the bone, but he was equally chilled by a thought he had hitherto believed unthinkable: the thought that two children and such ruthless icy passion could be part of the same thought. He transferred the bag from one shoulder to the other, buttoned his coat up and, feeling that he could not bear the thought otherwise, tried not to think of the tightly gripped pistol, the mocking laughter behind the closed door, but to concentrate on getting to the house in Wenckheim Avenue as quickly as possible. He tried not to think of it, but the two boys in their enormous police tunics seemed to be dancing before his eyes and he suddenly felt a tweak of conscience that he had left them there with a possibly loaded weapon and wondered if he should turn back, a temptation he abandoned, but abandoned absolutely only once he had turned from Árpád Street into the main boulevard and noticed that not too far away, somewhere in the direction of the city centre, just above the rooftops, a reddish glow was rising. A terrifying thought struck him: ‘They’ve started burning things’—and suddenly all his feelings of guilt and doubt disappeared, he clutched his bag, so it shouldn’t keep slapping at his side, and started running through the array of stray cats, towards Mr Eszter’s house. He ran and, having arrived, stood in the doorway, his arms outstretched, then—having realized in his one remaining moment of lucidity that he would succeed only in frightening his unsuspecting master by breaking in on him—resolved on remaining there, determined to repel any likely intruders. How he would do this he had no idea, and for a good while he could explain his own fear of unexpected assault only in terms of the panic brought on by the mere possibility of incendiary attacks (for he had no way of being sure that that was what he had seen). Meanwhile the sky continued red and Valuska paced up and down before the gate, ready to spring into action, taking now four steps to the right, now four to the left, and no more than four because by the fifth he would have been aware that the other side had been left unguarded, lost in the thickening darkness. Things happened very quickly after that, in fact in a single moment. Suddenly he heard footsteps, the sound of a hundred boot-clad feet approaching, tired, exhausted feet scraping the ground. A group of men stood before him and slowly encircled him. He saw their hands, their stumpy fingers, and would have liked to say something. But a voice behind them croaked, ‘Wait!’ and, without seeing his face, he recognized the grey broadcloth overcoat and knew immediately that the figure walking up to him through the open ring of men couldn’t be anyone else but the new friend he had made in the market square. ‘Don’t be afraid. You’re coming with us,’ the man wh
ispered in his ear and put his arm about his shoulders. And Valuska couldn’t say anything, but set off with them; nor did the other speak but leaned across him, using his free hand to push aside a grinning figure who tried to insinuate himself next to Valuska in the dark. He heard hundreds of exhausted feet scraping the ground behind him, he saw the stray cats at his own feet as they scattered in fear before the silently advancing mass of raised iron stakes, but he felt nothing except the weight of the hand on his shoulder steering him through the army of fur caps and heavy boots. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ the other man repeated. Valuska gave a quick nod and glanced up at the sky. He glanced up and suddenly had the sensation that the sky wasn’t where it was supposed to be; terrified, he looked up again and confirmed the fact that there was indeed nothing there, so he bowed his head and surrendered to the fur caps and boots, realizing that it was no use to search because what he sought was lost, swallowed up by this coming together of forces, of details, of this earth, this marching.

 

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