Journey by Moonlight

by Antal Szerb

“Why not?”

  “Zoltán, you ask so many questions! I haven’t, because it isn’t yet time for that.”

  “But do you really think he’ll still … do excuse me … that he’ll still come back to you?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. I don’t know whether I would want him if he did. Perhaps I’d have nothing to say to him. We aren’t really suited. But … Mihály isn’t like other people. First I would have to know what his intentions were. For all I know he could wake up one fine morning and look around for me. And remember in a panic that he left me on the train. And look for me high and low all over Italy.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Erzsi lowered her head.

  “You’re right. I don’t really think so.”

  “Why was I so frank?” The question gnawed at her. “Why did I give myself away, as I have to no-one else? It seems there’s still something between me and Zoltán. Some sort of intimacy, that can’t be wished away. You can’t undo four years of marriage. There’s no other person in the world I would have discussed Mihály with.”

  “My time hasn’t yet come,” thought Zoltán. “She’s still in love with that oaf. With a bit of luck Mihály will mess it up in the fullness of time.”

  “What news have you had of him?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I only guess he’s in Italy. One of his friends is here, someone I also know, by the name of János Szepetneki. He tells me he’s tracking him closely and will soon know where he is, and what he’s doing.”

  “How will he find out?”

  “I don’t know. Szepetneki is a very unusual man.”

  “Truly?” Zoltán raised his head and gazed at her steadily. Erzsi withstood the gaze defiantly.

  “Truly. A very unusual man. The most unusual man I ever met. And then there’s a Persian here too … ”

  Pataki dropped his head, and took a large mouthful of tea. “Which of the two was it? Or was it both? My God, my God, better to be dead … ”

  The tête-à-tête did not last very much longer. Erzsi had some business, she didn’t say what.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked absent-mindedly.

  “At the Edward VII.”

  “Well, goodbye, Zoltán. Really, it was very nice seeing you again. And … don’t worry, and don’t think about me,” she said quietly, with a sad smile.

  That night Pataki took a little Parisienne back to the hotel. “After all, when you’re in Paris,” he thought, and was filled with unspeakable revulsion against the smelly little stranger snoring in the bed beside him.

  In the morning, after she had gone and Pataki was up and beginning to shave, there was a knock at the door.

  “Entrez!”

  A tall, too-elegantly dressed, sharp-featured man made his entrance.

  “I’m looking for Mr Pataki, the Director. It’s important. A matter of great importance to him.”

  “That’s me. With whom do I have the pleasure?”

  “My name is János Szepetneki.”

  PART FOUR

  AT HELL’S GATE

  V A porta inferi R erue, Domine,

  animam eius.

  OFFICIUM DEFUNCTORUM

  XVIII

  NIGHT WAS FALLING. Slowly, with a slight dragging of the feet, Mihály trudged over the Tiber.

  For some time now he had been living on the Gianicolo Hill, in a shabby little room Waldheim had discovered, where a scruffy crone cooked most of his meals, simple pasta asciutta, which Mihály supplemented with a bit of cheese and sometimes an orange. Despite its creaking antiquity it was much more the real thing than any hotel room. The furniture was ancient—real furniture, large and nobly proportioned, not the pseudo-furniture one finds in large hotels. Mihály would have been very fond of his room had its state of cleanliness and hygiene not constantly provoked the painful sense of having come down in the world. He even complained to Waldheim, who simply laughed and delivered lengthy and not very appetising lectures on his experiences in Greece and Albania.

  Thus he came face to face with poverty. Now he really did have to ponder every centesimo before parting with it. He gave up drinking black coffee, and smoked cigarettes so foul he could take only a few at a time. His throat was permanently inflamed. And the thought was seldom from his mind that what money he had would soon run out. Waldheim was always assuring him that he would find a job. There were so many stupid old American women running about in Rome that one of them was sure to hire him as a secretary or tutor for her grand-children, or perhaps as a caretaker, a really cosy position that. But at present these American women existed entirely in Waldheim’s imagination, and besides, Mihály had a dread of any occupation he might equally find in Budapest.

  Anyway, he already had two occupations, and between them they were quite enough for him. The first was, on Waldheim’s instructions, to ‘read up’ on everything Etruscan, to frequent libraries and museums, and listen every evening to the conversation of Waldheim and his current academic friends. Mihály did not for a moment feel anything of Waldheim’s immense, genuine enthusiasm for the subject, but he clung desperately to the routine of study for the slight relief it gave from the suffocating middle-class guilt which he still felt, so pointlessly, about his life of idleness. Mihály had never really liked work, but in his bourgeois years had applied himself obsessively because he loved the feeling at night of having done a good day’s worth. Moreover, study momentarily diverted his attention away from his second and more important occupation: waiting for a meeting with Éva.

  He simply could not accept the possibility that he would never see her again. The day after that memorable night he had wandered round the city in a stupor, with no idea of what he wanted, though he later saw clearly that there was only one thing he could want, so far as the word ‘want’ had any meaning in the case. The academics had taught him that there are degrees of Being, and that only the Perfect was wholly, truly alive. The time he spent in quest of Éva had been more alive, far more truly caught up in reality, than all the months and years without her. However good or bad, however bound up with hideous anxiety and trouble, he knew that this was the life, and that without Éva there was no reality other than in thinking of her and waiting for her.

  He was tired, oppressed with the sense of his own mortality, and he dragged his feet as if lame. Reaching the river bank he became aware of a feeling that he was being followed. But he dismissed it, persuading himself that it was just his nervous imagination.

  However as he trudged through the alleyways of the Trastevere quarter the feeling became ever more insistent. A strong wind began to blow. There were far fewer people than usual about in the streets. “If someone is following me,” he thought, “I must get a glimpse of him,” and he turned round periodically to look. But people kept coming. “Perhaps someone is following me, and perhaps not.”

  As he made his way up the narrow streets the feeling gradually became so insistent again that he decided not to turn left, up towards the hill, but to continue on through the Trastevere alleyways with the idea of waiting for the pursuer in some suitable place. He stopped outside a little tavern.

  “If he wants to attack me,” he thought (in the Trastevere district this was not difficult to imagine) “here at least I can count on help. Someone’s bound to come out of the bar if I shout. But in any case I’ll wait and see.”

  He stood outside the little inn and waited. More people came along, having followed him out of the alleys, but none took the slightest notice of him. They simply continued on their way. He was just about to move on when a man approached in the semidarkness, and Mihály instantly knew that this was he. With beating heart he realised that the man was making straight for him.

  As the shape loomed closer he recognised János Szepetneki. In the whole episode the strangest thing, perhaps the only strange thing, was that he was not particularly surprised.

  “Hello,” he said quietly.

  “Hello, Mihály,” said Szepetneki, loudly and jovially. “I’m gla
d you decided to wait for me. This is just the place I wanted to take you. Well, come on in.”

  They entered the little tavern, whose strongest feature, apart from the smell, was the darkness. The smell Mihály could tolerate. For some reason the smells of Italy did not bother his normally sensitive nostrils. In this particular smell there was something romantic, a hint of fatality. But the darkness he did not like. Szepetneki immediately shouted for a lamp. It was brought by a ravishing, distinctly slovenly Italian girl, shockingly thin, with flashing eyes and huge earrings. It appeared Szepetneki was an old acquaintance. He slapped her on the back, at which she smiled with her great white teeth and launched into a story in the Trastevere dialect, of which Mihály understood not a single word, though János, who, like all con-men, had a flair for languages, interjected skilfully. The girl brought wine, sat down at the table, and talked. János listened with delight, ignoring Mihály completely, or, at most, offering the occasional comment in Hungarian, such as:

  “Fantastic girl, hey? They know a thing or two, these Italians!” or:

  “How’s that for a pair of eyes, eh! You don’t see them like that in Pest” or:

  “She says, all the men who were going to marry her got locked up, and I’m sure to be the next … what a wit, eh?”

  Mihály nervously downed one glass of wine after another. He knew János Szepetneki, knew that he would take ages to get round to what he really wanted to say. For everything he had to establish an appropriately romantic context. So Mihály would have to wait for this little farce with the Italian girl to run its course. Perhaps Szepetneki ran a gang of burglars in the Trastevere and this girl and this tavern were part of it, at least as a setting. But he also knew that Szepetneki hadn’t come to sort out his gang but because he wanted something from him; and he was profoundly troubled about what it might be.

  “Just leave the girl alone and tell me why you followed me, and what you want from me. I haven’t got the time or inclination to witness this little comedy.”

  “But why?” asked Szepetneki with a face of innocence. “Perhaps you don’t fancy the lady? Or the hostelry? I just thought we could have a bit of fun. It’s such a long time since we were together … ”

  And he resumed his chat with the woman.

  Mihály stood up and made to leave.

  “No, Mihály, for God’s sake, don’t go yet. The only reason I came to Rome was to talk to you. Just stick around for one minute.” And with that he turned to the girl: “Just be quiet a moment.”

  “How did you know I was in Rome?” asked Mihály.

  “Oh, I always know everything about you, my Mihály. Have done for years. But until now none of it’s been worth knowing. Now you begin to be interesting. That’s why we’ll be meeting more often.”

  “Fine. And now be so kind as to tell me what you want from me.”

  “I’ve something to discuss with you.”

  “You’ve got something else to discuss? And what’s that about?”

  “You’re going to laugh. Business matters.”

  Mihály’s face darkened.

  “Have you been talking to my father? Or my brother?”

  “No. Not at present. For the time being I’ve no business with them, only you. But tell me truly, isn’t this girl fantastic? See what a fine hand she’s got. Pity it’s so dirty.”

  And once again he turned to the girl and began to rattle away in Italian.

  Mihály leapt to his feet and rushed out. He struggled up towards the hill. Szepetneki ran after him and soon caught up with him. Mihály did not turn round, but simply left Szepetneki to address him from behind his back, over his left shoulder, like a familiar.

  János spoke quickly and low, panting slightly from the uphill walk.

  “Mihály, listen here. I happened to meet a man, a man by the name of Zoltán Pataki, who, it turns out, was your wife’s first husband. But that’s nothing. It also turns out, that this Pataki, believe it or not, still loves her ladyship to death. He wants to take her back. He hopes that now you’ve chucked her over, she’ll perhaps come to her senses, and go back to him. Which would undoubtedly be, for all three of you, the best solution. Well, have you nothing to say? Great. You still don’t understand where the business lies in this, and what business it is of mine. But you know me, I gave up tact a long time ago. In my profession … So, listen to this. Your lady wife not only doesn’t want to divorce you, she still secretly believes that one day you’ll make a happy and contented couple, and perhaps heaven will bless the marriage with children. She knows that you’re not like other people, though she really has no idea what that actually means. She thinks about you a very great deal, to the point of nuisance, and at times when she really shouldn’t. But you needn’t feel bad about her. She’s getting along very nicely, though I don’t want to spread gossip. She’s doing very nicely without you.”

  “What do you want?” shouted Mihály, stopping in his tracks.

  “Nothing at all. It’s a question of a little business arrangement. Mr Pataki believes that, if you were to take a decisive step, your wife would see that she can no longer expect anything from you, and that it’s all over.”

  “What kind of decisive step are you talking about?”

  “Well, for example, you might sue for divorce.”

  “How the devil would I do that? Since I was the one that left her. And besides, even if she had left me I wouldn’t do it. That’s the woman’s part.”

  “Well, yes, naturally. But if the woman doesn’t want to do it, then it’s up to you. At least, that’s Mr Pataki’s point of view.”

  “Pataki’s point of view is none of my business, and the whole affair is none of my business. You talk to Erzsi. I’ll fall in with whatever she wants.”

  “Look Mihály, this is precisely what our business is about. Use your common sense. Mr Pataki isn’t asking you to give this divorce for nothing. He’s prepared to make substantial material sacrifices. He’s horribly rich, and he can’t live without Erzsi. So he’s authorised me to make you the immediate down payment of a small sum, quite a tidy little sum.”

  “Rubbish. On what grounds could I sue for divorce? Against Erzsi? When I was the one who left her? If the court decides that we have to live together again and she comes back to me, what would I do then?”

  “But, Mihály, have no fear of that. You sue for the divorce, we’ll see to the rest.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Adultery.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “Not in the least. Just trust me. I’ll guarantee a wonderful adultery, pure as the driven snow. I’m an expert in these things.”

  By this time they had reached Mihály’s door. He could hardly wait to get inside.

  “God preserve you, János Szepetneki. This time I don’t offer you my hand. What you have said is a lot of disgraceful drivel. I hope I don’t see you for a very long time.”

  And he rushed up to his room.

  XIX

  “I DON’T KNOW what all this is about but I’m quite sure your anxieties are ridiculous,” said Waldheim with great energy. “You’re still the pious son of your respected grey-haired father, still a petty-bourgeois. If someone wants to give you money, whatever the source, you should take it. Every religious-historical authority agrees about that. But you still haven’t learnt that money … quite simply, is unimportant. Where essential things are concerned it doesn’t count. Money is always there of necessity, and it’s there even when you don’t bother about it. How much and for how long and where it came from, that’s completely immaterial. Because everything that depends on money is immaterial. You can acquire nothing of importance with money. What you can buy might happen to be life’s necessities, but really isn’t important.

  “The things really worth living for can never be had for money. Scholarship, the fact that your mind can take in the thousand-fold splendour of things, doesn’t cost a penny. The fact that you are in Italy, that the Italian sky stretches above you, that
you can walk down Italian streets and sit in the shade of Italian trees, and in the evening the sun sets in the Italian manner, none of this is a question of money. If a woman likes you and gives herself to you, it doesn’t cost a penny. Feeling happy from time to time, that doesn’t cost you a penny. The only things that do cost money are peripheral, the external trimmings of happiness, the stupid and boring accessories. Being in Italy costs nothing, but what does cost money is travelling here, and having got here, sleeping with a roof over your head. Having a woman who loves you doesn’t cost money, only that meanwhile she has to eat and drink, and dress herself up so that she can then get undressed. But the petty-bourgeoisie have lived so long by supplying one another with unimportant things with a cash value they’ve forgotten the things that aren’t to be had for money, and they attach importance only to things that are expensive. That is the greatest madness. No, Mihály, you should pay no attention to money. You should take it in like the air you breathe and not ask where it came from, unless it actually smells.

  “And now, go to hell. I’ve still got to write my Oxford lecture. Have I shown you the letter, the one inviting me to Oxford? Just wait, it won’t take a second … Isn’t it wonderful what he says about me? Of course if you read it as it stands it doesn’t say very much, but if you take into account that the English love to understate their real meaning, then you can see what it means when they describe my work as meritorious … ”

  Mihály left, deep in thought. He set off south alongside the Tiber, walking away from the city centre towards the great dead Maremma. On the city boundary there is a strange hill, the Monte Testaccio, and this he climbed. Its name, ‘shard hill’, reflects the fact that it is made up entirely of pieces of broken pottery. In Roman times the wine-market stood here. Here the wines of Spain were brought in sealed amphoras which were then broken and the wine decanted into goatskins. The shards were then swept up into a heap, which eventually formed the present hill.