Skylark

by Dezso Kosztolányi

  Now the Vajkays’ panic reached fever pitch.

  In a state of excitement, things that normally pass unnoticed can seem pregnant with significance. At such times even inanimate objects–a lamppost, a gravel path, a bush–can take on a life of their own, primordial, reticent and hostile, stinging our hearts with their indifference and making us recoil with a start. And the very sight of people at such times, blindly pursuing their lonely, selfish ends, can suddenly remind us of our own irrevocable solitude, a single word or gesture petrifying in our souls into an eternal symbol of the utter arbitrariness of life.

  Such was the effect of the laughing chef on the elderly couple.

  As soon as they saw him, they not only suspected, but knew for certain that they were waiting in vain and that the night would pass without their ever seeing their daughter. They were now convinced she would never arrive.

  And it wasn't only they who were waiting now. Everyone and everything around them became a personification of waiting itself.

  Objects stood still. People came and went.

  Towards the west, billowing, ink-black clouds engulfed the sky.

  Among those who admired, from beginning to end, the arrival and departure of the Budapest express was Bálint Környey. He greeted Ákos with a roar of laughter.

  “You gave us the slip,” he said reproachfully. “You wily old Panther, you left us in the lurch. What time did you get home?'

  “Around three.”

  “So you got a good night's sleep,” said Környey, yawning into his gloved hand. “We upped sticks about nine in the morning.”

  He pointed at the milk.

  “I see you've fallen back into depravity.”

  “I have a headache,” said Ákos.

  “Take my advice,” said the old sinner with a wink. “Waiter, a tankard of beer. Well, old boy, what do you say?'

  “No, I daren't. Not a drop. Never again.”

  No sooner had the tankard arrived than Környey gulped down the sparkling, cool beer into the bottomless pit of his stomach.

  Naturally the Panthers followed on behind him, some ten of them who had come straight from the club, where, at six that afternoon, they'd had pork marrow and pickled cucumbers with a bottle or two of red wine. They joined Környey at the Vajkays’ table to drink beer. Priboczay and good old Máté Gaszner, Imre Zányi in his top hat and Szolyvay, who wore an old-fashioned cape against the cold. Feri Füzes was there too, with his sickly smile, along with Judge Doba, who sat smoking a Virginia and didn't say a word.

  The most valiant among them was Szunyogh, who hadn't even been to bed at all. He had passed out for a couple of minutes at dawn, but, in accordance with ancient custom, they had stretched him out on the table with two candles at his head and sung the “Circumdederunt.” At this he had come to his senses. Since then he had marched from one inn to the next drinking nothing but schnapps.

  Now, too, he dismissively pushed aside the tankard of beer that stood before him.

  “Etiam si omnes, ego non.”

  And he ordered schnapps instead.

  “Aquam vitae, aquam vitae.”

  By now he could speak only Latin, above all through quotations from the classics. At times like these he'd rattle off whole pages of Virgil and Horace. The alcohol set his sharp wits alight and he didn't appear drunk in the least. He sat erect, his blue eyes sparkling brightly, and seemed the most sober of them all. His thick, red nose, which had bled that afternoon, was stuffed with yellow cotton wool he had been given for this purpose by the chemist.

  After the third glass of schnapps, Priboczay could not resist performing his ancient party trick. He lit a match and carefully held it in front of Szunyogh's lips.

  “Look out,” said several of the Panthers at once. “He'll explode. He'll go up in flames.”

  Completely unruffled, Szunyogh stared calmly into space.

  “Castigat ridendo mores,” he muttered.

  Those versed in Latin shouted back at him:

  “Vino Veritas, old boy, vino Veritas.”

  The prank delighted Feri Füzes in particular.

  He was Szunyogh's former pupil and had often come a cropper with his appalling Latin. He always leaped at any opportunity to pique the old man, as if in repayment of a long-standing debt. For want of a better idea of his own–Feri Füzes could never count to two in his ideas, and the one idea he could count to was usually someone else's–he too lit a match and, in the hope that what had worked once would work twice, lifted it to Szunyogh's mouth.

  Szunyogh, however, blew out the match with a single breath and knocked it from his hand.

  Everyone applauded. Everyone except Feri Füzes.

  “Excuse me,” he said sharply.

  “Si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses.”

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Feri Füzes attempting to affect a certain gentlemanly sang-froid, but unable to disguise the embarrassment of a poor pupil.

  He looked his former teacher contemptuously up and down, then drew closer towards him.

  “Silentium,” Szunyogh cried, raising a trembling finger and staring straight through this small-time cavalier with unspeakable contempt. “Silentium,” he repeated, now only to himself as he sank enraptured into that deep and peaceful stillness which he would soon inhabit for good. “Silentium.”

  Feri Füzes sat back down and debated whether or not to send his seconds to the old drunkard the following day.

  The day had passed, for the Panthers, much like any other Friday. Most of the day they spent lying stretched out on their couches, fully clothed, recovering from the night before. The wives sat at home, nursing their patients. For lunch they prepared cabbage broth and caviar puree with lemon and onion. They opened bottle after bottle of mineral water and beer, the latter, as is well known, being the perfect antidote to alcohol poisoning.

  Only at around eleven in the morning would the men pay a brief call on Priboczay, who, as a fellow reveller and time-honoured Panther, prepared expert cures for their various complaints in the St Mary Pharmacy. According to the individual taste and ailment of each patient, he mixed medicines from a whole range of ingredients. He took down the Tinctura China, Tinctura Amara and Tinctura Gentiana, and poured them into handsome cut-glass beakers, stirring in the odd drop of Spiritus Mentha and more volatile oils from smaller vials, before baptising the whole concoction with a final dash of ether. This final touch was never to be skimped.

  Szunyogh received an extra dose of unadulterated ether, and much good it did him.

  The others stood in a circle, chinked their glasses and knocked back the bitter potions. Screwing up their mouths and wrinkling their noses, they all emitted a single, simultaneous Brr. In an instant they were as right as rain.

  Now Környey sonorously requested leave to speak.

  He had much to report: who had collapsed and when; who had arrived home at what hour and in what manner–on foot, in a carriage, alone or aided by the Samaritan committee whose charge it was to transport the more paralytic Panthers to their beds like corpses; then who had been drinking wine, champagne or schnapps, and how much of each had been consumed by whom; and finally who had been sick and how many times. For in Sárszeg this served as the surest measure of a good time. Those who were sick twice had had a better time than those who were sick only once. Yesterday some had even been sick three times. These had enjoyed an exceptionally good night.

  Towards dawn, when they had all soaked up as much of Aunt Panna's wines as they could take, Környey suddenly raised the alarm and called out the fire brigade, who, at his command, hosed down the whole company. From there they thundered off on a fire engine to the last station of their revelry, the Turkish bath, sounding the siren as they went.

  Werner was with them too, the tongue-tied Austrian lieutenant rifleman, who when the least bit tipsy couldn't even speak Moravian but was a charming fellow all the same. In the Turkish bath he flatly refused to get undressed, yet insisted on bathing nevertheless. In his yellow-button
ed military greatcoat and cap, his sword by his side and gold stars on his lapels, he waded into the steaming hot water. To the cheers of his admirers, who greeted him like a real hero, he ardently drew his sword, saluted, and with stiff, ceremonious parade steps marched out of the pool just as he had marched in, proceeding through the entrance hall and out into the street. The water streamed from his greatcoat and, as he receded through the earlymorning air, he disappeared inside an enormous cloud of steam. The whole scene was so indescribably humorous and ingenious that it deserved to be commemorated in the Panthers’ records, which were kept by Feri Füzes.

  Környey spared no detail in his elaborate account of events, which he delivered with all the precision of a conscientious historian preserving crucial data for posterity. At times his audience roared and shook with laughter, but even this could not conceal their pallor.

  Meanwhile others joined them too, complete strangers who made themselves quite at home at the table. A birdlike ham actor, no doubt some member of the chorus, who looked rather like a starling, extended his hand to Ákos.

  “Hello, old chap.”

  “Hello, old chap,” Ákos replied, shaking hands.

  “Who was that?” his wife inquired.

  “I don't know,” said Ákos.

  There were plenty of such characters, with whom Ákos had been on first-name terms during the feverish festivities of the previous evening. Now, however, he had no idea of who they were.

  The whole table seemed a haze before him. The longer he observed the wilting heads and faded faces, above all those of Szunyogh and Doba, the more he felt he must be dreaming the whole thing, sitting among deathly shadows like a ghost.

  It was Környey, who had already downed two tankards of beer, who kept the conversation going, throwing one cigarette end after the other on the stone floor, never running out of things to say. His voice sounded like a droning wasp in the Vajkays’ ears. Neither the old man nor his wife could bear to listen.

  Ákos repeatedly glanced at his pocket watch.

  “Are you waiting for someone?” asked Környey suddenly.

  “My daughter.”

  “She's been away?'

  “For a week now.”

  “I had no idea. Where?'

  “To Béla's, on the plain.”

  “And she's back today?'

  “Yes, today.”

  The Panthers made ready to leave.

  The woman explained to Feri Füzes:

  “She went for a break, you see.”

  “A change of air,” said Feri Füzes, the perfect conversationalist. “And very healthy too.”

  “But the train's so terribly late. My husband and I are frightfully worried. It was supposed to arrive at eight twenty-five, but there's still no sign of it.”

  “Good Lord,” said Feri Füzes, “it's already half past eleven.”

  “I hope nothing's wrong,” Mrs Vajkay went on nervously.

  “That I can't say, my dear lady,” replied Feri Füzes correctly, whom no circumstance could sway from uttering the truth, not even the pleas of a gentlewoman. “I've really no idea.”

  He wasn't even particularly interested. Having never concerned himself directly with the Vajkays’ specific affairs of honour, there was really no further information he could supply. All he added was:

  “We must hope for the best. I kiss your hand.”

  With that, he took up his hat, withdrew with a sickly smile, and followed the other Panthers, who, with Környey at the fore, were already making their way out of the station. And now, after so many noble adventures and entertainments–or, as Szunyogh put it, post tot discrimina rerum–the Panthers finally headed home to bed.

  XII

  in which the author describes the joys of arrival and reunion

  Ákos was once again left alone with his wife.

  His disquiet had reached the point where the anxiety born of self-reproach subsides, and speculation is replaced by a dumb stupor which can only mumble broken, meaningless words. He no longer thought of anything, no longer imagined what had happened and what still might happen. He only breathed the odd sigh to keep his fears alive.

  “If only she were here!'

  “She'll be here soon.”

  “If only the Good Lord will help us one more time.”

  “He will. He will.”

  Mother, who was no less anxious, smiled reassuringly at her husband and gave him a hand to squeeze. Both their hands were ice cold. Everything seemed so hopeless.

  In an attempt to outwit their fears, they busied themselves with trivial questions and disputes. Where had they put the pantry key, had they locked the study door?

  Then the signal bell rang.

  They shuddered at the sound. They stood alone on the platform, for after the departure of the Panthers the station had completely cleared. The waiters had taken up the tablecloths.

  Behind them, chugging along at a leisurely pace on the outer track, a long mixed freight and passenger train pulled in, with endless wagonloads of canvas-covered boxes, petrol drums and livestock. They heard a dull, repeated whistle in the darkness from where the passengers soon began to emerge from the third-class carriages; simple folk, peasants with bundles, market women with fruit baskets balanced on their heads, rummaging awkwardly in their bosoms for their tickets by the exit gate.

  Géza Gifra informed the couple that this was still not the Tarkő train, which was, however, only one station down the line, and would be in any minute now.

  He was right.

  Just when they least expected it, the little coffee grinder appeared on the horizon, the same engine they had seen off one week before.

  Like a pair of bloodshot eyes, its two red lamps strained at the track through the darkness. It approached with caution, feeling its way, so as not to step on anyone's feet. The engine grew larger by the minute. It had been washed a bright black by the rain, and kept coughing and sneezing as if it had caught cold. The brakes whined, the carriages moaned. It was hardly the most uplifting of sights.

  Jolting over the points, it seemed to hobble along until suddenly, quite unexpectedly, it veered to the right and swung towards them on the inner track. It seemed unwilling to come to a halt and dragged its load towards the engine house until the very last carriage finally came to a standstill before their noses.

  The Vajkays rushed towards the carriage.

  Ákos couldn't see too clearly and automatically reached for his pocket, only to remember that his spectacles had gone missing the night before and he'd have to buy a new pair.

  Only one arc lamp now burned above them, rendering the darkness still more uncertain.

  In addition to this, there was an almighty din. The quarrelsome cries of passengers calling for porters became entangled with the twilight.

  The eyes and ears of the elderly couple were equally confused. Unable to focus their flagging attention on the dizzying scene, they locked their gazes on to the one carriage that stood immediately before them. From this a horse dealer alighted, followed by a tall woman with her husband, whom they didn't recognise. After them came two elderly gentlemen and finally a young couple, carrying their little son together in their arms as he slept sweetly in a cheap, straw hat with green tassels. The carriage was now completely empty.

  There was no longer any movement at the front end of the train either. Most of the passengers were already handing their tickets to the inspector at the gate, who kept repeating:

  “Tickets, please. Tickets.”

  Luggage was being wheeled away on trolleys.

  “I can't see her,” said Ákos.

  The woman made no reply.

  If only to steady herself, she then said in an undertone:

  “Perhaps she missed it and will come tomorrow.”

  Had these doubts lasted a second longer, it would have been the end of them both.

  But far away in the darkness, with a wavering, almost ducklike waddle, a woman was approaching. She wore a black oilskin hat, not unli
ke a swimming cap, and a long, almost ankle-length, transparent, waterproof cape. In her hand she held a cage.

  They stared at her blankly. Terrified of another disappointment, they didn't dare believe it was she. They didn't recognise the oilskin hat, nor the waterproof cape. As for the cage which the woman, who had no other luggage, swung in her right hand, and at times raised up to her chest, this they simply couldn't understand.

  The woman was hardly four or five paces from them when Mother glimpsed the outline of a porter behind her, carrying the brown canvas suitcase, bulging at both sides. Then she saw the wicker travel basket too, bound with packing twine, and the flask, the water flask, and, on the porter's shoulder, the white striped woollen blanket. Yes, yes, yes!

  She cried out frantically:

  “Skylark!” and, almost beside herself, rushed to embrace her daughter.

  Father let out the same cry:

  “Skylark!” And he too held the girl in his arms.

  But while they were thus united, abandoning themselves entirely to their delight, a third voice called out too, farther off in the darkness, a derisive, nasal echo, rather like a cat's miaow.

  “Skylark!'

  It was one of those mischievous urchins who, for a couple of pennies, would carry people's bags into town. He had witnessed the theatrical outburst from a freight wagon and, finding the scene thoroughly amusing, had imitated the poor couple's voices, before quickly ducking out of view.

  All three of them woke with a start from the spontaneous joys of reunion. The smiles froze on their faces.

  Skylark strained her eyes towards the station building, but saw no one either on the platform or on the track. She thought she must have been mistaken and acted as if she hadn't heard. She walked on with her mother, who slipped her arm into hers.

  Ákos trudged along behind with the porter. But more than once he glanced towards the wagon, his eyes piercing the darkness. He recognised that voice. It sounded like all the others, only more brazen and blunt. At one point he even stopped and took a few steps into the night towards it. But he soon turned back. Instead he swiped the air with his umbrella, dealing it one almighty blow, clearly meant for the insolent youth. Then he caught up with the two women.