Life is a dream, p.4
Life Is a Dream, page 4
Finedwell kept the hat on because he thought it made him look like one of the landed gentry. He stood there somewhat cheered, as if suddenly the pressure over his heart had vanished, a choking pressure he had been feeling for several hours.
Next, Olga thrust the umbrella-cane at him. ‘Tell me, Titusz, is there a scribbler in Budapest who has an umbrella like this, an umbrella that’s a cane at the same time?’
Finedwell was indeed amazed by the strange walking stick that turned into an umbrella with a turn in the weather. He immediately opened the umbrella and held it over his hat. ‘Veteran accountants used to receive things like this as souvenirs for their twenty-fifth jubilee …’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Olga.
‘Or else those middle-class husbands who in the course of their long married lives have received just about every type of gift from their wives on their birthdays and name days and anniversaries until they have everything they could ever want, including tobacco pouches. My vest pockets are of course full of tobacco shreds.’
Titusz could not quite hide his excitement as he turned the rare object in his hands. Although his face was still overcast, a new hope glimmered in his eyes, for it occurred to him that he might accidentally survive the duel and live to rise in the world, as the owner of the umbrella-cane and the big green hat.
Olga is a fine woman, after all, thought Titusz as he exited from the Ferenci Café, without the least intention whatever of heading for the editorial offices in Elderberry Street, even though his new accessories would have created quite a sensation there. But that would have exposed him to the likelihood of a cantankerous editor assigning him, on the very eve of his death, the task of collating the latest news dispatches. He would rather die than see another news bulletin tonight! Lose his job, rather than work like a dog on the night he came into possession of a new hat and umbrella-cane! How degrading it would be to sit even on this night in that ill-smelling editorial office, milling about in a swarm of reporters begging for work, for something to make himself useful at any cost! Leave that to ninnies and novices without the least experience of life, not to mention a duel fought with pistols – which in their case would most likely take place somewhere around here on the Danube embankment, where the bullet would end up in the river, ‘if the pistols were loaded’ – as old-time duelling seconds like to say.
The clock struck ten at Franciscans Place when an irresistible impulse made Finedwell direct his steps toward the National Casino, whose court of honour had sentenced him to die.
At first he only dared to sneak a peek from the opposite side of Hatvani Street at the baronial castle-like two-storey building, through the wide open gates of which carriages drove in to pull up thunderously in front of the red velvet carpeted stairs leading to the entrance. After the gentlemen got out, and the doorman in cherry-red uniform slammed the carriage door to set the large lantern overhead in the archway swaying, the carriages drove through the courtyard, around the fountain, and exited through the side gate to Szep Street. The Casino’s windows were dim and shut tight, as if no one needed any air inside – although it was a balmy night in early autumn with the sky full of stardust.
Lurking in a doorway, Titusz surveyed with rapt attention the solemn structure where life and death were of no importance, as if the gentlemen frequenting this exclusive building had notions of living and dying that were different from those of ordinary mortals! For instance, what would happen if Finedwell were to cross the street and inquire from the cherry-red uniformed doorman after P. E. G., retired colonel of the Hussars, so that he might at least have a word with the gentleman who was going to shoot him dead the next day? Most likely the doorman would refuse to have anything to do with him, or chase him away in case he recognized the journalist, for an old employee of the Casino would be familiar with the duelling code. The rules stipulated that opponents may not be in contact with each other prior to a duel, and Finedwell would only expose himself to a nasty humiliation. Before, when he still wore the decrepit old hat, he probably would have done it; but now his ‘swine-gelder’s hat’, as he started to call it, imbued him with a certain amount of pride. Therefore he abandoned his hiding place, walked up to Kerepesi Road and crossed over to the Casino side of Hatvani Street.
Presently he returned as a nonchalant stroller, without casting a glance at the baronial castle as he passed its open gate, swinging his umbrella-cane, for its crooked handle allowed it to dangle from his wrist. Yes, that umbrella-cane swung and tapped Finedwell’s knee from time to time, as if to goad him on. In the possession of such an umbrella-cane who could conceive sinking so low as to beg for mercy for one’s wretched little life. And so Titusz turned into Szep Street as if he really had some business there, other than maintaining his dignity in front of the Casino’s cherry-red doorman who, he suspected, was casting scornful, mocking glances from the entrance after the journalist, as if the insolent servant had guessed the reason for this promenade in the neighbourhood of the Casino … On Szep Street Titusz walked past those windows behind whose dim glow the gentlemen were probably seated at their dinner table, admiring the colonel as if he were some rare exotic lobster.
Meandering through the dark little byways of the Inner City, Finedwell once more found himself on Franciscans Place, led there by years of habit. He had mulled it over, and concluded he would be an utter fool if, his upcoming deadly duel being the ‘talk of the town’, he did not now proceed to some fancy restaurant to parade in front of the world, as long as ‘everyone’ was discussing his case. If only to exhibit his dash, verve and sangfroid, which would be all the easier now that he had the proper hat and umbrella-cane for the occasion. Simply to enjoy to the very last drop the delights of being in the limelight, which must be considerable since multitudes struggled ceaselessly to attain such delights. When would the obscure journalist T. F. ever again attain the position of being pointed out in public as the reporter who, in the line of professional duty, dared to face death? … When would he ever again command the attention of those circles that believed duels were impressive? When would those mocking, scornful, quarrelsome, nasty glances turn respectful around him if not tonight, his last night, when that advance in his pocket allowed him to have a carefree, hilarious time?
In his mind’s eye Finedwell saw himself in the middle of a very exclusive restaurant where the Gypsy violinist was playing only for him, and the women, dressed for the theatre, all kept turning their heads in his direction, their hearts a-flutter, for he was the most fascinating man about town, getting ready to face the lion – and certain death. And all for what? For the sake of honour.
Treat yourself to a decent supper, advised the spendthrift Tyrolean hat. Why not have a beefsteak at a first-rate restaurant where they not only print the correct English spelling on the menu, but also know the proper way to grill a steak.
Served with a fried egg, sunny side up, added the umbrella-cane, tapping along by Finedwell’s side.
You’ve got the money and you still don’t know how to be a gentleman, the hat accused, as Finedwell persisted in directing his steps towards a small tavern located in the building of the Athenaeum Press. You’ll never be a gentleman if you pass up this opportunity. You must go to the Bristol or the Hotel Hungaria if you want people to notice that you are still in this world, and preparing to die on the field of honour. If you don’t like beefsteak, there are plenty of other comestibles on the menu the waiter hands you, with a bow. Maybe a bird of some sort … or perhaps a hare, it’s been in season since the middle of August. A saddle of hare, with a piquant sauce full of bay leaves, and if you find buckshot in the meat that means you’ll be lucky in your duel. You should avoid crayfish, which is cheap in the market this time of the year; and anyway your fingers lack the skills to eat crayfish in a stylish manner. But you could have a fresh roast, and enjoy the humble, apologetic glances the waiter sends towards you while it is being prepared. Just think, what if your editor faced a duel that’s been spread all over the newspapers for days! Why, he’d be cashing in on it for sure! And you don’t even have the wits to get acquainted with some nosey society lady.
Finedwell was about to yield to the incessant goading sounded by the tap-tap of the umbrella-cane and the rustle of the goat hair in his hat: be a social lion, at least for a day, before you die!
His way led him past the stand of a nocturnal vendor selling all sorts of fruit from a small cart. Since it was still early in the season, grapes and walnuts were too expensive for the daytime folk but the spendthrift nightbirds were only too happy to buy them. Finedwell, just to indulge in some extravagance on this extraordinary day, bought a paper bag full of grapes and walnuts, and paid without even trying to bargain.
I wasn’t born a gentleman, but tomorrow I’ll have to die like one, reflected Finedwell glumly, as he entered the small all-night tavern, with the paper bag tucked under his arm. The place stayed open mostly for typesetters working the night shift and other characters of nocturnal but presumably sober habits, who came here to eat, not to carouse. Kerschantz was the name of the tavern-keeper, and he rarely saw journalists who lived the café life, for passing the night away eating and drinking at Kerschantz’s was a more expensive proposition than surviving on mocha and cappuccinos at a coffee house. At Kerschantz’s you had to spend some money, and credit was extended only to printers, who settled their bills regularly every Saturday. No, not even an editor-in-chief would have received credit here – so we cannot say that Finedwell was not gratified to be spending his last evening at this night tavern with its solid middle-class reputation.
He sat down at a commodious corner table, as one who is absolutely sure of himself.
It did not escape his attention that Kerschantz, a taciturn, red-moustachioed Schwabian, who measured out his wines at the counter as carefully as an apothecary his potions, this silent man now favoured Finedwell’s new hat and umbrella-cane with a decidedly appreciative glance. Could he have thought that some day this umbrella-cane was bound to end up in his possession? Who can read a tavern-keeper’s mind? Only customers who are broke imagine that the proprietor always has an eye on them lest they leave the premises without paying.
Finedwell asked for the bill of fare from the pint-size waiter whom the owner alerted to the arrival of a new guest with a softly spoken ‘Janos!’ This, too, was a first in Titusz Finedwell’s experience. There is no denying it: tavern-keepers can see into the customer’s pockets.
Janos crossed himself when he glimpsed Mr Finedwell at the corner table. He approached hesitantly as if he had seen a ghost.
‘Sir, I heard you were shot in a duel.’
‘Ah, ’tis but the music of the future,’ Titusz replied with a laugh, speaking in the manner that journalists in those days adopted towards waiters. ‘Yes, Janos, ’tis but the music of the future. Next time you should pay more attention when you’re eavesdropping at Marich’s table.’
Janos’s face, unable to keep a secret, now registered even greater consternation. ‘For sure, last night the printers at Marich’s table were saying your life, sir, wasn’t worth a wooden nickel. That you were a goner …’
In the inner sanctum of the arcaded tavern there stood a long table where the regulars, typesetters all, had placed a sign that read, in beautiful large lettering: ‘MARICH’S TABLE’. (Mr Marich was a highly regarded typesetter of his day, who could boast of having set in type Ferenc Deák’s famous ‘Easter article’.) Mr Marich, a tall, dignified and distinguished-looking gentleman showed up each night round about midnight to preside over his table.
Titusz was flattered by his affair being discussed even at the Marich table, frequented by the most respected typesetters, but he pretended not to notice the excitement of the waiter who stood there slapping his own knees with his napkin as if to rouse himself from a dream.
‘We have sour lungs,’ he said at last, as if vaguely recalling that whenever Titusz appeared at the tavern he usually ordered this humble dish that belonged, along with tripe, in the least expensive category. Titusz always requested half a lemon with his meal, and never failed to praise the cook for taking the trouble to dice the lungs into small square pieces to make sure they were well done.
Titusz ignored the waiter’s suggestion, merely muttering something about Janos planning to get him ‘pickled again’ – as if his stomach, profession, and whole life weren’t sour enough already. ‘I feel like eating a rooster!’ Titusz exclaimed, after noting that this was the most expensive item on the modest menu.
‘A chicken fricassee, coming right up.’
‘I said rooster, didn’t I, a cock that hasn’t been gelded before his time, like certain incompetent editors, but remained a rooster all his life and lived to chase young serving girls and maybe even pecked at a nursemaid or two.’
Who knows how long our hero would have gone on lauding the rooster he was about to consume tonight, calling out after the retreating waiter to make sure to serve the rooster’s spurs, not to mention liver and gizzard, when a red moustache appeared at the tavern’s threshold.
Now there are all sorts of red moustaches. Most of them are angry, malevolent, neglected emblems of manhood, unworthy of grooming, if for no other reason than their colour. But this red moustache happened to be one out of a hundred, the red moustache that radiated good humour, cheer, satisfaction and joie de vivre, as if under that moustache the corners of the mouth were elevated into a permanent smile. This red moustache had earned the right to grow full, to be twirled to a point and often caressed like some faithful hound. Above the moustache the round eyeglasses with tortoise frames, balanced on the tip of the nose, and secured by a ribbon to the ears, belonged to that class of happy spectacles behind which the eyes always seem benevolent. Below the moustache the necktie drew attention, for although it was a hand-tied blue ‘lavaliere’ with white polka dots, it still had a tiepin in the form of a wild boar’s head with ruby eyes.
Indeed, the owner of the pin was a dealer in venison and game by the name of Andor Aureate, a name that dated back to his days as a journalist, before he entered the profession of dealer in venison and game.
‘Glad to find you here, Titusz,’ said the former journalist, who frequently came to the tavern from his nearby house on Bastion Street, ‘just to catch a whiff of the printer’s shop’ as he put it. For not even as a dealer in venison and game could he forget the scent of fresh newsprint. ‘I read in the papers that you are in contact with the aristocracy, the counts, the National Casino. May I call to your attention my old Salon Almanack, which I edited back at a time when I tried to bring Hungarian writers together with members of the aristocracy. You know, one writer followed by one count – a poetess, followed by a countess … That was how I compiled my Almanack, alternating stories and poems with portraits.’
‘Not a bad concept,’ replied the journalist. ‘But right now I find myself sentenced to death.’
But Aureate was not a man to be dissuaded so easily from the scheme that made him leave his house on Bastion Street so late at night. ‘I don’t like the path literature is taking these days. Lajos Czete, all he writes about is railway employees, ever since he created the character Adam Boor in his humorous magazine. What can he see in conductors and switchmen? It makes more sense to write about counts and countesses. There will never be a Hungarian literature as long as the literary world and the world of magnates are not on a par.’
‘On a par, well put,’ replied Finedwell. ‘As I said, right now I stand sentenced to death. And I am drinking a “Czete-wayo”.’
‘See, that’s precisely what’s wrong,’ said Aureate, editor of the quondam Salon Almanack, flashing his watch-chain that featured a wild boar’s tusk, set in silver of course. ‘The tavern-keepers named a spritzer after Lajos Czete, and not after Count Andrassy or Prince Festetics. That’s why you modern writers will never get anywhere! We old-timers would have known how to steer literature in the right direction. But you have knocked the pen out of our hands, you’ve put us down, and here you are now, up against the Casino, up against the whole aristocracy!’
Titusz answered cynically: ‘This “Czete-wayo” is a fabulous concoction. One part wine, one part mineral water, one part seltzer.’
At such pig-headedness the literary venison dealer could only shake his head in disapproval. ‘I for one have kept up my contacts with the aristocracy, and never regretted it. To this day I obtain my pheasants from Count Berchtold’s game preserve.’
‘I never eat pheasant,’ replied Finedwell like a true anarchist.
‘All the hares shot at Count Degenfeld’s estate come my way as I have a contract with the estate.’
‘I’ve been doing just fine without roast hare.’
The dealer in venison and game now noticed the Tyrolean hat bedecked with chamois-beard and eagle’s claw, hanging on the rack, and instantly commented upon it: ‘I don’t know, brother, judging by your hat one would think you belonged to genteel society …’
‘I don’t want to belong anywhere,’ replied Titusz, casting a scornful look at the tell-tale hat, and at the dealer in venison.
Suddenly, without any transition, the red moustache revealed its true colours, all the insidious venom hidden in it, as in every red moustache. ‘Well then, consider this visit never happened. And I came here solely for your sake!’
And the dealer in venison, fully aware of his importance, prestige and munificence, took his leave, wagging his head after seeing that his attempt at reconciling Hungarian literature and the aristocracy had failed. At home he probably told his wife all about the ingratitude of Hungarian writers towards people who want to help them.
