said, “There is something I must tell you. When Krisztina was dying, she called for you.”
“Yes,” said the General. “I was there.”
“You were there and yet you weren’t there. You were so far away you might as well have been on a voyage. You were in your room, and she was dying. Alone with me, round about dawn. And then she asked for you. I am telling you this because you should know it this evening.”
The General said nothing.
“I think he has arrived.” He straightened up. “Take care of the wines and keep an eye on everything else, Nini.”
There was the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway, followed by the rumble of wheels outside the doors. The General leaned his stick against the banisters and began to descend the staircase to meet his guest. He paused for a moment near the top. “The candles,” he said. “Do you remember? . . . The blue candles for the table. Do we still have them? Light them before we sit down, they should be burning during dinner.”
“I hadn’t remembered,” said the nurse.
“But I did,” he replied argumentatively.
Solemnly and in elderly dignity, he walked down the staircase, his back ramrod straight in his black evening clothes. The great glass door to the reception hall swung open, and there behind the manservant was an old man.
“You see, I have come back again,” the guest said softly.
“I never doubted that you would,” replied the General, as softly, and smiled.
They shook hands with great formality.
10
They walked over to the fireplace and in the cold glow cast by the wall lights they subjected each other, in the blink of an eye, to a sharp and expert appraisal.
Konrad was a few months older than the General; he had turned seventy-five in the spring. The two old men looked at each other with the knowledge that only the aged can bring to the vagaries of the body: with an absolute attention to physical evidence, seeking the remaining signs of vital energy, the faint traces of joie de vivre still illuminating their faces and energizing their bearing.
“No,” said Konrad seriously. “Neither of us is getting any younger.”
Yet both of them experienced the same flash of envious but joyful surprise as they recognized that the other had passed the hard test: the forty-one years that had elapsed, the time of their separation in which they had not seen each other and yet had known of each other at every hour, had not broken them. We endured, thought the General. And his guest felt a strange sensation of peace, mingled with both disappointment and pleasure—disappointment, because the other man was standing there alert and healthy, pleasure because he himself had managed to return here in full possession of his powers—as he thought, “He’s been waiting for me, and that’s what’s kept him strong.”
It was a feeling that communicated itself to them both just then: that during all these decades they had drawn their strength from waiting itself, as if an entire life had been mere preparation for a single task.
Konrad had known that one day he would have to come back, just as the General had known that someday this moment would arrive. It was what both had lived for.
Konrad was as pale as he had been in his youth, and it was evident that he still led an indoor life and avoided fresh air. He, too, was wearing dark clothes of sober but very fine material.
He must be rich, thought the General. They looked at each other for a long moment without speaking. Then the manservant came with absinthe and schnapps.
“Where have you come from?” asked the General.
“From London.”
“Do you live there?”
“Close by. I have a small house near London. When I came back from the tropics I settled there.”
“Where in the tropics?”
“In Singapore.” He lifted a pale hand and pointed vaguely to a spot in the air as if to locate the place in the universe where he had once lived. “But only at the end. Before that, I was far inland on the
“Yes,” said the General. “I was there.”
“You were there and yet you weren’t there. You were so far away you might as well have been on a voyage. You were in your room, and she was dying. Alone with me, round about dawn. And then she asked for you. I am telling you this because you should know it this evening.”
The General said nothing.
“I think he has arrived.” He straightened up. “Take care of the wines and keep an eye on everything else, Nini.”
There was the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway, followed by the rumble of wheels outside the doors. The General leaned his stick against the banisters and began to descend the staircase to meet his guest. He paused for a moment near the top. “The candles,” he said. “Do you remember? . . . The blue candles for the table. Do we still have them? Light them before we sit down, they should be burning during dinner.”
“I hadn’t remembered,” said the nurse.
“But I did,” he replied argumentatively.
Solemnly and in elderly dignity, he walked down the staircase, his back ramrod straight in his black evening clothes. The great glass door to the reception hall swung open, and there behind the manservant was an old man.
“You see, I have come back again,” the guest said softly.
“I never doubted that you would,” replied the General, as softly, and smiled.
They shook hands with great formality.
10
They walked over to the fireplace and in the cold glow cast by the wall lights they subjected each other, in the blink of an eye, to a sharp and expert appraisal.
Konrad was a few months older than the General; he had turned seventy-five in the spring. The two old men looked at each other with the knowledge that only the aged can bring to the vagaries of the body: with an absolute attention to physical evidence, seeking the remaining signs of vital energy, the faint traces of joie de vivre still illuminating their faces and energizing their bearing.
“No,” said Konrad seriously. “Neither of us is getting any younger.”
Yet both of them experienced the same flash of envious but joyful surprise as they recognized that the other had passed the hard test: the forty-one years that had elapsed, the time of their separation in which they had not seen each other and yet had known of each other at every hour, had not broken them. We endured, thought the General. And his guest felt a strange sensation of peace, mingled with both disappointment and pleasure—disappointment, because the other man was standing there alert and healthy, pleasure because he himself had managed to return here in full possession of his powers—as he thought, “He’s been waiting for me, and that’s what’s kept him strong.”
It was a feeling that communicated itself to them both just then: that during all these decades they had drawn their strength from waiting itself, as if an entire life had been mere preparation for a single task.
Konrad had known that one day he would have to come back, just as the General had known that someday this moment would arrive. It was what both had lived for.
Konrad was as pale as he had been in his youth, and it was evident that he still led an indoor life and avoided fresh air. He, too, was wearing dark clothes of sober but very fine material.
He must be rich, thought the General. They looked at each other for a long moment without speaking. Then the manservant came with absinthe and schnapps.
“Where have you come from?” asked the General.
“From London.”
“Do you live there?”
“Close by. I have a small house near London. When I came back from the tropics I settled there.”
“Where in the tropics?”
“In Singapore.” He lifted a pale hand and pointed vaguely to a spot in the air as if to locate the place in the universe where he had once lived. “But only at the end. Before that, I was far inland on the
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