woman simply couldn't tear herself away. How splendid, how absolutely charming! Ákos drew his wife gently by the arm; it was time to move on.
Among the notepads and pencil cases in the window of Mr Vajna's stationery store stood rows of books whose covers had already faded in the blistering sun. These literary novelties from Budapest came as quite a shock to the old man, who had long grown used to the arid, antiquated style of his noble records, deeds and documents. Fierce and fashionable volumes of poetry glared back at him with diabolical, sneering faces; naked male bodies and delirious women with their hair down and their staring eyes wide open.
Ákos read their phoney, pseudo-modern titles over and over again:
Deathrun
–
In the Night of Life, Aspasia Mine: I Want You!
The woman nudged her husband with a smile. But Ákos only shrugged. Yes, such things existed. He found them strange, but couldn't conceal a certain curiosity.
At home they put on their slippers, caught their breath and rested. So much had happened in one day.
The sun was still shining. They opened a window and a tepid current of air streamed through the house, leaving columns of golden dust in its wake. One of Veres's ragged, grimy brats loafed around in the yard outside. He was gnawing at a slice of dry bread, down which the thick sunlight trickled like honey. The boy seemed to be catching the drips with his tongue. In the distance, the sound of a Gypsy band.
The two of them listened together.
“Music,” said Mother.
“Yes,” Father replied. “Someone's living it up.”
“Hear it?‘If I had a little farm...’ '
When it began to grow dark, Ákos fetched the Budapest newspaper from the letterbox.
They took only one paper; Ákos's father had ordered it long ago, and it had become a kind of family tradition ever since. In those days it still stood for the values and interests of the Hungarian nobility. But much water had run under the bridge since then, and the paper had switched direction several times. It was hardly recognisable now, and preached the opposite of its original convictions. This fact, however, had escaped the old man's attention.
He spoke of the paper with inveterate deference, and when he opened the wrapper with his penknife an expression of pious rapture spread across his face. He reverently immersed himself in the odd article, and if by chance he found his social class disparaged, he convinced himself he hadn't fully understood, and went on nodding as he read, blithely turning the pages, reluctant to dissent. In truth, he had grown a little indifferent to the news. He no longer read the paper from cover to cover, only skimmed over the headlines to the marriage and death columns at the back. After a while he wearied of this too, and wouldn't touch the paper for weeks on end. Countless issues lay strewn over the table, unopened.
Today, however, he had risen late and, in spite of all his comings and goings, was still not tired. He slowly browsed his way through the entire paper.
However, he couldn't see too well. The Vajkays’ chandelier hung close to the ceiling, high above the dining-room table. They had taken out three of the four light bulbs to save on electricity. In other matters the couple were less frugal, but on this one saving they rigorously insisted. And so they groped around in perpetual semi-darkness.
“I can't see,” Ákos complained.
“Perhaps you should put in the other bulbs.”
Ákos climbed up on the table and steadied the chandelier. Suddenly all four bulbs were shining brightly. A warm even light flooded the dining room.
“How cosy,” the woman cried.
“Indeed,” replied Father. “Now we can read.”
The old man put on his spectacles and began to read aloud to his wife.
The Dreyfus affair. Second hearing before the military tribunal at Rennes. That notorious French captain. Handed secret documents over to the Germans. Accused of high treason. To answer for his crimes before the court.
Among the notepads and pencil cases in the window of Mr Vajna's stationery store stood rows of books whose covers had already faded in the blistering sun. These literary novelties from Budapest came as quite a shock to the old man, who had long grown used to the arid, antiquated style of his noble records, deeds and documents. Fierce and fashionable volumes of poetry glared back at him with diabolical, sneering faces; naked male bodies and delirious women with their hair down and their staring eyes wide open.
Ákos read their phoney, pseudo-modern titles over and over again:
Deathrun
–
In the Night of Life, Aspasia Mine: I Want You!
The woman nudged her husband with a smile. But Ákos only shrugged. Yes, such things existed. He found them strange, but couldn't conceal a certain curiosity.
At home they put on their slippers, caught their breath and rested. So much had happened in one day.
The sun was still shining. They opened a window and a tepid current of air streamed through the house, leaving columns of golden dust in its wake. One of Veres's ragged, grimy brats loafed around in the yard outside. He was gnawing at a slice of dry bread, down which the thick sunlight trickled like honey. The boy seemed to be catching the drips with his tongue. In the distance, the sound of a Gypsy band.
The two of them listened together.
“Music,” said Mother.
“Yes,” Father replied. “Someone's living it up.”
“Hear it?‘If I had a little farm...’ '
When it began to grow dark, Ákos fetched the Budapest newspaper from the letterbox.
They took only one paper; Ákos's father had ordered it long ago, and it had become a kind of family tradition ever since. In those days it still stood for the values and interests of the Hungarian nobility. But much water had run under the bridge since then, and the paper had switched direction several times. It was hardly recognisable now, and preached the opposite of its original convictions. This fact, however, had escaped the old man's attention.
He spoke of the paper with inveterate deference, and when he opened the wrapper with his penknife an expression of pious rapture spread across his face. He reverently immersed himself in the odd article, and if by chance he found his social class disparaged, he convinced himself he hadn't fully understood, and went on nodding as he read, blithely turning the pages, reluctant to dissent. In truth, he had grown a little indifferent to the news. He no longer read the paper from cover to cover, only skimmed over the headlines to the marriage and death columns at the back. After a while he wearied of this too, and wouldn't touch the paper for weeks on end. Countless issues lay strewn over the table, unopened.
Today, however, he had risen late and, in spite of all his comings and goings, was still not tired. He slowly browsed his way through the entire paper.
However, he couldn't see too well. The Vajkays’ chandelier hung close to the ceiling, high above the dining-room table. They had taken out three of the four light bulbs to save on electricity. In other matters the couple were less frugal, but on this one saving they rigorously insisted. And so they groped around in perpetual semi-darkness.
“I can't see,” Ákos complained.
“Perhaps you should put in the other bulbs.”
Ákos climbed up on the table and steadied the chandelier. Suddenly all four bulbs were shining brightly. A warm even light flooded the dining room.
“How cosy,” the woman cried.
“Indeed,” replied Father. “Now we can read.”
The old man put on his spectacles and began to read aloud to his wife.
The Dreyfus affair. Second hearing before the military tribunal at Rennes. That notorious French captain. Handed secret documents over to the Germans. Accused of high treason. To answer for his crimes before the court.
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