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Authors: Dezsö Kosztolányi
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Talk of the death sentence.
The woman wasn't interested.
“Kaiser Wilhelm in Alsace-Lorraine.”
“The German Kaiser?'
“The very same. Says the territory always was and always would be German.”
“Alsace-Lorraine?'
“Alsace-Lorraine, Mother, which they took back from the French in 1871. Goodness, we were young then. I was forty.”
Ákos smiled. The woman smiled too. She rested her palm lightly on the old man's hand.
“There won't be another war, will there?” The woman sighed.
“The French and the Germans,” Ákos explained, “have never cared much for each other. But they seem to have settled their differences this time.”
Foreign news items flashed up before them, charging the air they breathed with a buzz of electricity, connecting the couple to the burning, bitter, but not entirely ignominious or worthless, affairs of the outside world. They didn't understand much of what they read, but felt none the less that they were not entirely alone. Millions struggled just like them. And it was here that all those struggles found a common meeting place.
“Strike,” said Ákos. “An English word. Pronounced
strahyk
. The workers don't want to work.”
“Why not?'
“Because they don't want to.”
“Why don't they make them?'
Ákos shrugged.
“Goodness, Mother,” he said in a low voice, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, “five thousand workers are on strike in Brazil. ‘The employers have adamantly refused to meet their demands.’”
“Poor things,” said Mother, not really knowing whom she pitied, the workers or the employers.
Anyway, as the papers reported every month, they had discovered a new and infallible cure for tuberculosis. Which only went to show there was progress after all.
“Phew,” Ákos sighed. “Here, too.‘Shameless agitators among our people.’ ‘Peasants promised half an acre in the name of the prime minister.’ They're calling it ‘communism.’ They want to redistribute the land.”
“Who do?'
Enough of politics. They were more interested in tragedies and disasters.
“‘In the state of Ohio,’ ” Father read, “‘a train plunged from a railway bridge. Two dead and thirty severely injured.’ ’’
“Dreadful,” said Mother, who gave a sudden shudder and came close to tears.
“And how
are
all those poor injured people?” she asked.
They both took a closer look at the paper, but found nothing.
“Doesn't say,” Father mumbled.
At all events, they came alive in this flood of common human hopes and fears. It revived them, dispersing the stifling dullness that had eaten into their bodies, their clothes and all their furniture.
They both stared into space.
“How are you feeling, Mother?” asked Ákos.
“I'm coping, Father,” the woman replied. “And you?'
“Me too.”
Ákos went over to his wife and softly kissed her forehead.
When it was time to light the nightlight they couldn't find the matches. They always kept them on the old cabinet, beside the carriage clock. But now they weren't in their proper place. The woman searched every nook and cranny. At last she found them in the kitchen. She had taken them with her in the morning to make tea, and had forgotten to return them to the cabinet. She hurried back to the bedroom and handed the matches to her husband.
Then they looked at each other as if something had suddenly occurred to them
But they didn't say a word.
V
in which Ákos Vajkay of Kisvajka and Kőröshegy eats goulash soup, breast of veal and vanilla noodles, and lights a cigar
Sárszeg is a tiny dot on the map. Apart from a small conservatoire and a third-rate public library, it boasts of no curiosities at all. Most people have either never heard of it, or mention it with disdain. But every Sunday morning, in the clear blue sky before the church of St Stephen, the good Lord hovers above the town, invisible and merciful, righteous and terrible, ever present and everywhere the same, be it in Sárszeg
The woman wasn't interested.
“Kaiser Wilhelm in Alsace-Lorraine.”
“The German Kaiser?'
“The very same. Says the territory always was and always would be German.”
“Alsace-Lorraine?'
“Alsace-Lorraine, Mother, which they took back from the French in 1871. Goodness, we were young then. I was forty.”
Ákos smiled. The woman smiled too. She rested her palm lightly on the old man's hand.
“There won't be another war, will there?” The woman sighed.
“The French and the Germans,” Ákos explained, “have never cared much for each other. But they seem to have settled their differences this time.”
Foreign news items flashed up before them, charging the air they breathed with a buzz of electricity, connecting the couple to the burning, bitter, but not entirely ignominious or worthless, affairs of the outside world. They didn't understand much of what they read, but felt none the less that they were not entirely alone. Millions struggled just like them. And it was here that all those struggles found a common meeting place.
“Strike,” said Ákos. “An English word. Pronounced
strahyk
. The workers don't want to work.”
“Why not?'
“Because they don't want to.”
“Why don't they make them?'
Ákos shrugged.
“Goodness, Mother,” he said in a low voice, adjusting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose, “five thousand workers are on strike in Brazil. ‘The employers have adamantly refused to meet their demands.’”
“Poor things,” said Mother, not really knowing whom she pitied, the workers or the employers.
Anyway, as the papers reported every month, they had discovered a new and infallible cure for tuberculosis. Which only went to show there was progress after all.
“Phew,” Ákos sighed. “Here, too.‘Shameless agitators among our people.’ ‘Peasants promised half an acre in the name of the prime minister.’ They're calling it ‘communism.’ They want to redistribute the land.”
“Who do?'
Enough of politics. They were more interested in tragedies and disasters.
“‘In the state of Ohio,’ ” Father read, “‘a train plunged from a railway bridge. Two dead and thirty severely injured.’ ’’
“Dreadful,” said Mother, who gave a sudden shudder and came close to tears.
“And how
are
all those poor injured people?” she asked.
They both took a closer look at the paper, but found nothing.
“Doesn't say,” Father mumbled.
At all events, they came alive in this flood of common human hopes and fears. It revived them, dispersing the stifling dullness that had eaten into their bodies, their clothes and all their furniture.
They both stared into space.
“How are you feeling, Mother?” asked Ákos.
“I'm coping, Father,” the woman replied. “And you?'
“Me too.”
Ákos went over to his wife and softly kissed her forehead.
When it was time to light the nightlight they couldn't find the matches. They always kept them on the old cabinet, beside the carriage clock. But now they weren't in their proper place. The woman searched every nook and cranny. At last she found them in the kitchen. She had taken them with her in the morning to make tea, and had forgotten to return them to the cabinet. She hurried back to the bedroom and handed the matches to her husband.
Then they looked at each other as if something had suddenly occurred to them
But they didn't say a word.
V
in which Ákos Vajkay of Kisvajka and Kőröshegy eats goulash soup, breast of veal and vanilla noodles, and lights a cigar
Sárszeg is a tiny dot on the map. Apart from a small conservatoire and a third-rate public library, it boasts of no curiosities at all. Most people have either never heard of it, or mention it with disdain. But every Sunday morning, in the clear blue sky before the church of St Stephen, the good Lord hovers above the town, invisible and merciful, righteous and terrible, ever present and everywhere the same, be it in Sárszeg
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