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Authors: Dezsö Kosztolányi
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or in Budapest, in Paris or New York.
Low Mass begins at half past eleven.
It is attended by the upper crust of Sárszeg society: county dignitaries, senior civil servants and other well-to-do citizens who have distinguished themselves from their fellow mortals. They are accompanied by their wives and nubile daughters, who in turn are followed by spruce young men, secret suitors who converge behind the pillars in the background and gather around the font. The girls sit beside their mothers, casting the occasional glance at their prayer books, leaning back in their seats, eyes to heaven, sighing at every sounding of the carillon. They dab their eyes with tiny handkerchiefs as if in tears. Pungent perfumes bolt through the air, one answering the other. A veritable concert of fragrances. Which is why they often called it “scented Mass.” It wasn't merely a matter of spiritual elevation; it was a social event.
The Vajkays’ absence from church did not pass unnoticed. Their customary place, at the end of the second bench on the right, remained unoccupied.
In his damp, courtyard-facing study, Ákos lay on the Turkish rug which covered his couch. It was an uncomfortable couch, short and narrow, like all their furniture. It couldn't even accommodate Ákos's spindly frame. The only way he could stretch out his legs was to hoist them over the back rest. But Ákos had grown so used to this position he hardly noticed it any more.
Although he wasn't cold, he wrapped himself in a thick camel-hair blanket. He gazed up at the patterns on the ceiling, then, wearying of this, reached out, without rising, towards his bookshelf, and from among his numerous volumes of
Aristocratic Families
and the
Almanach de Gotha
, pulled out Volume XIV, by Iván Nagy, on the families of Hungary. He thumbed through it listlessly.
The book provided no surprises. He already knew its every detail, every letter, inside out. The volume soon fell from his hands, and Ákos began to ruminate:
“Vanilla noodles. What exactly can they be? I've never tried them, never even seen them. I've no idea how they might taste. Vanilla I'm fond of. That strange, almost exciting smell. Must be rather nice to have the smell tickle the nose while the taste flatters the tongue. I wonder if they serve the yellowish noodles with that black African spice sprinkled on top? I've only ever glimpsed the name, in passing, between the curd dumplings, fruit sorbets and hazelnut gateaux. As if I'd dreamed it somewhere. Still can't get it out of my mind.”
He knitted his brow and tried to banish these silly, demeaning thoughts from his mind.
“Skylark's a good cook. That's undeniable. At least, everyone says so. Of course she is. And not just good, first-rate. They can't find words enough to praise her cooking. In the old days, when we still invited folk for dinner, they made quite a song and dance about it. Even that scoundrel Géza Cifra. Yes, even him. It's true her methods are...unusual. She never uses paprika, for example, or pepper, or any other spices. And she's rather sparing with fat as well. She's economical, that's all. And quite right, too. Our modest savings won't last for ever and she can't, mustn't, touch her dowry. I simply wouldn't let her. Certainly not. Besides, heavy food is bad for you. Nice light French cuisine, that's what we like.”
He sat up and sniffed the air around him. Strange. The smells of the restaurant still lingered about his nose, stubbornly, unavoidably, assertively. That stuffy fragrance, fragrant stuffiness, that cruel, aromatic combination of caraway, onions fried in fat, and the pleasantly bitter hop breath of beer. He leaned back on his pillow.
“
Noix de veau
. Another puzzle. One imagines walnut segments, sweet and oily, but that's not what it is. Soft, juicy pieces of tender meat that melt at once in the mouth. Not to be sneezed at. Especially after one of those tempting hors d'oeuvres on the menu. Crayfish bisque, caviar à la russe.
Low Mass begins at half past eleven.
It is attended by the upper crust of Sárszeg society: county dignitaries, senior civil servants and other well-to-do citizens who have distinguished themselves from their fellow mortals. They are accompanied by their wives and nubile daughters, who in turn are followed by spruce young men, secret suitors who converge behind the pillars in the background and gather around the font. The girls sit beside their mothers, casting the occasional glance at their prayer books, leaning back in their seats, eyes to heaven, sighing at every sounding of the carillon. They dab their eyes with tiny handkerchiefs as if in tears. Pungent perfumes bolt through the air, one answering the other. A veritable concert of fragrances. Which is why they often called it “scented Mass.” It wasn't merely a matter of spiritual elevation; it was a social event.
The Vajkays’ absence from church did not pass unnoticed. Their customary place, at the end of the second bench on the right, remained unoccupied.
In his damp, courtyard-facing study, Ákos lay on the Turkish rug which covered his couch. It was an uncomfortable couch, short and narrow, like all their furniture. It couldn't even accommodate Ákos's spindly frame. The only way he could stretch out his legs was to hoist them over the back rest. But Ákos had grown so used to this position he hardly noticed it any more.
Although he wasn't cold, he wrapped himself in a thick camel-hair blanket. He gazed up at the patterns on the ceiling, then, wearying of this, reached out, without rising, towards his bookshelf, and from among his numerous volumes of
Aristocratic Families
and the
Almanach de Gotha
, pulled out Volume XIV, by Iván Nagy, on the families of Hungary. He thumbed through it listlessly.
The book provided no surprises. He already knew its every detail, every letter, inside out. The volume soon fell from his hands, and Ákos began to ruminate:
“Vanilla noodles. What exactly can they be? I've never tried them, never even seen them. I've no idea how they might taste. Vanilla I'm fond of. That strange, almost exciting smell. Must be rather nice to have the smell tickle the nose while the taste flatters the tongue. I wonder if they serve the yellowish noodles with that black African spice sprinkled on top? I've only ever glimpsed the name, in passing, between the curd dumplings, fruit sorbets and hazelnut gateaux. As if I'd dreamed it somewhere. Still can't get it out of my mind.”
He knitted his brow and tried to banish these silly, demeaning thoughts from his mind.
“Skylark's a good cook. That's undeniable. At least, everyone says so. Of course she is. And not just good, first-rate. They can't find words enough to praise her cooking. In the old days, when we still invited folk for dinner, they made quite a song and dance about it. Even that scoundrel Géza Cifra. Yes, even him. It's true her methods are...unusual. She never uses paprika, for example, or pepper, or any other spices. And she's rather sparing with fat as well. She's economical, that's all. And quite right, too. Our modest savings won't last for ever and she can't, mustn't, touch her dowry. I simply wouldn't let her. Certainly not. Besides, heavy food is bad for you. Nice light French cuisine, that's what we like.”
He sat up and sniffed the air around him. Strange. The smells of the restaurant still lingered about his nose, stubbornly, unavoidably, assertively. That stuffy fragrance, fragrant stuffiness, that cruel, aromatic combination of caraway, onions fried in fat, and the pleasantly bitter hop breath of beer. He leaned back on his pillow.
“
Noix de veau
. Another puzzle. One imagines walnut segments, sweet and oily, but that's not what it is. Soft, juicy pieces of tender meat that melt at once in the mouth. Not to be sneezed at. Especially after one of those tempting hors d'oeuvres on the menu. Crayfish bisque, caviar à la russe.
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