new cigar into the holder. They stared at each other, smiling icily. The actor gave an almost imperceptible shrug. They both smiled.
“Master Ernõ is right,” said the pawnbroker. “I am a fat pig. I have got used to it. What can I do about it? So I’m fat. Should I torture myself with the thought? I am the kind of fat man who is fat because he eats a lot. Amadé is the kind of fat man who eats practically nothing and yet is still fat. I’d die if I couldn’t eat properly. A fine, solid piece of roast pork, in a nice crispy roasted skin, accompanied by potatoes boiled with onions and some pickled gherkins: it’s a pleasure biting at the crisp skin. That’s the stuff for me. And lángos with cabbage. This is my fate in life. You should try to see me as the helpless creature of fate.”
Everyone looked at him and Ábel noted the pained courteous smile on Tibor’s face. It was this smile that he particularly liked about him. There was something distracted and troubled about it, a kind of noblesse oblige. Tibor was trying to smile indulgently at Havas’s corpulence. Béla was giving him a fish-eyed look as if he had never seen him before. Ernõ was screwing up his nose.
“Yes, just imagine it…,” he said with a shudder of disgust.
“You should see me undressed,” Havas continued, calm and solemn. He drew loudly on his cigar holder. He nodded. “Yes, terrible. And I should also confess that I wear a girdle. Not a full girdle, just a thing that goes round my stomach. When I take it off my belly simply drops.”
He surveyed the assembled company. The actor gave a croak.
“Are you staying with us, Emil?”
The pawnbroker rose slowly to his feet. He put on his hat so it was tipped back over his head. His brow was glistening with sweat.
“Thank you for the kind invitation,” he said quietly. “I will not remain with the gentlemen tonight.”
Tibor made a sudden movement.
“I would like to speak to you tomorrow, Mr. Havas.”
The pawnbroker’s eyes disappeared under his swollen lids.
“At your service, Mr. Prockauer.”
“Not at your shop.”
“Just as you please,” said Havas. “Two o’clock at my apartment then. At your service.” He looked around. “Perhaps Master Ábel would like to come too,” he added.
Ábel blushed. Tibor turned away. “Yes, I’ll come too,” said Ábel quickly.
The pawnbroker nodded as if he thought this the most natural thing. He did not shake hands with anyone. Once he had gone Tibor sat back down and rubbed his eyes.
“And now we shall have the most splendid party,” said the actor.
2
T HE TOWN DOZES AMONG MOUNTAINS, PRESERVED in cotton wool, its three towers pointing indifferently at the sky. There is electricity and running water in its houses. A train in the station is blowing its whistle. Three mountain peaks surround the town: inside the rock, some copper and a little magnesite. A river rushes through, a brisk mountain stream, the air above it sharp and hard and delivered into the heart of town while, in the opposite direction, the dense forest swarms up the mountainside. The middle peak retains its cap of snow for a considerable time: the locals are proud of the alpine backdrop it so picturesquely provides. A narrow-gauge train carries passengers from the railway station to the main square. The houses too are narrow and long, tending to shoulder up against each other because the town was once a fort and people have lived here for generations. The seminary is yellow: mornings and evenings you can see the monks in their brown robes, their rope cords, and sandals carrying their rosaries as they make their way to church for their devotions. The bishop’s palace has a wide wrought-iron balcony, its spikes complete with baroque ornamentation, the flag-holder above them. The bishop walks out with his secretary every afternoon at three, the secretary’s hard hat glimmering with silk and a tassel dangling behind from the hat’s rim. The
“Master Ernõ is right,” said the pawnbroker. “I am a fat pig. I have got used to it. What can I do about it? So I’m fat. Should I torture myself with the thought? I am the kind of fat man who is fat because he eats a lot. Amadé is the kind of fat man who eats practically nothing and yet is still fat. I’d die if I couldn’t eat properly. A fine, solid piece of roast pork, in a nice crispy roasted skin, accompanied by potatoes boiled with onions and some pickled gherkins: it’s a pleasure biting at the crisp skin. That’s the stuff for me. And lángos with cabbage. This is my fate in life. You should try to see me as the helpless creature of fate.”
Everyone looked at him and Ábel noted the pained courteous smile on Tibor’s face. It was this smile that he particularly liked about him. There was something distracted and troubled about it, a kind of noblesse oblige. Tibor was trying to smile indulgently at Havas’s corpulence. Béla was giving him a fish-eyed look as if he had never seen him before. Ernõ was screwing up his nose.
“Yes, just imagine it…,” he said with a shudder of disgust.
“You should see me undressed,” Havas continued, calm and solemn. He drew loudly on his cigar holder. He nodded. “Yes, terrible. And I should also confess that I wear a girdle. Not a full girdle, just a thing that goes round my stomach. When I take it off my belly simply drops.”
He surveyed the assembled company. The actor gave a croak.
“Are you staying with us, Emil?”
The pawnbroker rose slowly to his feet. He put on his hat so it was tipped back over his head. His brow was glistening with sweat.
“Thank you for the kind invitation,” he said quietly. “I will not remain with the gentlemen tonight.”
Tibor made a sudden movement.
“I would like to speak to you tomorrow, Mr. Havas.”
The pawnbroker’s eyes disappeared under his swollen lids.
“At your service, Mr. Prockauer.”
“Not at your shop.”
“Just as you please,” said Havas. “Two o’clock at my apartment then. At your service.” He looked around. “Perhaps Master Ábel would like to come too,” he added.
Ábel blushed. Tibor turned away. “Yes, I’ll come too,” said Ábel quickly.
The pawnbroker nodded as if he thought this the most natural thing. He did not shake hands with anyone. Once he had gone Tibor sat back down and rubbed his eyes.
“And now we shall have the most splendid party,” said the actor.
2
T HE TOWN DOZES AMONG MOUNTAINS, PRESERVED in cotton wool, its three towers pointing indifferently at the sky. There is electricity and running water in its houses. A train in the station is blowing its whistle. Three mountain peaks surround the town: inside the rock, some copper and a little magnesite. A river rushes through, a brisk mountain stream, the air above it sharp and hard and delivered into the heart of town while, in the opposite direction, the dense forest swarms up the mountainside. The middle peak retains its cap of snow for a considerable time: the locals are proud of the alpine backdrop it so picturesquely provides. A narrow-gauge train carries passengers from the railway station to the main square. The houses too are narrow and long, tending to shoulder up against each other because the town was once a fort and people have lived here for generations. The seminary is yellow: mornings and evenings you can see the monks in their brown robes, their rope cords, and sandals carrying their rosaries as they make their way to church for their devotions. The bishop’s palace has a wide wrought-iron balcony, its spikes complete with baroque ornamentation, the flag-holder above them. The bishop walks out with his secretary every afternoon at three, the secretary’s hard hat glimmering with silk and a tassel dangling behind from the hat’s rim. The
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