The simple fact that she spoke of it as her profession was beautiful, it elevated her above the despicable activity. And exactly what was so despicable about this profession? Any more than, say, that of the professional murderer — the soldier — so clearly marked by the garb known as his “dress of honor”? It was a question of perspective, of point of view. To be sure, he, Tildy, was still ready to exact blood for the slightest sign of contempt for his profession, and he hoped, in fact he was certain, that he was prepared to stand up for hers as well. He now realized that his attempt to deprive her of the decision whether to follow the other man or not was foolish and less than chivalrous, and he believed he would have had less respect for her, seen her as less than equal, had she stayed when he wanted to force her to do so. It was her profession to follow men, and thus also her duty to do so. Her honor forbade her to stay. The ferocity with which she had retracted her arm from his grip when he wanted to hold her, matched what he would have done had she attempted to keep him from performing the duty that his honor commanded. He loved her for this toughness. She was his equal.
When she returned he stood up, as was his custom before a lady. She didn’t understand, and gave him a frightened, hostile look, but once she realized he had risen out of respect, she sat down, placed her hands in her lap, assumed the same lost expression she had shown in front of the extravagant waste of the plate full of shredded orange peels, and said: “Forgive me. I won’t do it again.”
Professor Lyubanarov raised his head and uttered a malicious, soundless laugh, as if he hadn’t slept a moment and had followed every vicious and moving detail of the grotesque proceedings, while discerning all of Tildy’s reflections. “Docta, quid ad magicas, Erato, deverteris artes?” he said, full of scorn. “What for? Don’t they believe you otherwise?”
“Whatever you do,” Tildy said to the girl, “won’t change anything between us. Don’t be afraid.”
“I know,” she said. “We understand each other po dusham—through our souls.”
Professor Lyubanarov grabbed the bottle of cognac and hurled it at the mirror above the counter. The glass shattered. The proprietor came to the table, spewing curses at Lyubanarov. Tildy curtly told him to bring a new bottle. The proprietor sized him up with an impudent glare. “Will you pay me for the mirror?”
“Bring the bottle,” said Tildy.
“We will be rich!” said the girl. “We will be happy. I love you.”
“I love you,” said Tildy. “Don’t be afraid.”
She shook her head. “If you love me I’m not afraid of anything.” She offered him her hand. Tildy took it, clasped it, and held it in his own.
“I saw a fur coat,” said the girl. “I wanted to buy it, but it’s very expensive. Do you want to give it to me?”
“I will give you everything I have, and do everything in my power to give you what you desire.”
“We will be rich,” said the girl, happy.
“We will not be rich. But that doesn’t matter. Don’t be afraid.”
“You are noble,” she said, smiling, “and therefore you are rich.”
The proprietor came with a fresh bottle, followed by the waiter. “First pay the bill,” he said. “I’m not bringing you anything until you’ve paid for the mirror and everything you’ve eaten and drunk.”
“Where is the bill?” asked Tildy.
“In my head,” said the proprietor. “Do you know what that mirror cost? And two bottles of French cognac? And a basket of oranges, at this time of year? You owe me”— and he named a fantastical sum.
“I don’t have that much money on me,” said Tildy. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”
“He’ll give it to me tomorrow,” the proprietor said to the waiter. “Do you hear that, Aurel? He doesn’t have that much on him. You don’t have a penny, sir, either on your person or anywhere else where you might fetch it to bring me tomorrow. You are that major who was booted from the cavalry regiment, and evicted from your own house. Your creditors are combing the town for you. You are well known here, sir. There are people in this Établissement who know everything about you. You act like some kind of boyar, and meanwhile you don’t have a penny to your name, just a sack full of debts.”
Tildy took his signet ring off his finger. “Take this ring as a deposit.”
“He’s a good one, isn’t he, Aurel!” the proprietor turned to the waiter. “Making deals like his father-in-law, that old crook who bankrupted half the city. Look at what he wants to give us on account. You call this a ring? It’s so worn down you can practically see through it. You can find a stone like that in any brook. Is this a joke, sir?”
“What do you demand of me?” asked Tildy.
“What do we demand of him — just listen to that, Aurel! We demand that you pay your bill. No more and no less. And now get on with it if you please.”
The sergeant stepped up and shoved his broad, smirking face between the waiter and the proprietor. “If I pay your tab, Herr Major, may I take your lady upstairs once again?”
Tildy leapt to his feet.
“Watch yourself!” the proprietor shouted, brandishing the bottle like a club. “If you make one move we’ll turn you into a cripple. There are three of us right here and even more nearby, do you hear? And every single person in my Établissement would relish the opportunity to beat your skull in. So, on top of everything else he wants to start a fight!”
“Let him, Mihai,” said the sergeant. “Let him try. I’m enough of a match for him. By far!”
The girl, Mititika, stood up. “Come,” she said to the sergeant. Up to then the sergeant had been hunched forward, with his arms dangling like an orangutan; now he straightened up triumphantly. “Good!” he said. They went off.
“I will give you half an hour,” the proprietor said to Tildy, “to decide what to do.”
“Give me something to drink!” roared Professor Lyubanarov. “Something to drink, you dogs!”
“Shut your drunken mouth,” the proprietor yelled. “Aurel, show him the door.”
With remarkable agility and strength the waiter grabbed the enormous man by the collar, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him, staggering, out the door.
“You see, we don’t let anyone play jokes on us,” the proprietor said to Tildy. “So …”
Tildy reached in his pocket and gripped the pistol. “Put down that bottle of cognac,” he said. “And open it.”
The proprietor lost his composure. “I’m warning you, sir,” he said. “We don’t let people jest with us.”
“I said — put down the bottle and open it. And give me back my ring.”