The magic show was to fill up the afternoon. He worked feverishly. It was clear this was going to be a bigger and better show than any before, the very acme of his art; his whole heart was in it, the tears were real, the kisses hot, and the feats of memory involved in compiling the various tricks were astonishing: his talent dazzled everyone. Even Nunu. In the first hour we could not get a word in. His performance left us breathless. He kissed Nunu twice, once on the right cheek, once on the left, then took from his wallet a letter from the secretary of state, in which that high-ranking official acknowledged the communication of his dear friend Lajos, wherein he had urged the immediate appointment of Nunu as postmistress and was even now working on the case. I saw the letter with my own eyes; it was on official paper, properly stamped and watermarked, and the words “Secretary of State” appeared in the top left-hand corner in a firm round hand. The letter was genuine, the real thing. Lajos really had acted in Nunu’s interest. It was just that no one mentioned the fact that he had promised Nunu to do this fifteen years ago, and everyone kept silent about Nunu being almost seventy years old now, about the fact that she had long given up any ambition she had had of being a postmistress, was no longer up to the task and could not be employed at this age for such a position of responsibility, and that, in short, Lajos’s noble deed was precisely fifteen years too late. No one gave this a thought. We stood round the two of them, Lajos and Nunu, our eyes sparkling with relief and exultation. Tibor looked round with pride, his spectacles glinting with satisfaction. “There, you see. We were wrong! Lajos has kept his promise after all,” said the look. Laci smiled in confusion, but at that moment he too was clearly proud of Lajos. Nunu wept. Back home in the Felvidék she had been assistant postmistress for thirty years and vainly hoped to be promoted at last, but when this hope faded with the years she upped and moved to live with us and gave up her dreams of office. She read the letter now with tears in her eyes, deeply moved by the lines mentioning her by name; the secretary of state was not promising anything, but he said enough to hold out the hope that he would be well disposed in the matter of Nunu, and would “look into the possibility.” None of this was of any practical use, but Nunu still wept and said quietly, “Thank you, Lajos darling. It’s probably too late. But I am so happy.”
“It’s not too late,” said Lajos. “You will see, it is not too late.”
He declared this with such conviction it seemed he was on confidential terms not only with the secretary of state but with God himself, that he could arrange matters of age and death too if he chose.
We heard him and were moved.
Then everyone fell to talking excitedly. “Mister” Endre arrived and stood beside the concrete bench a little reserved and confused, like someone whose appearance had not been entirely voluntary but had been summoned by Lajos in “an official capacity.” Lajos was organizing things. He introduced people, arranged them into picturesque groups, and initiated little scenes — scenes of farewell, scenes of delight and tearful reconciliation — all this with a few words or a hint, concealing the true meaning and import of the meetings behind a facade of stagy artificial group compositions that were empty of content; and everyone played along, all of us smiling in confusion, even respectable Endre, with a briefcase under his arm, the contents of which we never discovered and which he must have brought with him for purely symbolic purposes, as a line of defense to show that he would not have come voluntarily but was on official business. And it was obvious that everyone was happy that Lajos was here, happy to be present at this reunion. I would not have been surprised to see a small crowd gather behind the garden palings and sing something. But the general confusion was so much like a deluge that individual details were lost in the flood of well-being. Later, about dusk, when we had recovered our senses, we stared at each other amazed, as if we had fallen under the spell of an Indian fakir at work; the fakir had thrown a rope into the air, climbed the rope, and disappeared among the clouds before our very eyes. We were looking at the sky, seeking him there, and were astonished to see that he was taking a bow among us, here on earth, his begging bowl in front of him.
10
Nunu had served a cooked breakfast, the guests had settled down on the veranda, nervously eating and getting to know one other. Everyone felt that it was only the powerful spell of Lajos’s presence that prevented loss of temper. It was pure theater, every word of it. The hours were artfully crammed: Scene One, “The meal,” Scene Two, “A walk round the garden.” Lajos, with his director’s eye, occasionally spotted this or that group falling behind, and clapped his hands and brought the company into line. At last he was alone with me in the garden. Laci was on the veranda waxing enthusiastic, rapt and unguarded, talking with his mouth full. It was he who had first surrendered to Lajos’s charm, forgot his doubts, and was happily and openly bathing in the sunshine of the familiar presence. The first words Lajos addressed to me were, “Now we have to put everything right.”
Hearing this my heart began to beat loudly and nervously. I did not answer. I stood facing opposite him under the tree next to the concrete bench on which he had so often lied to me, and finally I took a good hard look at him.
There was something sad about him, something that reminded me of an aging photographer or politician who is not quite up-to-date regarding manners and ideas but continues obstinately, and somewhat resentfully, to employ the same terms of flattery he has used for years. He was an animal tamer past his prime, of whom the animals are no longer afraid. His clothes, too, were peculiarly old-fashioned: as if he were wanting to keep up with the fashions at all costs but some inner demon prevented him from being elegant or fashionable in the way he thought was necessary and which he liked. His tie, for example, was just a shade louder than was right for the rest of his outfit, his character and age, so he had the air of a gigolo. His suit was of a light color, fashionable in that it was loose and made for traveling, the kind you see movie moguls in magazines wear when they are globe-trotting. Everything was a little too new, specially chosen for the occasion, even his hat and shoes. And all this communicated a certain helplessness. My heart went out to him. Perhaps, if he had come in rags, a broken man without a shred of hope, I would not have tolerated this cheap feeling of sympathy. He’s had it coming to him, I would have thought. But this hopeless modishness, so redolent of shame, filled me with pity. I gazed at him and suddenly felt sorry for him.