By then I was no longer paying much attention to them either. The restaurant terrace had filled up, the autumn sunlight seemed just as languid and distraught as my straying concentration. Other scraps of sound began to mingle with the blur of conversation from Sas and Gerendás. Plates clattered, outside on the street a bus roared past now and again. On my left an elderly fellow with a d’Artagnan moustache and a resolutely bright-patterned necktie was sitting opposite a well-preserved lady with a ready smile.
“I like some pictures,” the bloke said with a deeply meaningful glance, a sausage sandwich in his hand.
“Ai laik djor myusik,” said the lady in fractured English with a smile that went far beyond the content of her utterance.
“As I recall, two parcels were packed together,” a yapping voice came to my ears. It belonged to a diminutive old man in a circle of primped-up old ladies: with his enormous ears, his withered face, and the thin strands of hair twined into a crest on the crown of his head he resembled an irate hussar monkey.
Meanwhile I overheard just in passing that Sas had invited himself to Amsterdam for the coming spring.
“That may be precisely when I shan’t be at home,” said the Mijnheer. “Some time in the spring I have to fly to America. But of course one of the guest rooms …”
The d’Artagnan moustache was taking a dip in the foaming white bubble bath of a glass of beer.
A shrill cackling rose up at the old ladies’ table:
“You always know best!” one of them shrieked, her faced flushed and trembling with indignation.
“Indeed I do, I’m precisely informed about everything!” yelped the aged head male. The old crones suddenly settled down and fell silent. The old codger snorted loudly as he looked around at them, his lower row of dentures popping up threateningly before finding its place again.
At our table, in the meantime, the discussion had passed on to Sas’s English minicar, which very likely needed some spare part or other. In the ensuing conversation the suggestion came up that he would try to translate one of Gerendás’ non-political humorous volumes and find a publisher for it:
“At least I’ll learn some Dutch: I’ve already done translations from Norwegian. If I get stuck, you can help me,” he declared merrily.
I looked about. Everything around me was seething and bubbling, a chirping twitter of voices from all sides, as if carried by invisible telegraph wires on invisible telegraph poles; ideas, offers, plans, and hopes jumped across like flashing electric discharges from one head to another. Yes, somehow I had been left out of this vast global metabolism of mass production and consumption, and at that moment I grasped that this was what had decided my fate. I am not a consumer, and I am not consumable.
“I have to go,” I stood up.
They did not try too hard to detain me.
“Now I sit here at home.”
“The end,” the old boy registered surprise.
“There’s nothing more.”
“And yet they did publish me in the end.”
“Two years after that.”
“4,900 copies.”
“18,000 forints.”
“Did you get any work done?”
“Of course.”
“Did you make any progress?”
“I pushed on a bit.”
“What do you want for dinner?”
“I don’t know. What’s the choice?”
His wife told him.
“All the same to me,” the old boy decided.
Dénouement at the bistro: the guessing is going on as to who will go and who will stay, the old boy’s wife related.
The stocktaking was over now: there was a surplus rather than a shortage (which was generally praiseworthy, except when the surplus went beyond a certain surplus which was grounds for a reprimand at the very least) (since a surplus of that magnitude could not come about from anything other than practising systematic fraud on consumers over a protracted period).
The Old Biddy — or the ex-chief administrator, to give her her official title — had already put in an urgent request for what was in any case a long-overdue retirement, which the Company had immediately accepted (in a spirit of general equity) (and also in the hope of suppressing wider publicity) (which — the wider publicity, that is — would undoubtedly be more damaging for the Company than any surplus over and above a certain surplus) (which — the surplus, that is — was a profit after all) (it just had to be entered into the accounts) (of course).
Now the regular consequence of the not exactly rare cases of this kind (when a chief administrator falls, that is to say) was that the staff too were transferred to other business concerns, usually to worse ones, occasionally to similar ones, and exceptionally to better ones (even though the majority of the staff) (as is clearly stated in labour law as enacted) (bore no responsibility for the inventory; indeed, were not supposed to have any knowledge of what it comprised) (nevertheless the long shadow of crime is cast on everybody) (most especially on those who have committed none).
And so it was no more of a surprise than it was a secret that the tall, impassive, tight-lipped, blonde lady — the new chief administrator, to give her her official title — enveloped in scented clouds of perfume subtly blended with cherry brandy, a cigarette constantly dangling loosely from the corner of her mouth, was already preparing a blacklist in the office; and it was all the less a secret since she herself had declared in the presence of others, including the old boy’s wife, that she was “not going to work together with a bunch of thieving employees,” on account of which everything was uncertain, the only certainty being that the colleague known as Mrs. Boda (Ilona by first name) would be staying, whether thanks to the unpredictability of personal sympathies or to some more predictable factor (for instance, foresight on the part of the — by official title — new chief administrator for a time when fate might decree that she) (the — by official title — new chief administrator) (might likewise accumulate a surplus, in which case) (just possibly at the very height of the evening rush) (she too might take over in a white coat at the beer taps) (in the spirit of that way of the world — but by no means an unconditional necessity, let it be noted — that the earlier-cited highly dubious mind called eternal recurrence) (which naturally) (we must hope at least) (life always belies).
“So now I’ll have to look out for where I’m going to end up,” the old boy’s wife closed her words (in conclusion, so to speak).
“Oh yes,” the old boy said later on, “my mother telephoned.”
“What did she want?” his wife asked.
The old boy outlined the situation.
“So we no longer have any hope of eventually exchanging apartments,” his wife said.
“Not much, that’s for sure,” the old boy said, “For the time being,” he added (hastily).
“We are going to live our entire life in this hole,” said his wife.
“What can I do about it?” the old boy said. “I’m going out for a bit of a walk,” he also said besides that (later on).
The next morning, the old boy’s wife was sitting tousle-haired, in her night-dress and slippers, on the sofa occupying the northwest corner of the room and, with a look that was still somewhat unsteady from an abrupt awakening, made the following statement:
“I had an odd dream.”
“Not that I remember it precisely in every detail,” she continued.
“The main thing was that I was working in a huge catering complex. It was six storeys high and built of red brick, like a — hang on … like a prison. Yes, of course. Music was blaring out on every floor, mainly gypsy music. I was assigned to the roof terrace. It was packed. I was carrying dishes, those heavy Pyrex ones, I couldn’t get the twelve bottles of beer off my tray. The kitchen was on the ground floor; everything had to be carried up from there, and there were hardly any staff. We were behind with the orders, the people at the tables were bawling their demands, the ashtrays were full of cigarette butts, a lot of drink had been spilled on the grease-spattered tablecloths and was dripping onto the floor. There was such a peculiar reddish light, like you sometimes see at twilight in the summer. I was rushing from one customer to another, sweat was pouring off me, but at the same time I had the feeling that somehow none of it had anything to do with me.