“Very good, Sári. Can we just leave this? Really I can’t do Mihály the favour of divorcing him just for this.”
“But why the devil don’t you go back to Budapest, where your money is?”
“I don’t want to go back until all this is cleared up. What would people say at home? Can you imagine what my cousin Julie would say?”
“They’ll talk anyway, you can be sure of that.”
“But at least here I don’t have to listen. And then … no, no, I can’t go back, because of Zoltán.”
“Because of your ex-husband?”
“Because of him. He’d be waiting at the station with bunches of flowers.”
“You don’t say. He isn’t angry with you, after the callous way you walked out on him?”
“He’s not the least bit angry. I believe what he says. He’s waiting in all humility for me to go back to him some day. And as a penance he’s definitely broken off with the entire typing pool and living a celibate life. If I went back he’d be round my neck all the time. I couldn’t bear that. I can put up with anything, but not goodness and forgivingness. Especially not from Zoltán.”
“You know what, for once you’re dead right. I hate it when men are all good and forgiving.”
Erzsi took a room in the same hotel as Sári: a modern hotel, free from smells and aromas, behind the Jardin des Plantes. From it you could see the great cedar of Lebanon, with foreign, oriental dignity stretching out its many-handed branches to the unruly Parisian spring. The cedar was not very good for Erzsi. Its foreignness always made her think of some exotic and wonderful life whose advent she longed for in vain.
Initially she had her own room, then they moved in together because it was cheaper. In defiance of hotel regulations they took things up to their room and made supper together. It became apparent that Sári was as skilled at preparing dinners as she was at everything else. They had to lunch separately because Sári ate in town, coffee and sandwiches, taken standing up before hurrying straight back to the office. Erzsi at first tried various of the better restaurants, but became aware that these places mercilessly overcharged foreigners, so she took instead to visiting little crémeries, where “you can buy the identical thing, but so much cheaper.” Likewise, at first she would always drink black coffee after lunch because she adored the fine Parisian café noir, but then she came to realise that it was not absolutely essential for survival and gave it up, except that once a week, every Monday, she went to the Maison de Café on the Grand Boulevard to regale herself with a cup of the famous beverage.
The day after her arrival she had bought herself a splendid reticule in a very genteel shop near the Madeleine, but this was her sole luxury purchase. She discovered that goods identical to those retailed to foreigners at such high prices in the more fashionable areas could be found in simple shops and flea-markets in the side streets, the rue de Rivoli or the rue de Rennes, and very much cheaper. But her final insight was that not to buy was in fact cheapest of all, and from then on she took a special pleasure in objects she thought she would have liked to purchase, but did not. Following this, she discovered a hotel two streets further along which, while not quite so modern as the one they were living in, did have hot and cold running water in the rooms, and after all they might just as well live there as where they were, only it was so much less expensive, nearly a third. She persuaded Sári, and they moved.
By degrees the saving of money became her chief preoccupation. She realised she had always had a strong inclination to save. As a child, chocolate bonbons given to her as presents would usually be stored away until they went mouldy. She hid her best clothes, any length of silk, pair of fine stockings or expensive gloves, and the maids would find them in the most surprising places, grubby and ruined. Her later life did not permit any expression of this economising passion. As a young girl she had to be on show beside her father, and conspicuous extravagance was required if she was to do him credit. And as Zoltán’s wife she could not possibly have dreamed of saving money. If she declined an expensive pair of shoes, Zoltán would surprise her the following day with three even more expensive pairs. Zoltán was a ‘generous’ man. He patronised art and artists (female), and made an absolute point of showering largesse on their husbands, partly to ease his sense of guilt. And in all this Erzsi’s ruling passion, the saving of money, remained unexpressed.
Now, in Paris, this repressed yearning erupted in her with overwhelming force. It was helped by the French ambience, the French way of life, which promotes the urge for economy in the most feckless breasts. It was reinforced by subtler factors. Her neglected love, her failed marriage, the aimlessness of her life, all these somehow sought compensation in the saving of money. Then, when Erzsi gave up her daily bath because she had realised the hotel was grossly overcharging for it, Sári could not let it go on without saying something:
“Tell me, why the devil are you so worried about spending money? I can let you have some, on an I O U of course, as a formality … ”
“Thank you, you’re very kind, but I do have enough. I had three thousand francs from Mihály’s father yesterday.”
“Three thousand francs! My God, that is a lot of money. I hate it when a woman skimps and saves the way you are. There’s something not right about it. It’s like when a woman spends the whole day cleaning and then goes hunting for leftover dust, or spends the whole day washing her hands and carries a special cloth around with her so that when guests arrive they can wipe their hands on that. Women can be stupid in so many ways. And while I’m on the subject, just tell me: what do you do all day while I’m at the office?”
It became clear that Erzsi had little idea how she spent her time. All she knew was that she saved money. She hadn’t gone here, and she hadn’t gone there, and she hadn’t done this, and she hadn’t done that, so that she wouldn’t have to spend money. But what she had actually done apart from that was mysterious, dreamlike …
“Madness!” cried Sári. “I always thought you had some man and spent all your time with him, and it turns out that you stare in front of you the whole day, in a daydream, like these half-mad women (they at least are on the right road). And meanwhile of course you put on weight however little you eat, so of course you’re getting fat. You should be ashamed of yourself. Well, it can’t go on like this. You must get out among people, and you must take an interest in something. Damn, damn, damn! If only I had enough time for things in this god-awful life … ”
“Hey, tonight we’re going out,” she announced radiantly a few days later. “There’s a Hungarian gent who wants to put some shady outfit in touch with the studio. He’s buttering me up because he knows I’ve got the boss’s ear. Now he’s asked me out to dinner. He says he wants to introduce me to his rich friend, the one he’s representing. I told him I’m not interested in the ugly rich, I meet quite enough dowdy characters at the office. He said, ‘He really isn’t dowdy, he’s a very handsome chap, a Persian.’ ‘Well, alright,’ I said, ‘then I’ll come, but I’m bringing my girlfriend with me.’ He said that was splendid. He was just about to suggest it himself, so I wouldn’t be the only woman in the party.”
“My dear Sári, you know I can’t go. What an idea! I really don’t want to, and I haven’t got a thing to wear, just my rubbishy Budapest things.”
“Don’t worry about a thing. You look wonderful in them. Listen, compared to these scrawny Paris women, you’re the real thing … and the Hungarian will certainly like you because you’re from home.”
“There’s no question of my going. What’s this Hungarian’s name?”