“János Szepetneki. At least that’s what he said.”
“János Szepetneki … my God, I know him! Do you know, he’s a pickpocket!”
“A pickpocket? Could be. I see him more as a burglar, myself. Would you believe it, that’s how everyone starts off in the film business. But apart from that, he’s very good-looking. Well, are you coming or not?”
“Yes, I’m coming.”
The little auberge where they went to dine was of the type classified as Old French: check curtains and table-cloths, very few tables, excellent and hugely expensive food. During her earlier visit with Zoltán, Erzsi had often eaten in such places, or better. Now, coming to it from the depths of her penny-pinching, she was strongly affected as she caught the first whiff of the familiar atmosphere of wealth. But this emotion lasted only a moment before the arrival of the greater sensation, János Szepetneki. Not recognising Erzsi, he kissed her hand with elaborate courtesy and formality, complimented Sári on her excellent choice of friends, and led the ladies to the table where his friend was waiting for them.
“Monsieur Suratgar Lutphali,” he announced. From behind an aquiline nose two fiercely intense eyes met Erzsi’s, causing her to shudder. Sári too was shocked by the penetrating stare. Their first feeling was that they had sat down at table with a somewhat imperfectly tamed tiger.
Erzsi did not know whom to fear the more: Szepetneki the pickpocket, with his rather too good Parisian accent and the studied nonchalance with which he selected their perfectly judged menu, as only a dangerous swindler could (she remembered Zoltán’s timidity before the waiters of these elite Parisian restaurants and how stupid this fear made him in their eyes), or on the other hand the Persian, who sat there in silence, a benign European smile on his face, as quick and inappropriate as a pre-knotted tie. But the hors d’oeuvre and first glass of wine loosened his tongue, and from then on he directed the conversation, in a strange staccato French sounding from deep within his chest.
He knew how to captivate an audience with his speech. A kind of romantic eagerness flowed out from him, something medieval, a more instinctive and authentic humanity, pre-industrial. This man lived not by francs and forints, but by the values of the rose, the mountain crag and the eagle. And yet the feeling remained that they were sitting at table with an imperfectly tamed tiger — the impression created by those burning eyes.
It emerged that back home in Persia he owned rose-gardens and mines and, most important, poppy-plantations, and his main business was the manufacture of opium. He had a very low opinion of the League of Nations, which had banned international traffic in opium and was causing him severe financial difficulties. He was obliged to maintain a gang of bandits up on the Turkestan border to smuggle his opium through to China.
“But that, sir, makes you a public enemy,” declared Sári. “You’re peddling white poison. You’re destroying the lives of hundreds of thousands of destitute Chinese. And then you’re surprised that all thinking people are united against you.”
“Ma chère,” said the Persian with unexpected anger, “you shouldn’t talk of things you know nothing about. You’ve been taken in by the stupid humanitarian platitudes of the European newspapers. How could this opium harm the ‘destitute’ Chinese? Do you think those people have money for opium? They’re glad of a bellyful of rice. In China only the very rich smoke opium, because it is expensive and the prerogative of the wealthy, like all the other good things of this world. It’s as if I were to start worrying about the excessive amounts of champagne consumed by the working classes of Paris. And if they don’t stop the Parisian rich drinking champagne when they want to, by what right do they meddle with the Chinese?”
“The comparison doesn’t hold. Opium is much more harmful than champagne.”
“That’s such a European idea. It’s true that when a European takes up opium smoking he doesn’t know when to stop. Because Europeans take everything to excess — gluttony, house-building, violence, all equally. But we know how to preserve the golden mean. Do you think opium has done me any harm? I smoke it regularly, and I eat it.”
He puffed out his powerful chest, then displayed his biceps, somewhat in the circus manner, and was about to raise a leg when Sári intervened: “Slow down. You’d better leave something for next time.”
“Excuse me … Alcohol is another thing Europeans take to excess. What a horrible feeling it is when you’ve too much wine in your stomach and know that sooner or later you’re going to be sick. The effect of the wine gets steadily stronger until you suddenly collapse. It doesn’t produce the steady, controlled ecstasy that opium does. There is no greater pleasure on earth … Really, what do people in Europe know about it? You should consider the circumstances before you meddle in the affairs of other countries.”
“This is why we want to make this educational propaganda film with you,” said Szepetneki, turning to Sári.
“What? A propaganda film about opium smoking?” said Erzsi. Up to this point she had found the Persian’s point of view somewhat attractive. Now she was horrified.
“Not to promote opium smoking, but the free movement of the product and human rights in general. The film is dedicated as a great individualist statement against every form of oppression.”
“What’s the story-line?” asked Erzsi.
“The opening shots,” replied Szepetneki, “take you into a family living peacefully on a simple, kind-hearted, traditional opium farm in Persia. For reasons of social rank they can only marry their daughter (the heroine) to the young man she loves if they can find a buyer for the year’s harvest. Whereupon the bad guy, who is also in love with the girl, but is a wicked communist prepared to do anything, betrays the father to the authorities and, in a night ambush, seizes the entire stock. This bit will be very exciting, with car chases and sirens blowing. But later the girl’s innocence and nobility of soul so impresses the hard-nosed general that he returns the seized opium, which sets off merrily for China, in tinkling wagons. That would be the outline of the story … ”
Erzsi had no idea whether Szepetneki was joking or not. The Persian listened solemnly, with an air of naïve pride. Doubtless the story was his idea.
After the meal they went to a fashionable dancing-place. Here they were joined by some other acquaintances. They sat round a large table and made conversation, in so far as the general din allowed. Erzsi kept her distance from the Persian. János Szepetneki asked her to join him, and they began to dance.
“How do you like him?” he asked as they stepped out. “A very interesting character, don’t you agree? A complete romantic.”
“Do you know, every time I look at him I think of the words of an old English nonsense poem,” said Erzsi, visited suddenly by a flash of her former intellectuality: “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright / In the forests of the night … ”
Szepetneki looked at her amazed, and Erzsi felt embarrassed.
“A tiger perhaps,” said Szepetneki, “but he’s come a terribly hard road. And yet he’s so naïve, so unsure and cautious in business matters. Even the film people can’t take him in. But it isn’t for commercial reasons that he wants to make the film. It’s for the message. And the other main reason, as I see it, is so that he can make a harem out of the female extras. Now, when did you leave Italy?”
“So you recognised me?”
“Of course. Not just now, a few days ago, in the street, when you were with Sári. I’ve a pretty sharp eye. I actually arranged this evening so that I could talk to you … Tell me, where did you leave my good friend Mihály?”