“That’d bring on the shivers. Has he been shaking with cold? There you are. Don’t worry. There’s no perforation.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, yes.”
“But they’re going to give him a general anaesthetic.”
“Get them to use a local.”
“Can’t be done. Simple as that. Elzász says it’s out of the question.”
“Then they’ll use a general.”
“Only thing is, he’s got a weak heart. Ever since he had scarlet fever his heart’s been so weak he’s had to take it easy all the time, he’s even been excused from gym class. Oh, if anything happens to that boy I won’t survive it. You know what I mean, I wouldn’t survive for a moment.”
“How old is he?”
“Nine.”
“Nine? He’s quite a big boy. Elzász operates on children of two and three, and even then nothing goes wrong. And what’s more, the life force in children is nothing short of miraculous. Those young cells, those unused organs, bursting with life, they don’t even catch things that grown men die of. You can feel perfectly safe. They’ll whip the appendix out, and he’ll be perfectly all right. Up and about inside a week. Tomorrow, no, today even, in an hour and a half, you’ll be laughing about the whole thing. Both of us will.”
Pataki calmed down. After pouring out his terror he had become empty, and looked in amazement round that untidy, stuffy study.
“Disgraceful,” said Esti suddenly, and grimaced. “It’s disgraceful. There I was, boring you.”
“With what?”
“With this trash.”
“What trash?”
“This poem.”
“Oh. No, you didn’t.”
“Of course I did. When you, my poor friend, were in such a state — without any cause, I’ll observe — I treated you to my latest brainchild. Well, that’s hellish, really hellish.”
“No. Honestly, it still did me good to hear it. At least it took my mind off things a bit.”
“Were you able to pay attention?”
“Yes.”
“Did it interest you?”
“Of course.”
“And what’s your considered opinion of it?”
“That it’s excellent. One of your significant poems.”
“Only significant?”
“Very significant.”
“Look here, I’m not fishing for compliments. You know I’ve always loathed that sort of thing. But I need you to give me an honest opinion. Whenever I write something I always think it’s my very best work. Can’t do otherwise. I expect you’re the same. Then I gradually get used to it being there, begin to tire of it, start to have my doubts as to whether it was worth bothering with. For that matter, our whole profession’s a waste of time. Who the hell cares about our heads aching when everybody’s head’s aching? So tell me.”
“Like I said, it’s magnificent.”
“I’m sure myself about the first part: Because I see the distant roving gleam of the star … That was inspiration, pure inspiration. But later on — about the middle — it struck me — I felt it before, when I was reading it out — that it’s not so good.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Where the shorter lines come in. You don’t remember? Carbuncle, you glowing … Isn’t that false? Isn’t it pompous and verbose? Isn’t there a kind of discontinuity there?”
“None whatever.”
“That’s what you think?”
“Absolutely.”
“And the whole thing, Elek, to your ear, isn’t it a bit rhetorical?”
“Rhetorical? Personally, now, I really like a lovely rise and fall, and I’d never keep rhetoric out of poetry altogether.”
“I see. Well, I have a thorough dislike of all forms of rhetoric. That’s not poetry, it’s sugarcoating. Be honest, tell me the truth. I’d rather tear the whole thing up and never write another line if this is rhetorical.”
“You’re always getting things wrong. It isn’t rhetorical. Not at all. And then, what a splendid ending. To live, to live. That’s marvelous. You’ll see, others will like it just as much. Have you shown it to Werner?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, do. He’ll be delighted with it. I know him. I bet he’ll print it on the front page in bold Garamond. You’ll never have had such a success. The whole thing’s masterly, masterly.”
Esti rustled the typewritten sheets in his hands. Pataki took out his pocket watch.
“It’s ten to nine.”
“I’ll go with you.”
They got into the car which was waiting outside the house. They raced through the dark, snowy streets. The father was thinking whether his son would survive, the poet whether his poem would.
At a bend Pataki said:
“If it is septic, it can go wrong.”
Esti nodded.
Later he spoke:
“I will take out those three lines in the middle, it’ll be simpler.”
Pataki approved.
After that they said no more.
Each was thinking of the other:
“How petty, how selfish.”
When they reached the hospital, Pataki raced up to the second floor. Esti went after him.
Young Laci had been sedated, was drowsy, and was just being rolled to the brilliantly lit operating theater on a tall, narrow trolley.
XVI
In which Elinger pulls him out of the water, but he pushes Elinger in.
THE BATHERS SWAM OUT TO THE MIDDLE OF THE DANUBE, into the wake of the Vienna boat, squealing as they were rocked and tossed by the huge waves. Esti sprawled on the shore every morning in his swimsuit and envied the lively company. He could swim better than anyone there, but his imagination also functioned better than theirs. Therefore he was a coward.
One day he made up his mind that, come what may, he was going to swim to the other bank.
His muscular arms flailed the water. He had reached the middle of the Danube before he realized it. There he stopped for a moment. He took stock of himself. He wasn’t out of breath, his heartbeat was normal. He could have gone on for a long time. It crossed his mind, however, that he wasn’t afraid, and that thought, that he wasn’t afraid, frightened him so much that he immediately became afraid.
He turned round. The bank from which he had set out, however, looked farther away than the other. And so he struck out for the far side. In this direction the water seemed unfamiliar, deep and cold. He got a cramp in his left leg. When he kicked out his right leg, its muscles knotted too. As was his custom, he tried to turn onto his back, but only wallowed, rolled, went under, drank a couple of gulps, vanished for a moment or two, and then sank downward, enveloped in the dark veils of the water. His hands beat in desperation.
This was seen on the bank. The shout went up that someone was drowning in mid-river.
A young man in blue trousers, who had been leaning on the rail by the changing rooms, flung himself into the waves and swam powerfully toward the drowning man.
He arrived in the nick of time.
Esti’s head had just emerged above the water. The lifesaver took a grip on his long hair and dragged him ashore.
There he quickly regained consciousness.
When he opened his eyes he looked at the sky, then the sand, then the people who were standing there in the golden sunlight, their unclothed bodies gleaming silver. Another gentleman, similarly unclothed and wearing dark glasses, was kneeling beside him and taking his pulse. Evidently a doctor.
The group that had formed around him was looking with keen interest at the young man in blue trousers, the one who — as he discovered — had recently snatched him from the jaws of death amid frenzied public curiosity.
He came up, extended his hand and said:
“Elinger.”
“Esti,” Esti introduced himself.