“Oh, maestro,” the young man was deferential, “ who wouldn’t know the maestro?”
Esti tried to conduct himself like a person that “everyone knew.”
He was in some perplexity.
In the past he’d been given all sorts of things. As a boy a splendid stamp album, a gold ring as a present from his godparents, later a number of appreciative reviews, even an academic prize, but more than this he had never before received at one time. Only once, from his father and mother.
This new acquaintance had given him back his life. If he hadn’t happened to come bathing that afternoon, or if at the crucial moment he’d been lighting a cigarette instead of immediately diving in headfirst, Esti would by now have been down among the fish on the riverbed … in some unknown place … goodness knows where … Yes, he was reborn. He had now been born a second time, at the age of thirty-two.*
He got up and gripped the young man’s hand.
He mumbled:
“Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t mention it.”
“Thank you,” he said, as if by way of acknowledging receipt of a light from someone in the street, and because he sensed the inadequacy of words he gave emphasis to his feeling by stress, and repeated warmly “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
‘My life?’ thought Esti, then said aloud: “What you did, sir, was magnificent. It was heroic. It was human.”
“Only too pleased.”
“But I can’t express … can’t express,” Esti stammered, and at that took the young man’s other hand too and shook both vigorously.
“Oh, not at all,” stammered the young man.
“After all this, we ought to get to know one another. I don’t know if you’d be free?”
“Any time, maestro.”
“Today? No, not today. Come round for a coffee tomorrow. Wait a minute, let’s say the evening. You know, the roof terrace of the Glasgow. Nine o’clock.”
“You do me a very great honor.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Certainly.”
“Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
The young man bowed. Esti embraced his soaking form and left. As he made for the changing room, he looked back at him more than once and waved several times.
At nine precisely he appeared on the roof terrace of the Glasgow. He looked for his man. At first he couldn’t find him anywhere. At the tables, grass widows were cooling themselves in front of electric fans, drinking Buck’s Fizz with other women.
At half past nine Esti began to feel anxious. He had a spiritual need for this meeting. It would have grieved him if they were to miss each other, if he were never again to see his greatest benefactor as the result of a misunderstanding. One after another he called the waiters and asked about Elinger.
It then turned out that he couldn’t even describe him. All that he could remember was that he wore blue trousers and had a gold front tooth.
Finally, right by the elevator, where the waiters went in and out by the potted plants, he caught sight of someone sitting with his back to the public and waiting modestly. He went over to him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Elinger?”
“That’s right.”
“So here you are then? How long have you been here?”
“Since half past eight.”
“Didn’t you see me?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you come over?”
“I was afraid of disturbing the maestro.”
“What an idea! We don’t know each other, do we. That’s very interesting. My dear fellow, come along. Over here, over here. Leave that. The waiter will bring your things over.”
He was half a head shorter than Esti, thinner, less muscular. His reddish-blond hair was parted in the middle. He was wearing a white summer shirt, a belt, and a silk tie.
Esti stared into his face. So this was he. This was what a hero was like, a real hero. He looked at him long and closely. His brow was firm, gleaming, evincing determination and decisiveness. Esti felt life around him, real life, which he had forsaken in favor of literature. The thought flashed through his mind of how many interesting spirits lived in obscurity, unknown to the world, and that he ought to get out and about more. It was principally Elinger’s simplicity that charmed him, that great simplicity that he had never had at his disposal, because evidently even in his cradle he had been laby rinthine and complex.
“Let’s have something to eat first of all,” he proposed lightly. “I’m ravenous. I hope you are as well.”
“No, I had tea not long ago.”
“That’s a shame,” replied Esti absently as he studied the menu. “A great shame. Well, you’ll have some dinner. Now then, what is there? Pike-perch as a starter, right. Green peas, just the thing, as well. Fried chicken, cucumber salad. Gateau. Strawberries and cream. Excellent. Beer, wine afterwards. Badacsonyi. Mineral water. Everything, please,” he added expansively.
Elinger sat in front of him, eyes closed, like someone who had done something wrong.
The roof garden with its electric lights blazed up into the sweltering sky. Down below, the city with its dusty houses and bridges panted in the black African darkness. Only the line of the Danube gleamed dully.
“Undo your collar,” Esti advised, “it’s still as hot as hell. I’ve been writing all day wearing nothing. All I had on was my fountain pen.”
Elinger said nothing.
Esti laid a hand on his and said with warm interest:
“Now tell me something about yourself. What do you do?”
“I work in an office.”
“Where?”
“First Hungarian Oil.”
“Well, fancy that,” said Esti, and didn’t know why himself, “fancy that. Married?”
“No.”
“Neither am I,” Esti laughed to the heavens, which on that elevated roof garden seemed somewhat closer to him.
“My life,” said Elinger mysteriously and significantly, “has been a real tragedy,” and he showed anemic gums above his gold tooth. “I lost my father very early, I wasn’t yet three. My poor widowed mother was left alone with five children, whom she raised by the work of her two hands.”
“All this is raw material,” thought Esti, “uninteresting and lacking in content. Only that which has form has interest and content.”
“Thank God,” Elinger went on, “since then we’ve all been successful. My sisters have married well. And I’ve got a bit of a job. I can’t complain.”
They both ate heartily. After telling the story of his life Elinger had nothing else to say. Esti tried now and then to revive the flagging conversation. He asked Elinger when and how he’d learned to swim so very well. He replied with laconic objectivity, then sank into uncomfortable silence.
After the strawberries the French champagne was brought in an ice bucket.
“Have some,” Esti urged. “Come along. How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
“Then I’m the elder. If you’ll permit …”*
At the end of the meal Esti announced:
“I’ll be at your disposal at any time — understand that — at any time. Not like people that say ‘any time’—I mean now, this minute, tomorrow, in a year’s time, in twenty years’ time, as long as I live. Any way that I can. Heart and soul. What you did is something I’ll never forget. I’ll be eternally grateful.”
“You embarrass me.”
“No, no. If it hadn’t been for you I’d certainly not be dining here today. So feel free to call on me.”
When the time came to pay, Elinger reached for his wallet.
“Now put that away,” Esti stopped him.
Once again he expressed his good will.
“You absolutely must come and see me. Give me a call first. Make a note of my number.”
Elinger wrote down Esti’s number. He gave him the number of First Hungarian Oil. Esti wrote it down.