The Vajkays were just about to leave when Bálint Környey strode in, accompanied by two other gentlemen.
One was Szolyvay, the popular comedian. The other was a tall and smartly dressed actor in an elegant top hat. He was Imre Zányi, the celebrated leading man, the idol of every woman and girl in Sárszeg.
Until then the gathering had been growing increasingly spirited; but now the general din soared to new heights. Környey was greeted with a thundering roar of laughter, properly befitting the arrival of the Table's honoured president. For his part, Környey stood before his companions, hands behind his back, as if inspecting his Panther troops.
“Greetings, gentlemen.”
The Panthers’ Table had been formed some twenty years before, with the not unworthy aim of popularising the consumption of alcohol and promoting gentlemanly friendship.
The Panthers were expected to drink daily and diligently, whether they could hold their drink or not. Ákos had been a member once himself, at the very beginning, when the Table was first founded. But he had suddenly grown old, “soured,” as the others complained, and no longer paid them any attention. Many more had fallen by the wayside, collapsing from chronic alcohol poisoning and cirrhosis of the liver, which was how most men in Sárszeg met their end. Every year the Table laid wreaths at their graves. During Környey's touching speeches the younger Panther cubs would come close to tears, as did those veterans who, in spite of their snowy hair, still stood their ground and were Panthers to the last.
Bálint Környey sat down among them. He had a friendly word for everyone. Then suddenly, as he was about to raise his tankard to his lips, he spotted Ákos, the dear old friend and companion of his youth. He broke into a smile, then fell back into his seat. Of all the…He gave Ákos a hearty wave and then, in good country fashion, bellowed over to his table:
“Greetings! Greetings, old chap!'
They no longer had much to do with each other these days. At most, Környey would send Ákos a brace of pheasant or partridge when he had been out hunting on his estate.
But they were both clearly pleased to see each other now.
At Környey's greeting the Panthers quietened down a little. They leaned towards their beloved president, who was explaining something to his neighbours, clearly about the character he had just greeted. The Panthers glanced respectfully, if perhaps a little sadly, at the Vajkays’ lonely table. Then Bálint Környey rose to his feet.
“My dear old Ákos! Welcome!” he called out before reaching the table and bending down to kiss the hand of his friend's good lady. Then he shook hands with Ákos himself. “This is a turn-up for the books,” he said with a chuckle. “What brings you here?'
“Lunch,” Ákos stuttered. “We came for lunch.” After this he began to hum and haw.
“You wicked old Panther,” Környey interrupted, shaking a huge finger at Ákos, “you've been unfaithful to us. Why don't you look in at the Club some time?'
“Forgive me, my friend, but I no longer drink, nor smoke, nor play cards. And what is more—” here Ákos paused momentarily for thought—“I've grown old.”
The two friends nodded in silence, showing each other the monkish tonsures that parted their thinning hair.
For a while they reminisced about old times, legendary evenings and long-lost friends. Környey, however, was soon called back to his table. He humbly begged their pardon. The Vajkays had anyway been about to leave.
They wandered out into the street.
Somewhere in the north it had been raining and the oppressive heat had abated. Everything was flooded in a soft and pleasant light. Ákos straightened his back and breathed the air deep into his lungs. A sudden warmth spread through his limbs as his digestive system set to work. The food he had eaten was already filtering its fortifying goodness into his circulation.
The interest that had met the couple in the restaurant followed them out into the street. Strangers turned to look at them as they passed. Not that there was anything unusual about their appearance. People simply weren't accustomed to seeing them there in the street, like old couches that belong in the living room and look so strange when, once or twice a year, they're put outside to air.
They didn't hurry. They strolled sedately on the swept asphalt, criss-crossed with clinker bricks, returning the greetings of afternoon strollers who seemed to have become more amicable with the passing of the dreadful heat. They gave themselves up to the easy afternoon atmosphere.
The bells were ringing. Ding-dong, the bells rang constantly in Sárszeg. At morning Mass, at vespers, at funerals…so many funerals. There were three coffin-makers in Széchenyi Street, one after the other, and two stonemason's yards. Hearing the endless peal of deafening bells and seeing all these funeral concerns, the unsuspecting visitor might have imagined that people didn't live in Sárszeg at all, but only died there. Meanwhile the dealers sat inside their shops, among the coffins and tombstones, with the blind faith, shared by all in their profession, that it was precisely their wares everybody needed. And secure in this blithe conviction, they made their handsome fortunes, brought up their broods of children and kept their families in considerable style. Ákos peered through the open door of one such concern. Bronze coffins catering for every shape and size, from the tallest adult to the smallest child, stood upended in a tidy row. The shopkeeper was smoking a cigar, his wife reading a newspaper, while their angora cat sat preening itself inside an open wooden coffin. It wasn't such a terrible sight.
A slanting shaft of sunlight tumbled through the thick glass jars of the St Mary Pharmacy. On the painted signboard outside, the name of Priboczay shone in thick gold letters. Beneath it stood an image of Mary, the pharmacy's patron saint, trampling a snake underfoot, with the pagan Aesculapius close by. Everything glistened.
Every imaginable monstrosity. Even the display of surgical instruments sparkled: glittering silver forceps, shiny rubber gloves, gleaming collapsible operating tables. An anatomical dummy, with twinkling amethyst glass eyes in its trephined skull, proudly displayed its bloody heart, its bistre liver and green gall bladder, and the twisting intestines of its lacerated stomach. The Vajkays had never dared look at all this before. But now they did look. And it was horrible. Horrible, yet interesting.
Then the other window displays — how enticing they all seemed! So many messages and promises beaming out towards them. What can I do for you, sir; at your service, madam; all life's paraphernalia, take your pick. Brand-new goods, never been touched, to replace the old and worn. Silk purses, exquisite velvets and first-class fabrics in tasteful piles, handkerchiefs and walking sticks, perfume bottles tied with satin ribbon bows, meerschaum pipes and humidors, scrunchy cigars and gold-tipped cigarettes.
They stopped in front of Weisz and Partner's, admiring a pigskin suitcase with an English press-stud lock, so different from the shabby old canvas cases they had at home. And then that crocodile-skin hand-bag. The woman simply couldn't tear herself away. How splendid, how absolutely charming! Ákos drew his wife gently by the arm; it was time to move on.
Among the notepads and pencil cases in the window of Mr Vajna's stationery store stood rows of books whose covers had already faded in the blistering sun. These literary novelties from Budapest came as quite a shock to the old man, who had long grown used to the arid, antiquated style of his noble records, deeds and documents. Fierce and fashionable volumes of poetry glared back at him with diabolical, sneering faces; naked male bodies and delirious women with their hair down and their staring eyes wide open.