Low Mass begins at half past eleven.
It is attended by the upper crust of Sárszeg society: county dignitaries, senior civil servants and other well-to-do citizens who have distinguished themselves from their fellow mortals. They are accompanied by their wives and nubile daughters, who in turn are followed by spruce young men, secret suitors who converge behind the pillars in the background and gather around the font. The girls sit beside their mothers, casting the occasional glance at their prayer books, leaning back in their seats, eyes to heaven, sighing at every sounding of the carillon. They dab their eyes with tiny handkerchiefs as if in tears. Pungent perfumes bolt through the air, one answering the other. A veritable concert of fragrances. Which is why they often called it “scented Mass.” It wasn't merely a matter of spiritual elevation; it was a social event.
The Vajkays’ absence from church did not pass unnoticed. Their customary place, at the end of the second bench on the right, remained unoccupied.
In his damp, courtyard-facing study, Ákos lay on the Turkish rug which covered his couch. It was an uncomfortable couch, short and narrow, like all their furniture. It couldn't even accommodate Ákos's spindly frame. The only way he could stretch out his legs was to hoist them over the back rest. But Ákos had grown so used to this position he hardly noticed it any more.
Although he wasn't cold, he wrapped himself in a thick camel-hair blanket. He gazed up at the patterns on the ceiling, then, wearying of this, reached out, without rising, towards his bookshelf, and from among his numerous volumes of Aristocratic Families and the Almanach de Gotha, pulled out Volume XIV, by Iván Nagy, on the families of Hungary. He thumbed through it listlessly.
The book provided no surprises. He already knew its every detail, every letter, inside out. The volume soon fell from his hands, and Ákos began to ruminate:
“Vanilla noodles. What exactly can they be? I've never tried them, never even seen them. I've no idea how they might taste. Vanilla I'm fond of. That strange, almost exciting smell. Must be rather nice to have the smell tickle the nose while the taste flatters the tongue. I wonder if they serve the yellowish noodles with that black African spice sprinkled on top? I've only ever glimpsed the name, in passing, between the curd dumplings, fruit sorbets and hazelnut gateaux. As if I'd dreamed it somewhere. Still can't get it out of my mind.”
He knitted his brow and tried to banish these silly, demeaning thoughts from his mind.
“Skylark's a good cook. That's undeniable. At least, everyone says so. Of course she is. And not just good, first-rate. They can't find words enough to praise her cooking. In the old days, when we still invited folk for dinner, they made quite a song and dance about it. Even that scoundrel Géza Cifra. Yes, even him. It's true her methods are…unusual. She never uses paprika, for example, or pepper, or any other spices. And she's rather sparing with fat as well. She's economical, that's all. And quite right, too. Our modest savings won't last for ever and she can't, mustn't, touch her dowry. I simply wouldn't let her. Certainly not. Besides, heavy food is bad for you. Nice light French cuisine, that's what we like.”
He sat up and sniffed the air around him. Strange. The smells of the restaurant still lingered about his nose, stubbornly, unavoidably, assertively. That stuffy fragrance, fragrant stuffiness, that cruel, aromatic combination of caraway, onions fried in fat, and the pleasantly bitter hop breath of beer. He leaned back on his pillow.
“Noix de veau. Another puzzle. One imagines walnut segments, sweet and oily, but that's not what it is. Soft, juicy pieces of tender meat that melt at once in the mouth. Not to be sneezed at. Especially after one of those tempting hors d'oeuvres on the menu. Crayfish bisque, caviar à la russe. Absurd, macabre names. Scrambled eggs with chicken livers, pike in white wine, brains in browned butter. Enough. Enough of this stuff and nonsense.”
He straightened his pillow and sought a more comfortable position.
“Skylark has a weak stomach, poor thing. Although she's plump, she can't take heavy food. And she's often sick. It's in all our interests to eat sensibly. And just think of her wonderfully nourishing fricassees and risottos. Especially the risottos. Ah, the risottos. And her pale sponge fingers. And semolina puddings. No one could say she starved us. Not in the least. If only they served food like that in restaurants. Actually, it wasn't so bad there…but at home. Yes, good home cooking.”
Ákos had grown tired. He shut his eyes and surrendered himself to whatever came to mind.
“Yesterday, for example. What did we have yesterday? Consommé, chicken risotto, bread-and-butter pudding. I remember exactly. Nothing more, nothing better. Now Weisz and Partner, he had something else. Goulash, that's what it was. Delicious, to be sure: rich, blood-red goulash soup with hot paprika from Szeged, the liquid dripping from his steaming potatoes. How I adored that in my younger days, when poor Mama was still alive. Goulash soup, veal and beef stew — God only knows when I had them last. I never dared ask for things like that. Out of consideration for her, I suppose. Not even when we went to a restaurant.”
His eyes welled with tears as if something had stirred inside him.
“Is it a sin? They say the devil torments the fasting hermit. If it is a sin, it's all the sweeter for being so. What do I care? One can't deny these things exist. Goulash soup exists, out there in the world, on the table, on Weisz and Partner's plate. And on the menu too, between the saddles of mutton and herdsmen's cutlets. Beside the tenderloins of pork and the rump steaks. And then all the other things on the menu — they exist too. The sides of pork, the Transylvanian mixed grills, the lamb chops. Not to mention all the dishes with English, French, and Italian names: beef-steaks, tournedos, fritto misto, breathing their foreign aromas. Then the cheeses, light and creamy, thick and heavy, the Camemberts, the Bries, the Port-Saluts; and the wines, red Bull's Blood from Eger, sweet muscatels, light Chardonnays, and Fair Maid from Badacsony, in tall and slender bottles. Fair Maid. Beloved Fair Maid. Ah, my sweet, Fair Maid…”
The door opened.
The woman came in from her cleaning. She had been doing the housework all morning. It was now past one and she had only just finished. She was clearly out of practice.
She entered quietly. She thought her husband must have dozed off. But Ákos's eyes opened in alarm at the noise.
“Were you asleep?” asked the woman.
“No.”
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I wasn't.”
“You look pale.”
“Nonsense.”
“Is something the matter?'
Ákos rose from the couch with a guilty conscience, like a child caught up to some prank in bed. He didn't dare meet his wife's gaze, he felt so ashamed.
“You're hungry,” said the woman. “That's what is is. You're hungry, my dear. You haven't eaten again. Not since last night. Let's go to the restaurant. It's getting late. We won't get a table.”
They hurried. It surprised them how quickly they reached the King of Hungary. They found the restaurant in utter commotion. Plates clattered, wine stewards scurried and waiters scampered. Even the head waiter flitted to and fro on the swallow's wings of his tailcoat. He scribbled calculations on the back of a cigarette box, gave change, plucking silver coins from his palm, listened to complaints and trotted into the kitchens only to re-emerge moments later to reassure his customers that all was well. In spite of the regular Sunday commotion, his expression remained as calm and collected as ever.