An overpowering fragrance wafted about her, the latest perfume, Heliotrope.
The warm, soft little paw would not let go of the man's hand. Not until some moments had passed.
Ákos went back over to his wife who was waiting by the exit.
“The way she laughs,” the woman remarked. “Just like on stage.”
“Yes, she plays her part quite naturally.”
They strolled through the still warm night. Only when they reached Széchenyi Square did the woman speak:
“They say she's in love with Zányi.”
“No,” replied Ákos. “She's in love with Dani Kárász. She's going to marry him.”
At that moment an open landau thundered past them, drawn by two splendid, lively bays. Inside, pressed close together, sat Olga Orosz and Dani Kárász.
The old couple watched the carriage disappear.
VII
in which the couple talk to a fledgling provincial poet
At midday on Tuesday their table at the King of Hungary, which the waiter had reserved for them, remained empty.
Ákos ate with the Lord Lieutenant. His wife took the opportunity to lunch with an old friend, Mrs Záhoczky, the widow of a colonel and the president of the Catholic Ladies’ Association, at whose home the ladies of Sárszeg would congregate every Tuesday to discuss, over coffee and whipped cream, preserves and assorted pastries, matters of everyday business.
Lately they had proved themselves particularly zealous in the charitable field. They had founded an orphanage, a Mary Society for young ladies, and a Martha Home for serving girls, where one could be assured of finding reliable staff. Their attention had even extended to the rapid spread of poverty in the town, and they provided free meals and clothes to a number of the poor, quite irrespective of religion. All their members made sacrifices, each according to her means, and they were looked upon with gratitude by the whole town.
Mrs Vajkay's husband came for his wife at around six o'clock. He related to her all that had occurred at the Lord Lieutenant's lunch.
There must have been about forty people present, he said, among them the Budapest commissioner, a most obliging gentleman. They had all had a splendid time. The consommé was served in little cups, not in bowls as at home or at the King of Hungary. There were two types of fish, followed by fillet steak in a sauce with ham dumplings. There had been a choice of dessert, which he had found himself too full to try. He had, however, allowed himself half a glass of French champagne.
His wife, for her part, described the afternoon tea. Above all she extolled the milk loaf, which was particularly fresh and spongy.
On the corner of Széchenyi Square they ran into Miklós Ijas.
Everyone ran into someone in Sárszeg, like it or not, several times a day. For the town was so constructed that wherever one was headed, one's route unavoidably led across the square. The townsfolk hardly bothered to greet one another, and merely signalled with their eyes. Such encounters were not occasions of any great excitement. It was rather like members of the same large family meeting one another in the hall of their own home.
The only point of interest was the time at which such encounters would occur. Everyone kept his own hours. Mályvády, for example, would always come striding across the square at exactly half past seven, followed by his pupils, to whom he was as friendly and benign out of school as he was strict once the first bell had sounded. His pupils stumbled behind him carrying cardboard boxes, discs and iron rods for their physics experiments. Sometimes they could even be seen bringing tame rabbits or sparrows which their teacher would place inside a bell jar, deprive of air and summarily execute. Szunyogh would appear just after eight and, hearing the little school bell announce the commencement of classes, would often break into a run, struggling in his overcoat which he wore with the collar turned up, for he was terrified of the headmaster and did not care to be seen arriving late. At nine Dr Gál would make his first appearance. At ten Priboczay completed his familiar manicural manoeuvres outside the pharmacy. At eleven Környey would pass in the driving seat of a light gig, whisked along by a strong, iron-grey horse, belonging to the fire brigade. Just before twelve the actors sauntered across the square, and from noon till dusk the Panthers brought the town to life, installing themselves either in the King of Hungary or in the Széchenyi Café.
Ijas would set off on his travels at about eight in the evening when he finally got away from the editorial office of the Sárszeg Gazette. He'd trudge along the side streets with his only companion, Ferenc Freund, a red-faced, jovial, sharp-witted Jewish boy who understood him, encouraged him and even dabbled a little in poetry himself. But more frequently he'd walk alone, as he did now.
In spite of their fleeting introduction at the theatre the day before, Miklós's unexpected appearance on the square set Ákos Vajkay's mind racing. There had been a time when he had sat young Ijas on his knee and pressed apricots into his mouth. But that was long ago. He hadn't mentioned it at the theatre, for the boy was sure not to remember.
At one time the Vajkays had been frequent guests in the Ijas household, at their tidy, hospitable villa in Tarliget. That was until a dark coincidence all but swept the fine and famous family off the face of the earth.
One evening János Ijas, Miklós's father, a man of considerable social standing in the county, was arrested at his villa in Tarliget by two detectives and taken away.
The case was something of a mystery. After all, his name alone served as sufficient pledge of his honour, and he was known to be a man of considerable means. And if it was true that he squandered money and sometimes risked his hand at cards, he was nevertheless respected as a thoroughly honest man. It was rumoured that the whole affair had been some kind of mistake, that he had been reported by his secret enemies and that there was no evidence against him whatsoever. He had, it was alleged, once sold a property through an intermediary who had accepted the sum of 1,500 forints from a first buyer, but then, when a second appeared, prepared to pay a higher price, had made a separate deal with him. The first buyer, who had thus lost the property he sought, reported Ijas to the authorities by way of revenge, claiming that he had never been reimbursed, and that the sale had already been officially registered.
The details remained somewhat obscure before the public, but Ijas was detained on remand and was refused bail at any sum. Whether or not the hearing ever actually took place, no one could remember. But it was a fact that poor old János Ijas was not released from jail until some eighteen months later, mentally and physically a broken man, whereupon he went abroad and died. Anguish had already driven his wife to the grave during his imprisonment.
At the time the newspapers had written this and that about the case. Especially when the tragedy of the father was followed by that of his eldest son. Jenő Ijas had been stationed in Sárszeg as a lieutenant in the Hungarian army. Because of the rumours surrounding his father's case, proceedings were taken against him too, in order to establish whether, under the circumstances, he could still be considered worthy of his commission. The lieutenant did not wait for the outcome of the investigation. One morning he walked out to the Tarliget estate and there, beneath the huge walnut tree, shot himself in the head with his service revolver. In a farewell letter he pinned to his military tunic, he wrote that this was the least he could do to defend his father's honour and good name.
Only the fifteen-year-old Miklós was left alive. He was taken in by his relations, who brought him up on the Hungarian plain. Here he rode and exercised in the open air, while doing his fair share of eating and sleeping. Later he applied to study law at the University of Kolozsvár but never sat his exams, and learned English instead. When the scandal died down in his home town, he suddenly turned up in Sárszeg, to everyone's surprise, as a journalist.