Ákos recalled these Thursday evenings with disgust, and when, the day before, Környey had ceremoniously invited him to join the Panthers at the club, he had racked his brains for excuses. Poppycock, insisted Környey, unmoved. Ákos explained that, unfortunately, he and his wife were already expected somewhere else. Not good enough, came the reply. And thus it went on until Ákos had finally promised to make an appearance early in the afternoon. Just for a few minutes, mind, a quarter of an hour at the most. A quarter of an hour and no more. He'd shake on it? Ákos extended his hand, out of weakness, rather than resolution, and gave his word of honour. Now there could be no turning back.
In the afternoon he allowed himself a prudent hour's sleep and woke refreshed. Wearing dove-grey gloves and carrying a silver-pommelled cane, he stepped into the foyer of the clubhouse, opened the huge glass door and climbed the steps to the first floor.
In the hall he met an old acquaintance, Básta, the liveried attendant, on his way to the library with two large china bowls in whose vinegary water sprigs of lettuce swam, and slices of hard-boiled egg. He set them down on an empty bookshelf — where the food always stood on Thursday evenings — and, clicking his heels before the honourable gentleman, relieved Ákos of his cane and led him inside.
The courtesy was superfluous, for Ákos knew his way around. Nothing had changed at all since his last visit.
In the reading room — as of old — sat the solitary figure of Sárcsevits, a rich, laconic bachelor of independent means, who now, as ever, was reading Le Figaro. He always read Le Figaro, and thus was generally held to be a cultivated European.
To the left stood the more spacious drawing room, furnished with leather couches.
The Panthers could already be heard deep in conversation.
Ákos made his way towards them.
When he first opened the drawing-room door he couldn't see a thing. Clouds of smoke billowed up before him, which even the gas lamps burning on the walls and ceiling were unable to disperse. These clouds forewarned of the approaching storm.
Some thirty or forty figures slowly emerged from the general haze. For a moment Ákos stood bewildered.
Then they spotted him, and he was greeted with cheers of jubilation. The Panthers, those moustachioed wild beasts of revelry, leaped from their seats, sprang towards him and spun him to and fro among them.
“Ákos,” they cried from all corners. “Good old Ákos! Come in, come in and join us.”
Total strangers introduced themselves, younger men who immediately addressed him in the familiar form.
“Servus humillimus, pleased to meet you, where have you been hiding all these years?'
There were also those who scolded him:
“You've a lot to answer for, old man. But you'll make up for it tonight.”
The voice of Környey, however, rang out above all others:
“Forgive ye the repentant sinner!'
Roars of laughter pealed throughout the Panthers’ den.
Környey stood two heads taller than his comrades in a gold-piped, cornflower-blue military tunic.
He crushed the brittle bones of Ákos's narrow hand in his iron clasp, famed for twisting silver forint coins, and, as head Panther, welcomed him with a certain stiff and formal conviviality. There was something austere, almost frightening about him.
He did not tarry long with Ákos. For on Thursdays Környey had to dash to and fro, welcoming new arrivals and discussing urgent culinary matters with the staff. Even now he was called away to the library to inspect the salad. He had more to do on such occasions than at the time of the great steam-mill fire.
All in all, Ákos's appearance had created quite a stir.
Priboczay embraced him, pressing the old man's face to his own and refusing to let go. Finally he planted a tender, masculine kiss on Ákos's cheek.
The chemist was in tears. His eyes were as weak as his heart, and whenever he met an old friend they melted, like hair in a fire, from the sheer warmth that coursed through his whole being.
He rummaged for his handkerchief.
When he had dried his tears, he took Ákos by both hands and held him beneath the chandelier to examine him more thoroughly.
“My dear old fellow,” he said in astonishment, “you look so much younger.”
“Nonsense.”
“So help me, it's true,” he insisted. “You're in excellent colour.”
All who stood around them mumbled in agreement.
Ákos's face had indeed filled out from his afternoon nap, the skin exuding a rosy, priestly glow. His forehead also wore a tint of red, as did the two loose bags of skin beneath his eyes.
“By Jove,” said Priboczay, “you've turned into a proper cavalier.” And he looked down at Ákos's dove-grey gloves.
These Ákos removed at once.
“And how tall you stand,” Priboczay continued. “None of that stooping any more. Canis Mater! What have you been taking? What have you done?'
“I've been to the barber's,” stuttered Ákos. “Maybe that's it.”
“No, no, you've grown younger. Ten years younger. Five at the very least. The quiet life, eh?'
A thin, sly smile hid in Ákos's moustache, where the Tiszaújlak wax still held firm. He didn't know where to look.
“I'm old, my friend,” he said at last, “an old fossil just like you, like all of you.” And he hung his head in mock self-pity.
Priboczay took him by the arm and led him round the room, introducing him to those smaller groups of Panthers who already sat sipping their drinks in the background or gossiping in the window bays.
And yes, they had indeed grown old. Some of the Panthers had gold teeth; most wore dentures or gum plates. Gone were the thick black curls he used to see on Thursday evenings; and what was left of them was covered with rime. Only the moustaches were haunted here and there by the odd, spectral brown hair. Some of them had grown completely bald, their bare skulls round and shiny like ivory billiard balls, or pointed like eggs.
The tables, however, remained unchanged: the black marble tables crowded with battalions of slender wine bottles and mouldy water carafes. And the green baize card tables with their inlaid copper ashtrays.
And the large painting on the wall. Count István Széchenyi.
He had not grown old.
Left hand on his hip, near his sword belt, pushing open his short, fur-lined coat, he stood as of old, his domed forehead surrounded by tousled, floating curls, his restless eyes burning with character, vigour and intelligence as they looked down upon what had become of his noble ideas, the debating circles and clubs he had founded to promote the refinement of polite society and social intercourse. But in the thick smoke, which one could have cut with a knife, even Count István Széchenyi cannot have seen too well.
Básta, the attendant, stopped in front of Ákos, wearing a blue and white ceremonial uniform and a waxed moustache whose ends narrowed into an almost invisibly thin thread way out beyond his cheeks. He was holding a large wine tray and had a napkin over his arm. Standing to attention, he poured the gentlemen some wine.
Priboczay raised his glass.
“Welcome!'
He downed his wine in one, as was right and proper on such occasions.
“Your health!'
“Your health!'
They shook hands and sat down on a sofa.
A quarter of an hour later Ákos made ready to leave.
“Now I really should be getting along.”
“You'll do nothing of the sort, dear boy.”
Környey, the perfect host, possessed an innate ability to appear at the slightest hint of danger, whenever someone was contemplating escape.
“Out of the question,” he thundered. “You're staying right where you are.” And he clasped the old man in his steely arms.