Even Básta, the attendant, had finally forgotten all decorum and, no longer standing to attention — he was, after all, himself a genuine Szekler Magyar — mingled like a brother with the other gentlemen. The waiters passed on tiptoe. They could sense that something extraordinary was happening here which it would be ungodly to disturb.
Sárcsevits had finished reading Le Figaro, right down to the last letter of the smallest classified advertisement. He gazed at the revellers and shook his head. He felt nothing at all. Only that it seemed a shame to waste so much time and energy. What improvidence, what nabobish profligacy, to squander all our experiences, to spill them carelessly, along with all the wine, on to the floor! Somewhere on the banks of the Seine, from so many good intentions, from so many colours and emotions, whole buildings could be erected, whole books could be penned. If the good gentlemen would only say what was going on in their minds at such times, more books could be written than the entire collection of the Sárszeg clubhouse library, which no one read anyway, apart from him and prosecutor Galló, and perhaps poor Olivér too, who desired, before finally climbing into his grave, to know a thing or two about this pitiful world.
But the others had no time for such things.
The leader of the Gypsy band began to play “May Beetle.” Ákos raised his hand and stopped him. This was Ákos's song.
He called the Gypsy over and made him place a mute on the bridge of his violin. When the leader struck up again, Ákos launched into the song. At first his voice wavered a little, but soon it grew more confident, distinguished, almost arrogant. A restrained but pleasant tenor voice. Ákos drew a languid arch with his forefinger as he raised it slowly to his temple.
May beetle, may beetle, softly you hum,
I shall not ask you when summer will come…
Sárcsevits stood up. With a smile he turned to Feri Füzes who stood beside him.
“Is that old Vajkay?'
“The very same.”
“I'd heard he was a surly old troglodyte.”
“Not at all,” replied Feri Füzes stiffly. “He's a most jolly and sociable fellow.”
While the gentlemen were at dinner, the drawing room was swept and aired. By the time they returned, a neat and tidy room awaited them. The warm atmosphere had disappeared with the smoke and a cold severity could be felt in the air.
In such conditions it was no longer possible simply to pick up where they had left off that afternoon. Wine was replaced by schnapps; taroc and trumps by poker and pontoon. The fun and games were over. Now came the time of the serious drinkers who stood for no frivolity, and the serious card players who no longer merely toyed with fortune, but played to raze the opposition to the ground.
Ákos found himself at a pontoon table where the stakes were five forints and they drank Kantusovszka and other Polish brandies. Környey made it his business to see that everyone drank his share.
Ákos proved himself more than equal to the task.
And he was lucky at pontoon, too.
“Nine,” he kept calling.
The crumpled banknotes lay in heaps before him, beside great piles of coppers and columns of nickel and silver coins. Soon the steel-blue one-thousand notes began appearing from leather wallets. Ákos simply couldn't get rid of his money.
“Eight,” his partners called.
“Nine,” Ákos replied.
Ákos both fretted and laughed at the same time. Out of superstition he even had the whole deck changed. But his luck refused to part with him. He ordered champagne all round. They drank and dashed their glasses at the wall.
At a quarter to three the battle finally came to an end. The players rose to their feet.
Környey cried out:
“The benediction of St John!'
They filled their glasses with whatever remained — wine, schnapps, champagne. Ákos was busy cramming his winnings into his trouser pockets, jacket pockets, upper and lower waistcoat pockets, when he suddenly felt a stubbly chin on his cheek and a mouth pressing his lips with a long, slobbering kiss.
“My dear, dear old fellow!'
It was Ladányi, Sárszeg's 1848 delegate, who was now sobbing on Ákos's chest.
Ákos embraced him.
“You're a grand old forty-eighter, Laci, I know.”
“So are you, my dear old man,” said Ladányi, “a good old Hungarian.”
And they wept.
Ákos suddenly picked up the tumbler full of schnapps they had set before him and downed it in one. The alcohol warmed its way through his body and lifted him to his feet. There was an enormous knocking in his old brain and he felt such delight that he really wouldn't have minded in the least if there and then, in this moment of giddy ecstasy, when he felt his whole being, his whole life, was in his grasp, he were to fall down and die on the spot.
His face was pale. He was a touch cross-eyed.
Noticing this, Környey turned to him and inquired:
“What is it, my dear Ákos?'
Ákos made no reply.
The schnapps he had just poured into himself gave him tremendous strength. He knew that he must leave at once, or he was done for. When he got out into the street outside the clubhouse, he felt all the independence of his youth returning to him. He swung left into Széchenyi Street and slipped away among the shadows of the walls.
He could hear them calling after him:
“Ákos!'
Then again, peremptorily, entirely without affection:
“Ákos!'
With ceremonious reproachfulness, they demanded his immediate return. The Panthers roared into the night.
What he had done was no joking matter. To sneak away without farewell was no less serious a crime than deserting one's post, leaving the flag in the mud. It was an act of betrayal, of insubordination, which the Panthers could not in any circumstances forgive, not even in the name of friendship.
Ignoring their cries, Ákos lengthened his stride and hurried resolutely homewards.
Suddenly he heard an explosion behind him. First one, then two, then three. They were firing their revolvers.
Then came another three shots, this time in quicker succession.
Ákos did not take fright. He knew this too belonged to the fun and games of a Thursday night, and that, in high spirits, Környey would always fire his revolver into the air. On one occasion he had shot the ceiling and mirrors of the Széchenyi to pieces. Completely without malice. Out of sheer abandon.
The citizens of Sárszeg knew this too. Whenever they awoke to such commotion on a Thursday night, they'd calmly roll over on their sides and murmur in their sleep:
“The Panthers are at it again.”
The Panthers gave Ákos a few minutes to respond to their alarm signals. Then, grumbling and cursing, they split into two groups. The first climbed back knock-kneed into the Széchenyi, while the second scurried off to seek out old Aunt Panna, whose little inn stayed open until dawn, serving wines that were celebrated throughout the county.
Ákos finally managed to disappear beneath the dark arches of the Town Hall. From here the cries of the Panthers sounded distant and muted. Only the odd loiterer staggered by, heavy with drink. Everyone drank in Sárszeg.
An old peasant stood swaying on the edge of the pavement. He attempted a few feeble steps, then fell flat on his face like a soldier struck by a bullet from behind. Toppled by the power of alcohol. And there, spread out on the battlefield, he remained.