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It was after half past eight, but not a single handbell had sounded. Darkness descended over the warehouses.

Only from the window of the telegraph office came the glow of lamplight. Here in happy seclusion, protected from the droning wind and rain, sat the telegraphists in idyllic calm, bent over their desks like fantastic silkworm breeders, winding into spools the long, white threads that bound the whole world tightly into one. In the freight sheds porters leaned back on rough, wooden boxes daubed with all kinds of figures and letters scribbled gloomily in tar.

The Vajkays sat down at a neatly laid table in the glass-roofed station portico.

After nine, Géza Cifra came in from the station manager's office, whose door creaked noisily on rusty hinges as he entered. He must have been standing in for someone as he was doing the evening shift again.

He wore a heavy autumn coat and hurriedly rolled the red armband with the winged wheel insignia over his sleeve. He held a handkerchief to his mouth, so as not to inhale the musty air, and wiped his nose.

He was very pale. No doubt he too had gone to bed at dawn.

In the steamy air his profile seemed almost demonic. Mrs Vajkay felt he'd be capable of anything: deception, corruption, maybe even murder. And he looked so ill. She could hardly recognise him at all. The old couple exchanged glances, diagnosed the worst and, with a silent nod, buried the boy once more. By March, at the latest, it would all be over.

He hurried over to them, if only to clear the air after yesterday's misunderstanding, or simply to know its cause and see how the land now lay. With a croupy voice he inquired:

“Is she coming today?'

“Yes.”

“Then there's plenty of time,” and he took out his pocket watch as was his wont. “The Tarkő train is two and a half hours late.”

He offered this information quite indifferently and then withdrew. For the Vajkays, however, the news was anything but indifferent.

“I hope nothing's wrong,” said Ákos, almost inaudibly.

“I shouldn't think so,” his wife replied in the same whisper.

“Then why's it so late?'

“You heard him. He didn't say.”

“You should have asked him.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I should send a wire.”

“Where to?'

“That's true. The train's already on its way.”

But Ákos rose to his feet all the same. Leaving his umbrella behind, he staggered out among the tracks, tottering over the wet gravel to find someone who could provide a reassuring answer to his questions. He splashed about in the pouring rain. But the porters were already snoring on their wooden benches, fast asleep. Beside the engine room he came across a grumpy, dirty workman carrying an iron bar and pincers. Ákos asked him why the train was delayed.

“It'll turn up,” the workman replied. “Give it time.”

“There hasn't been an accident, has there?'

“That I can't say.”

Ákos stared at the decrepit workman, thinking of the heartless agitators he had read about in the paper.

“Go down to the end and turn right,” the man suggested.

Ákos went down to the end and turned right. Then he turned left. Then right again. But still he found no one. Even Géza Cifra had disappeared somewhere inside.

It was the first day of autumn. Everyone had stayed at home.

Only Mrs Vajkay waited on the platform.

Ákos returned to her, soaked to the skin.

“Did you find out anything?'

“Nothing.”

He sat back down at the table. Nausea climbed his throat, all the way up to his mouth. He swallowed repeatedly, his head thumping. He thought he was going to faint, fall reeling from his seat and die, then and there, on the spot. He was overcome by a hideous sense of disgust. He felt like collapsing against the iron pillars which supported the portico, then throwing himself to the ground. But he held back. He had to wait until she arrived.

“Are you unwell?'

“A little.”

“Perhaps you should order something.”

They rang for the waiter.

The waiter replied effusively to their questions, entertaining them with a most detailed account of a railway accident that had occurred some years before. He prattled on relentlessly like the rain.

They ordered cold milk.

Ákos removed his hat to clear his head in the cool air. The tight leather gusset had left a narrow streak of violet on his forehead. Only now could one see what had become of him. His skin had crumpled like paper, and his face was as white as chalk. The extra weight he had put on at the King of Hungary over the last few days had vanished, together with the genial, ruddy glow on his face. Once again he was gaunt, sickly and pale, just as he had been when his daughter had departed.

“Take a sip. It's nice and cool.”

As Ákos drank he thought:

“Railway accident.”

The woman, for her part, thought:

“The train isn't late. Something else has happened.”

The old man imagined — and a number of suspicious signs confirmed his presentiment — that the train had crashed somewhere, only they didn't dare say so and were keeping it quiet. He could see the heap of carriages before him, and the bleeding, choking bodies beneath the ruins. Later he became more inclined to believe that the train had merely been derailed and stood stranded in some open field, where, in the dark and rainy night, it was raided by all kinds of wicked highwaymen. He vacillated between these speculations, giving credence first to one, then to the other. His wife, on the other hand, stuck to her initial conviction: the train had already arrived, hours ago, perhaps before they had reached the station, or later, and they simply hadn't noticed it. Their daughter had looked for them and then gone on without them. Perhaps she had gone straight home, or perhaps she had travelled on somewhere, to some entirely unknown place where they'd never find her again.

She could not explain these thoughts, nor understand how she could possibly have missed her daughter. But her doubts, though less horrific than her husband's, tormented her all the more, precisely because they were so mysterious and obscure.

In the meantime, however, they went on talking.

“Feeling better?'

“A little.”

“What's the time?'

“Past ten.”

By now the station had at last begun to come to life. The rain subsided, and by a quarter past ten quite a crowd had gathered to meet the Budapest express.

Meeting this train was a favourite pastime of the Sárszeg intelligentsia, whether they were expecting anyone or not. They simply came to observe the passengers and, for a few short moments, to immerse themselves in the alluring glamour of metropolitan life.

The Budapest express rolled in on time, and, to the delight of its devoted Sárszeg audience, the enormous engine let out a shriek and a whistle, accompanied by a fountain of sparks, as if extemporising a festive firework display.

This was of no interest to Ákos and his wife.

They scrutinised the alighting passengers, as if the one they sought could possibly be among them.

Haughty Budapesters arrived wrapped in splendid shawls and carrying pigskin suitcases. A porter from the King of Hungary relieved them of their luggage with a bow, before escorting them to the restaurant's own bright, glass-encased berlin, in which they were transported to where a hot meal and a clean room awaited them.

Those who were continuing their journeys did not look out upon the insignificant station for long. At most they opened a tiny gap in the curtains, which they immediately shut again with a sneer. By one window a foreign-looking lady stood in the electric light, furnished with every imaginable European comfort and a scarf around her neck, gazing at the rusty pump well and the geraniums in the station manager's window. What a godforsaken hole, her expression seemed to suggest. In the kitchen of the dining car the red-faced chef briefly appeared before the window in a white cap, laughing heartily at some joke.