Towards dawn, when they had all soaked up as much of Aunt Panna's wines as they could take, Környey suddenly raised the alarm and called out the fire brigade, who, at his command, hosed down the whole company. From there they thundered off on a fire engine to the last station of their revelry, the Turkish bath, sounding the siren as they went.
Werner was with them too, the tongue-tied Austrian lieutenant rifleman, who when the least bit tipsy couldn't even speak Moravian but was a charming fellow all the same. In the Turkish bath he flatly refused to get undressed, yet insisted on bathing nevertheless. In his yellow-buttoned military greatcoat and cap, his sword by his side and gold stars on his lapels, he waded into the steaming hot water. To the cheers of his admirers, who greeted him like a real hero, he ardently drew his sword, saluted, and with stiff, ceremonious parade steps marched out of the pool just as he had marched in, proceeding through the entrance hall and out into the street. The water streamed from his greatcoat and, as he receded through the earlymorning air, he disappeared inside an enormous cloud of steam. The whole scene was so indescribably humorous and ingenious that it deserved to be commemorated in the Panthers’ records, which were kept by Feri Füzes.
Környey spared no detail in his elaborate account of events, which he delivered with all the precision of a conscientious historian preserving crucial data for posterity. At times his audience roared and shook with laughter, but even this could not conceal their pallor.
Meanwhile others joined them too, complete strangers who made themselves quite at home at the table. A birdlike ham actor, no doubt some member of the chorus, who looked rather like a starling, extended his hand to Ákos.
“Hello, old chap.”
“Hello, old chap,” Ákos replied, shaking hands.
“Who was that?” his wife inquired.
“I don't know,” said Ákos.
There were plenty of such characters, with whom Ákos had been on first-name terms during the feverish festivities of the previous evening. Now, however, he had no idea of who they were.
The whole table seemed a haze before him. The longer he observed the wilting heads and faded faces, above all those of Szunyogh and Doba, the more he felt he must be dreaming the whole thing, sitting among deathly shadows like a ghost.
It was Környey, who had already downed two tankards of beer, who kept the conversation going, throwing one cigarette end after the other on the stone floor, never running out of things to say. His voice sounded like a droning wasp in the Vajkays’ ears. Neither the old man nor his wife could bear to listen.
Ákos repeatedly glanced at his pocket watch.
“Are you waiting for someone?” asked Környey suddenly.
“My daughter.”
“She's been away?'
“For a week now.”
“I had no idea. Where?'
“To Béla's, on the plain.”
“And she's back today?'
“Yes, today.”
The Panthers made ready to leave.
The woman explained to Feri Füzes:
“She went for a break, you see.”
“A change of air,” said Feri Füzes, the perfect conversationalist. “And very healthy too.”
“But the train's so terribly late. My husband and I are frightfully worried. It was supposed to arrive at eight twenty-five, but there's still no sign of it.”
“Good Lord,” said Feri Füzes, “it's already half past eleven.”
“I hope nothing's wrong,” Mrs Vajkay went on nervously.
“That I can't say, my dear lady,” replied Feri Füzes correctly, whom no circumstance could sway from uttering the truth, not even the pleas of a gentlewoman. “I've really no idea.”
He wasn't even particularly interested. Having never concerned himself directly with the Vajkays’ specific affairs of honour, there was really no further information he could supply. All he added was:
“We must hope for the best. I kiss your hand.”
With that, he took up his hat, withdrew with a sickly smile, and followed the other Panthers, who, with Környey at the fore, were already making their way out of the station. And now, after so many noble adventures and entertainments — or, as Szunyogh put it, post tot discrimina rerum—the Panthers finally headed home to bed.
XII
in which the author describes the joys of arrival and reunion
Ákos was once again left alone with his wife.
His disquiet had reached the point where the anxiety born of self-reproach subsides, and speculation is replaced by a dumb stupor which can only mumble broken, meaningless words. He no longer thought of anything, no longer imagined what had happened and what still might happen. He only breathed the odd sigh to keep his fears alive.
“If only she were here!'
“She'll be here soon.”
“If only the Good Lord will help us one more time.”
“He will. He will.”
Mother, who was no less anxious, smiled reassuringly at her husband and gave him a hand to squeeze. Both their hands were ice cold. Everything seemed so hopeless.
In an attempt to outwit their fears, they busied themselves with trivial questions and disputes. Where had they put the pantry key, had they locked the study door?
Then the signal bell rang.
They shuddered at the sound. They stood alone on the platform, for after the departure of the Panthers the station had completely cleared. The waiters had taken up the tablecloths.
Behind them, chugging along at a leisurely pace on the outer track, a long mixed freight and passenger train pulled in, with endless wagonloads of canvas-covered boxes, petrol drums and livestock. They heard a dull, repeated whistle in the darkness from where the passengers soon began to emerge from the third-class carriages; simple folk, peasants with bundles, market women with fruit baskets balanced on their heads, rummaging awkwardly in their bosoms for their tickets by the exit gate.
Géza Gifra informed the couple that this was still not the Tarkő train, which was, however, only one station down the line, and would be in any minute now.
He was right.
Just when they least expected it, the little coffee grinder appeared on the horizon, the same engine they had seen off one week before.
Like a pair of bloodshot eyes, its two red lamps strained at the track through the darkness. It approached with caution, feeling its way, so as not to step on anyone's feet. The engine grew larger by the minute. It had been washed a bright black by the rain, and kept coughing and sneezing as if it had caught cold. The brakes whined, the carriages moaned. It was hardly the most uplifting of sights.
Jolting over the points, it seemed to hobble along until suddenly, quite unexpectedly, it veered to the right and swung towards them on the inner track. It seemed unwilling to come to a halt and dragged its load towards the engine house until the very last carriage finally came to a standstill before their noses.
The Vajkays rushed towards the carriage.
Ákos couldn't see too clearly and automatically reached for his pocket, only to remember that his spectacles had gone missing the night before and he'd have to buy a new pair.
Only one arc lamp now burned above them, rendering the darkness still more uncertain.
In addition to this, there was an almighty din. The quarrelsome cries of passengers calling for porters became entangled with the twilight.
The eyes and ears of the elderly couple were equally confused. Unable to focus their flagging attention on the dizzying scene, they locked their gazes on to the one carriage that stood immediately before them. From this a horse dealer alighted, followed by a tall woman with her husband, whom they didn't recognise. After them came two elderly gentlemen and finally a young couple, carrying their little son together in their arms as he slept sweetly in a cheap, straw hat with green tassels. The carriage was now completely empty.