There was no longer any movement at the front end of the train either. Most of the passengers were already handing their tickets to the inspector at the gate, who kept repeating:
“Tickets, please. Tickets.”
Luggage was being wheeled away on trolleys.
“I can't see her,” said Ákos.
The woman made no reply.
If only to steady herself, she then said in an undertone:
“Perhaps she missed it and will come tomorrow.”
Had these doubts lasted a second longer, it would have been the end of them both.
But far away in the darkness, with a wavering, almost ducklike waddle, a woman was approaching. She wore a black oilskin hat, not unlike a swimming cap, and a long, almost ankle-length, transparent, waterproof cape. In her hand she held a cage.
They stared at her blankly. Terrified of another disappointment, they didn't dare believe it was she. They didn't recognise the oilskin hat, nor the waterproof cape. As for the cage which the woman, who had no other luggage, swung in her right hand, and at times raised up to her chest, this they simply couldn't understand.
The woman was hardly four or five paces from them when Mother glimpsed the outline of a porter behind her, carrying the brown canvas suitcase, bulging at both sides. Then she saw the wicker travel basket too, bound with packing twine, and the flask, the water flask, and, on the porter's shoulder, the white striped woollen blanket. Yes, yes, yes!
She cried out frantically:
“Skylark!” and, almost beside herself, rushed to embrace her daughter.
Father let out the same cry:
“Skylark!” And he too held the girl in his arms.
But while they were thus united, abandoning themselves entirely to their delight, a third voice called out too, farther off in the darkness, a derisive, nasal echo, rather like a cat's miaow.
“Skylark!'
It was one of those mischievous urchins who, for a couple of pennies, would carry people's bags into town. He had witnessed the theatrical outburst from a freight wagon and, finding the scene thoroughly amusing, had imitated the poor couple's voices, before quickly ducking out of view.
All three of them woke with a start from the spontaneous joys of reunion. The smiles froze on their faces.
Skylark strained her eyes towards the station building, but saw no one either on the platform or on the track. She thought she must have been mistaken and acted as if she hadn't heard. She walked on with her mother, who slipped her arm into hers.
Ákos trudged along behind with the porter. But more than once he glanced towards the wagon, his eyes piercing the darkness. He recognised that voice. It sounded like all the others, only more brazen and blunt. At one point he even stopped and took a few steps into the night towards it. But he soon turned back. Instead he swiped the air with his umbrella, dealing it one almighty blow, clearly meant for the insolent youth. Then he caught up with the two women.
Skylark was in fine spirits, witty and jovial.
“My dear parents aren't even pleased to see me. Well, well, they don't even recognise their own daughter.”
“Of course we do,” said Mother. “It's just that hat.”
“Doesn't it suit me?'
“Yes. Only it's so unfamiliar.”
“It's a bit on the tight side. It flattens my hair,” she said, straightening her hair with her free hand. “It's from Aunt Etelka. The cape too. So that I shouldn't get drenched.”
“It's a lovely cape.”
“Isn't it just?'
“Yes. Only it makes you different. So interesting. So independent.”
“Aunt Etelka said so, too.”
“And this?'
“Oh, yes. The cage.”
“What is it?'
“A pigeon.”
They reached the exit. Skylark again raised the cage to her heart and, while Ákos handed her ticket to the inspector, who was more than ready to go home, she coddled and cossetted her darling bird.
“Tubi. He's called Tubica. I won't let anyone take my Tubica. I'm taking my Tubica home myself.”
Outside the station, Father wanted to flag down a hackney carriage. But Skylark caught his arm and wouldn't let him. The unnecessary expense. Besides, the walk would do them good after so much sitting. The porter could carry the luggage.
Ákos gave the man the umbrella. From beneath his heavy load, the porter kept peering back to see how far they had fallen behind.
It was no longer raining and the wind had died down. Only occasional drops shuddered down from the branches of the acacias by the side of the road.
They ambled slowly on between rows of poplars.
Skylark walked in the middle, Mother and Father on either side. Father carried the flask, in which water still slopped to and fro, and the white striped woollen blanket. He gazed at the ground, lost in thought, and didn't hear a word his wife and daughter said. Again he tugged nervously at his left shoulder, carrying his invisible burden, of which he had spoken for the first time the day before. His face was affable, all the same, and he was visibly pleased by the reunion.
“So, what news?” Skylark asked her mother.
“Oh, nothing really. We were waiting for you, that's all. We missed you very much.”
They arrived at Széchenyi Square, whose usually dusty air had been swept clean by the rain. The houses stood side by side in speechless rows, curtains drawn, shutters and windows closed, looking more dwarfish than ever in the dwarfish night.
By now everyone was fast asleep. Bálint Környey slept, Priboczay slept, along with his plump wife and four exuberant rosebud daughters; Szunyogh slept, as did Mályvády, Zányi and Szolyvay; Judge Doba slept, in silence beside his lean, dark, wicked wife; Feri Füzes slept, still the perfect gentleman, smiling sweetly in his dreams, and all the other Panthers and good citizens of Sárszeg slept, including Mr Weisz, in a comfortable brass bed, and perhaps his partner too, albeit in a rather less comfortable brass bed, to be sure.
The Gentlemen's Club, whose first-floor windows would otherwise glow like banners of fire throughout the Sárszeg night, stood in mourning after the exploits of a Thursday night. Only from one window came a pale glimmer of light.
Here Sárcsevits, Sárszeg's guardian spirit, kept vigil beside an electric light, reading Le Figaro and advancing with the cultivated West, the enlightened peoples of Europe, on the relentless road to progress.
And someone else was still awake, too: Miklós Ijas, assistant editor of the Sárszeg Gazette.
After the theatre he had accompanied Margit Lator to her door, the actress to whom he was bound by such ephemeral ties as may properly bind a young, provincial poet to his muse. Sometimes he'd rest his head in her lap as she showered his chestnut mane with kisses before turning to his brow and lips. Now they had just had tea in the “mystical half-light” cast by the little blue lamp in the soubrette's single room, which she rented for five forints a month. Both of them dreamed endlessly of Budapest, and this drew them together. On such evenings as these, Ijas would rehearse the material of his reviews, praising Margit Lator's outstanding vocal range and maligning Olga Orosz. The woman — who, incidentally, was Papa Fehér's mistress, or rather the mistress of the Sárszeg Agricultural Bank — for her part listened patiently to Ijas's unpublished poems, which would remain in manuscript for many years to come. In a word, she appreciated him.
After this session, Ijas called in at the Széchenyi Café, where, since there was no music tonight, they were already putting out the lamps. He sat down at one of the dimly lit marble tables near the counter. As usual he ordered rum with his black coffee and smoked one cigarette after another. From the waiter's hand he snatched the latest number of József Kiss's fashionable literary journal, The Week, and thumbed it from cover to cover in search of the poem he had sent in months before, but always sought in vain. In his mind he dramatised this minor literary disappointment into a more general and deeply rooted fin-de-siècle melancholy, and, with an expression that said as much, he gazed out on the street. It was then he saw the Vajkays strolling past in a threesome, the station porter struggling on ahead.