The night blizzard and the icy compartment, the impenetrable darkness outside, the screeching, squeaking and groaning of the wheels like so many apprentice ghosts, the rattling of the chains, the choked puffing of the engine and the warmth of his fur coat had a soporific effect on Sindbad. He consulted his watch. It was getting on for ten. Back in Eperjes the coffee-house owner would have donned his little black cap, and his wife would have lain down in her lonely bed. She would be pulling off her stockings, and the cinders in the iron stove would be glowing like animal eyes. Now she’d be tucking her plumpish body under the duvet, blowing out the candle, stretching herself for a second — or perhaps longer — and the strange gentleman who cast such amorous glances at her that afternoon in the coffee-house would cross her thoughts. Might he have left town?
From behind the low stove there appeared the cloaked knight whose care it was to watch over the dreams of women’s rooms: silently he stepped forward, his ostrich-feathered cap perched on his head, and soon the woman’s white arm was hugging the pillow as tenderly as if it had been Sindbad’s neck.
The train was rumbling warily over the blasted and frozen plateau, fearing to disturb the dead lying beneath the snow-covered field. The wheels kept rolling. Whole hours might have gone by till eventually Sindbad gave a faint laugh and took leave of his first dream, the dream of the coffee-shop woman.
The train had stopped at a station. Beyond the carriage window snow was flying so fast one could be certain that somewhere, not too far off, wolves would be slinking along the highway towards the village in single file, their heads bent low. A lantern was being carried down the length of the platform in the dark, the voices of railworkers distant, faint, conspiratorial.
At last the chains rattled, the icy wheels screamed and the train trundled off again. As it left the midway station behind, Sindbad began to think of the slight figure of Paula with her dark hair. Where would he find her? And that dear little shoe of hers with the ribbon tied in a bow — what state would that be in now? Would the hair tucked behind her ears be clean and sweet-scented?
The winter afternoon, as if in recognition of the fact that these were red-letter days on the calendar, cast brilliant beams of pinky gold over the small border town under whose snow-covered roofs Sindbad was making his way past solidly frozen wooden bridges and niches from which carved stone saints peeked out, searching for the actress who went by the name of Paula. Yes, this is where the company of actors are staying and where night after night they gladden or sadden hearts at the Great Bercsényi inn.* Paula is the company’s ingénue, heroine and mother figure all rolled into one, and at this precise moment she is learning her lines, pacing a sunlit garden at the edge of town, where once upon a time the castle chapel used to stand, the chapel past which resolute-looking noblemen and ladies with finely arched feet would stroll from the castle into town. Paula, who doesn’t take lunch at the inn with the others, regards it as her favourite place — or so Sindbad was assured by the prompter, Pápai, an acquaintance of some three hundred years, for in his youth Sindbad frequently travelled to see performances in the country and would make a point of occupying the box nearest the stage. Pápai coughed, lisped and blew his nose into a large spotted handkerchief, then stuck a half-cigar between his teeth and tried vainly to strike a match against an old matchbox, but said nothing more of Paula.
Only at the end of the conversation did he append a comment of his own. ‘Really, I thought the gentleman would have learned a thing or two by now. Still chasing actresses?’ Then he pointed out the way to the garden. ‘You’ll pass three inns on the way. Turn up the lane after the fourth.’
There was the hillside and there indeed was the old garden, white with snow, a stout old matron playing the virgin. The miserly trees hide their thinning twigs under shrouds of snow, the bushes are bare and old before their time, the scrupulously clean snow-covered paths are patterned with footprints of foxes, rabbits and other innocent visitors. It is as if summer had never been — no lawn, no shrubbery, no lush overarching boughs. As if no one had ever wandered down these winding paths, no one from the old castle, no pink-faced courtiers with ladies on their arms (ladies in deerskin boots!), no one from the little town below, no seamstresses hanging on to excitable young students, no frightened but happy girls making their way to forbidden secret rendezvous with men waiting and twirling their moustaches under the chapel arches; no one at all except rabbits and more rabbits.
Everything was silent and pure and virginal, only an old rook flapped its black wings and trailed its brown shadow across the snow. Sindbad proceeded quietly, looking left and right, but the garden seemed empty, the ruins and the snow presenting a picture of eternal decay.
Then a dark shadow appeared from behind the castle. It was a woman in a long coat, with a little eagle-feathered cap on her head, eating something, dipping her fingers into a brown paper package. As soon as she saw Sindbad she hastened to stuff this into her handbag.
‘It’s Paula,’ thought Sindbad and began to walk rapidly towards her, while she stood chilled and motionless, and perhaps a little scared, in the middle of the path. There was anxiety written across her heart-shaped face, and her deep brown eyes fixed Sindbad with an almost tearful look of entreaty. Then suddenly she brightened and a timid, hopeful smile transformed her whole expression: it was as if two fireflies had raised their wings in the pupils of her eyes. One foot advanced from beneath the long coat and she took a step forward.
‘Good heavens, what are you doing here?’ she cried, looking him up and down.
Sindbad seized her hand, squeezed it, kissed her glove, then took her chin in his hand and gazed deep into that suffering and gently fading face which was the colour of pressed flowers. ‘Weren’t you waiting for me?’ Sindbad asked. ‘Didn’t you dream with me?’
‘I did dream once, last week or maybe it was yesterday. But I dream a lot of foolish things. I remember now: we were acting something together on stage and you, sir, were wearing a frock-coat with a big star on the left lapel. How did you get here?’
‘I dreamt you were dreaming with me, so I set out.’
‘You always had a ready way with words,’ answered the actress with a faint suppressed laugh.
‘I began to wonder what you were doing, and about your life in general since we last met. It’s a year now. Remember? We were cruising down the Danube, the stars were shining and the trees were thick on the shore. The captain was Serbian. He was in love with you.’
‘Joco.’
‘Not unrewarded, I trust? …’
‘What do you think I am… I never saw him after that. After all I was yours then.’
‘I loved you very much.’
Paula bowed her head a little and stared at the snow. ‘Happy creature, how easy it is for you to say that. If only we poor women could afford to say such things!’
‘I’m here. Isn’t that enough? I’ve come to you because I wanted to kiss your hand. Let me look at you. Turn around. Let me examine you from head to foot. Hm. You’ve not changed at all.’
‘I am often unwell.’
‘Your figure is as it was, neat and graceful … Let me smell your hair! Show me your shoes and your stockings! You ought to wear finer gloves. The little ribbon about your neck is charming.’
‘No one takes any notice of me.’
‘You have no sweetheart?’
The actress half-closed her eyes, then, suddenly maternal, stroked Sindbad’s arm. ‘You fool. Do you think it was so easy to forget you?’