Albert related the story of his life to Sindbad at great length, a life which consisted chiefly of his love for Mrs Boldogfalvi. He could remember by heart the letters they had written to each other and, as you’d expect, recollect all the significant dates and days. He imputed extraordinary importance to the fact that come the evening Mrs Boldogfalvi would wait at the window of some regional manor house for him and would extend her hand for a kiss — as if she had never stood at a window before! They were very frightened of Mr Boldogfalvi and Polly often warned Albert that her husband would not hesitate to use his revolver if he ever suspected something.
Sindbad clapped his new friend on the shoulder. ‘My dear friend, I myself have often heard such stories from women’s lips. Indeed, they must love you a great deal if the various Messrs Boldogfalvi are prepared to shoot you. But this is only an example of false desire. Something that happens in novels.’
‘Ah, dear sir, I’m only young and have little experience of life,’ sighed Albert. ‘To tell you the truth, this was the first lady I had ever fallen mortally in love with. She said the same about me, what is more she swore I was the first …’
‘They sincerely believe it every time they say it,’ Sindbad murmured.
‘And it is your opinion that Polly has addressed other men as Milord since then?’
‘It is quite certain,’ answered Sindbad. ‘The magical power of women in Pest, and in Hungary at large, could only be broken if the oldest of men, those whom the medical profession had finally abandoned, formed a supreme tribunal to which every man worth his salt had to make a precise and honest statement about all his love affairs and every specific circumstance associated with them. Here they would recount the tricks and devices employed by certain women to draw them into their nets. They would report the words used when the women lied or told the truth on the first, second and subsequent meetings. So men would expose women before this supreme tribunaclass="underline" their natural history would slowly become known and the town would no longer be haunted by mysterious, secretive demons who torture stupid and inexperienced men to distraction. Should a man observe in himself a certain interest in a lady or discover that night after night, in the street or in his dreams, he can think of nothing but that woman’s name, he would apply to the tribunal and confess his desire. Then the old jurors would put their heads together and consult their records of other men’s confessions and advise the troubled youth appropriately. Those old confessions would serve as useful reference points. In any case, it would help to uncover the secret of women’s success more thoroughly than is usually done nowadays when every man is a potential victim. Until men are honest with each other they will never succeed in breaking the power of women.’
Albert listened carefully to what his friend told him then sighed deeply. ‘So, Mr Sindbad, you really think that in the heat of passion, Polly might have addressed other men as Milord?’
‘Why the devil not? A village girl turned grande dame would have learned such words somewhere along the line. For example, yesterday afternoon she addressed me as “dear sir“,’ smiled the great voyager.
‘You swine!’ cried Albert and leapt to his feet ready to assault Sindbad.
The voyager tenderly gestured for him to calm down.
‘It’s not worth it, my boy. On my word of honour, it is not worth it.’
The provincial young man sat for a long time after this, his lips twisted with pain and his eyes so full of fury that Sindbad decided there and then that should he ever find himself on a mountain top or at the edge of a cliff with only Albert as his companion, he would take great care not to be on the wrong side.
Later fury turned to tears. Albert rested his head on the table and sobbed like a child. ‘All those afternoons when she knelt before me, the miserable creature, and told me the most wonderful stories! She told me her whole life story — omitting only the fact that she had cheated me in the past and was cheating me in the present. Didn’t I ask her a hundred times to tell me who she had loved before she met me? Confess, my angel, after all it’s over and done with. Whose head did you cradle in your arms, in whose ears did you whisper these same beautiful words? What other lovers have you regaled with stories of your childhood, your girlfriends and your acquaintances in these hours of pleasure? Who did you talk politics with? To whom did you confess your dreams or unburden your heart when you were depressed? With whom did you discuss your plans for a wonderful future, a quiet life, a little house on the riverbank or in a distant village or a city square with lots of good books, handsome powerful dogs, a pony for riding and an old friend to come visiting on spring evenings? Every time she answered that I was the first. She told me she had never said “I love you“ to anyone else …’
Sindbad stroked the unhappy young man’s hair. ‘Come along, Milord. It’s night. I know a friendly house nearby where the lady of the house is a wise old woman, an old sweetheart of mine, and so respectable you can tell her all your cares and woes. She has three young daughters of marriageable age. They usually make music in the evening and they sing and talk politics. Here you can forget your troubles a while, Milord. One of the daughters looks precisely as Mrs Boldogfalvi did in her youth.’
‘But what about her soul?’ sighed Albert.
‘As pure as a child’s!’
‘Mrs Boldogfalvi’s was far from pure, and it was just that I liked in her,’ Albert replied and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down over his tear-filled eyes. Then clutching Sindbad’s arm he left the dining room.
It was night: an owl sat on the dead sumach tree and the music had died away by the time a lone Sindbad ambled home down roads near the old church and in the light of the moon hiding behind the clouds The Bear resembled nothing so much as a chalet on a Swiss postcard.
‘Lord,’ thought Sindbad, ‘give me untroubled dreams and a quiet night. Stop my ears against words poured into it by women. Help me forget the scent of their hair, the strange lightning of their eyes, the taste of their hands and the moist kisses of their mouths. Lord, you who are wise, advise me when they are lying, which is always. Remind me that the truth is something they never tell. That they never do love. Lord, up there, far beyond the tower, think occasionally of me, a poor, foolish man, an admirer of women, who believes in their smiles, their kisses, their tickling and their blessed lies. Lord, let me be a flower in that garden where lonely women retreat in the knowledge that no one’s by. Let me be a lantern in the house of love where women mutter and babble and sigh the same old words. Let me be the handkerchief into which they weep their false tears. Lord, let me be just a gatepost ladies pass light-heartedly while clinging to the arms of their suitors. Lord protect me, never let me fall into the hands of women.’
Having said this, his hand firmly and sincerely clasped to his heart, he entered The Bear with quiet, thoughtful steps and went to bed.