Life Is a Dream, page 2
Life can be strange, reflected the Colonel of the Casino, catching a glimpse of the tavern-keeper’s wife who must have just risen from her afternoon nap, and waddled across the taproom to check on her husband before doing anything else. Would she catch him in some heinous act that she could seriously reproach him about tonight in the privacy of the bedroom?
‘My little chickadee!’ shouted the hefty tavern-keeper, noting his wife’s stealthy approach in those silent and indestructible felt slippers. He snatched the red-tasselled skullcap off his head (a thing he never did for anyone else), and waved it in the air. ‘My little chickadee!’ he shouted again, and slammed a card thunderously on to the table, as winners like to do. This slam was no doubt intended to set things right concerning his wife’s afternoon dream, for these afternoon dreams of housewives may portend perils untold. At times they can dream the truth and once that happens no amount of kisses will restore their former good spirits. Usually it is jealousy that rouses these publicans’ wives who nap in the afternoon, so that they leap out of bed with their sensible shoes half pulled on, hoping to catch the husband making love to the serving girl. No matter how respectable a tavern-keeper’s past, he may boast of a father and mother who had instilled the best of family morals in him – all the same, the world has never known a tavern-keeper whose wife’s jealousy was not justified. Although it is not easy for a publican to absent himself from his premises in order to pursue some shameful passion! It is most difficult for him to wander off to some other pub to carouse on credit, as a member of the trade, after the wife sequesters his wallet at night! And it’s next to impossible, isn’t it, for a well-known tavern-keeper to get entangled in amorous adventures in his own neighbourhood, for this is bound to have a bad effect on his business! And so tavern-keepers’ wives the world over lay their heads to rest in the afternoon amidst great unease. And that is why the proprietor of the Grey Arabian, sitting among his pals, slammed his card down so hard, upon seeing the approach of his wife.
The Colonel, too, sized up the tavern-keeper’s wife. She was a phenomenon indeed, whom every guest had the right to look over, entertaining notions mild or wild. The Colonel entertained the following thoughts regarding her:
– This woman no doubt has her points, although it would be folly to compare her to Countess Denise or any of my other acquaintances. None the less, one would like to see more specimens of her type among the women of common folk and the middle class …
As we can see, the Colonel was subject to the occasional onrush of arrogance, whenever he recalled his own destined role. After all, this very afternoon he had to execute a man who in a newspaper article had insulted the Casino … But now a nerve stirred in the region of his vest pocket, a nerve he had hitherto known precious little about, and once again he was seized by an abominable hunger. Had the Colonel been superstitious, he might have suspected some special warning at work. But he was not a superstitious man and therefore his eyes reverently followed each move made by the tavern-keeper’s wife, movements that were becoming quite sprightly, once she had ascertained her husband was surrounded by his card cronies and not by a bevy of kitchen maids. No greater shame can befall a housewife than her husband deceiving her with her own serving girl. In this relieved mood of tolerance the tavern-keeper’s wife deigned to take notice of the unfamiliar customer’s nodding salutations.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked, after the Colonel had nodded at her about ten times.
The Colonel, as if speaking in a dream under the vaulted ceiling of the Grey Arabian, replied: ‘Do not believe for a moment, my dear woman, that I am what my strange outfit indicates. I have quite a decent standing in society, but circumstances at the moment compel me to show myself in the apparel of an ordinary citizen. I repeat, my good woman, that’s all there is to it: I simply do not want to be recognized prematurely, before I settle an affair with a certain gentleman at a certain location in this neighbourhood.’ And the Colonel pointed in a direction that the tavern-keeper’s wife could hardly be expected to guess was the military barracks on Ulloi Road.
She reached into an apron pocket and rattled her keys impatiently. ‘If there’s something you want maybe you should speak to my husband,’ she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, and she was already on her way in her felt slippers.
But the Colonel pressed on: ‘This matter, my personal business, concerns solely you, madam,’ he announced, suddenly decisive. ‘I would like to eat something that in my opinion can only be found here at the Grey Arabian.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘I beg you not to laugh at my strange request. I feel like having a bit of stew left over from lunch, you know, from the bottom of the pot, with thick gravy. I don’t mind if it is slightly burned. I happen to hold that each dish is best at the bottom of the pot, where it’s cooked the longest. Don’t worry, I’ve got the money.’
‘Our guests prefer to have their stew early in the day,’ said the tavern-keeper’s wife, pronouncing the word as ‘stoo’.
‘You mean their stee-ew.’
‘Their stoo,’ countered the tavern-keeper’s wife. ‘I’ll see in the kitchen if we have any left over. We had beef stoo at noon.’
The Colonel’s eyes lit up, even though his bushy eyebrows had not experienced such a manifestation in years. After a short while the tavern-keeper’s wife called from the kitchen: ‘Janos, give this to the gentleman,’ and she slammed the window shut.
The plate served up by Janos’s stubby fingers indeed contained some leftover stew. It came in gravy as thick as stewed tomatoes. The meat was burned and consisted mostly of bony pieces that the proprietress would not have served to one of her regulars. After all, most likely she would never see this peculiar gentleman again. The Colonel inspected these bits of meat with special delectation. He used his fork to turn over some, especially the pieces that were most charred, as if he took greatest delight in these. The barman, with some condescension, lingered by the guest’s side for a while. This kind of food would not have pleased even the cab-drivers who happened to drop in here; they liked their food freshly prepared. The Colonel, after selecting a bony piece to his liking, shifted the meat about in his mouth, and just to be stylish, used his fingers to remove the bone sliver stuck between his teeth. Apparently he had made up his mind to degrade himself at all costs …
‘You know, Janos,’ he said, sucking on another bone, ‘I happen to love oysters, but today I had a strange craving to eat the kind of food consumed by a certain someone, somewhere, so that I could imagine myself in that fellow’s place. That’s right, I want to be just like that miserable nonentity who ought to be writing his last will and testament just about now, if he had any brains. Yes, I am eating this “stoo” as an act of penance. I’m asking for pardon in advance, I announce my intentions in advance, because I do not wish to be the cause of anything unexpected. A gentleman, before he slaps your face, gives warning that sooner or later you will receive a slap. Only a bandit strikes you treacherously from behind. I give the gentleman fair warning that this affair will end poorly for him. But now that his death is imminent, I lower myself to his level to make peace with him and do joint penance together with him, even though I am quite innocent …’
The barman was using a matchstick to delve into his ear; it seemed he had understood not a word of what the Colonel was saying. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to fight here. The boss can be very tough.’
The Colonel smiled under his moustache, as if to acknowledge that his disguise was working – no one had spotted him as a member of the Casino. He dropped the remaining piece of bread into the gravy and speared it with his fork: ‘I can see you know how to prepare the foundations of a stew here. I suspect you put tomatoes in the gravy, even though not everyone does that. The burned green peppers and potatoes are a nice touch. But the most intriguing part is that the dish tastes as if it had been waiting for quite some time for some cab-driver or other customer who for some reason or another could not come back for it. He’s probably standing around waiting on the street somewhere, under the eaves, staring at the faces of passers-by, amusing himself by trying to guess who among those pedestrians will be the next fare, in case the cab is not reserved. But fortunately the cab already has a customer, some chap who is courting a fair lady in an apartment upstairs, the number of which is none of the driver’s business. Don’t cab-drivers come in here anymore?’ inquired the Colonel.
The barman had no idea why he kept listening to this stranger, who under no circumstances would fit in among the regular customers. Nor could you say that he was here from the police to investigate something in the neighbourhood, for one can easily tell a police officer, if not by his behaviour then by his tone of voice.
The barman therefore had to condescend even more to answer the guest (who had finished the beer intended for the janitor). ‘Would you be wanting to sell a horse? The carriage owners generally show up here after six, on their way back from Franciscans Place, Gizella Place, or wherever their business takes them.’
The Colonel almost burst out laughing. It was indeed worthwhile to don disguise every once in a while, just to get to know the ‘common folk’. Crown Prince Rudolf had often been criticized at the Casino for not acting in a manner worthy of his title, but lo and behold, the Crown Prince was right after all to wear a disguise in order to mix among common folk. All he needed now was to be seen here at the Grey Arabian by Luczianovics, Wampetics, Muller, or any of the Casino’s other cab-drivers! There would be no end to the ribbing at the Club the next day! He laughed, but went on to wipe his plate clean of all traces of red gravy, using the last remnants of bread crust for this operation.
‘They say magnates eat a lot,’ he said, winking at the barman. ‘I do not know if I am permitted to go into the kitchen for a visit with Madame, for I am not familiar with her moods. But in any case I would like to know, is there by any chance a bit of leftover pork out there? Of course I mean cold roast pork, just an end piece, the stump, or “butt” as we like to put it. Just a bite or two, some small piece that cannot be sold as a full portion, but most welcome for an afternoon guest such as myself. I am sure that the rascal who’s condemned to die is used to eating something like that when he wakes up after a night of debauchery in his tenement room or dosshouse where people of his sort are likely to hang out. I am convinced that his stomach must be on fire, his head splitting, his eyes seeing double; perhaps even now he’s heading for the pawnshop to retrieve the overcoat borrowed from a friend.’
The guest of the Grey Arabian had undeniable good luck with everything that his untameable appetite conjured up on this day. The Colonel’s stomach, which had the same identical gourd shape as most other stomachs, somehow did not feel right today, manifesting nervous symptoms that affected even the Colonel’s disciplined mind. Why on earth did that stomach crave all sorts of victuals the Colonel usually never noticed, save on this day, when the Colonel’s good heart, pitying his impoverished opponent, made him lower himself, out of sheer chivalry, to imitate the other man’s humble way of life? No one should say the poor fellow had been snuffed out by some lord from on high in a plush box – but by someone who empathized with the trials of those less fortunate. The barman now returned bringing a piece of roast pork, an end part that was roasted to a turn, even singed a bit, featuring bones that tasked the teeth. Some like the nice and tender and even parts of the pork chop, but the Colonel, eager to identify in every way with his miserable opponent, was convinced that the other man could not afford a better piece of meat. He even asked for radishes and onions on the side, although he usually refrained from these pungent items.
‘I could have had elevenses at the Casino, perhaps some crayfish, they’re best during these months,’ the Colonel explained to the barman, who was gradually falling under the spell of this odd guest. ‘I happen to know Miss Finkelstein, who provides the crayfish for the Casino’s kitchen, and during my morning stroll at the market hall always tells me about the shellfish she delivered that day. Last week she informed me that in addition to the small crayfish caught in the river, that are best as stuffing or in soups, she had sent up to the Casino one unusually large specimen that had only one claw, sort of like a sword. And its tail was a veritable battle-axe. She advised me to keep tabs on this crayfish. I immediately proceeded to the Casino and laid claim to the single-clawed crayfish. Indeed, it proved a nice mouthful, accompanied by three of his smaller cohorts. The three smaller crayfish must have been members of the same family for they were all outstanding specimens. But none of them could compete with their elder. Well, you just have to keep your eyes peeled if you want to eat well. Am I right, Janos?’
The Colonel’s torrent of words would have confused even a far more significant individual than the barman of the Grey Arabian. As it was, the Colonel kept sawing away at the cold pork, then gnawed at the bone, in order to resemble as closely as possible that miserable person who was perhaps presently feeding in the same manner at some low dive, if indeed he was able to afford a meal. The Colonel was a benevolent man and would have gladly invited to lunch the poor wretch whom, in consequence of the Casino’s decision, he was scheduled to dispatch to the other world at six this afternoon; of course the man would have to sit at another table, for not even the kindest heart may transgress the rules in the code of chivalry. How often, for instance, must a gentleman in high society sit under the same roof with his deadly enemies … After all, one cannot create a scandal at every chance encounter. This leftover roast pork was truly well done, and the Colonel, while still eating, promised Janos that the next time he had business around here (and pointed over his shoulder) he would make sure to drop in at the Grey Arabian.
‘Alas, I am unable to tell you exactly when that would be,’ said the Colonel, cutting open a radish and attentively examining its texture. One could tell by the radishes that the Grey Arabian’s customers were connoisseurs, for every single radish he tried proved top grade. A light perspiration bedewed their ivory bellies that had not a trace of the brown worm that insidiously eats its way to a radish’s heart, nor were there any spongy, decaying parts, the sight of which is so discouraging for the lover of radishes, leading him to imagine there were no decent folks, or radishes, left in the world, because looks are deceptive, and even the most honest-looking fruit is rotten to the core. But the Colonel’s radishes did not deceive. Their insides delivered what their outsides promised: good health.
The Colonel munched on these radishes, food of the poor, the consumption of which had given occasion for many an amusing remark at the Grey Arabian as well as other, higher-class hostelries.
‘I like to eat oysters, too,’ remarked the Colonel during the ceremony of radish-eating, whereupon Janos began to eye this customer somewhat distrustfully: was the man trying to make a fool of him? ‘But today I feel compelled to abstain, and eat this penitential fare, because you must obey the voice of your conscience. Were I to shoot down that poor devil after a feast, high on French champagne, I might later reproach myself for having had an unfair advantage. In a carefree and reckless mood my victory would have to be a foregone conclusion, since luck is yours if you have pluck. As I was saying, I am quite in favour of oysters but I never eat more than a couple of dozen at a time. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine died after putting away twenty-eight oysters. Yes, twenty-eight, although they were the smaller kind. Now, your octopus is quite something else. The fishermen have to use axes to kill the bigger ones! The tentacles of an octopus, pickled in a sour sauce with plenty of onions, pepper and spices makes as wholesome a dish as any eel. Say, would you happen to have a small piece of salami around?’ the Colonel demanded rather anxiously, as if he had caught the scent of salami in the air. ‘I just want some end piece that’s been put aside because it’s too small to slice. A little end piece that’s tied with a string. Not everyone can chew that, but thank God my teeth are still pretty good, I believe I could bite a copper penny in half.’
By now the barman was completely in the Colonel’s power, swayed by some kind of magic spell cast by the stranger’s voice that he could have listened to all night. He only needed to check in the icebox. Yes, the icebox of a small tavern often contains these small sticks of salami, remnants that sometimes wait around for weeks until they find their connoisseur, while at other times they are taken right away by some cab-driver in a hurry who will pull them out of his coat pocket while waiting for a fare somewhere.
Thus the Colonel’s uncanny appetite led him all the way to a helping of sharp Liptauer cheese with a penetrating aroma, spread in thin slices on a salt roll; most cheeses are usually harder. He was about to conclude his meal when a hansom cab came to a spinning stop in front of the Grey Arabian and a pale-faced, lanky young man leaped out.
Had the Colonel possessed the least receptivity towards the way civilians dressed he would have surely noticed the recherché quality of the young man’s outfit. He wore a black cloak with a high lapel befitting the hero of a nineteenth-century novel. He also sported a Byronic shirt collar and lacework cuffs. His blue necktie had white polka dots and was loosely knotted about his neck, and his vest was an honest-to-goodness embroidered white vest. He seemed to have taken every item from the wardrobe of some theatre. Possibly on permanent loan. His legs were as spindly as some comedian’s. The tight black pants emphasized the thinness of these legs. His boots had effeminately high heels.
This ashen-faced young man burst into the premises as if looking for help. His frenzied features betrayed an insurmountable fear, as if he were trying to run away from something. His long hair tumbled over his forehead and ears. The face was smooth-shaven, passionate, yearning …
