Life Is a Dream, page 5
Finedwell, too, felt a certain unease in finding himself at the corner table alone with the waiter and the pullet fricassee. Perhaps he had missed his final opportunity of making peace with his opponent … Who can foretell the fickle ways of fate? Perhaps it would have been better to work as an editor for the Salon Almanack if it meant surviving tomorrow?
‘I told you I wanted a rooster,’ Finedwell said to the solicitous waiter who, for lack of other customers, stood by the reporter’s side and watched in apparent amazement as the dead man took one bite after another from the chicken drumstick.
Janos did not reply for he had nothing to say, so Finedwell went on, grumpily: ‘You can’t get good service even at Kerschantz’s any more. Things being as they are, the only alternative is to stop going to restaurants. I, thank God, will have the best of reasons for staying away. Bang!’ yelled Finedwell, raising a salt stick to his temple.
‘Bang!’ the little waiter repeated and sidled away from the customer as if he had misgivings about standing near him.
Finedwell, deprived of a conversational partner, was left alone with his depressing thoughts.
We shall not attempt to describe these thoughts but merely note that prominent among them was the image of a galloping bay mare ridden by a horseman wearing pinstriped trousers and a top hat; the inscription under the framed picture was: ‘Life Flies By’. Wouldn’t it be wiser for him, Finedwell, to be flying as well, instead of stepping in front of the deadly pistol barrel?
He had already kneaded a respectable number of pellets from breadcrumbs on the table when the door opened once more, again admitting visitors for Finedwell.
I seem to bring business to this tavern, Finedwell reflected, recognizing the newcomers as the two gentlemen he had requested to be his seconds. They had nothing to do with journalism but were so-called gentlemen of leisure. Seeing them gave Finedwell such a painful spasm in the region of his diaphragm that it took a determined effort to hold down the food just consumed. Every single nerve fibre seemed to be jangling, a deathly cold shiver ran over his whole body and his face froze at the sight of these two men who now greeted him cheerfully, announcing they had looked for him ‘all over town’, until told at the editorial office that if the journalist was not at this tavern then he must have fled the city.
‘Who would say such a thing?’ asked Finedwell somewhat absent-mindedly, as if beginning to think that skipping town was not such a bad idea.
‘Aladar Szolyvai,’ replied one of the men.
This Aladar Szolyvai had been Finedwell’s perennial rival ‘at the paper’, who resented that the latter’s name appeared in print more often than his own.
‘Well, Szolyvai lied again, as so many times before!’ exclaimed the journalist with a well-timed burst of outrage that restored his spirits for the moment.
‘But others have voiced similar opinions,’ chimed in the other duelling second. ‘They say that Titusz Finedwell is not waiting out the hour of the duel but is running away from the capital. Alas, that would make no sense whatsoever, since the colonel’s friends, all army officers, are obliged to hunt you down anywhere in the world and hack you into smithereens, according to their code of honour.’
The man who said this was a lanky, pockmarked, big-nosed gentleman who spoke with a Slovakian accent. In civilian life he was a painter, but his name was cited more often in connection with duelling affairs than pictures at an exhibition. He spent the greater part of his life at various restaurant tables where he entertained the assembled company by telling horrifying tales of duels. For the past two decades he had something to do with just about every duel fought in Hungary.
The other second was a most dangerous manikin with a hunchback, whose pale face with its thin black beard, ever-present dinner jacket and tall cylindrical hat, pair of double-barrelled pistols carried in his pockets, sword-cane, large hunting knife in a vest pocket, and provocative behaviour were notorious all over the capital wherever affairs of honour were at stake.
The hunchback was a figure straight out of a novel. Noticing Finedwell’s umbrella-cane in the corner he eyed it contemptuously. ‘One slash of my sword-cane would crack that parson’s stick in two. That sort of thing is only suitable for a mild-mannered parish priest,’ he announced and placed his own stick, clattering with steel, as far as possible from Finedwell’s proud possession.
As regards his profession, the hunchback was a teacher of stenography, but he had little time for teaching because his friends all ‘dumped on him’ their affairs of honour. His name was Steepletippy, and he boasted that this extraordinary name had been bestowed on the family by Queen Maria Theresa herself.
Steepletippy took up a position with his back to the wall after looking left and right to ascertain from which direction some treacherous attack might be expected, be it an assault by a drunk, the approach of a bully, some unexpected insult, or a slap in the face. This man was always prepared for the event that some place, some time, he would get a beating. After seating himself, he pulled one of his pistols from a pocket, then the other one, and made sure they were loaded.
‘We are dealing here with the National Casino, and we know that their arms are far-reaching,’ said the diminutive duelling second in a muffled voice, his eyes, those of a consumptive, flashing enigmatically. ‘I do not presume any unchivalrous behaviour on your part, gentlemen, but we can never be certain if some servitor, some lackey, some waiter or footman or coachman might not decide to take vengeance with his own hands, in his master’s name? … Hm, what do you say, Loczi, am I not right? The other day that fat editor who wrote all that unpleasantness about a count’s mistress was badly beaten up by street porters who hang around in the neighbourhood of the Casino.’
The pockmarked gentleman named Loczi nodded in assent, for he did not like to argue over inconsequential details. He loved discussing duels, not brawling coachmen. So Loczi, in his Slovakian accent, went on with the story heard probably more than once by Steepletippy (with whom he was seen night and day in various restaurants), a story that he had begun to tell on the way here:
‘As I was saying, the wound seemed lethal. Upon my word of honour, I wouldn’t have given a plugged nickel for Count Pinchy’s life, for Count Bimby’s bullet had perforated the liver. The liver of a high-liver … Meanwhile those autumn flies never let up pestering me like mad, the stables were near the site of the duel … We had to go in search of a priest so Count Pinchy could die a good Catholic … You know I always cared about religion, my uncle was a dean in Rosemont … But I’m telling you those flies were unstoppable … ’
‘Those flies can be devils,’ admitted Steepletippy, now that Loczi spiced up the oft-told tale with this new motif of the flies. He had never mentioned flies before, Mr Loczi, and flies do like to harass duellers.
The gentlemen were soon done with their business at the tavern, as if they had come expressly to make sure that Finedwell had not fled from town. They were not true pub-crawlers, who are content to spend hour upon hour in slow tippling and silent reverie at a tavern. No, these two were merely visitors, who went to taverns only for the sake of daily arguments, and once there, cared not a whit about what they ate or drank, minding only what was said. They would have sat around in a tavern forever, if it were a matter of relating some heroic adventure, especially if they were able to weave themselves into the ramifications of the narrative.
The melancholy journalist did not seem to be a properly appreciative audience, for he was almost uncivilly inattentive during Loczi’s recital, likewise ignoring the signals sent his way by the little stenography professor’s twitching, scary eyebrows. Titusz remained distracted even when Loczi at last came to the conclusion that Count Pinchy’s unexpected survival was in fact attributable to the intervention of his, Loczi’s, uncle, the parish priest of Rosemont, of whom it was said in the Uplands that none of those who received his extreme unction ever died.
(‘By the way, what is your religion?’ asked Steepletippy abruptly, not without a certain suggestiveness.
‘Roman Catholic,’ replied the journalist apathetically.
‘You could have told us earlier,’ said the duelling second, with an air of mystery.)
… But just as the two men were making serious preparations to leave their distracted listener, the journalist exclaimed: ‘Allow me to accompany you, wherever you’re going’ said T. F., putting on his green Tyrolean hat and grabbing his umbrella-cane as if this equipment were meant to validate his appearance in high society.
The hat and the umbrella-cane must have had some effect on the duelling seconds, because after they exchanged glances Steepletippy announced: ‘Very well, my good friend, I don’t mind, you may come with us. We have a meeting at the Café Orfeum with some country squires who want to consult us about conducting an affair of honour somewhere in western Hungary. So don’t hold it against us if we can’t keep you company.’
The city’s finest hansom cab awaited them in front of the tavern, for in those days duelling seconds rode in two-horse cabs to conduct their business about town. Possibly some of the passers-by crossed themselves seeing this splendid cab speed about with the solemn-looking passengers inside, and the better-informed men-about-town right away started the guessing game about the identity of the man whose affair made Mano drive at such insane speed back and forth on Crown Prince and Vaci Streets, with the pockmarked painter sending greetings to one side of the street and Steepletippy ceremoniously doffing his top hat towards the other, even if there were no acquaintances passing that way – he made sure just in case, because the gentleman in the cab must always be the first in greeting.
But it was night now, and the two duelling seconds did not mind that the humble journalist nimbly clambered up on the box next to the driver, not wanting to inconvenience the gentlemen seated inside the fiacre. The steeds of the carriage stopped at a barely perceptible tug of the reins in front of the night café, bathed in mysterious lights as the portly doorman, clad in a hussar’s uniform, rushed forth as one greeting long-awaited guests.
The air was fresh and mild even in the entrance hall, without any of the unpleasant smells associated with vulgar cafés-chantants – only a faint perfume lingered in the air as if some fashionable music-hall diva had just flitted across the hall, graciously lowering her swan’s-down opera cloak to accommodate the attendants. The grey beard of the leader of the band was draped over his violin as if he were coaxing the soft, meditative French-style chansons out of his curly strands.
Formerly, as a ‘budding journalist’ attending ‘the school of life’, Finedwell had been a frequent visitor to this place, but ever since the Café Ferenci had opened, with its more relaxed and cheerful atmosphere – as Titusz ‘grew older’ and placed less emphasis on his clothes – he was seen less often at this elegant establishment. Who would want to don a tail-coat night after night and tell lies about all the fancy soirées he’d been to earlier in the evening? That was for greenhorns, not for an old hand such as himself, who was, moreover, about to die.
… For this reason Finedwell did not even enter the inner sanctum of the coffee house but sat down in the outer wing where he intended to pass the time with a bottle of beer until his friends were done with their business inside. This part of the café was where the music-hall actors played pool, and several of them were seated at one of the marble-topped tables with their hats on, as if out here the atmosphere was freer than inside in the plush world of red velvets where the band was playing.
Well, well, although I wasn’t born a gentleman I will have to die as one, reflected Finedwell for the second time this evening, as he sat at the corner table, letting his eyes rest on the game of billiards played by the music-hall comedy duo of Baumann and Gyarfas, and it occurred to him that these comics would keep on playing their game of billiards long after he was gone and buried with a bullet in his forehead or his heart – depending on which part the colonel preferred to aim at.
But his thoughts took a sudden turn for the better as he was greeted in rapid succession by the following individuals.
First, a tall horse dealer, whose moustache twirled to a point made him look like a supercilious person, but here he was, contented with passing the boredom of nocturnal hours by marking, on a blackboard, the billiards score for the two comedians. Next, an equally lanky waiter with a dyed moustache who emerged from the fairyland of the café’s inner regions to greet Finedwell, about whose upcoming drama he had read in the papers.
Then came Karolin Turf, the flower seller, formerly mistress of aristocrats, who now in her old age said to the journalist: ‘Here, take this flower, it’s my present to you.’ The manager of the café, who had the look of a lieutenant in civilian clothes, bowed as deeply before the journalist as he would have for a millionaire. And finally, the keeper of the cloakroom, with a pin between her lips and a hat-check ticket in her hand, ready to take charge of Titusz’s appurtenances, but not daring to touch the umbrella-cane laid across the table …
Returning these greetings, Finedwell realized that here he sat in the café with his hat still on, that swine-gelder’s hat which had thus far worked its magic everywhere he showed up with it. In the gilt-framed mirrors he was able to enjoy several views of the hat, with the chamois-beard fanning out in the back.
Perhaps, after all, I will accomplish something in life yet, reflected Finedwell, although my life may not last another twenty-four hours, if we really think about it.
But now, just as Finedwell was tempted by glum thoughts, fate again intervened to make him forget his sorrows for another spell. It so happened that a blonde and well made-up female head appeared at the doorway that partitioned the haut monde from the everyday, and the flirtatious smile sent by this lady’s head towards the melancholy journalist resembled those seen in the window displays of beauty parlours. On another occasion, seeing this made-up, expressionless doll’s face would have brought a suitably grave expression on Finedwell’s visage, but now, on this night, his fingers went to his hat and he saluted like an army officer. Seeing this, the lady stepped forth in the entirety of her splendour, as if some window display dummy at a fashionable Inner City couturier had set out, still wearing the sign ‘Latest Parisian Style!’ pinned on by a shop assistant. This was a fatuous and vicious female whom the journalist had known ever since the days when she had been called a scullery maid in the ‘night world’. Since then she had become the kept mistress of a wealthy furniture-maker, and thus it was as a lady of fashion that she inquired after the journalist who was to fight a duel on the morrow against the deadliest shot of the National Casino. It must have been the well-informed tall waiter who had betrayed to ‘Magnate’ Elza the fact that the journalist thus condemned to die was here in the outer passage of the café, making the fashion-plate beauty stir from her peacock-like display stance.
The lady had for some time scrutinized Titusz’s hat and umbrella-cane before making up her mind to approach the journalist’s table. But Finedwell, befitting his genteel accessories, eager to assist the Grand Dame of the Orfeum in her role, stood up and stepped toward ‘Magnate’ Elza, respectfully taking off his hat while adjusting his stride as if he were still a student at the small-town dancing school he had once attended – he approached the lady on tiptoe, but with the right amount of manliness.
‘Would you honour me by joining me at my table?’ the journalist asked, as if it were someone else speaking, someone who had been, unbeknownst to him, hiding inside him all along. Obviously this could only have been Kornel Abranyi, Junior, whom the journalist had idolized in his youth. Or it could have been Gyula Deri, dubbed ‘LeDeri’ by his colleagues, famous for his gallant adventures with the fair sex, even though the statuesque man of letters had carried only silver coins, and those in the upper pocket of his vest to prevent theft.
‘Let’s have some bubbly, Mademoiselle!’ exclaimed Titusz, escorting this paragon of beauty to his table where he used his hat to sweep cigarette ashes from the marble surface.
The champagne soon arrived, just as in old music-hall ditties, as the lady looked on with a waxen smile, since she was used to witnessing this ritual night after night. But Finedwell pressed his advantage: ‘Tell me, my dear Elza, what do I need to do so that for once in your life you’ll cheer up enough to give me a kiss?’
The belle of the Orfeum answered clumsily: ‘First of all, Mr Editor, put your hat back on, before you catch a head cold.’ Thus spake the swansdown-wrapped, silvery, silky and supernaturally dumb angel of the Orfeum and helped to adjust the journalist’s hat at a rakish tilt. Then, with hands that idleness made as white as the flesh of a walnut, she turned the brim down, as fashion dictated it that season.
The journalist and the star of the Orfeum Café appeared to be on most intimate terms by the time Steepletippy and company returned from the café’s inner sanctum to join their friend in the outer area. Egged on by Finedwell, ‘Magnate’ Elza had already dropped one fragile champagne flute full of bubbly to the floor, so that the janitor had to be summoned. The stylish quality of their principal’s partying did not fail to impress the duelling seconds. A person carousing in the company of ‘Magnate’ Elza could not be a nonentity. It began to dawn on them that their principal was a man of some stature, after all.
‘So you are done with your business here?’ inquired Titusz in a loud voice. ‘I trust it was a matter of life and death?’
Hearing this, the stony-faced female idol smiled in acknowledgement at the two gentlemen, as if she had long known them for their indomitable courageousness and heroic acts. Having downed a few glasses of wine, the pockmarked painter once more felt like launching into one of his epic tales, but Steepletippy, the dwarf, cut him short.
‘We had better instruct our friend Finedwell in how to behave himself at the duel tomorrow. If only to keep him from putting us to shame!’
