know.”
“And him?'
“Don't know him either.”
Beside them sat a group of army officers, recently returned from the garrison at Bilek.
The dashing young men munched crusty rolls between their strong white teeth and lifted anchovies with their toothpicks from the oily depths of narrow tins. Ákos observed them gloomily. As soon as they began to laugh, he lowered his gaze. Their glances offended him. They belonged to a world of happy households, eligible daughters and handsome dowries; a world so very different from his own. To disguise the discomfort he felt whenever they turned his way, he picked up the menu and read it wearily from top to bottom.
In a far corner of the restaurant, beside a potted palm tree and beneath a portrait of Franz Josef dressed in Hungarian military garb, sat a larger gathering, who lunched here every day at noon. The waiters swarmed around them, bowing and scraping eagerly. Chewing at spicy sausages and knuckles of pork, they knocked back one mug of beer after another. Here Ákos recognised two more acquaintances. One was their family physician, Dr Gál, a short-sighted man who divided his time, in the most fashionable of circles, between the Café, the restaurant and the theatre. Exactly when he found time to see his patients remained a mystery. The other was Priboczay, the quiet, convivial pharmacist, who took his place at table as the Panthers’ deputy president. He sat passively nodding his head, whose thinning fair hair had lost its lustre years before but still refused to go grey and shone a pale lilac colour as if it were dyed.
But the cream of Sárszeg society were also present.
Papa Fehér, manager of the local branch of the Agricultural Bank; Prosecutor Galló, who had already delivered his stern indictment speech against the heinous Swabian highwayman; and many others.
Feri Füzes had settled the conditions for the duel, and very grave they were, too. Gentleman that he was, he spoke of this to no one–apart from Dr Gál, whom he drew to one side at the corner of the long table, where, grinning more broadly than ever, he announced that two gentlemen would be crossing swords at dawn, at the accustomed spot in Sárszeg forest, and that the good doctor might care to stand by with his surgical instruments at the ready. To the finish, naturally, to the finish.
The door swung open every five minutes, and the new arrival would disappear into this billowing gathering of men.
Just after one o'clock, when school had finished, the teachers began to arrive: Mályvády, the maths and physics master, and Szunyogh, the Latin teacher.
Dr Gál instructed the latter to sit down beside him at once. Without uttering a word he clasped Szunyogh's wrist between his forefinger and thumb, and, holding his gold pocket watch in his left hand, began earnestly taking the teacher's pulse.
Poor Szunyogh was already in a wretched state. Some two years earlier he had begun to exhibit the unmistakable symptoms of delirium tremens, and his family had carted him off to a sanatorium. There he made a slight recovery, but as soon as he was out again he slumped back into his old illness.
There was a time when he had shown prodigious talent, but in Sárszeg he had surrendered himself to the bottle and become a notorious alcoholic. His students whispered that he kept a hip flask in his pocket and would dash out into the corridor during lessons to take a swig or two. For months now he had been unable to sleep; he could never get warm and, even throughout the summer, wore a thick overcoat and lined his shoes with cotton wool so his feet wouldn't freeze. His puffy cheeks and double chin glowed brick red, and his baby-blue eyes swam with tears. He was always drunk well before noon.
His ice-cold wrist trembled in the doctor's warm hand. He sat there in the restaurant, the collar of his winter coat turned up, gazing as sheepishly at the doctor as his students gazed at him.
Dr Gál pressed the lid of his pocket watch
“And him?'
“Don't know him either.”
Beside them sat a group of army officers, recently returned from the garrison at Bilek.
The dashing young men munched crusty rolls between their strong white teeth and lifted anchovies with their toothpicks from the oily depths of narrow tins. Ákos observed them gloomily. As soon as they began to laugh, he lowered his gaze. Their glances offended him. They belonged to a world of happy households, eligible daughters and handsome dowries; a world so very different from his own. To disguise the discomfort he felt whenever they turned his way, he picked up the menu and read it wearily from top to bottom.
In a far corner of the restaurant, beside a potted palm tree and beneath a portrait of Franz Josef dressed in Hungarian military garb, sat a larger gathering, who lunched here every day at noon. The waiters swarmed around them, bowing and scraping eagerly. Chewing at spicy sausages and knuckles of pork, they knocked back one mug of beer after another. Here Ákos recognised two more acquaintances. One was their family physician, Dr Gál, a short-sighted man who divided his time, in the most fashionable of circles, between the Café, the restaurant and the theatre. Exactly when he found time to see his patients remained a mystery. The other was Priboczay, the quiet, convivial pharmacist, who took his place at table as the Panthers’ deputy president. He sat passively nodding his head, whose thinning fair hair had lost its lustre years before but still refused to go grey and shone a pale lilac colour as if it were dyed.
But the cream of Sárszeg society were also present.
Papa Fehér, manager of the local branch of the Agricultural Bank; Prosecutor Galló, who had already delivered his stern indictment speech against the heinous Swabian highwayman; and many others.
Feri Füzes had settled the conditions for the duel, and very grave they were, too. Gentleman that he was, he spoke of this to no one–apart from Dr Gál, whom he drew to one side at the corner of the long table, where, grinning more broadly than ever, he announced that two gentlemen would be crossing swords at dawn, at the accustomed spot in Sárszeg forest, and that the good doctor might care to stand by with his surgical instruments at the ready. To the finish, naturally, to the finish.
The door swung open every five minutes, and the new arrival would disappear into this billowing gathering of men.
Just after one o'clock, when school had finished, the teachers began to arrive: Mályvády, the maths and physics master, and Szunyogh, the Latin teacher.
Dr Gál instructed the latter to sit down beside him at once. Without uttering a word he clasped Szunyogh's wrist between his forefinger and thumb, and, holding his gold pocket watch in his left hand, began earnestly taking the teacher's pulse.
Poor Szunyogh was already in a wretched state. Some two years earlier he had begun to exhibit the unmistakable symptoms of delirium tremens, and his family had carted him off to a sanatorium. There he made a slight recovery, but as soon as he was out again he slumped back into his old illness.
There was a time when he had shown prodigious talent, but in Sárszeg he had surrendered himself to the bottle and become a notorious alcoholic. His students whispered that he kept a hip flask in his pocket and would dash out into the corridor during lessons to take a swig or two. For months now he had been unable to sleep; he could never get warm and, even throughout the summer, wore a thick overcoat and lined his shoes with cotton wool so his feet wouldn't freeze. His puffy cheeks and double chin glowed brick red, and his baby-blue eyes swam with tears. He was always drunk well before noon.
His ice-cold wrist trembled in the doctor's warm hand. He sat there in the restaurant, the collar of his winter coat turned up, gazing as sheepishly at the doctor as his students gazed at him.
Dr Gál pressed the lid of his pocket watch
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