while she filled his glass she took the weight off one foot and leaned with one hand on the table. She said something in her dark-toned Hungarian that was doubtless the equivalent of
“Prost”
or “Your very good health,” or perhapseven of some affectionate, motherly remark such as old women commonly bestow on soldiers.
The soldier lit a cigarette and drank deeply from his glass. Gradually the room began to revolve before his eyes; the fat proprietress hung somewhere at an angle in the air, the rusty old counter now stood on end, and the Hungarian, who was drinking sparingly, was cavorting about somewhere up near the ceiling like an acrobatic monkey. The next instant everything tilted the other way, the soldier gave a loud laugh, shouted
“Prost!”
, took another drink, then another, and lit a fresh cigarette.
The door opened and in came another Hungarian, fat and short, with a roguish onion face and a few dark hairs on his upper lip. He let out a gusty sigh, tossed his cap onto a table, and hoisted himself onto a chair by the counter. The woman poured him some beer …
The gentle chatter of the three at the counter was wonderful, like a quiet humming at the edge of another world. The soldier took another gulp of wine, put down his empty glass, and everything resumed its proper place.
The soldier felt almost happy as he raised his glass again, repeating with a laugh,
“Bitte schön!”
The woman refilled his glass.
I’ve had almost ten glasses of wine, the soldier thought. I’ll stop now, I’m so gloriously drunk that I feel almost happy. The green twilight thickened, the farther corners of the bar were already filled with impenetrable deep-blue shadows. What a crime, thought the soldier, that there are no lovers here. It would be a perfect spot for lovers, in this wonderful green-and-blue twilight. What a crime, he thought, as he pictured all those lovers somewhere out there in the world who had to sit around or chase around in the bright light, while here in the bar there was a place where they could talk, drink wine, and kiss …
Christ, thought the soldier, there ought to be music here now, and all these wonderful dark-green and dark-blue corners ought to be full of lovers—and I would sing a song. You bet I’d sing a song. I feel very happy, and I would sing those lovers a song, then I’d really quit thinking about the war; now I’m always thinking a little bit about this damn war. Then I’d quit thinking about it altogether.
He looked closely at his watch: seven-thirty. He still had twenty minutes. He drank long and deep of the dry, cool wine, and it wasalmost as if someone had given him stronger spectacles: now everything looked closer and clearer and very solid, and he felt himself becoming gloriously, beautifully, almost totally drunk. Now he saw that the two men at the counter were poor, either laborers or shepherds, in threadbare trousers, and that their faces were tired and terribly submissive in spite of the dashing mustache and the wily onion look …
Christ, thought the soldier, how horrible it was back there when I had to leave, so cold, and everything bright and full of snow, and we still had a few minutes left and nowhere was there a corner, a wonderful, dark, human corner where we could have kissed and embraced. Everything had been bright and cold …
“Bitte schön!”
he shouted to the woman; then, as she approached, he looked at his watch: he still had ten minutes. When the woman started to fill his half-empty glass, he held his hand over it, shook his head with a smile, and rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “Pay,” he said, “how many pengös?”
He very slowly took off his jacket, slipped off the handsome gray turtleneck sweater, and laid it beside him on the table in front of the watch. The men at the counter had stopped talking and were looking at him, the woman also seemed startled. Very carefully she wrote a “14” on the tabletop. The soldier placed his
“Prost”
or “Your very good health,” or perhapseven of some affectionate, motherly remark such as old women commonly bestow on soldiers.
The soldier lit a cigarette and drank deeply from his glass. Gradually the room began to revolve before his eyes; the fat proprietress hung somewhere at an angle in the air, the rusty old counter now stood on end, and the Hungarian, who was drinking sparingly, was cavorting about somewhere up near the ceiling like an acrobatic monkey. The next instant everything tilted the other way, the soldier gave a loud laugh, shouted
“Prost!”
, took another drink, then another, and lit a fresh cigarette.
The door opened and in came another Hungarian, fat and short, with a roguish onion face and a few dark hairs on his upper lip. He let out a gusty sigh, tossed his cap onto a table, and hoisted himself onto a chair by the counter. The woman poured him some beer …
The gentle chatter of the three at the counter was wonderful, like a quiet humming at the edge of another world. The soldier took another gulp of wine, put down his empty glass, and everything resumed its proper place.
The soldier felt almost happy as he raised his glass again, repeating with a laugh,
“Bitte schön!”
The woman refilled his glass.
I’ve had almost ten glasses of wine, the soldier thought. I’ll stop now, I’m so gloriously drunk that I feel almost happy. The green twilight thickened, the farther corners of the bar were already filled with impenetrable deep-blue shadows. What a crime, thought the soldier, that there are no lovers here. It would be a perfect spot for lovers, in this wonderful green-and-blue twilight. What a crime, he thought, as he pictured all those lovers somewhere out there in the world who had to sit around or chase around in the bright light, while here in the bar there was a place where they could talk, drink wine, and kiss …
Christ, thought the soldier, there ought to be music here now, and all these wonderful dark-green and dark-blue corners ought to be full of lovers—and I would sing a song. You bet I’d sing a song. I feel very happy, and I would sing those lovers a song, then I’d really quit thinking about the war; now I’m always thinking a little bit about this damn war. Then I’d quit thinking about it altogether.
He looked closely at his watch: seven-thirty. He still had twenty minutes. He drank long and deep of the dry, cool wine, and it wasalmost as if someone had given him stronger spectacles: now everything looked closer and clearer and very solid, and he felt himself becoming gloriously, beautifully, almost totally drunk. Now he saw that the two men at the counter were poor, either laborers or shepherds, in threadbare trousers, and that their faces were tired and terribly submissive in spite of the dashing mustache and the wily onion look …
Christ, thought the soldier, how horrible it was back there when I had to leave, so cold, and everything bright and full of snow, and we still had a few minutes left and nowhere was there a corner, a wonderful, dark, human corner where we could have kissed and embraced. Everything had been bright and cold …
“Bitte schön!”
he shouted to the woman; then, as she approached, he looked at his watch: he still had ten minutes. When the woman started to fill his half-empty glass, he held his hand over it, shook his head with a smile, and rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “Pay,” he said, “how many pengös?”
He very slowly took off his jacket, slipped off the handsome gray turtleneck sweater, and laid it beside him on the table in front of the watch. The men at the counter had stopped talking and were looking at him, the woman also seemed startled. Very carefully she wrote a “14” on the tabletop. The soldier placed his
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