The Rebels by Sándor Márai Page B

fat. His breath is like the stink of a kitchen: it smells of lard and dishwater. Tibor’s mouth assumes that defiant suffering look.
    He has put the cards in his pocket.
    They watched each other carefully, bent over the table again, made eye contact with one brief last look, and immediately shifted their gaze. The waiter stood up and went to the door, turning on the lamps as he went. Guests were arriving. Two officers, then the town clerk. The Gypsies shuffled in.
     
     
     
    H AVAS STOPPED AT THE DOOR OF THE CUBICLE. Cigar ash was clinging to his crumpled and swollen waistcoat. He took the cigar holder from his mouth.
    Greetings, Amadé, he puffed, out of breath.
    Greetings, Emil.
    They turned to him.
    “Your servant, gentlemen,” said Havas. “My compliments.”
    “Soon be time for the May picnic,” said the one-armed one.
    They had discussed the May picnic in the afternoon. It had been the one-armed one’s idea, and was generally welcomed. They liked the thought of it and talked about the recent mild weather. They were bound to agree if the one-armed man thought of it. They would hold the picnic in the grounds of The Peculiar on top of the hill. They had already sent a messenger to inform the innkeeper. They had reasons for choosing The Peculiar. The one-armed one had had a very productive afternoon in town. Everything was ready. He had ordered lanterns, had spoken with the teaching staff and got most of the alumni to agree. The Peculiar was already green and leafy. They could always go inside if they needed to at night. Cost of ticket, five crowns. Those paying no school fees half price. Dear Guests Are Cordially Invited. Havas sat down with them. He made sucking noises with his cigar holder. He said a May picnic was a jolly good idea. The weather was good, quite summery. He himself had never liked outdoor parties. One sits down at night on damp grass, one’s rear chills down, it leads to looseness of the bowels. Havas would have preferred the party to be in the Petõfi café.
    “I went to nothing better than an ordinary state school,” he said with satisfaction, “but I have no hesitation in commending the Petõfi. It’s not much to look at. It’s a single-story building with a not particularly attractive entrance. But inside, gentlemen, a man can feel at home. The proprietor spent four years in jail for pimping. That was in peacetime. So he made mistakes. So what? It’s like being at home. I have even danced on the billiards table there. Should anyone wish to dance on the billiards table I propose the Petõfi café. A bottle of reservé costs eight crowns.”
    He gazed sleepily in front of him. The actor finished eating.
    “No news from your dear father?” the pawnbroker asked Tibor.
    His voice was deferential and respectful. Amadé stared at his plate. Ábel raised his head and sneaked a look at Tibor. The one-armed one looked bored. Tibor moved. He made as if to leap to his feet.
    No news, he said.
    “A hero,” Havas declared. “The colonel is a hero. The hero of Valjevo.”
    He drew his chair closer to the table.
    “Now here’s a remarkable thing, gentlemen, for young Lajos is a hero too. The hero of Isonzo. And now young Master Tibor too will have the opportunity of showing what he can do. A heroic family.”
    “That’s enough, you old fool,” said Ernõ.
    The pawnbroker gave a forced laugh. They breathed a little more easily. Ernõ was the only one who dared talk to the pawnbroker like this. The pawnbroker was a friend of Amadé. When people met the pawnbroker they tended to avert their eyes.
    The pawnbroker was professional and polite in his official capacity. The article please. Write it down, miss: a lady’s gold pocket watch, 80 grams, estimated value 120, deposit 100, less handling and interest 4.60, there we are 95.40. Next please. He did not look up. He didn’t even look up when Tibor brought him the silver. The well-known Prockauer silverware, complete with monogram. Aristocratic