Sandor Marai - The Rebels

The actor continued his meal with patent satisfaction. Here’s to a good time tonight, he said, his mouth full.

A calendar hung in the enclosure. Ábel stared at the date: May seventeenth.

We’ll have a nice little haroosh, said the actor and chomped a little more.

Ábel slowly gathered up the cards one by one. Technical terms of the game. Bank, clear-out, castle, take one, flush, no flush. Ernõ never offered up a flush. The cards clicked in Havas’s hands. Who is Havas? The proprietor of the town pawnbroker’s shop. Why has he been dreaming about him for weeks on end now? He dreams that Havas enters the room, wipes his walrus mustache with the back of his hand, and unbuttons his collar in leisurely fashion. He is laughing so hard his eyes are quite lost in the folds of 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.

HAVAS 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 Prockauer. The actor had talked with him that morning. They were taking his mother into the hospital for two days, for tests. That was six months ago already: October 13, 1917. Date elapsed: April 13, 1918. Write it down, miss. One set of silverware for 24, 22 kilograms, with monogram. Estimated value 800. Deposit 600. He didn’t look up: his nimble fingers pushed the money under the glass screen.

“I, for example, would never eat only cold ham for supper,” said Havas. “It’s not the food, I believe. My friend Amadé claims it’s the diet. But please, what use is a diet to me? I lose not an ounce of weight, I get a headache, and it’s such agony I want to curse all day. A body needs decent sustenance I say. And a spot of exercise. Love has a slimming effect too. Love, gentlemen, take it from one who knows. But how is one to find a little love nowadays? It’s scarce. A man has to rely on himself.”

“Fat pig,” said Ernõ and turned away from him.

They laughed awkwardly. So did the actor. The actor was showing his false white teeth as though Ernõ had said something remarkably witty. They cackled as though compelled to do so. Ábel blushed. There was something painful yet welcome about the way Ernõ had addressed Havas. Havas weighed close to two hundred and ninety pounds. Ernõ knew that unless a miracle occurred everything depended on him: they were all dependent on Havas being in a good mood. Tibor’s mother hadn’t yet noticed the silverware was missing. But the colonel might arrive home any day on leave or wounded and he might decide to inspect it. It did not bear thinking about what would happen if the silverware was not in its usual place. The colonel had once knocked the driver of a dray cold with his bare fist. It wasn’t just Lajos and Tibor’s fate at stake: it was all their fates. If the silverware was lost, if Havas didn’t want to hang on to it until they found some money, it was possible the colonel wouldn’t stop short of setting the lawyers on them. Their affairs would not bear close examination. It was a private matter. All that had happened in the last six months was their business and no one else’s. If only Havas would grant them a few weeks’ grace. Just until they had finished their training. True, the matter of the silverware would have to be faced even so. The colonel might follow them to the front and threaten them with a sound whipping even in the heat of battle. There was no limit to the power of fathers.

Ernõ spoke to Havas as though it were degrading to address remarks to him. The pawnbroker put up with it. Ernõ had some hold on the pawnbroker, though no one knew what that hold was. Maybe he knew something about him, was aware of a piece of dirty business, had information about his usury. Ernõ would turn away whenever the pawnbroker approached them. He pulled a painful face, as if the disgusting sight were enough to make him spit. The pawnbroker pretended not to notice Ernõ, nor to hear his insults. He hastened to agree with anything he said. He kept smiling. The hairs of his mustache bristled as he smiled. Tibor said Havas was frightened of Ernõ.