Gyula Krudy - Sunflower

“What will I give you?” he mumbled and surveyed the scene. “First of all, I give my name, which only locals mispronounce the way they do, as Pistol. It is an ancient Florentine name brought by my ancestors to the court of Louis the Great. In these northeastern parts a noble coat of arms still means something. The closed crown above the shield carries some weight in these parts. Mine contains pelicans, seven of them, the mother feeding her brood with her own blood. For the Pistolis were always known for self-sacrifice.”

“As for me, I’m a freethinker,” replied Miss Maszkerádi. “Let me repeat, in this house Eveline is the one who respects all those ne’er-do-well, windbag forefathers, dropped from peasant wenches’ wombs, or all those granddams that lay down with every drunken retainer or purring pageboy. I live by myself and for myself, like a tree, alone in a field. I’ve always been proud of being companionless. But let’s drink, my good Mr. Suitor, for all this talk gives me the dry mouth.”

Maszkerádi grasped the goblet, kicked away her chair in the manner of a traveling circus equestrienne, and leaning close to Mr. Pistoli, locked the winsome twin blades of her eyes into his. Draining her glass, she tossed it into the garden among the shrubs.

“Let no one else ever drink from it again. For I drank your health, Mr. Pistoli.”

“I won’t mind if you call me Pistol, like the women around here,” said the overjoyed gentleman, rollicking with laughter. “I can already see that you don’t wear tin pants like the feminists.”

“No sir, mine are lacy and dainty, fit for any man’s eyes,” was Maszkerádi’s rapid riposte.

She pulled up her fur coat a ways. Her two shanks reminded him of the forelegs on the noblest breed of rat-catching terrier. Her two feet pointed straight forward, clad in diminutive fur-lined slippers. Her black stockings stretched taut like youthful desire. There was a flash of lacy underpants that made Mr. Pistoli snatch away his gaze, as if he’d looked at the sun.

“Not so fast,” he growled, all sly reticence, “there’s nothing wrong with flannel underwear, either. Those were the days, when women stayed hale and fair in flannel.”

“Why then, take my word for it, Eveline’s the one for you, my good sir,” warbled Maszkerádi, oriolelike. “That esteemed young lady still wears linen purchased by grandma from the itinerant Uplands cambric vendor.”

Eveline’s soft laughter resembled a gentle breeze in a tree’s swaying boughs.

“And my heart is calm, not crazy like yours.”

“A crazy heart!” shouted Pistoli, forgetting himself. “That’s what I’ve been looking for. Wandered and roamed all over the world, to find a crazy heart at last, the right one for me. For you’ll find me a jolly old soul. And my house merry as if the devil himself’d got into it. I don’t keep sad servants, nor receive melancholy women. In my household all must be bright and merry, for nothing lasts forever, least of all life. My watchdogs know the craziest routines, just like clowns in the circus. My chairs might have three legs and when the beds collapse, the cellar echoes the crash. The armoires have a way of toppling on visitors. And my mynah bird knows how to swear like no one else in Hungary. My big stoves resound with laughter and all the walls are covered with illustrations from the funny papers. The one thing I’ve learned at the madhouse is that you mustn’t be depressed. Because depressed people are capable of clawing out each other’s eyes.”

Elbows on table, chin propped up, Miss Maszkerádi listened to Pistoli wide-eyed, like a customer to a sales pitch.

“So what else have you got in that wonderful house of yours?”

“Peace and quiet. For I never open an envelope, be it letter or telegram. If anyone has any business with me, they can drop by. I read no papers, save for The Country Tattler , because from conversations on the train or in the tavern I can catch up on the news of the world. But when the circus or a theater troupe visits Munkács or Patak, you’ll find me in the first row and I like to send flowers to the leading lady so she’ll think I’m crazy about her. Miss, you’ll just have to get used to my treating all women as if they were past or future lovers. So you mustn’t ever be jealous, for I’ve had occasion to observe in the madhouse how jealousy can make people bite each other’s nose off.”

“So how would we live together?”

“Like musicians. In the morning it’s up to me to devise some prank, while at night it’ll be your turn to think of something to make my belly shake with laughter, for that’s absolutely essential for good digestion. We’ll consume abundant dinners, I’ll prepare the salads myself. On holidays I’ll cook a leg of mutton in white wine and cognac. You won’t have a care in the world, other than making sure my bed is nice and soft, with a warm brick always nearby in case my feet get cold, and an ample supply of bicarbonate of soda on the night table, for I take no other medicine. Thus far I’ve managed to be sultan in my own home. I’ve always required that my wife take on the form, manners, nature, body and clothes of a different woman each day. But henceforth I am prepared to be a slave — your very own slave.”

Maszkerádi nodded enthusiastically.

“I bet this sort of talk made those crazy women keel right over!”

“Yes…” replied Pistoli softly. “They believed every last word, because I always made sure to look them in the eye.”

“Well, look me in the eye and let’s clink glasses.”

After a little while Messer Pistoli had to inquire:

“Tell me, what kind of wine is this, it’s like kisses on the throat…”

“It happens to be a five-year-old vintage from Badacsony, my fine young man. I always drink it here at Bujdos, where no one else drinks wine.”

Pistoli now rose and his unknowing, obstinate, walnut-sized eyes scanned the two ladies as if appraising the effect his words would produce.

“I empty this cup…” he began, as if his words were awaited by the entire county assembled with bated breath, “here’s to the dove-hearted mistress of the house, her saintliness Miss Eveline Nyirjes de Nagynyirjes, whose hands shower on this miserable Hungarian countryside blessings as abundant as the lily’s pollen. I drain this cup to this sad island-dotted land’s snow-white egret whose return softens the barren soil of local hearts, like springtime rain quickening the hard crust of the field…”

“Watch it, Eveline, next he’ll have us cosign a loan,” Miss Maszkerádi stage-whispered in her friend’s ear.

Eveline patiently lowered her eyelids.

“Well, if we must…”

“Don’t worry, I’ll free you of this Freddy the Freeloader, once and for all. Just have a small cask of my wine rolled up from the cellar.”

Hearing the rest of Pistoli’s toast, Eveline had to blush and avert her eyes, for it teemed with allusions to her parents and uncles of blessed memory, “friends after my heart,” the good old times, the patriotic duties of Hungarian women, local flood control and love shod in white silk slippers — at which point Pistoli flourished his handkerchief embroidered with the ducal crown to dab his eyes while his voice tremolo’d village cantor style; in short, he played the entire repertoire of the provincial orator, the perennial toastmaster at funeral, wake, or wedding feast — whenever wine loosens the tongue, and heated fantasy fondles tomorrow’s hopes. In Hungary each country gentleman is a Cicero. For centuries Hungarians have been channeling their superfluous energy into flowery toasts, touching indeed, enough to make you cry, were it not for the subsequent thrashing and highway robbery that so often befalls the very person extolled by these toasts.