Gyula Krudy - Sunflower

The match burned out, having singed Pistoli’s fingertip.

“Why have you done this, gracious Miss?”

The lady still did not reply. There was something frightening in her mute immobility. Pistoli began to think he was hallucinating. The shadow was perhaps after all not Miss Maszkerádi but some assassin, who would stab him with a stiletto as soon as he turned his back. He stood, aware that he was quaking in his boots. He would have given everything to have someone light a candle in this terrifying dark. But no relief was forthcoming. Far off in the village a hound sent up a nasty howl, in premonition of an impending death.

At last Pistoli heard a peculiar noise, as if the shadow were blowing her nose. With many a soft sniffle, like all beaten and humiliated women, Miss Maszkerádi kept persistently blowing her bloodied nose. Her steps subdued and wavering, she descended the flagstones of the porch. (A far cry from her once capering, bouncy stride!) Pistoli watched her cross the yard with her head bent and could feel the drops of blood falling at each step. The shadow headed for the well, where a full bucket of water stood ready for a nocturnal fire. The water quietly plashed in the distance. Pistoli did not dare to move closer to the well. He made his way into the house and thanked God when he at last managed to light an oil lamp. He installed himself at the table and knitted his brows, drumming on the tabletop in anticipation. In the lamplight he regained his customary composure. What could possibly happen? The remorse, shame and gnawing pain he felt at first for so brutally beating up Maszkerádi had faded, and a cold, stubborn egotism now manned the gates of his soul. “At least we’re even now,” he thought. And Lady Maszkerádi, having scratched on the door, to timidly open it and stand abashed on the threshold, was received by the cheerful wisecrack often heard in carousing company:

“We’re even-Steven, Miss.”

Maszkerádi stood with downcast eyes and hands crossed in front of her lap, as if she were ashamed of her silken-trousered and — hosed legs.

“My clothes are all bloody. I can’t go back like this. I need a dry set of clothes.”

Thus spoke Maszkerádi, without raising her eyes. Her reddened nose quivered in mute misery. Humiliated, she stood like a schoolgirl before the severe headmaster.

Pistoli extended his arm.

“In that ancient wardrobe over there, you’ll find some ratty old skirts that belonged to my former wives. If you wish, I’ll turn away while you change.”

Maszkerádi advanced toward the wardrobe and Pistoli sluggishly turned his chair about. Leaning on the table, he watched in the mirror as Maszkerádi, all catlike caution, rummaged among the junky clothes in the wardrobe. Then she stopped and noiselessly began to undress. The scene had all the strangeness of some fantastic story taking place at a border guardpost where a refugee, a lady of quality traveling incognito, had happened to stop for the night. Maszkerádi dared not raise her eyes while slowly taking off her jacket and the hard shirtfront. Then, pianissimo, she took off her little knickers. She took care that her blouse never hitched up during this maneuver. This blouse of hers was snow-white. It exuded feminine cleanliness, the most exquisite perfume in the world. And when the lady stood in her chemise, there by the wardrobe, she raised her long eyelashes, and her eyes flashed like a pair of green lamps. She stared so insistently at Pistoli that he was compelled to turn around and face her.

“Swear that you will never ever reveal any of my secrets!” she said, articulating each word as clearly as if she were reading a text.

Pistoli’s face flamed up, as if a pistol had been fired under his nose. But the gorgeous lady in dishabille made him lose his head only for a split second. The next moment he squinted one eye like a horse trader, and began in an insidious, bartering voice:

“Before I promise anything, may I know what’s the meaning of this midnight comedy?”

“I wanted to scare you,” she replied calmly. “I’d wanted to raise the ghosts in your cruel heart, set the mute midnight hounds on you. I was curious to see if you would be afraid. Have you a conscience? Do you shudder with grief? Perhaps I just wanted to give you a fright…”

“So that I’d have a heart attack?” Pistoli asked, bantering.

“Yes,” was her solemn reply.

Pistoli leaned forward, fascinated, as if he were trying to peer into the water under the bridge.

“Perhaps you’ve heard that my ticker’s as weak as a junky old alarm clock? It skips, and beats unevenly, has choking fits, pants, and at times I must take enormous breaths just to keep going…Were you aware of that?”

“I know all about you, for I have loved you from the word go,” came her reply, as solemn as a deposition before a judge.

“Well, you did a real good job of hiding your love…” answered Pistoli sarcastically, thrilled and fluttery, making sure to hide his shaking hands under the table.

Miss Maszkerádi crossed her bare arms over her chest, like some martyr upon the stake.

“Please recall that night at Hideaway when you with your scary stories had so upset me: what did I do then? Didn’t I invite you into the silent, sleeping garden?”

“In order to strangle me.”

“But I would have kissed you first.”

Pistoli, red in the face, slammed his fist on the table:

“God, I’ve had enough of crazy women! Has everyone gone mad around here?”

Maszkerádi made a weary, melancholy gesture:

“At times I’m convinced I am not in my right mind.”

“Get out of here!” bawled Pistoli.

The young woman kept her determined eyes on his:

“Not tonight. Tonight, I’m staying. You can beat me up again, if you want to. After all, I deserve it for coming here. But it’s because of you. Why did you cross my path? Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Why did you persecute me? Why did you show up in all my dreams? Why did you entice me? Well, here I am. You can throw my corpse out into the highway.”

“Why, you rabid wildcat!” howled Pistoli. “I can sense that you want to go for my throat. But I won’t let you. Go on, you devil’s brood. I’m going to rouse the servants, wake the whole village, scourge you and send you packing without a stitch on! Get out before I do something we’d both regret!”

Maszkerádi remained calm.

“You have no servants, and therefore you’ll do nothing unworthy of a gentleman.”

“Ah, you all come up with that line,” Pistoli countered, plaintive. “You expect a man to be chivalrous, generous, honorable and self-sacrificing, while you yourselves are as vile as rats. But I have paid the dues for wearing the pants. I’ve done my share of playing the noble man. Actually, what do you want from me?”

Maszkerádi cast down her eyes and the smile that flashed across her face was like Saul’s vision of heaven. It was a smile full of secrets, lifelong playful thrills, sultry female dreams, desires stifled into the pillow.

“I would like you to dance the fox dance for me, for I’ve heard you are its greatest master in these parts.”

Pistoli shook his head in surprise:

“The fox dance?”

He started to laugh, and Maszkerádi’s laughter joined his with the tinkle of golden thalers:

“Yes, the fox dance…”

All of a sudden a madcap carnival atmosphere pervaded the gloomy manor house. As if a cheerful group of guests had pulled up unexpectedly on a sleigh in front of the house and were already on their way in.

The things that now befell Mr. Pistoli happen only in dreams. Maszkerádi draped herself over him like a swan and kissed him on the mouth so forcefully that the good squire began to choke.