Imre Kertész - Fiasco

“Pumpadour,” he laughed. In his free time he, too, was one of the Uncrowned’s employees. To paint the dye onto the fabric intended for peasant women they used a spray device driven, or pumped, by a treadle, and that work is usually done by Pumpadour, which is the name given him by the Uncrowned, who incidentally appreciates the joke and is a fan of the theatre, and by way of a full-time job Pumpadour worked for the theatre across the street as one of the extras (Köves was almost surprised, this being the first he had heard that the town had a theatre), beside which he also took on repairing clocks and watches. No doubt that’s what he was doing right then, repairing someone’s watch, though while on the subject it often occurs that once he’s taken a watch to bits he’s never able to put it together again, and all the customer gets back is the dial, the metal case, and a heap of tiny springs and cogs, carefully wrapped in a sheet of paper, despite which he’s never short of work, because the way he shakes a watch, puts it to his ear, opens its lid to take a look at the clockwork through those double-lensed spectacles — that inspires people with confidence time after time, not to speak of the low prices he charges.

All Köves could learn about a blonde woman — a striking figure, the way she propped her face, interesting after its own fashion, with the chin resting on her folded hands, staring with an empty gaze at nothing, an untouched glass of spirits on the table — was the name by which she was known in the South Seas: “the Transcendental Concubine,” whereas it was Sziklai who drew his attention to a grey-templed, suntanned, conspicuously elegant gentleman, remarking that Uncle André was “the Chloroformist.”

“How’s that?” Köves laughed, and Sziklai related that once upon a time, when foreign countries still had links by international railways, Uncle André used to strike up acquaintances with rich ladies travelling first class, then by night press a wad of cotton wool, doused with chloroform, over their faces and then rob them; according to Sziklai, even now Uncle André knew by heart the timetable of all the express trains on the continent (if express trains were still running, that is, and the old timetables were still valid), even though he personally had been “withdrawn from service” on several occasions, indeed for long years at a time. As to what he did nowadays “to maintain standards,” all Sziklai knew was:

“It’s a mystery.” To which he added shortly afterwards: “Women, you can bet it’s women: that’s all it can be.”

There were, of course, other customers, respectable people, about whom there was nothing to tell, and others about whom there was, though Köves just listened without really taking it in, and he was not even convinced that he was hearing what he did hear: he both believed it and he didn’t — ephemeral glimmers in a continually ebbing and rearranging wash of waves of voices, images and impressions, and people would have no doubt misconstrued his absent-mindedness, which was in truth a discovery, admittedly a somewhat gloomy, somewhat melancholic discovery, yet nevertheless sweet, like the taste of long-gone happiness, but all of a sudden he found he was being slapped on the shoulder by someone and urged “Chin up!”

“We’ll get by somehow,” said Sziklai looking pensively at Köves. “There are two ways,” he went on: “the short and narrow, which leads nowhere, then the long and roundabout way, which leads to who knows where, but at least one has the sense of moving ahead. You should bear that in mind,” he added promptly with a touch of care-laden anxiety.

“Why?” Köves asked, grumpily, like someone whose tranquillity is being threatened, yet with the faint smile of someone who has not yet given up all hope.

“Because,” said Sziklai, “I reckon it’s amusing and could be put to good use in a piece.”

“What sort of piece?” Köves reluctantly posed the question, perhaps hoping that by posing it he would be able to elude it.

“That’s precisely the point,” said Sziklai. “I reckon a piece should be written,” and Köves started to regain his senses, though only slowly, like a poison administered drop by drop.

“What kind of piece?” he inquired.

“That still needs to be thought over,” said Sziklai, although it appeared that he may well have already thought it over, because he carried on at once: “A stage play would be gratifying, but tricky; the cloven hoof would be glaringly obvious straight away. I reckon it needs to be a light comedy: that’s what will bring success.”

“Success?” Köves questioned, hesitantly, as if he were getting his mouth round a strange, near-unpronounceable word in a foreign language.

“Of course,” Sziklai looked at him impatiently. “One has to make a success of something. Success is the only way out.”

“Out of what?” Köves asked, and for a moment Sziklai scanned his face mistrustfully as if he were searching for some secret.

“What a weird sense of humour you have,” he eventually said, evidently brightening up, like someone who had come to some conclusion: “but you have a sense of humour. I don’t, or at least it limps along when it’s written down on paper. But on the other hand,” he continued, his eyes constantly on Köves, and Köves became more and more ill at ease, because he sensed a demand in Sziklai’s gaze, if nothing else, then at least for his attention: “On the other hand, I’ve been reading up on dramatics for some time. You can study it, you know,” Sziklai gave a dismissive wave, “it’s a load of baloney, only on my own I’m getting nowhere with the dialogues. I don’t even have a really good idea,” he went on, with the tension increasingly getting the upper hand over Köves, an ominous presentiment that he was gradually being sucked into something, a plan perhaps, that was being hatched far away from him yet still was going to claim his energies: “Old bean,” he heard Sziklai’s triumphant cry, “we’re saved: we’ll write a light comedy!” to which Köves said:

“Fine.” Then, as if in self-defence, “But not now,” and they agreed on that. First they needed to sort out their affairs; Sziklai signalled to Alice and, despite Köves’s protests, he paid the bill, adding a big tip to the sum.

“What’s this? Robbed a bank, have we, sirs?” the waitress asked as she buried the money in her apron.

“Marvellous character.” Sziklai followed her with his eye, as if he were already seeing everything in the light of the light comedy to come, but then his face clouded over. “It’s just such a pity,” he added, regretfully.

“Why?” Köves enquired, at which Sziklai peered searchingly around:

“I can’t see him here right now,” he eventually said.

“Who do you mean?” Köves enquired.

“Her … how should I put it, her guy,” said Sziklai.

“Who’s that?” For reasons he was unclear about himself, this time Köves would have been interested to be enlightened — Alice seemed to have caught his attention to some extent, but all Sziklai would say, evasively, was:

“There’s lot of stories about him. And then,” a melancholic insight appeared on Sziklai’s face, “Alice is only a waitress, after all, and waitresses always need someone who can live off them.”

“I see,” said Köves. “Yes, I’ve heard about that sort of thing; the usual story, in other words,” at which they made their way outside, with Sziklai nodding a greeting to a table here and there as they crossed the place. On the street, they shook hands and agreed that one evening they would, as Sziklai put it, “find each other” in the South Seas; indeed, they could leave messages for one another with Alice, now that Köves knew her, and as soon as their affairs were settled they would make a start on the light comedy.