Imre Kertész - Fiasco

“It’s no picnic for anyone conscientious.”

The old fellow, however, truly pounced on the remark:

“That’s what it’s about, precisely! Conscientiousness and sympathy! I didn’t warm at all to the two strangers who came round to see me — and I suppose they also dropped in on the janitor — though I’m well aware that duty binds me to them. All the same, my sympathies are with the person they were asking about. Yes, yes, we’re still here, you little scamp!” he called out to the dachshund, which was rushing toward them only to race off again. “I wouldn’t take it too much to my heart if he were to find himself in danger,” he eventually added.

“All the same, the person in question can only be grateful to you, in my view,” Köves said, by now undeniably fed up with the role that had been forced on him, but not judging the moment as propitious to part from the old fellow.

“Grateful!” The elderly gentleman raised both hands in the air. “Have you any idea how much I’ve done for other people?! And it was never so that they would feel grateful to me but so that I should be able to sleep soundly at night.”

“Maybe it’s to that you owe your prestige,” Köves said, cracking a smile, like someone bringing the conversation to a close. He came to a halt, thereby forcing the old fellow to stop short. He was just about to hold out his hand when, fortuitously it seemed, something else came to mind:

“And what did the two men enquire after?” he asked; his smile had not yet vanished, only become set as though it were only there still out of forgetfulness.

“The usual things.” The elderly gentleman shrugged his shoulders. “When the person in question comes home, whether he has any visitors, then does he have a job, is he working already,” the old fellow would have liked to resume his walk but, since Köves did not move, he nevertheless remained standing there.

“Were they customs men?” Köves asked, his voice unquestionably faltering a little bit.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Köves.” The old fellow, paying no heed to Köves, set off after all, so compelling Köves, if he wanted to hear him, to do the same. “Were they customs men, I wonder?… They didn’t wear any uniform, and I have no idea why customs men should get involved in such matters. You see how much I put myself out?” He looked reproachfully at Köves. “We’re already discussing things that one should not speak about, because how do customs men come in here, and why would we look with suspicion, or maybe — even worse — fear, on a body that upholds the law?…”

“I understand,” said Köves. “My thanks to you, Chairman.”

“For what?” the old fellow asked, patently astonished. “I didn’t say anything! But I can see how much you want to go, and I won’t hold you up. We’ll stay a little longer. Here, rascal!” he called out to his dog. He did not offer his hand either, as if he had forgotten to do so or had taken offence at Köves.

He may have got there too early, though of course it was also a Sunday: Köves could not see a single free table in the South Seas. He had already spotted Sziklai beforehand — to Köves’s considerable surprise he was sitting at the table of a man with a grey moustache and some kind of uniform — not a military or police one, nor even anything like that of the customs men: rack his brains as he might, the only other bodies among Köves’s acquaintances whose members might wear a uniform were railway workers and firemen — but in any event he did not get beyond his own arbitrary guesswork as he was approaching the table. Sziklai was appearing not to recognize him, and it was only the vigorous shaking of a hand dangled under the table which gave Köves to understand that he should not take a seat there for the time being, nor even greet him. There was the usual hum in the place, the usual smells, and great merriment at the Uncrowned’s table: as he passed, the way regulars do with one another, Köves gave an easygoing nod, while the Uncrowned, his thighs wide apart, his waistcoat unbuttoned over his belly, and in mid-guffaw (evidently someone had just told a joke or funny story) good-humouredly called over to Köves: “Good evening, Mr. Editor!” Sitting at a table further away, in a tight, outmoded suit, with a strangely cascading necktie and a rakish stuck-on moustache (it could only have been stuck-on because a day ago not so much as a bristle had been sprouting on the spot), was Pumpadour: there must have been an interval between two acts at the theatre and he had popped across in his costume for a drink, or perhaps because he had an important message for the Transcendental Concubine, who, chin resting on her hands, was listening to him impassively, her gaze emptily fixed, maybe on transcendence, maybe on nowhere (three empty spirits glasses were already lined up before her). Toward the rear was a noisy crowd: the table reserved for the musicians (as Köves had learned from Sziklai some time before), who would later be dispersing to go to the nightclubs where they were engaged. Not long before, Köves had spotted among them a conspicuous figure, his physiognomy, over a polka-dot bow tie, broad as the moon: his acquaintance, the bar pianist, who in turn noticed Köves and joyfully got to his feet in order to greet him, so that Köves abandoned Sziklai for a moment.

“Well now!” exclaimed the bar pianist, sinking Köves’s proffered hand into his own huge, soft fist, “Have you found it yet?”

“What?” Köves asked, having no idea offhand what the pianist could be asking him to account for.

“You said you were looking for something.”

“Yes, of course, of course,” said Köves; the musician evidently had a better recollection of his words than he himself did: “Not yet,” at which the pianist, for whatever reason, seemed satisfied, as though he had been fearing the opposite and was now relieved.

“Where did you meet Tiny, the pianist?” Sziklai asked, when Köves sat back down at their table, and Köves, glad that he was at last able to say something new to Sziklai, told him about the bench and the pianist’s dread. “How do you mean, scared?… Him of all people?…,” Sziklai’s harsh features began to crack bit by bit from the smile which spread across them.

“Why?” Köves asked, finding Sziklai’s amazement somewhat unsettling, “Is that so incredible?”

“What do you think,” Sziklai countered. “Who do you suppose plays the piano in the Twinkling Star?”

“Aha!” Köves responded, whereupon Sziklai’s “You see!” carried the air of didactic superiority of someone who had managed to bring order to Köves’s confused frame of reference.

In the “Rumpus Room,” the name given to a low-ceilinged, windowless parlour, illuminated only by the nightmarish glow of neon tubes, in a wing right at the back of the restaurant, card games were going on amid a cacophony of sounds clattering back off the walls, with slim, grey-templed Uncle André, the Chloroformist, a bored, man-of-the-world smile on his lips, was walking from table to table, stopping every now and then, behind a seat, to take a peek at the cards, and Köves was just debating inwardly whether he should leave and come back later when Alice, as she rushed by, took his fate in her hands:

“Come,” she said, “I’ll give you a seat with my partner,” and with that was around him and making her way toward a table in the corner — in point of fact, a sort of service table, stacked with tableware, glasses, and cutlery, from which Alice laid the tables — at which a well-built man sat beside a pile of plates, his head bowed as if he were sleeping, only the balding crown of his head showing, in front of which Alice, with Köves a few paces behind, now halted and, leaning across the table, gently, yet loud enough for Köves to hear clearly, asked him: