Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

Fortunately there are events that can shatter the resolve of even the most determined watchers. For Mr Munk the ringing of a bell in a nearby church constituted such an event. It was the sound of the noontime bell, which evokes special thoughts in each man, not excepting even Mr Munk. At first he started to swear sotto voce , then he began to bang on the door with hands and feet amidst loud curses, without any sign of letting up, as if he had decided to create a scandal at all costs on the journalist’s ‘last day’. But Finedwell was already sighing with relief, for he had calculated how long Mr Munk would keep up the siege. True, Munk was able to sustain the banging for quite some time, since he had considerable practice at it. However Titusz, during his long hours of torment, had had a chance to steel himself for the final assault, and knew it would be foolish to yield now, when the end of the battle was in sight. By the time Mr Munk reached the stage of uttering curses, Finedwell was already sitting up on the edge of his bed, aware that Mr Munk was close to deafening himself by his own thunderous barrage of oaths.

So Mr Munk departed, having lost the battle, but kept stopping on his way out, as if still racking his brains about doing some damage, but in the end his final footfall died away like a memory that turns out to be quite pleasant in the end. Free of Mr Munk, Finedwell now examined his hat and umbrella-cane in daylight. They were imposing objects even in daytime, although they had appeared more impressive at night. Now they revealed a certain amount of wear, for they had reposed a long time in the café’s storage room. The journalist consoled himself with the thought that brand-new things are actually less valuable than used items, as witnessed by great lords having their new shoes broken in by their servants. For a while he was still lost in admiration of his accessories, until a strange and deadly anxiety enveloped his heart so unexpectedly that he tumbled back on his bed. He suddenly remembered the upcoming duel that he had not given his proper attention to because of his visitors. In the face of other troubles one may at times forget about death.

Now the thought of death did not abandon him for a second while he dressed despondently, washed desultorily, and gargled at length. Fear practically made him double over, while no matter how much he would have liked to cry, he was unable to give way to the fit of weeping that lurked within him.

‘If I could only cry, I would feel a lot better,’ Finedwell murmured to himself, sinking into a chair when he felt the redeeming tears near at hand. But the tears refused to materialize. Only women are lucky enough to cry at will. No, Finedwell’s tears just wouldn’t start falling, no matter how hard he coaxed them. He had to get dressed from top to toe and venture into the outside world without weeping.

But his luck still held, for as he entered the editorial offices he ran into the editor-in-chief, who had the reputation of being unable to refuse a request — out of vanity or whimsy, as if always trying to prove that matters of money made no difference to him — although just about every other week lawyers were procuring writs for auctioning off his belongings. Finedwell made a brave ‘frontal attack’ by candidly confessing that he had spent yesterday’s advance to the last penny and now did not even have enough for lunch.

This ‘frontal attack’ proved successful — or was it the magic of his hat and umbrella-cane that did the trick? The editor-in-chief was gratified seeing his associates acquitting themselves well on ‘the field of honour’, and therefore he handed over ten forints to Finedwell who could now face the afternoon’s events in better spirits. So he visited as many as three taverns before finding one where he found his favourite dish, boiled beef. Fortune continued to favour him when he was served a portion of ‘meat on the bone’ that drew envious glances from nearby tables. Generally this is the kind of restaurant dish that even the most impassive souls follow with interest when a waiter passes by carrying it on a platter. The other patrons scrutinize, measure, appreciate, and all but taste it, envying the guest who ordered it. The journalist’s portion of meat was a substantial one; it had been saved for the owner who eventually decided to renounce it in favour of the unknown guest with the Tyrolean hat and umbrella-cane. To show his gratitude, Titusz ordered a double portion of sauce — which happened to be horseradish and vinegar.

As a matter of fact it was after the consumption of this auspicious plate of ‘meat on the bone’ that Finedwell’s fortunes changed for the better, so that he is still alive to this day unless he has died in the meantime. The colonel’s bullet missed. On the other hand, Finedwell’s bullet found the colonel, who died of his wound like the brave soldier that he was. The cab fare for Titusz’s ride back from the scene of the duel had to be paid for by the editorial office boy. There were no complaints.

(1927)

Some of you might think the tavern is called the Clock because the clock is always ticking there, as if the guests needed the passing of time brought to their attention.

Well yes, the grandfather clock with its long, braided handlebar moustache indeed keeps on marking time just for the sake of appearances — for tell me, is there a sorrier sight in a taproom than a clock that has been standing still ever since the memorable day it stopped running at some unlikely hour when no one sat in the room, no one came looking for some nook alongside the brown wainscoting where true regulars like to settle down after much circumspection, as if they intended to nestle there for their remaining days. That is when the clock would have stopped in the quaint little restaurant in a side street of the Inner City, at a moment when a fresh keg was out of the question and a single prospective customer was perusing an old menu from some ancient name day celebration when the proprietor had been a man named Lajos …

However, the clock in our little restaurant was not one of those that stood still, the ageing waiter had seen to that, for his greatest source of annoyance was being sent by some unfamiliar customer to go out, like some bar boy, to the watchmaker’s shop window next door and check the time on the largish clock in the middle, which was reputed to be telling tales of its adventures to the smaller clocks listening in silence around it. Usually the customer had told a lie about the train he had to catch and asked merely to annoy the waiter. Fridolin therefore saw to it that the clock was always running, its pendulum flashing a coppery-reddish, dreamy glint from the encasing ebony — just in case a guest wandered into this dainty little establishment, a guest who had recently received a pocket watch as a present, and felt compelled to check it against every clock he encountered. Each Wednesday and Saturday Fridolin approached the clock with a splintered old billiard cue in hand, at an hour when the afternoon silence, in the shape of invisible guests, had settled in at one of the diminutive tables for two, tables that forever had to be pushed together (so that they fitted like husband and wife), in case a party of three arrived.

In this afternoon silence Fridolin, billiard cue in hand, approached the clock, as if now was the time when, left unobserved, he would punish it like some depraved soul would a child or a puppy. He had the peculiar habit of setting the larger hand ahead five minutes by means of the billiard cue, since his hand could not reach that high. Next he tugged at the strings, faded to a dull green, that dangled from the bottom of the clock, just like the shoelaces of an old editor who came to the restaurant every Wednesday and Saturday from the nearby printing house to consume two three-minute eggs in braised meat sauce, washed down with a pitcher of beer, followed by three ‘pints’ — because confirmed, sagacious regulars only ordered the first pitcher for the sake of the ‘pints’ to be quaffed afterwards.