Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

There must have been some saint’s feast day in progress in the Inner City, for Fridolin now saw such a variety of customers crowd into the room as never before. Here came the shoemakers from Parisi Street, and the glove-makers and corset-makers, who are hardly ever enticed to leave their accustomed little nooks and crannies. Fridolin had a passing acquaintance with these shoemakers: hurrying past their shop every morning he would envy them for being able to sit all day long on their three-legged stools, free of the kind of fatigue that was his lot. Why, the glove-maker could play around with his delicate leathers until they reminded him it was time for some white wine and the glove-stretcher in his hand assumed the shape of a fork that, according to the hands of the clock, should be wielded over various platters.

But in addition to these craftsmen there came other, more stylish customers, such as the gentlemen who like to sit all day in some Inner City café window seat, waiting for someone or something. At times they are simply waiting for a messenger, but waiting is really not a very stressful occupation. One has plenty of time to devote to one’s fingernails, eyeglasses or pocket diary, taking a good look at oneself in the mirror, all of which are most salutary activities for making the wait more bearable. The messenger arrives and greets you as if his greatest ambition in life consisted of running a successful errand for you. Well, even these envied men-about-town had abandoned their window seats to drop in at the Clock, although men of their ilk make sure that each step they take is impeccably stylish. After every table had been occupied, every chair shifted from its place and each rack covered with hats and coats, the siege was on, the assault spearheaded at Fridolin, who stood transfixed, as if his feet had been nailed to the floor, waiting for the end of this onslaught of customers. But newcomers still kept crowding the doorway, practically all the folks in Pest that Fridolin had ever had the good fortune to meet in his thirty years of waiterdom. He saw individuals arriving at the Clock who, Fridolin knew for sure, owed so much money in the neighbourhood that they wisely migrated to other parts of town. Some had even spread rumours of their own demise, and here they were now, in the best of health, pink of cheek, barbershop-fresh, the very fair-haired people who carry most of the barbershop scents coming and going about town.

And there stood Fridolin, waiting for this stampede to subside — they must have all come to celebrate his jubilee, for each guest greeted him heartily, the more playful even chucked him under the chin. Then all at once, as if a water main had burst in the courtyard, as back in 188*, the hum turned into a roar around Fridolin.

‘Rollmops!’ ‘Pitcher of beer!’ ‘Eggs!’ ‘Scallions!’ ‘Radishes!’ ‘Liptauer cheese!’ ‘A pair in gravy!’ ‘Fresh salt rolls!’ ‘Another round of beer over here!’ ‘Small portion of pörkölt braised pork, no, make that a regular, don’t forget the bones!’ ‘Sour lungs, Fridolin, for my heartburn from last night!’ ‘Hot dogs and mustard!’ ‘Have you got any of those little blood and liver sausages I had last time?’ ‘Bring me some frosty cabbage in oil with eggs and caraway seeds.’ ‘How come there’s no goulash on the menu? What got into these Inner City taverns?’ ‘Fridolin, I feel like a few titbits with horseradish, you know, the usual, ears and tails and knuckles … ‘ ‘How does it look for some nice beef on bone, with vinegar horseradish?’ ‘How are we fixed for herring? I could go for a fine Baltic herring full of milt with pickled onions that came in the same box, and not added just now!’ ‘What kind of cheese do you have? I want the ripe, smelly, runny kind, I’m dying for a drink!’ ‘Let me have a pair of Debrecen sausages, if you get ’em from a decent butchershop!’ ‘I prefer the iceberg lettuce and will prepare the dressing myself, after I spent all that money to learn how!’ ‘What, no English mustard?’ ‘Please bring some bread, make sure it has a crusty heel!’ ‘A glass of wine, same as the owner drinks!’ ‘Fridolin, how come that canary isn’t singing? In the old Clock the bird was always singing.’ ‘Since when is bologna with oil and vinegar and onions out of fashion around here?’ ‘Might you have a little end piece left in the cooler, from that hunk of roast pork you had yesterday?’ ‘I’ll have a double portion of consommé with long noodles, and an egg stirred in, and carrots, celery, kohlrabi, maybe a bit of cauliflower stem, but make sure it comes with a meaty bone to chew on …’

Fridolin, by some quirk, remembered only this last order, for it was not an easy one to execute.

‘Oh yes, at your service, right away,’ he kept repeating to himself half aloud, then full voice, then whispering and clearing his throat, as he escaped from the small dining room, the veins on his forehead bulging from a myriad orders the like of which had never been heard before within these arcaded premises.

The guest who had ordered the consommé occupied the table in the centre of the room where customers rarely like to sit, in full view of the public from all sides, whereas the only view they have from there is the balding gentleman straight across, who enjoys berating other guests for allegedly staring into his mouth. (That kind of elderly gent is usually easy to tell by the way he pares away the bread crust as if it were his greatest enemy.)

This guest at the centre table, a man presenting a stubborn back, shoulders set impassively, the nape of his neck radiating indifference — a man that not even Fridolin would remember after he left — sat rather peacefully amidst the infernal hubbub. His eyes aimed at the arcade vault, he waited; he wore a cape with flaps and a double row of buttons like some bureaucrat, had large rainspout-like shirt cuffs and his shirt collar was as loose as if he had received it as a hand-me-down from some fat man; in general his clothes looked ill-fitting on him. Yet his elastic-sided boots had been polished with sufficient care, even the parts that are usually covered by the trouser cuffs. But his necktie had slipped sideways, and the back of his coat lapels was sticking up as if he spent much of his time sitting bent over a desk. As for his face, to use the terminology of restaurant humour, it resembled that of a sad lobster that was left behind all alone while its companions were merrily turning red in all sorts of concoctions. Therefore let us say no more about his face; it never registered any arrogance or anger beyond the massive equanimity that would have done a camel proud, while ignoring the horseflies that pester his leg.

The guest now inspected the tablecloth, scrutinized the eating utensils, not forgetting to check the manufacturer’s name before he tied the napkin around his neck. Next he shot back his cuffs, adjusted the position of the salt cellar, tested the point of the toothpick on his fingertip and placed it within reach — although it would not have been surprising to see him pull forth from a pocket a toothpick carved from a feather. At this point Fridolin arrived bearing the tureen used (provided it was on hand) for serving double portions of soup. The customer took up his spoon and for the first time it became evident that he was able to use his eyes, and was not as blind as a lobster.

‘And after the soup?’ asked Fridolin officiously, as if he were seeking refuge from the racket that again rose from all sides upon his reappearance, as if he were simultaneously hearing every single order ever given in this restaurant. His leg practically twitched when a stentorian voice thundered in his ear a demand to see the marrowbone he had ordered ‘an hour ago’. Fridolin dared not look up in the direction of the thunderous voice — he knew anyway that the person in question was one of the regulars who always attached undue importance to his orders.