Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

Now Paszmati chimed in with his two penny’s worth: ‘As for me, madam, I can only say this,’ he began in a voice as solemn as if he were transacting a business deal, ‘as for me, I must state that as far as stuffed cabbage goes, I would never trade a small roll for the larger kind. For this type of stuffing you don’t need those large leaves that cover the outside of the cabbage. The lesser, inner leaves are just fine, they are far tastier and juicier than the outer ones. Once during my travels, as I recall it was at the Nyíregyháza train station restaurant, yes, at the “resti”, that’s where I had a stuffed cabbage where each roll was just enough for one mouthful. One can eat much more of this kind of stuffed cabbage than those huge rolls that somehow end up not being cooked through and through.’

At this point, the proprietress rose from her stool where she had been rather comfortably enthroned. She rose like some corpulent lady who wishes to air herself a bit. She stepped over by Mr Paszmati’s side and bent down to whisper in his ear: ‘My dear Paszmati, you know very well that next to my husband I like you best of all the other men. And from now on I’ll like you even more, if that’s possible.’

Before Paszmati could think of a worthy reply to these friendly words, Messrs Bombai and Friedmann arrived in the courtyard. As long-time customers of the inn they already knew each other by sight. They did not quite approach arm in arm, the way invited guests do sometimes, clinging together even if only to share the blame for being late. These two were deeply immersed in a discussion of the finer points of cabbage-trampling.

‘Pickling cabbage is best left to men with stomach ailments who on account of their illness wouldn’t even dream of actually tasting the cabbage to be potted for the winter,’ observed Mr Bombai, the provincial attorney who still professed the opinions of a man suffering from stomach ulcers, even though by now he was able to eat a normal diet. God knows what it is about the philosophy of stomach ulcer patients, a grievance that lingers throughout their lives, as unhappy lovers are haunted by songs they had sung once upon a time for their own consolation.

Mr Friedmann questioned the commercial aspects of the matter: ‘I hope the woman wasn’t cheated; did they sell her a decent lot of cabbage? I believe the best cabbage comes from Szabolcs County, but it’s never sold in quantities under a wagonload. One, two, or three wagons … I doubt that the innkeeper had the gumption to purchase a whole wagonload. Oh, people are so petty.’

Discussing such matters, the guests invited for cabbage-trampling approached the cellar entrance, but pulled up with great consternation on seeing Paszmati in waistcoat and trousers rolled up to his knees, standing barefoot in the cabbage tub, taking two steps back, two steps forward, at a leisurely pace — almost meditatively — as one who is fully aware of his calling.

‘There’s that hog dealer,’ said Friedmann to his companion.

‘I know him,’ the lawyer replied. ‘They say he’s made a fortune in pigs.’

‘This man I wasn’t expecting at all,’ groused Friedmann, for the old man had a jealous streak; it pained him to hear someone else’s lip-smacking gusto near his table.

Paszmati, installed in the tub, cast furtive glances towards the newcomers as if they threatened the success of a sizeable deal he was about to conclude. He gave them the cold shoulder as they greeted the innkeeper’s wife and wished her all the best for the cabbage-trampling.

‘I just hope all this won’t spoil,’ fussed Aranka, sounding anxious, and looked into the tub where, pretending to adjust a layer of cabbage leaves, she gave Paszmati’s calves a squeeze that made him tread with renewed vigour.

The lawyer Bombai, who tired easily, slumped down on a small stool by the cellar entrance and began to mop his brow at the mere sight of cabbage-trampling; Friedmann, however, bustled about the tub (he even inquired how much it had cost), then around the Tyrolean, who, on account of the pipe clenched in his jaws, was unwilling to give a comprehensible reply, and next around the proprietress, who was concentrating on cutting cabbage cores as if her life depended on it.

‘Ah, where are they now, in what distant lands, the travellers who’ll one day get to taste this cabbage!’ Friedmann exclaimed, since Paszmati’s steps were still sprightly and deliberate, as if he had practiced cabbage-treading all his life.

‘Those travellers aren’t all that far away’ replied the innkeeper’s wife, in the midst of her cabbages. ‘I happen to know for sure that the first time we tap that barrel to let the sour juice out, Mr Friedmann will be the very first to ask for chilled sour cabbage with peppercorns and caraway seeds, because that is the best appetizer there is.’

Warming up, the lawyer Bombai waved his hand: ‘Better stay away from these sour appetizers and heavy digestive tonics, they are for drunkards and trenchermen, whose stomachs can digest anything. The one and only justification for raw cabbage is serving it with Baltic herring, because its flavour is in splendid harmony with herring and onions, beets, and pickled peppers. Better leave that raw cabbage alone, Madam, because now I’m certain that was what caused my former dyspepsia.’

Hearing the lawyer’s lament, the innkeeper’s wife stood up from her stool and, like some voluminous butterfly, fluttered over to his side. ‘My dear sir, my cabbage will never harm you, I’ll swear to that. Tell me, do you feel like trampling a little?’ she asked, with a smile never seen before by the provincial guest.

‘But of course!’ cried the lawyer, who was already unlacing his yellow Bergsteiger boots that had a triple sole: a layer of cork (to absorb moisture), a layer of leather, and one of rubber, for back then only the intelligentsia wore rubber-soled boots in the countryside.

At a gesture from the landlady, Paszmati desisted from his back and forth movements in the cabbage tub. His look of solemn determination vanished and with a mild condescension he asked: ‘Have I earned that glass of wine I’ve been thirsting for so long?’

With fleet steps, the landlady headed for a nook in the cellar entrance. Tantalizingly, she clanged the wine glass against bottle. The glass beaded with dew and the wine had that true taste of dawn when its task is to wash away smoke, soot and annoyance from the traveller’s palate.

‘I have really and truly earned this,’ said Paszmati, having downed his wine and gently cleared his throat. ‘This tastes even better than at a livestock fair,’ he added, carefully disembarking from the tub.

The lawyer stood at readiness in his socks that were as loose as those pulled on the feet of a cadaver. Off came the socks, flying, and the lawyer clambered into the tub with considerable struggle. But his glory was not to last for long: trampling soon left him short of breath; starting to cough, he had to grab the rim of the tub so that he was merely marking time.

Mr Friedmann cast mocking glances in his direction and pressed the toe of one shoe against the heel of the other. ‘I knew the shyster wouldn’t last long — what does he know about trampling cabbage, anyway? But fortunately I am right here to show him how.’

The retired old broker sneaked an ardent glance at the landlady. She leaped up and hummed her way over to the side of the old man who was removing his shoes and whispered in his ear: ‘Dear Mr Friedmann, of all my customers, you’re the one I love the best!’

(1926)

… Once upon a time Szindbad died under peculiar circumstances.

He was visiting his sweetheart, because from notes pencilled in his pocket diary he was able to positively confirm that he would arrive at just the right time to see Terka — a divorcée, a windblown leaf. (It is a sign of youthful folly when a grown man, like some poet scribbling love lyrics, lists in a notebook the number of amorous kisses exchanged, for perusal in later, solitary reveries … Women also like to note down the dates of their affairs, but according to evil tongues this is for another reason.)