Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

The apostle went on as follows: ‘I owe my nose everything, just like the Caesars of Roman antiquity, who, as we know, owed their popularity to those fine, prominent noses that looked so good on their coins. Just take a good look, sir, at the set of this nose — it can express both dignity and humility at the same time … This nose is capable of making you sad or glad … There never was a more grateful nose in the vicinity of kitchens; but this nose knows how to be witty, too, if the conversation so demands. But those are merely external aspects of my nose that are as easy to master as twitching the scalp, wiggling the ears, or squinting … It is the inner qualities of this nose that are priceless. For instance, my nose also happens to be my pocket watch. In the darkest woods in the thick of night one whiff is enough to tell what time it is. I admit there are other noses capable of telling apart morning from afternoon, day from night, for each part of the day has its own smell. But I ask you: where in this province will you find a nose that’ll tell you exactly when the hands of the clock stand at a quarter to two at all those inns, monasteries and parsonages where they truly care about lunch and about post-prandial reflections?’

For a moment I was at a loss as to Nyergesujfalusi’s meaning, so I glanced at his omniscient nose, which once again had changed its appearance, like a faithful servitor, in complete harmony with the master. The nose now assumed a shape resembling a rotund blood sausage simmering in its rich broth in a pot on the kitchen range, having risen from the bottom and turning its colour at a touch of the cook’s wooden spoon. Now I could see this nose transfiguring itself at lunchtime … The apostle was showing off his nose as complacently as a woman her new hat.

‘Just think, can anything remain a secret from such a gifted nose passing in front of a hut, trudging past a godforsaken village, or pausing to take in the scene in front of the little houses of a small town? As I approach advanced old age, having learned a thing or two about my fellow man, I have come upon one bit of true wisdom: lunch is the most important thing in a man’s life. More important than anything else — wife, health, fine boots or a beautiful sweetheart. A man who has not eaten lunch does not amount to much in this world. He cannot be sure of his business, of what he says or what he does. He is certain to err on a day without lunch.

‘Well, this is why I was always intrigued to see what people had for lunch. My nose was never too haughty to stop in front of some solitary hovel where a lonely man was cooking his meagre soup consisting of water, flour and salt … But my nose still preferred the scent of those small-town lunches that are cooked so that the whole neighbourhood is aware of what’s on the menu. Then I would stop and linger in front of the door to meditate on the woman bustling in that kitchen. If it was springtime, then the scents of parsley, winter turnips and saffron at once made it clear that the woman tending her kitchen range, waking that morning, had not entertained thoughts that would keep her in bed, musing about the cut of her brother-in-law’s moustache, or the style of the young schoolteacher’s trousers, but jumping from bed her first thought was: what to cook for lunch?

‘Would the butcher have fresh meat with the right proportions of muscle, fat and bone? Would the stall-holder have tender young sorrel or would we have to resort to last year’s tomatoes? (By the bye, I must add: the fine aroma of sorrel sauce on a table in springtime signals a woman with a green thumb and a gift for domestic work. By hook or crook she finds a bit of sod, even if an antique travelling trunk must be sacrificed for this purpose, to plant some of her best friends and nearest kin, those spring vegetables. Many a woman has a sibling relationship with tender green onions, even if she won’t eat them, concerned about the sweetness of her breath; she is more likely to indulge in her cousin, the red radish — even if at times she must step outdoors after enjoying them; she is a loving auntie to her parsley, sorrel and all those spring vegetables that lead feminine lives, that is to say, are loveliest in springtime. I must also add, my good sir, that carrots, kohlrabi, cabbages and potatoes should be considered masculine, for even though women like to grow them, they are consumed mostly during the masculine months of winter. As for Savoy cabbage, not even my nose has been able to decide whether their sour smell is masculine or feminine.)’

I took another peek at the apostle’s nose. This proboscis now resembled a corncob stuck by children into the face of a snowman, a corncob that would guard the winter yards and gardens and ward off the hooting tramps … By now the apostle’s nose had become engorged with blood and appetite, and showed its age, as if stewing in the vapours rising from some invisible soup. Meanwhile his nostrils filled with the scents of all those springs and winters that he would soon have to leave behind. But let the apostle speak:

‘As I was saying, my nose’s favourite haunts were those houses where the aromas streaming out were a melange of feminine undergarments laundry-fresh on Good Friday and the scent of the feminine springtime garden vegetables. Obviously in those kitchens the woman of the house washes her hands after chopping garlic, and is mistress of her garden with which she converses intimately when alone. The domestic animals understand her words, so that the dog, an unclean beast, stays outside the door, wagging his tail, and dares not let on where he’s been roaming … Equally obvious is the fact that a woman busying herself in that springtime kitchen has taken care to wash her feet and waist, in order to add some of her own fine bouquet to the food she is cooking. Let’s take, for instance, the aroma of a meat broth … We can immediately sense what kind of woman boiled the water, since water, as it flows through a woman’s hands, instantly picks up her scent, just as it does the tang of minerals in a mountain. And don’t the noodles that go into the soup similarly betray the entire inner life of a woman, thus her innermost scent? A woman’s hand takes especial care with the noodles that go into her soup. While she shapes, lengthens, flattens and cuts it into squares or ribbons, her mind watches over the pasta, even if she happens to use a rowel shaped like a hussar’s spur. The shell, the dumpling, the matzo ball, as it takes shape under a woman’s hands, is able to command the nose’s attention, or to repel it. I dare say, my good sir, that only soups possess truly individual smells in this province. I can tell immediately if the soup was cooked by a parish priest’s housekeeper worrying about her future, or some little housewife who pins the vagaries of her fortune on a single button or tree or stake. But all things considered, the best scent emanates from soups cooked with the intent to arouse love or prepared for a guest who comes as a suitor. I always thought that for a soup of that kind a woman will not hesitate to add a pinprick’s worth of her own blood.’

I took one last look at Nyergesujfalusi’s nose. It was wrinkled, crooked and rigid like the trunk of some cursed beast that races all over the world with suppressed panting or loud howls in order to hunt down smells it had dreamed of, air currents whiffed from afar, odours sympathetic to its nature. Here comes this snout rushing, clad in the trappings of a pious pilgrim, accompanied by princely lies, as is the custom of old men who in their dotage would like to embrace every single bowl of soup in the world. In view of the fact that at the time several inexperienced young females were staying in the house, I had to send Nyergesujfalusi packing.

(1926)