Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

Yet for some time now Countess Brunszvik had been keeping an eye on her ‘nemesis’, this short-statured gentleman of the Tabán whose ambition, everyone knew, was to make a livelihood by brokering ‘romantic relationships’ in the district, to which end even forbidden passions were gladly facilitated by him as long as there was something in it for himself. Oh yes, Helen Brunszvik was well aware of Rimaszombati’s presence but refused to acknowledge the ‘opposition’ because she considered his escorting the tavern-keeper’s daughter from the Green Ace to be highly inappropriate. She could not ask him to leave, for the event was open to the public, but she consistently looked the other way whenever Rimaszombati launched into his characteristically ostentatious coughing, as he would in a tavern when he wanted to make a new acquaintance.

Therefore Countess Brunszvik went on with her monologue about the glasses of wine that some men made it their lives’ ambition to keep track of. Although, truth to tell, people use all sorts of excuses for drinking in taverns, for the devil makes tavern-keepers and their customers fiendishly inventive. For instance, just think of the kind of women that drive men to drink! The tavern-goer does not drink on account of the poor woman abandoned to worries and cares, all alone in her home night and day, but instead drinks because of those females who have it too good, better than they deserve. Bibulous men like to drink to such women precisely because thinking of them is no skin off their back, because these women are always seen as carefree and smiling, ever cheerful, even in retrospect. So they drink to such ladies, may they keep smiling and stay happy ever and anon, like harp-playing angels in the world to come, awaiting the righteous. And naturally not a glass is drained to toast the one sighing and crying and praying at home all by herself. No, they never drink a drop to toast their sweet, silent, faithful wives.

‘Whoa! What kind of world would it be if every man in a tavern were only allowed to drink to his wife!’ exclaimed Rimaszombati, who, as a widower, was not exactly a concerned party.

The alto singer, most likely with reasons of her own for curtailing any further discussion of the affairs of women toasted by tavern regulars, now stepped forward to the platform and asked the Countess’s permission to perform a gospel psalm sure to have an effect.

The Countess, who had no intention of starting a debate with Mr Rimaszombati, who had arrived arm-in-arm with the tavern-keeper’s daughter, yielded to the singer’s call and settled down by the harmonium. Soon the congregation, under the guidance of the lead singer, was indeed chanting a sacred hymn.

After the song ended a knocking was heard on the wall. Since nobody moved in the room, yet the knocking continued, it had to come from a neighbouring room.

Inhabitants of the Tabán district usually don’t scare easily when hearing a knock coming from the wall, the cellar, or even from a cupboard; residents of this ancient neighbourhood hear ghosts all the time, and that includes the terminally ill making their pact with death as they prepare for the world to come. Dying is merely going out to the local cemetery on a gloomy day and not coming back.

‘I am at home to any man of good will!’ was Countess Brunszvik’s response to the repeated knocking.

The door to the adjacent room opened and for a moment only the sounds of the autumn wind could be heard, the autumn wind that furtively enters the Tabán at sundown, and by night makes itself at home in the zig-zag side streets, whipping around corners and houses built in such a variety of styles, penetrating all nooks and crannies and, given room, is sure to gust forth with a mischievous whistle through an open door or window. Yes, you must know the Tabán wind if you wish to make head or tail of the knocks in this world.

The wind sobbed and hissed as if to give notice that while here, indoors, sacred hymns were sung, it had arisen out in the street and taken charge of the shop signs and gas lamps, buffeting anyone caught outdoors.

Over the howling wind the rain could be heard as well, just as the rattling of a drummer who nods off, then snaps awake to add an occasional drum roll to the evening sounds, so the rain selects a roof or a wall to drum out its own song before moving on with a halting chuckle, having doused the palisade fence. This kind of weather, so common in the Tabán during late autumn, is said to benefit tavern-keepers.

After more than a minute with all eyes on the dark doorway, a figure at last appeared in the opening.

‘Galgóczi!’ went one lady’s heart pit-a-pat under the coachman’s cape, and all three hairs on Mr Rimaszombati’s nose probably would have stood on end, had he not shaved them off earlier that week.

A female heart was set thrumming, then choked up, incapable of any further action. All the more reason for Rimaszombati to watch out, and so he removed the pince-nez from his near-sighted eyes and began to rub the lenses with a piece of chamois he had acquired at the Exposition of 1885 when he worked as a guide showing provincial visitors the sights of the capital.

Galgóczi had once been a cavalryman, with dark complexion shaved to a bluish hue, his moist lips always pursed ready to whistle. But now he looked like a cadaver that had been laid out in a coffin for the past three weeks.

‘Maybe he’s really died and returned to haunt!’ Jolan later recounted at the Green Ace, recalling the moment of Galgóczi’s appearance in the doorway.

Miss Brunszvik made a hurried move towards the guest, as if to help him enter the room with his unwieldy, windblown cape, wild hair and head tossed back. As Galgóczi’s lanky, sagging frame entered the room it became evident that he was too thin for ready-made clothes; his emaciation would have bedevilled any tailor. His neck, that fine and statuesque neck, now showed a round hollow the size of a fist, like the imprint of some wasting illness. His pipe-stem arms would have suited a scarecrow and his overlong hair seemed to be tugged by the invisible hand that tugs at the hair of those who drink excessively.

Miss Brunszvik pulled up a chair for Galgóczi, who did not look as if he had the strength to remain standing. Even so he averted his eyes and looked down in such bitter shame as if he meant to part from them forever, never to look another human being in the eye. He appeared so helpless that, had his mother been alive, she would have picked him up in her arms and cuddled him as she would a baby. ‘Why can’t I just die!’ he sighed, apparently without any appetite for life, and sank into the chair.

That’s how badly our Galgóczi was done in — and no one dared to say a word to him, for what can you say to a man who was the cause of his own illness?

Now the violinist collected himself, to his credit: this ragtag musician raised his instrument and started to play the aria from Robert le Diable , for that was the first thing that came to mind. Miss Brunszvik, mild as an angel from heaven, accompanied the melody on the harmonium as well as she could.

Meanwhile Galgóczi opened one eye to look around: ‘Where is my friend Bitchkey?’ he demanded, whereupon the violinist began to ply his bow more fortissimo, while the questionable alto started to wave her hand as vehemently as if Galgóczi had uttered some sort of blasphemy.

When the music paused Galgóczi spoke again. ‘And where is my pal Botchkay?’ echoed his sepulchral voice, such as the dead use to query leaves fallen on their graves.

‘Both promised to be here,’ continued Galgóczi, looking around with a sadness so profound it nearly petrified bystanders.