Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

‘So, which one is that ill wind-producing skirt?’ asked Jolan in an impish tone. ‘You don’t mean the one so tight I can barely walk, the skirt that was so screwed up by the seamstress?’

‘I can’t speak for others, but as for myself, when I look at a woman I have to see some of her form,’ said Mr Rimaszombati with an air of self-importance, as if he had invented this wise saying. ‘What else are these two eyes for? I might as well strain and wear them out, as long as I get something for my trouble.’

Possibly Jolan was not the only woman unable to resist when a man explains so earnestly why he prefers to see her in one skirt and not another. Rimaszombati was right after all: one must pick and choose which sights to see in the ‘little time’ left to live. Therefore Jolan pulled on the rose-pink skirt she was too embarrassed to wear even when alone in her room.

‘Now I see no further objection to our redirecting Galgóczi to the right path he had strayed from,’ pronounced the oldest patron of taverns in the Tabán, who hated to see anyone giving up taverns while still in his prime. There would be time enough for that after you were dead.

Since this was a fast day, perhaps the skirt was not quite appropriate for the spirit of the occasion, because its brevity and tightness tended to evoke days of the flesh, making a man muse about what a feast savages (those cannibals!) would make of Jolan’s calves if by some chance she were shipwrecked on some distant island — but the afflicted are not obliged to observe fast days. And Jolan was lovesick, an affliction considered to be the equal of any fatal illness. (Haven’t you ever been ready to die for love, if not right away then soon?)

‘We still have to rehearse our song, “Bathing in Moonlight”, to be sure all goes well,’ said Mr Rimaszombati when, as on every other occasion, he examined the pink skirt Jolan was wearing to make sure it had no hidden flaws that only his practised eye could pick out.

‘Bathing in Moonlight’ was in fact Mr Rimaszombati’s favourite tune, the song of his heart that he had, as senior carouser, at one time or another forced upon every single patron of the Green Ace. He had taught Jolan how to perform the song (leaning on Mr Rimaszombati’s shoulder) the way he had once heard it sung one amateur night in the village of Batyi by a young lady whose name nobody remembered any more except for Mr Rimaszombati on certain days. Jolan was very quick to learn the things that form part of a girl’s education; seeing Mr Rimaszombati’s tears made her eyes moist, for he invariably wept when this song was hummed into his ear.

‘And let’s make sure to take some wine with us!’ the aged bon vivant exclaimed. It was full moon and the almanack had predicted clear and cold weather. The hands of the clock approached midnight, when silence reigns in the Tabán as a rule, regardless of the poor reputation of the district.

The bottle had a bold and jaunty long neck, around which they tied a red, white and green ribbon of the national tricolour after filling it with wine. Jolan carried the bottle hidden under the cape we have spoken of earlier. Exiting the Green Ace, Mr Rimaszombati sniffed at the air: ‘I smell an eastern wind, a great rarity in our part of the world where winds mostly come from the north-west or the south.’

Jolan had no qualms about trusting herself to Mr Rimaszombati at the midnight hour, for the courtly gentleman’s potential danger to women was limited to the rare days when he ‘sensed a feminine aroma’, such as he had the last time in 1898, accidentally entering a sewing school where twelve girls were sewing shirts, supervised by a most inviting matron. The ‘feminine aroma’ saturating that room still haunted Mr Rimaszombati and made him by turns pensive, agitated, musing — a dream that would remain unforgettable until the end of his life. ‘For a woman will give off one scent in church, prostrate at a side altar, practically collapsed in supplication and prayer. She will have another smell at a tavern, theatre or ball, when she is ticklish and giggly, overcome by laughter and merriment, for a woman’s organism cannot withstand your more powerful stimuli. She has yet another scent at home, immersed in domestic chores, worries and cares, for women at home are preoccupied solely with their own things. Their truly feminine scent can only be encountered in a sewing school, where they confide their wishes, dreams and fantasies to each other while sewing a shirt.’

Such edifying conversation filled the time while Miss Jolan and Mr Rimaszombati roamed the empty streets in the moonlight, streets empty of people, that is. For in the Tabán (as perhaps elsewhere in the world) moonlight wakes the things that are asleep in daytime, or that behave as if they did not belong in the daylight world. Now the roof ridge arches like the back of a tomcat. The moonlit chimney resembles some antique hat worn by a former landlord. The tower of the Serbian church stretches its shadow as if reaching for the spot where treasure was once buried, but no enterprising spirit arrives to dig where the church tower’s shadow points at midnight on a certain night of the year. The courtyards may be asleep but moonbeams lend them various colours and shapes here and there where underwear was left to dry on wash lines. Men’s ample long johns cast shadows of a different shape to women’s slender nightgowns. This is the time when drainpipes jutting from eaves, the baker’s shop sign, the grocer’s signboard, the reposing wings of the door and the windowpanes can all converse about their lot, because in the daytime they must serve humans. The baby on the midwife’s sign keeps only one eye on this nocturnal colloquy for she must be on call even at night. Passing the midwife’s house, Rimaszombati was moved to remark: ‘One of these days I’ll have her give me an enema, for I hear it’s supposed to help the digestion.’

But the operation would have to wait for another occasion, for Mr Rimaszombati suddenly remembered something and led Jolan into the shadow of the church tower. No one was there, for any errant soul roaming the Tabán at this hour would choose some moonlit place. They were alone in the dark; Mr Rimaszombati stood protectively by the side of his protégée.

‘I’d meant to ask you before: what kind of kisses did you teach Galgóczi?’ Rimaszombati now interrogated Jolan.

Jolan did not reply for she did not always answer the barrage of questions her old friend aimed at her; therefore Rimaszombati went on:

‘We come across all kinds of kisses in this world before we find the real one, the kiss we never forget until our dying day — no matter what we experience along the way, here and there, the way things go … We have to taste many kinds of kisses until we reach the true one and recognize it as such. Could it be you never really gave him an honest to goodness kiss, little girl?’

‘Mr Rimaszombati, what do you mean by a real kiss? Everyone kisses to the best of their ability,’ answered Jolan, aiming to put an end to the discussion.

‘Not so, my child. Kisses begin with a kiss to the hand. For a start, we must know where and how to kiss a woman’s hand. There are some who toss off a kiss to the hand as they would some indifferent remark, or as if performing some obligation, as did the citizens of Castile in the days when for lack of the real thing they were obliged to kiss Queen Isabella’s gloves or slippers. Real kisses on the hand and foot were already commonplace by then. The hand kiss must be placed where the glove ends and leaves the wrist uncovered; the knowing man positions his kiss over the pulsating artery. Kissing the feet one has to aim at the ankle, and some prefer to kiss behind the knee,’ said Rimaszombati. ‘Where did Galgóczi like to kiss your leg?’