Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

‘Once he bit me on the knee, so I slapped his face.’

‘There you go!’ exclaimed Rimaszombati, as if he had made a great discovery. ‘Galgóczi bowed down at your feet, which is proper, but instead of kissing your heel or your ankle as another man would, he went straight for the knee. I, for one, can think of a better place on the leg.’

‘Galgóczi was drunk,’ said Jolan in defence of her young man.

Rimaszombati gave this some thought, staring into space as if trying to imagine from every angle that kiss on the knee perpetrated by Galgóczi. ‘You must have placed your foot on a stool, or stepped up on a stone, the way an equestrienne strikes a pose for the photographer, or indeed anyone inclined towards the profession of circus performer. Where did you put your foot when Galgóczi happened to kiss your knee?’ persisted the old man.

‘I didn’t put my foot anywhere. Galgóczi went down on his knees before me and threatened to kill himself.’

‘Why can’t he think and act like that again!’ exclaimed Mr Rimaszombati ardently, as he conducted his protégée away from the church tower’s shadow, where the buried treasure lay.

Shortly afterwards they arrived at the shadow cast by the statue that spreads its wings on one of the piazzas in Tabán. This kind of statue is circumambulated by processions of the faithful on a certain day of the year, then forgotten for another twelve months. Rimaszombati stopped in the shadow of this statue and spoke.

‘I just remembered why Galgóczi placed that kiss on your knee. In the old days when women still tied their garters into a floppy butterfly bouquet below the knee, the knee itself was considered intimate territory only a lover was entitled to reach. By means of this knee-kiss Galgóczi meant to signify that he was far more intimate with you than those who are satisfied with a kiss on the ankle. Am I right, senorita?’ pressed the old gentleman, as gleeful as if he had uncovered some secret.

‘Who can tell what’s on a man’s mind!’ sighed Jolan, as one after another she recalled scenes from the past when she had had no reason to worry about why Galgóczi kissed her in one place and not another.

In the shadow of the statue Rimaszombati grew bolder. God only knows why men are more courageous in some locations. Grasping Jolan by the wrist he looked deep into her eyes in the moonlight.

‘We haven’t yet spoken about how Galgóczi performed the act of adoration on the mouth and face that some call kissing? Some men, no matter where they are, will start to kiss given the least opportunity. They will kiss behind the fireplace because they believe the inglenook exists for the purpose of stealing a kiss. They will kiss in the wardrobe, closet, cellar, attic or in the pantry just because they believe that a minute without kisses is a minute wasted. And certain mouths were indeed made for kissing. Especially rabbit lips, lamb lips and fawn lips. It is not your broad, thick lips that really know how to deliver a kiss — but lips shaped like the bulb of a lily. Lips like that can cling tight enough to cause in some cases choking, heart attacks and other lethal damage. They can cover every last particle of the mouth like a well-placed seal. They are able to maintain contact for minutes on end, during which true believers claim to be in heaven. Those lips suck at each other, suck until at times they draw blood, which is said to be sweetest in a heated state. It is essential that no air come between the lips, for air stands for the world and the slanderous speech of humans that would forever part those lips from each other. I have heard of cases where lovers kissed so torridly that they became as inseparable as Siamese twins.’

‘Hmm!’ said Jolan, as if her heart had given a start.

Rimaszombati interpreted this as a sign of success, so he went on faster and faster, as if he were rubbing Aladdin’s lamp.

‘But most of the time no harm comes to those who kiss only the lips because nature in her infinite wisdom has devised ways to part lips from each other. Kissing makes the lips swell until kisses turn painful, although for some this merely makes it all the more enjoyable. The perils of kissing begin the instant the tongues that lie hidden inside mouths start interfering with the business of the lips; for example when a tongue becomes bored with always receiving only the tastes and juices coming from the direction of the lips and decides to set out from the interior of its lair in order to explore and feel its way around inside the adjoined mouth. They say the tongue has no eye and sets out blindly on its adventures. Blind tongue, my eye! Just ask those who favour tongue kisses if a tongue had ever ventured anywhere it didn’t wish to go? No matter how fickle, a tongue feels at home only where it is welcome. It will go out of its way to befriend teeth it has nothing to do with normally, and palpate incisors and molars in another mouth. The tongue gets to know before anyone else how many cavities hide in a mouth that only the dentist had seen until then. It roams through the enchanted garden of the neighbouring mouth and reports if cabbage or cotton candy had been consumed before kissing. I don’t mean to boast but I know a tongue that can identify the year of a vintage after meeting the lips of a lady winegrower.’

‘Hmm …’ purred Jolan.

‘But the tongue kiss is far more dangerous than it seems at a glance. There are tongues not satisfied with exploring the tastes and mysteries of the mouth, but must venture further down — as far as the throat, for instance. They penetrate, swell into and fill up the throat so that not a drop of air can get by. Women who had been seduced, cheated and abandoned like to kill their men this way … The kiss you awake from in the next world,’ added Rimaszombati, turning grave, for he had not intended to speak of this category of kissing, only the night had inspired him to utter words that, once pronounced, could not be withdrawn.

Hmm! Lost in her thoughts, Jolan savoured the taste of the above-mentioned kiss. It must be strange to die in the middle of a kiss.

‘Jealousy teaches women that kind of kiss. Many a man has met his maker that way. It is called the witch’s kiss and many doubt its existence, for those who received it are now silent underground and those who bestowed it would not confess to it even when burned at the stake for witchcraft of other kinds. Why, Queen Elizabeth of England was aware of this type of kiss; she knew far more than her contemporaries gave her credit for. And Empress Catherine the Great knew about it, because sorcerers reveal far more to a sovereign than to a commoner. Catherine de Medici practised it, and possibly Queen Maria of Hungary, to silence her lovers before they had a chance to blab out the secrets of a queen. Before the courtier could spill the beans about the happy hours spent together, about moments of weakness, the loss of innocence and feminine honour, the eternal secrets of womenfolk: here came the witch’s kiss and did its job. The Queen stuck her tongue way down into her knight’s throat.’

The clock in the tower struck one as if to put a full stop to Rimaszombati’s words.

The old man shuddered hearing the stroke of the clock. ‘The devil knows which is the better way to go: die of a witch’s kiss when death is the last thing on your mind, or in some hospital with saltpetre-seeping walls where your mattress is already being tugged by others who wish to die in the same place?’

Thus spake Mr Rimaszombati as he stepped out of the shadows, before the statue had a chance to tap him on the head because of his godless talk. He was an old man who could only use words to corrupt women, as if intending to leave no soul innocent in the world — a habit of those men who even with their dying words desire to pervert, hoping for more company in hell.