Gyula Krúdy - Life Is A Dream

‘I will not inquire what you intend to do; all I ask is that you stay away from here for ever, because your presence is unbearably painful for me,’ Jolan now whispered, for even in the midst of the greatest torment women are capable of saying things that apparently make sense. But not men, who, if they open their mouths in certain critical situations, are sure to utter the most asinine things.

Galgóczi, too, opened his mouth and said the following: ‘I, too, have decided to leave this place and am only waiting for my itinerant friend to appear. He probably knows of inns where the woman of the house is confined with a newborn whose nappies are drying all over the attic. Or at least the innkeeper’s wife is pregnant, so that I cannot fall in love as fatally as I fell for you!’

In her dolour Jolan was not really listening to Galgóczi’s words, and without weighing what he said, continued her own heartrending tune: ‘I never want to see you again in my life, or hear your name, not even see you in a dream … Will you do that for me, Galgóczi, and disappear?’

Poor Jolan. In her world she could not have known the fact that words of that sort affect only bibulous men, men who befriend wine, make friends through wine, feel and think through wine — for wine injects its own sensibilities and vulnerabilities into their hearts. Poor Jolan indeed. She could not have known that forsaking wine most men forsake love as well, and can arm themselves against momentary weakness, something the drinking man is incapable of. And Galgóczi had fortitude now …

‘I have already vowed to address only women who are in a blessed state of pregnancy, for I deem them safe.’

‘I wish you success in whatever you resolve, for I hope you know I will always wish you only the best, even when I cannot see you,’ repeated Jolan, opening one last time for Galgóczi the door leading to love, happiness, the beautiful life and the sweetest emotions, for him to enter, as if nothing had ever happened. One could almost hear the little door opening, and Jolan’s dearest, devoted voice: Come in, come on in, I am the one who loves you the truest of all. Without me you are as good as dead, you poor unfortunate, even if you keep on living, because I will surely die. Come, come let us love each other, my angel. I am good and I am pure and I love only you …

This is what Jolan’s unsaid words were conveying, and Galgóczi had to feel it, for if he did not, then nothing mattered anyway.

Love and conscience struggled so hard inside Galgóczi that he nearly collapsed in a heap, for never before could he see as clearly the crossroads of his life as now, when he stood stone-cold sober in the church.

‘Not even the devil loves me, and Jolan, most probably you don’t love me either, although you happen to be the one I suffered the worst for, it nearly drove me mad.’

Now Jolan turned to stand face to face with Galgóczi, possibly to say something else to conclude the novel of her life. But the words stuck in her throat, not a sound came out. She just stood, feet rooted to the ground, her eyes staring at Galgóczi as if beholding a miracle.

‘What is it?’ asked Galgóczi.

Of course he had not yet seen the change that came over him in the church, for otherwise he would not have asked.

As we have said, Galgóczi stood under the choir, but one part of him stood inside the nave of the church. About one half of his body could be said to be in the church, and on this half his hair, moustache and beard turned white as a dove during the conversation, as if struck by white lightning that burned his hair white in an instant, unbeknownst to him. This miracle had bisected him exactly down the middle and thus marked him for life.

Jolan, no matter how kind-hearted she was, had to back away in horror from the young man whose moustache was auburn red on one side and silvery white on the other. Rimaszombati, who, as we know, was lurking at the entrance, backed away with equal horror from the young man.

And so Galgóczi, placing one shaky foot before another, afraid at each step that the world would slip away vertiginously from under his feet, at last reached White Eagle Place, where he met the wizard, to whom he confided his resolution about lady tavern-keepers.

The wizard looked hard into Galgóczi’s eyes. ‘Not possible,’ he said. ‘I don’t want them to give birth to monsters wherever I go with you.’

He said no more, but Galgóczi, on looking at a mirror, understood anyway what he meant. Now at last he was right. Not even the devil loved him. He had given up wine. But he had also abandoned love. He stayed alive, but it was no better than if he had shared the fate of Bitchkey and Botchkay.

(1930)

‘Eat lots of carrots, that’ll put lead in your pencil,’ said the strapping woman who was Kalkuttai’s lady love.

And so Kalkuttai unfurled the linen napkin, for he resigned himself to the fact that you must obey women in certain matters. He tucked the napkin into his collar all the way around, and tied a knot in the back, the way he had seen old clergymen do. It was a sizeable napkin, large enough to wrap a whole family’s picnic lunch for a summer outing; one corner had, embroidered in red, the name Janet and a five-pointed coronet. It was not Jeanette, no, not Zhanette , it was plain old Janet, a family name. So let’s call the lady who owned the napkin by her last name, because some women are sensitive about just anybody calling them by their first name or nickname. Especially since Kalkuttai’s lady had been given ‘Mantzie’ for a first name, a name that nauseated her, a name she firmly believed to be unsuitable for a lady as sober and settled as herself. You can only be a Mantzie for as long as you’re wearing training brassières.

Our man donned the napkin and used its end to wipe his plate with absent-minded gestures.

‘How many times have I told you,’ said his lady, leaning forward over the small dining table (for she had had a few years at teacher-training college behind her), ‘to save this habit of yours for the caféteria at the Püspökladány train station. There you can polish your plate all you want, just like those itinerant pedlars and horse-dealers who reek of moustache wax. But now you happen to be seated at a family table and there is no cat or dog in my house to dirty your plate.’

Kalkuttai cheerfully undid one vest button. ‘Take it easy, young lady, I know you keep the cleanest kitchen in the land. I’ve never seen chipped enamel on your pots, for you are well aware that could lead to appendicitis, which often proves fatal. And I know for a fact that you use sandstone powder only for whitening your floorboards, and not for cleaning wooden kitchen utensils. See, I am fully aware of all your good points. You can’t fool me, not with my knowledge of people.’

Janet eyed attentively the crisped curls on the back of her man’s head, a fashion introduced in Hungary by Austrian officers back when King Franz Josef was still a young man. She scrutinized his flared shirt cuffs, the opening of which showed a filigree gold chain bracelet that was a favourite souvenir among old-fashioned ladies’ men.

‘How come you’re in such a good mood, did you stop at that tavern on the way?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Now, now, little lady, you know very well I haven’t been back to that place ever since I socked that red-haired scoundrel Zebrai in the jaw for spreading rumours about you and me.’

She heard him out calmly, with the impassive face of one determined not to swallow lies of any kind. ‘I never expected any man, not even my husband, to fight on my account, I hate fighting. I mentioned the beer hall only because I’ve warned you more than once that beer before noon, your so-called “elevenses”, was invented for ne’er-do-wells who can’t afford a real lunch or haven’t got a place where it’s worthwhile to arrive with a hearty appetite. Believe me, it’s mostly unhappy loners without a woman who hang around taverns before lunchtime. I make exception for the provincial who’s been riding the train all night, jolted, tossing and turning, sighing in his sleep: a man like that has earned his “elevenses”.’