Continuation (a yet further victory)
As he stepped through the double door, Köves at first saw virtually nothing, and even later only a little; in the daylight that streamed in through the wide window, literally stabbing and unremittingly pricking his eyes, which already stinging from lack of sleep, all he could see behind an enormous writing desk was a compact lacuna, a dark form hewn out of the light as it were, that was nevertheless arranged in accordance with the forms of a human trunk, shoulders, neck, and head — obviously the editor in chief. The shadow was now augmented by an appendage, his outstretched arm, but due to the deceptive perspective caused by the light, Köves could not tell offhand where it was pointing.
“Take a seat,” he heard a voice which had a pleasantly deep ring but was slightly husky, maybe due to overuse or maybe heavy smoking. Since he saw just one chair on that side of the table, Köves sat down on it, although this chair was still facing the light, indeed, given that he was in a lower position through being seated, the source of the light was now apparent in the upper part of the window: the sun itself — albeit along with the editor in chief as well, of course. And because he had no idea where he should begin, what came to his lips straight away, even though, when it came down to it, there was nothing but the truth in its indecisiveness, was:
“I had to see you.”
“Very sensible of you,” could be heard from behind the writing desk. A tiny flame flickered then shortly after Köves heard this from behind a rising light cloud of blue-tinged smoke which within seconds had scattered in the light:
“My door is open to all,” and on hearing this firmly resonant declaration the whole obstacle race that Köves had run in order to get to this room melted into thin air, like the cigarette smoke just before, and Köves was surprised to find something melting inside him into an obscure sense of gratitude which suddenly filled him with confidence.
It also coloured his voice:
“Because I’ve been given notice of dismissal”—an apology, almost a smile was hidden in that, as when men talk over among themselves some nonsense which has occurred.
“I know,” Köves heard. “How can I be of assistance?”
“I’ve lost my bread and butter,” Köves explained.
“Your bread and butter?” came back, somewhat shocked, at least to Köves’s ears.
“What I mean is that I don’t have anything to live off of.” However much Köves might be embarrassed by his own words, it seemed he would have to speak clearly if he wished to be understood.
“I see, so that’s what this is about.” Now it seemed as if there was a touch of underlying impatience in the voice.
“Yes,” said Köves. “I have to make a living, after all.”
“Naturally, you have to make a living; we all have to make a living.” The head moved about while it was speaking, so that Köves was now slowly able to make out the outline of a jutting chin and a forceful, imperious nose. “But then, ultimately it’s not a matter of prime importance.”
“It becomes a matter of prime importance if you have nothing to live off of,” said Köves.
“Everyone in our country makes a living,” and now Köves sensed in the voice something final, brooking no denial, as if he had been put in his place. “As far as your dismissal goes,” the editor in chief went on, now with a somewhat more expansive intonation, “we weighed it up meticulously. To tell you the truth, we can’t really see how we could make use of you. Although,” and here the voice seemed to hesitate, but then continued all the same, “I won’t deny that we received a serious recommendation on your behalf.”
“From where?” the question seemed to slip out of Köves, but no doubt over-hastily, because it received no answer.
“We are not familiar with your work,” the editor in chief continued. “Besides, so I hear, you have spent a lengthy spell abroad; you may not even be acquainted with the line our paper takes.”
“But then,” said Köves, “it’s not just a matter of the line. With a paper,” Köves became quite animated, “other types of work can be found.”
“You’re making me curious,” he heard the editor in chief say, a remark that — not exactly hostile, but not too friendly either — again unsettled Köves. “What are you thinking of?”
“What indeed?” Köves tried to collect his thoughts as a suspicion was aroused in him that he was walking into a trap. “I can formulate proper grammatical sentences. I’m skilled at rounding out a story and supplying a punch line … maybe,” he added with a modest, self-deprecating smile, as if he wished to avoid the appearance of bragging, “well anyway, perhaps I also have some style.”
“So.” The word rang curtly, but Köves was unable to pick out any expression on the face haloed by the incoming rays from behind. “So in your view,” the voice established rather than enquired, “a journalist’s work consists of constructing proper grammatical sentences and rounding suitably pointed stories …”
“At all events,” a strange defiance awoke now in Köves as in someone who knows he is right and has to defend his standpoint: “At all events journalism can’t exist without that,” and, without having a clue why, a recollection of how the pianist had talked that night about his numbers suddenly flashed across his mind.
“So.” This now sounded even more curt and more assertive than before. Then, after a brief pause, Köves heard the following question, slow and precisely articulated:
“And you have no credo … no persuasion?” and Köves suddenly felt like someone sizing up the depths of a chasm — and quite irrationally, too, since if he were going to jump, he would do better to jump with his eyes closed.
“None,” he said. And then he almost shouted once again into the deafening silence which followed that word: “None!.. How could I have any persuasion when I have never once been persuaded about anything at all! Life is not a source of faith, after all, life is … I don’t know what, but life is something else …”
He was soon interrupted:
“You’re not familiar with the life we lead.”
“I’d like to work, and then I shall get to know it,” Köves said, in a low voice now, almost longingly.
“Well, work!” came back the exhortation.
“But I’ve been dismissed,” Köves complained, despondently.
“You don’t have to be with us to work,” the voice exhorted further.
“But I don’t know how to do anything else.” Köves bowed his head, sensing he was behaving like a beggar.
“You’ll learn: our factories are waiting with open gates for anyone who wishes to work!” chimed the voice, and Köves lifted his head again: the recognition, like a judgement, filled him with a calm, dull weariness, but in it he somehow regained his keen sense of pride.
“So, that’s what you intend for me,” he said slowly, almost whispering, searching in vain with his groping gaze for the purchase of any sort of face, as long as it was visible in the light.
“We don’t intend anything at all for you,” came back from over there. “That’s just your misconception: it’s up to you to find your alternatives.” Then, seeming to make do with that for his lecturing, the editor in chief’s voice turned warmer, almost congeniaclass="underline" “Work, get to know life, open up your eyes and ears, accumulate experiences. Don’t imagine we have given up on you and your talent. This door,” the arm swung straight out and pointed to somewhere behind Köves, obviously the door, “This door, you’ll see, will open to you yet again.”
“That may be.” Köves jumped up: with his loss of hope (if there had been any) came that of his patience, his patience for everything which, being neither a constraint on him nor his freedom, was no longer of interest. “That may be, but I won’t be stepping through it!” After which he was again outside in the corridor, he himself didn’t quite know how, and with the abatement of his excitement while the paternoster sank downwards with him, obviously either for no reason, or just as a reaction to the excitements he had endured, but so unexpectedly he was almost frightened by it, he was veritably overwhelmed by a sense of relief, like some indescribable happiness. Everything had happened differently from the way he had wanted, and yet — probably only through being in the sort of worked-up state which cancels shades — he nevertheless felt he had got what he wanted. As if he had stood his ground for something, defended something — but what? The word occurred to Köves: honour. But then, he asked himself in perplexed amazement, like someone stumbling over an unforeseen obstacle, what was his honour?