And when he returned one evening from the vineyard hills, a bit tipsy, not only was his supper waiting for him in the immaculate kitchen fragrant with freshly baked morello pie but his excited mother held out an unopened telegram, which reminded him of Bellardi’s long letter from the Trieste Naval Academy, every sentence of which had also surprised him.
Sometimes, Madzar left home so as not to be there if Bellardi showed up unexpectedly; it was a way to ensure his own surprise — to return to find Bellardi there.
Although the possibility of such a visit had never been mentioned, in the telegram Mrs. Szemző announced her arrival the next day.
Telegram in hand, the text much too long with too many detailed explanations, Madzar stood, overcome by the news as if hit on the head. He managed to read the first sentence all right, but he gave only a cursory glance to the rest. How could he prevent her. He turned red right under his mother’s watchful eyes. Bellardi must love him greatly, after all. There was no possibility of replying; the post office was closed at this late hour. He did not understand what this meant or what he had read in the telegram, because he hadn’t expected Mrs. Szemző to be interested in his work; this was too much for him. What did each word mean in the sentence about needing to clarify unresolved questions, and his mother wanted to know, and quite loudly too, who, when, and how many guests might be arriving. Or perhaps he had to go to Pest. Just to be on the safe side, as soon as the mailman left she had quickly slaughtered a chicken. Should she add another one. She had cleaned the vegetables for the soup and she would put it on the stove at dawn, but would her little boy tell her whether she should pick more carrots and turnips. It was as though each of his mother’s words reached him from a great distance, along with one of the telegram’s words hovering before his eyes, or as if the words had not reached him at all.
She already has nice new string beans in the garden. It’s a good thing they don’t grow just on the island.
They should pick some before it got completely dark; she’d make some bread-crumbed beans.
As if in her convoluted explanation Mrs. Szemző could conceal why she was coming and why so suddenly.
His first thought was that he should get some water from the soda man who had an artesian well; finicky Mrs. Szemző should not have to drink the stinking water from the Madzars’ well. With all those expensive words in the telegram, Mrs. Szemző revealed that her pride and standoffishness had collapsed; she couldn’t bear being without him, and putting aside propriety and decorum, defying the social differences, she was on her way.
He became inordinately cheerful and excited.
What came promptly to mind was Mrs. Szemző’s laugh, showing her big ugly horse teeth and bare gums.
Well, then, it’s happening after all.
At the mere thought, his prick stiffened and his sphincters contracted. But how would he tell his mother that she should expect the visit of a married woman. He quickly folded the virtually unread telegram and shoved it into his pants pocket. Because it occurred to him, and the possibility truly alarmed him, that tomorrow, on the very same day, Bellardi might also make his appearance.
Both of them might show up on Wednesday.
And in that case, responsibility for the death of the Gottlieb boy rests with them. Which neither of them would ever admit and Mrs. Szemző would never forgive if she knew about it. Luckily, it was only an accident. There was no summer without somebody drowning in the Danube. And why would the two of them have talked to each other about such matters. The water around Mohács is unpredictable enough.
They turned away from each other when other people spoke of the accident.
What time is it, Mother, he asked, a little sobered from his good mood.
He even asked if today was Tuesday.
Outside it was becoming quite light; birds began to chirp in the trees on Pozsonyi Road, though the first streetcar had not yet come.
I’ll go out for a walk, Madzar said, while thinking, no, I can’t do this to my mother, she’d die of shame. She’d start shouting about why should they host a rich Jewess and how could I even think of bringing a married woman into her house. And to do this in full view of the town too; she’d never live it down.
Maybe I’ll reserve a room for her in the Korona, then.
He imagined such a room, the kind he would reserve for Mrs. Szemző in the Korona and where the next day everything would happen between them.
But who is coming, son, his mother called after him hesitantly yet desperately.
Gyöngyvér’s hand rose properly above the keys as if she were certain what she must do with the conjured-up phrase. But everything happened differently. Could she accompany the sounds issuing from her on Mrs. Szemző’s piano.
Mrs. Madzar grumbled a bit more but then decided that she’d pick the string beans no matter what. She would prepare a good tomato sauce, brown the roux nicely no matter who came to visit; she’d serve that with boiled chicken and steamed string beans. In the seventh-floor apartment, it grew light earlier and dark later than down in the street, under the shade of the elms and above the insanely yellow pavement. With her keyed-up imagination she was moving forward in the pale light of Madzar’s remaining lamps, her flawless naked body caught up in the momentum.
In the end, she had the courage to hit only the lonely F sharp, waited patiently for the F sharp to address her body and then let her voice sing out, nice and round.
Well, at least it came out right again.
Again but only once and only by chance; she was actually preparing for something else, not this. She was preparing to take Mrs. Szemző’s impossible idea seriously: now I may be talking nonsense, but you tell Médike that not only should you sing Monteverdi, but you should also switch to contralto. And with that, Mrs. Szemző rose from the piano and began excitedly to look for the right sheet music. In the escritoire, the only piece left of the furniture Madzar had built, from which the unknown saturant was still emitting a faint scent.
Gyöngyvér also got up from the piano to get the sheet music but in the meantime she remembered where Mrs. Szemző kept the blankets. And the black dog on the bridge attacked Kristóf, knocking him against the railing and licking his face again with its huge tongue. The young man instinctively shoved the dog away; the touch of the strange beast inflamed his mouth, but his move came too late. His palate turned blistery, he thought he’d choke to death on the spot, but the dog thought that now they could begin to play.
It was snarling at him in happiness.
The next morning Mrs. Szemző arrived in Mohács, and not alone.
Then Ágost was startled by the sound and noticed with surprise that he was alone in the bed in the maid’s room. At least he could make himself comfortable. He was a little cold, he realized, irritated, where is she with that blanket, he thought wistfully, but then he fell right back to sleep.
At 11:20 in the morning, four minutes before the expected arrival of the woman, the unsuspecting Madzar was already waiting on the platform at the old railway station shaded by aged chestnut trees, sporting his father’s best summer suit, a light-green tropical worsted. He had worked until dawn in his father’s workshop so he could show Mrs. Szemző at least the sketches of all the objects he was making for her. He held his father’s panama hat in his hand, twirling it nervously. During the long night he had managed to assemble roughly every piece of furniture except for the desk, the folding screen, and the davenport, including the all-important delicate couch of which they both expected so much. If only he could put together in fitting layers the experience of several centuries. The practical question he had to answer was this, in what manner does a relaxed body lie on a couch. His body shuddered in the early dawn light; the weird exhibit he had prepared surprised him. The hastily assembled pieces of austere furniture were propped up with other objects and implements and stood forlornly among the machines. He knew that no one in the world had ever received such a worthy confession of love, and fortunately no one besides him could know this; a stranger could not possibly understand. Mrs. Szemző will not understand either. Yet secretly he hoped she would.