You’re out of your mind, you don’t know what you’re talking about.
Even if I don’t, that won’t change the situation much.
They were quiet, and neither of them could have said how they’d wound up here.
Once again she had managed to pick up a weakling, a little liar who strutted not his manhood but his vulnerability. How could she find a worthy partner besides Simon, why does she demand such impossibilities of herself. These aren’t men. All right, so she’d made a vague attempt, but she should admit defeat, end the effort quickly and retreat in a nice, orderly manner.
At the same time it also occurred to her that Kristóf might be right, even though he really didn’t know what he was talking about. What idiocy it is to consider the urge for intercourse as obligatory. Still, her annoyance and disappointment remained strong, though in the interest of an orderly retreat she should free herself of both.
Maybe, she said very quietly, feeling impelled to defend herself, I am too reserved and too sentimental, and that’s not a lucky combination, I admit.
The other one remained silent. I spoil everything, she added obligingly.
After this distancing sentence everything cooled back down to a normal temperature. Kristóf tried to analyze what she’d said but in his haste found only its emotional sources, not its sense. She wanted to avoid him, but how far at this point could her avoidance go. Their feet were cold and they were both shivering in the unheated car. Their fingers could loosen now and separate. It took a long time before each hand regained its independent existence within its own contours. Klára, with her involuntarily unleashed anger, tried to pull the mink coat back but couldn’t — an effort at least as unsuccessful as her distancing remark had been. Then, with the same anger and just to succeed at something, she turned off the windshield wipers.
We’ll have a vodka there, across the street, come on, stop moping. We’re not going to mope over a little thing like this, are we.
Who’s moping, Kristóf replied mulishly, and frankly it’s not such a little thing, but I wouldn’t mind having a vodka.
They smiled politely at each other, content with their little verbal gratifications and with finding their way back to familiar conversational tones.
I frightened you, didn’t I. I’m a raving lunatic, said Klára in a voice whose tone did not enforce the meaning of the words. I frightened you from the first moment, but at least I’ve managed to spit things out in front of someone and lighten the burden of my soul.
Kristóf made no reply; perhaps Klára did not even expect one.
She took the key from the ignition, found her silver-clasped chamois handbag — a handy little number studded with big colored pearls which her grandmother, dressed in white, must have carried at famous balls or soirées in her youth; they slammed the car doors behind them and were on their way. The stormy air and the spray lashing their faces not only felt good but were redeeming judgment itself. There is the wind, the rain, the darkness, the city, the storm; yes, the sober outside world may have changed a little, but there is a world nevertheless, and its darkness can exist independent of the darkness of the two of them.
It now shows the unknown features of its old familiar face, a face much more exciting than their own. Out here, out of the car, they felt a little bored with each other and with that whole impossible coexistence they’d left behind in the car along with their souls and their inner nature.
A small neon sign shone dimly on the other side of the wet road, the multicolored name of the place and a childish stylization of the sun; they had to go down two steps to the Sunshine. From the doorway a surprising sight greeted them. The city was empty and they hadn’t seen anyone on the streets, only broken branches and roof tiles, pieces of plaster and ripped-off gutters strewn everywhere, but here, behind the purple broadcloth curtains and purple windbreakers, the tiny bar was jammed with people, smoke, noise, and music. A drummer and a pianist were pounding on their instruments, the latter also cooing into a microphone.
Seeing the two of them enter, he moaned, and inserted into his English text, my dear fellow humans, may I have your attention please, he sang, dargije tovarishchi i druzyah, he added, interrupting the melody, two pieces of fresh meat have arrived at the market. Kristóf and Klára laughed along with the other customers and, embarrassed, tried to figure out whether this rudeness really did refer to them.
Who else could it have referred to.
They were being looked at and, having no choice, they showed themselves to their spectators, jostling among the indifferent strange bodies until they found a little space for themselves.
Establishments from the prewar world had stayed on in Pest for a long time. The downtown brasseries were Francophile places — until their characteristic sofas and mirrors were thrown out — while the bars were Anglophile pubs; one of these latter was called Old Boys.
Back at the beginning of the century, Budapest’s high society* had lived and played in this neighborhood; their tennis courts, riding trails, and clubs were just a stone’s throw away: the largest and most famous one, the Park Club, on Stefánia Boulevard, only a few steps away from the Old Boys. Anyone leaving a garden party at the Park Club after midnight under the influence could always press himself into this place. The Old Boys, with its black musicians, was considered very modern, sports-clubby, and fashionable. Since that time it had shed its name and changed its main purpose several times, though for nighttime functions it retained its sportive character. In the postwar-coalition days* it was still called the Old Boys, and became infamous in the black-market world until a nasty shooting incident caused it to be shut down for a few years. One could buy nylon stockings, chewing gum, jewelry, quite exceptional objets d’art, and Swiss watches there. Customers were shown the merchandise in the ladies’ toilet or under the table, and the staff obviously cooperated with the merchants.
As the Sunshine, it was one of the rare places in Budapest that managed to retain not only its interior furnishings but also its style and something of its erstwhile milieu. Its highly polished wainscoting had not been removed, even right after the siege, when the wood could have been used for heating; the long-legged easy chairs with their handsome little footrests and the long-legged small tables also remained. During the day it was annoyingly bright, and that along with the dubious public buying and selling made a most peculiar impression; but at night it was different, when the sconces with their wax-paper shades frugally emitted faint glows.
The sunken dance floor had room for only a few clinging couples, moving in the light of a pale-red spot hanging from the mirrored ceiling. Wrapped in smoke, the dancers swayed and hovered at the same level with the heads of guests seated at the bar and tables, and thus a feeling of improbability came over anyone coming down the stairs from the street-level entrance; the place looked crazy, with its warm lights and distorting mirrors. Kristóf and Klára found a place near the piano but not at a table, so they had to rest an elbow on the open instrument.
The piano was the only object in the entire place that received harsh white lighting.
They were not talking.
The older, bored-looking waitress amiably advised them — her voice drawing out the vowels — not to drink vodka today but gin fizzes.
Her typical Pest accent, slightly singsong, lent a sarcastic flavor to everything she said.
On account of today being a national holiday, they were handing out lemons at the central office.
All three of them had a good laugh at this — that the central office handed out anything, let alone lemons.