He would have liked to disappear in his shame, but he could not stop anything. With great zeal and vulgarity they thrust themselves against each other. They made contact on the suitable points of elevation for them to seem most promising to each other, while talking about something else.
Actually, what he really felt was contempt for this stupid broad who, head thrown back, was laughing as vindictively as an infuriated provincial prima donna. The contempt added something to his cheap thrill. He could not wholly deny it to himself.
He was toying with the thought that at the right moment he’d turn around, reject his contempt for her, and make a move for his own sake.
But not yet.
He won’t reject her yet but instead will continue to enjoy her a little longer.
He turned around, though, to see whether Klára could actually see him.
Kristóf shouldn’t be so cruel to her, should stop talking so harshly. And now he should tell her who the dame was he’d fallen for so hard.
Hearing this, Kristóf realized he must have convinced only himself that he had felt Klára’s eyes on his back.
Or Klára might have disappeared.
First Gyöngyvér should tell him who her next victim was.
It’s still a secret, laughed Gyöngyvér, the future will tell; and she became beautiful, as the chosen person seemed to appear in the mirror of her face.
She really wants to leave Ágost.
Or they’re just having fun with each other.
She had already drunk a toast to it, to this great decision, champagne, with her best girlfriends, so she could forget this whole fucking past year and everything about it.
It wasn’t even a year.
Forget it then; she already has, who gives a shit. Why don’t they go over to the next room and dance a little. She really feels like dancing because she wants to forget everything.
No, he won’t go with her.
But this is the most cheerful day of her life, so Kristóf shouldn’t be fucking around with her.
He’d still like to find his friend because, Gyöngyvér won’t believe this, his friend is sitting and crying all by himself on the stairs.
He managed to retrieve a hand from under Gyöngyvér’s fingernails, but then she grabbed his thighs, and he didn’t want to leave her splendid loins so fast, her cunt.
That’s all he could think of, though he wanted to leave.
Gyöngyvér should quickly tell him, before he had to go, what happened to the old man.
Nothing; what should have happened.
He tensed his thighs, to show a bit of protest, but he enjoyed the new situation even more. Giggling, Gyöngyvér was shrugging her shoulders.
She doesn’t care about Uncle István’s idiocy either; the old man’s now home free.
You can’t be serious.
She and Nínó had already designed Nínó’s mourning dress, in the taxicab, but nada, it was a false alarm. They were hoping he’d kicked the bucket at last. But they even had a conversation with him. His hand had to be guided a little, but he did sign the contract. The old fart wouldn’t give in easily.
You people can now sell his house, but even you can’t succeed in everything.
They had gone to eat and drink something in the Serbian restaurant, sitting there until late afternoon, planning to go back to the hospital but, Kristóf won’t believe this, Nínó got a little tipsy, smoked, and was very candid.
The two of them are best friends now. But if she stayed, if she took her seriously, if she were not to move out, Nínó would just humiliate her again. She’s willing to humiliate her in front of anyone. She does it even in front of Ilona. This whole thing has happened because of her. And then Ágost sent André to bug her, to convince her to stay. But she won’t. All she had to say to André was, listen, André, I will never be the wife of Ágost Lippay Lehr, do you understand, never.
If you like him so much, I said to André, why don’t you marry him.
Your leaving him will kill him.
Kristóf should imagine that André, that hairy monkey, had the nerve to tell her that she would kill Ágost. Go back to him then and tell him to go ahead, he can hang himself. But it’s best they don’t talk about this now, and Kristóf should shake a leg, it’s time to dance a little.
They took off together, but then, luckily, they lost each other. Perhaps they let go of each other while dancing. He didn’t mind this, he did not mind anything, he drank and wanted to leave at last because there was no point in hanging around without Klára.
Everything became boring and disgusting.
He felt, no, he knew he was lost without Klára, but he was so drunk that he couldn’t feel sorry for himself about this. And he had found out everything from Gyöngyvér; that was his great satisfaction for the evening. At least he wouldn’t have to see this dizzy dame at the dining table anymore. He managed to get out to the staircase, but he didn’t find that fucking Pisti.
At least other people let him drink; they kept bringing the booze in corked bottles from Városház Street, where the inn was open.
It was good kövidinka, cheap white wine.
Or he went over to the bar of the Gourmand with some other people so they wouldn’t have to drink that crappy kövidinka, let whoever had a taste for it drink it.
That is how he wound up in the middle of the street, asphalt below, sky above, and the stupid tree branches in between.
Then unexpectedly he found Pisti, just as they were coming back to the apartment from somewhere. With his head buried in coats, Pisti was asleep on that fucking platform. If only he didn’t have to look at this fucking platform. And then he lay down next to his friend, so he’d be in a good place too. When he awoke, his friend was looking at him but Kristóf did not know who the person was who was looking at him as a friend. But then who was his friend. And then they had a fairly intelligible conversation, they held on to each other and quietly talked about how it was with the girls in Wiesenbad, reminded each other of the time they had walked over to Wiesa or Annaberg, and does Kristóf remember that old dame, that nurse, Sister Klára or somebody.
To whose place they walked over one Saturday afternoon.
Because Sister Klára had invited them.
They slept at her place.
They woke early in the morning to the sound of church bells.
She was a nice woman, that Sister Klára, that’s for sure.
She gave them hot chocolate for breakfast.
She liked Hungarians because her son lived in Budapest.
Kristóf understood, through the drunken haze, that something had happened to Pisti that he didn’t want to talk about; instead, he kept talking of other things.
Yet no matter how drunk he was, Kristóf wanted to know what had happened.
One day he’ll tell him.
He had always wanted to tell Kristóf, not anybody else.
But he won’t now because he couldn’t bear it.
Kristóf knew this was no joke.
They held on to each other even more tightly, almost hugging.
They remained silent.
In this harsh silence, in which Kristóf sobered up a little, he asked his friend if he had been beaten up.
No, he had not been.
Still, he should tell him now what happened.
His friends, his best friends, had ruined him.
Kristóf of course wanted to know what friends.
He can’t tell him, he won’t tell him, but one day he will.
No you won’t.
But what kind of friends.
It doesn’t matter, damn it.
Why doesn’t it.
Why should anything matter; Kristóf wouldn’t understand anyway. Doesn’t understand a thing about why people are the way they are; my prick understands more.