It was late afternoon by the time he arrived at this cheerful, pleasantly fragrant place.
Please believe it.
He does, but has no idea what to do next.
The female porter wanted to help him because theoretically it was very simple. There was no need for him to traipse around half the city.
She asked if he was a relative.
He said no.
Then she couldn’t help.
He asked her to, please.
The woman gave him a long and sympathetic look. She was interrupted by some inquiries, she had to make a phone call, she had to go out to the entrance to arrange something; these interruptions gave her a chance to think about the matter. When she returned and found him still waiting, without another word she called the central hospital bed registry. They told her that the previous night no patient by that name had been brought to any of the city’s hospitals or clinics.
But that’s not possible.
Calm down. Accept it.
He stayed for a while longer because he could not compose himself well enough to leave.
And then he asked this woman where, despite everything, he might keep looking.
Very cautiously, the woman asked him to tell her what had happened, was it a spontaneous abortion.
Yes, a spontaneous abortion.
And where was she taken from.
He told her, and while he spoke he saw on her face that this woman knew everything about them, she’s simply reading all of it off him, and that’s how people read other people, off each other’s face.
Was she taken in an ambulance.
No.
Then it’s harder, because she can’t ask the ambulance services, but she took a frayed notebook out of her desk drawer. She named all the places where he might still look. Kristóf went to the Rókus Hospital, and when he did not find her there either, he walked the streets aimlessly for a while, among people. He was walking into another person’s life; whether or not he finds her, from now on this will be his life. This new life of his has nothing to do with any of his former lives, with his birth or with his family or with anything. They had all become like strange objects. Because he would not venture outside his new life, not even with a single thought. Which was neither good nor bad, but after so much walking and absorbing so much of the streetscape, his legs began to grow tired.
He called again from a phone booth stinking of male urine, the phone rang, he held on for a long time, nobody answered.
He did not find her in the hospital on Szövetség Street either, and by now it was evening. From there, he should have gone to the hospital on Sándor Péterfy Street; he stood on Rákóczi Road, staring longingly at a slow-moving illuminated streetcar, thinking he could take it to the hospital. He could not give up the search yet he did not continue. He didn’t want to ruin his last chance of the evening by not finding her on Péterfy Street.
When he returned to the apartment on Teréz Boulevard, at first he thought that for some reason everyone had left the place and every object was frozen in place along with his family’s life.
He went to look for something to eat and found his entire family sitting silently around the large dining table under the baroque chandelier. They all looked at him as if they had just been talking about him. Their eyes were filled with reproach. They must have finished eating earlier, and it seemed unusual that Ilona had not cleared the table. Nínó sat at the head of the table, under the 1848 battle scene, Ágost on her right, with Gyöngyvér facing him. Beautiful Irén was also there with her grown daughters, Lilla and Viola, and at her side the little Bellardi boy, the most favored pupil; facing him glowed Irén’s utterly bald husband, and next to him were the relatives from Transylvania, Ildikó and Mária Lehr.
Even if Ilona had not been standing by the door, her eyes red and tear-stained, he would have known what had happened.
But Kristóf said nothing, not even hello, took his place at the empty chair at the far end of the table, opposite Nínó; he looked at each of them separately, these faces that, yes, were familiar from somewhere, poured himself some water and drank it.
When he put his empty glass back on the table, Nínó spoke.
I am not certain this interests you, Kristóf, she said sternly and solemnly, but at twenty minutes after three o’clock this afternoon your uncle István died in my arms.
Kristóf could not help thinking that Nínó should have left her arms out of it, along with the sentimental hogwash.
But she could leave out nothing, her lips trembled, she sobbed with pain because the pain was real, which immediately made Gyöngyvér cry too. Just then the phone rang in the living room — luckily, because Nínó’s stern solemnity affected him quite strongly, the sentimental hogwash with which she doused her listeners. It was possible that Nínó’s ridiculous behavior would have a stronger influence on him than the death of his uncle. But the ringing telephone was too distant a sound in the apartment for anyone to answer at this tense moment. While Nínó is rendering her account of the great man’s death and perhaps announcing Kristóf’s disinheritance.
They were all waiting for this great event.
You have probably only come for supper, Nínó continued at the head of the table, but we are mourning, if this doesn’t bother you while you sup.
The event was too recent for anyone to be wearing black yet.
Yes, Kristóf replied, and began spooning the soup put before him.
He was truly hungry.
In grave silence they watched him.
He asked Ilona for seconds.
Accompanied by their reproof, he ate a second portion of soup quickly.
Nínó had not been mistaken, after all, her insight into human nature stood on a firm basis.
It was a quite superb cream of mushroom soup, and while spooning it, Kristóf glanced at the little Bellardi boy, this most favored pupil, who in return was watching him rather slyly.
It was clear that this was the character with whom Gyöngyvér would move in.
Then it was Irén’s turn, and the others willingly followed suit; they all spoke quietly and politely of the great dead man.
But in fact, they were all waiting for the great moment.
Nínó kept very quiet, however, no longer feeling any pain.
And when the telephone rang again, Ágost went to answer it and in the name of the grieving family to accept the prompt condolences, whoever might be at the other end of the line. They knew this was to be expected, the phone would keep on ringing because the news had been announced on the radio. The others around the table sank back into reproachful silence, which is to say they pretended they had urgent remembering to do. Of course their silence was directed not only at Kristóf, heartless and ungrateful boy, but at death too, death which treats everyone so unfairly.
But how can anyone be so heartless.
And frankly, Nínó was at this moment rather curious to know who might be calling, because she had not yet heard from the prime minister, though he had informed them via his secretary that he would call personally.
Ágost stayed away for a long time.
The reproving silence did not touch Kristóf; he simply acknowledged it. Ilona cleared away his soup plate but then hesitated between taking the main dish from the platter on the table or serving Kristóf something hot from the kitchen. And nobody else handed him the platter on which lay, in the light of the baroque chandelier, the remnants of masterfully sliced stuffed beef, rare but crusty on the outside, surrounded by evenly cut potatoes sprinkled with parsley.
Ilona could slice any meat without the stuffing spilling out.
And when nothing happened, he stood up irreverently and pulled the platter toward his end of the table. He could have asked Viola for it, with half a smile. It was not enough that he was so heartless and now behaved so disrespectfully, but he also served himself while still standing up, helping himself to meat and potatoes much too generously. With his eyes he searched the table for the pickled vegetables. To go with this meat, according to custom, either pickled melon or pickled peppers stuffed with red cabbage should be served.