At this moment a terrible scream accompanied by a deafening clatter suddenly ended the intimate little story of the three men.
Someone must have fallen headlong on the floor, or was being beaten; loud, heavy sounds of a body hitting or bouncing off some hard surface mingled with, but probably preceded, the clatter of a window that might have smashed or been broken. At the same time, an object tipped over and landed on the stone floor with a resounding thump.
A woman’s voice shouted for help.
Hans jumped up, banging against the bodies of the other two, and, probably in fright, tore the towel from his neck; but by the time all three of them looked toward the source of the din and, overcoming their surprise, were able to see, they found only the ominous tranquillity of the corridor.
An upended table, a body on the wetly glittering yellow tile floor.
The wind rushing through the broken window was literally shrieking.
What happened, Rózsika, Hans shouted to the ticket taker, who stood, leaning over between the legs of the turned-over table, like someone who has just knocked the other person down and has no clue what to do with him.
Maybe she killed him.
True, she had prepared to defend herself, pressing her massive legs against the crossbar, but in the end she didn’t have to. She had toppled the table in surprise and mainly in fright. She wanted to help the hapless boy. She saw him turn pale and when she looked again she saw his eyes turn inward, or rather she saw only the whites of his eyes, which was frightening enough. The eyeballs turned away in some direction. But she did not think, even then she did not think anything of it. Though she noticed that on the young man’s slightly open lips the saliva had become frothy, and he was shouting something awful, as though he had to say or ask something. And then his entire falling body seemed to have stiffened into this one enormous shout because it was so hard, so hard to say what he wanted.
Ágost remained indifferent, as one whose eyes barely acknowledge what is in front of them. André’s sharp features took on a look of childlike surprise, however, and of dread that he might have something to do with what was happening around him.
Hans was the first to gauge and understand the situation.
Verdammt, schon wieder, he said to himself, annoyed but quietly, damnation, here we go again, and with lightning speed he grabbed the flat pink bottle of André’s body cream from the bench and, pushing the other two men aside, took off at a run. Occasionally they used foreign languages when talking among themselves, but this peculiar little comment was something else, more like something returning from the depths of time. He ran with giant steps, losing a slipper as he did. And he was shouting. Get me something soft, Rózsika. Your pillow or sweater or anything. He demanded these things as one used to coping with similar situations. But his shouting failed to reach the woman’s consciousness, though all she had to do was turn around for these objects. She did not understand what pillow, what kind of sweater, what would they be for since the man was already bleeding to death. She stood there, above the table, like a statue. And the body on the floor, as though wanting to jump up, flexed into an arc. Blood was flowing from under his head. It was spreading slowly over the wet ribbing of the yellow tile floor. The sight of blood was what held the woman captive.
The blood is pouring out, she said softly, almost reverently.
While running, Hans realized he hadn’t taken off his bathing trunks; by the time he reached the scene, with the cream bottle in his hand, he managed to shed his blue bathrobe. The corridor, the shrieking wind, his running steps, all of this seemed to him to have occurred before and more than once.
The blood is pouring out, said the woman for the second time, still in a quiet, soft voice.
Stop talking so much and let me have your pillow, Rózsika, he said quickly, and knelt by the body on the stone floor.
He saw the flashing of tightly clenched teeth from behind the frothy, slightly open lips. Whether he had bitten his tongue in half or not, it was no longer possible to pry open his teeth. There was not a second to lose. He simply dropped the cream bottle, which was now superfluous, and with both hands, as if gently embracing the boy, shoved, stuffed, pressed, and pushed his blue bathrobe under the arching body. The last time he had done something like this was in the main-floor shower room of the boarding school in Wiesenbad. He was now waiting for the pillow. The tonic convulsion began to ease up. As if the body were relaxing on the soft bathrobe, but this did not mean the fit was over.
The blood is pouring from his head, repeated the woman for the third time.
Hans was concentrating on the young man’s outturned eyes, white frothy lips, the rhythm of the spasms, but he also sensed the possibility of being swept away by a terrible flood of hysterics about to gush forth from the motionless body of this woman by the table. He felt its imminence, and he was right.
Oh, my god, she squealed, beside herself, do something already. Blood’s pouring from his head. Can’t you see how it’s flowing out, there, right there, it’s pouring out, she screeched. Blood is pouring from his head.
Hans turned around slowly, looked up at her, and replied wearily. Of course I see it, I see everything, Rózsika. And then he bellowed so loudly that the woman’s enormous body trembled like a leaf. Get back to your work. And give me that fucking pillow.
At least she now knew what to do.
She handed over the pillow from her chair and then gave him her thick hand-knitted cardigan too, but simultaneously protested that no matter what happened she wouldn’t let Hans talk to her like this. She assumed he had said fucking in some sort of connection with her.
Well, said André at the far end of the corridor, laughing with relief, if I’m not mistaken it’s an honest-to-goodness epileptic fit.
And before turning to go, André and Ágost looked at each other as experienced diplomats assessing the damage caused by warfare and taking measures to prevent its consequences. André had to acknowledge his defeat very quickly. And Ágost had to overcome the easy joy he felt about his unexpected good luck. It was there, glittering in his deep-set eyes.
And because he did overcome it without effort, because it was not hard to refrain from gloating, he felt happier and the old sparkle returned to his eyes. That could only make André happy too. Because, owing to an unexpected incident, they had gotten away with it: they wouldn’t have to cope with a three-week depression. He added a little nod that meant appreciation and acknowledgment on the one hand, and on the other a warning that the matter was only postponed and ultimately Ágost would not get away with it without a detailed confession.
And with that, they broke eye contact. André retired to his cabin to get dressed at last. If Kovách could take care of everything, why should he, André, bother with the epileptic fit of a complete stranger. Ágost went into the cabin attendant’s dark booth because he thought he should tell the bathhouse to call for a physician. He was not especially shaken by the attendant’s seizure, but he always liked to help Hans, to see him selflessly and instinctively offer his services to others. Ágost lacked this ability. He found a tattered sheet fastened to the wall by a thumbtack, listing the internal telephone numbers; it had been corrected many times. He saw the entry for the physician on duty but could not make out the number. He wished the whole country to hell with its idiotic lists stuck all over the place.
There was no dial tone; he kept tapping the receiver’s cradle.
In the meantime, the empty main-floor corridor came to life, filling up with people attracted by the frightening screams, everybody running. Half-dressed customers and desperate but helpless staff members. An older cabin attendant, with a horrible war wound, two shiny dents on his skull, two younger women from the cloakroom who would have gladly taken care of the young man, if only to irritate Rózsika, and of course the wavy-haired swimming instructor, that slightly decrepit nervous dandy who at this hour had no students. Everybody was talking at once; questions and irrelevant comments flew everywhere, as if they couldn’t see what had happened, while Rózsika continued with her ever louder indignation. The seizure moved from the tonic phase to the clonic one, with the body on the stone floor rapidly alternating between contraction and relaxation; the face looked as though a terrible hand had crumpled it. And blood kept spreading in the ribbing of the yellow tiles, and only Hans noticed it was becoming more watery.