Mr. Burman never, not once, let on what an awful lot he knew about the clandestine amulets on necklaces concealed under women’s garments. For his afternoon naps at home his head reposed on a silken cushion stuffed with female hair, curls that women bestow only on especially favored lovers; he had also collected in his apartment and held in the most sentimental regard various feminine mementos, such as ladies’ shoes, forgotten petticoats, unforgettable hosiery, shifts, handkerchiefs, and hat feathers; moreover, on winter afternoons standing behind the yellow silk curtains he was wont to dream of those women who had once upon a time pulled his doorbell, to swear solemn oaths on entering that they could never set foot in this apartment again, they would die of fear, of the risks they had had to take…Meanwhile, from Mr. Burman’s closet the lady’s nightgown would materialize, having been brought home by him on an earlier occasion…His guests used to run about the house in slippers and kept tabs on his linen closet…They would settle in an armchair or on the sofa with such happy abandon as if they had meant to stay the rest of their lives…Totally forgetting proper decorum as well as their convent-taught manners, they hummed naughty songs, romped about like children, and studied with misty eyes Mr. Burman’s collection of small hand-colored photos, scenes of a medieval mass…And these Budapest ladies never let on that they had glimpsed each other’s souvenirs at the apartment on Lövész Street.
This Mr. Burman had fallen so in love with Eveline that he was as impatient for the year of mourning to end as a child waiting for Christmas. At Eveline’s request he destroyed all of his trophies, every last souvenir of his past affairs. The old tile stove had plenty to feed on, as it merrily incinerated all those loves of yore, loves that had once upon a time arrived with a promise of life-giving springtime, of Easter resurrections. Only a single key was left as a last remnant of Mr. Burman’s once mighty manhood. This was the key of the Russian Orthodox chapel at Üröm, where in bygone days Mr. Burman had enticed those women who had been too timid to set foot in his apartment on Lövész Street. But Eveline had taken possession of this key after a jealous tantrum and already in the sixth month of their marriage made use of it, for an assignation at the chapel where a solemn crypt held the mortal remains of a Muscovite princess, the wife of a former viceroy.
(In Pest there were few women of the Orthodox faith to make use of the holy chapel for their devotions. Therefore ladies of the Catholic, Protestant and Jewish persuasions, who, in their respective houses of worship, would not have dared to lift their eyes in the Almighty’s majestic presence, felt free to frolic without guilt in the Russian chapel with Mr. Paul Burman, high official of the viceregal government. The Buda hills had seen many a Pest lady making this excursion to Üröm, having departed early in the morn by coach, accompanied by a faithful confidante, and eagerly awaited by Mr. Burman, who, in his impatience for the moment of consummation, passed the time by examining the icons and devotional objects of the Muscovite popa.)
Before long Mr. Burman had occasion to note that Eveline was a pious creature. That fine spring hardly a week passed without her making an excursion to the chapel at Üröm.
“It’s the only place where I can truly pray,” was what she said, and, amazing to behold, her husband did not doubt her veracity. Husbands tend to credit their own wives with superhuman powers of abstention. They refuse to believe that their wife in any way resembles those married women with whom they had innumerable liaisons in their bachelor days. In fact, Mr. Burman experienced heartfelt satisfaction whenever his wife expressed an urge to repair to Üröm for her devotions.
Until one fine day an anonymous letter, written in a hand that Mr. Burman recognized as belonging to one of his former lady loves, opened up the eyes of this gullible husband. “Eveline, not content with her civilian husband, has renewed her penchant for the white uniform of military officers,” went the letter, which the cocksure Mr. Burman threw away without a moment’s hesitation.
“Of course, many women must be jealous of my wife,” he mused. “But I’ve had enough of love bites, and those tormenting, clandestine, fearsome couplings, cuckolded husbands, anxieties…Enough of those blundering little women on whose account I had so often felt the noose tighten around my neck.”
The second anonymous letter reached Mr. Burman at his office chambers. The writer of the letter warned him that, for those women of Pest who still thought of him fondly, their former chevalier was now an object of pity. In the salons they now referred to him simply as “that poor man.”
Mr. Burman’s temples flushed red.
When the third warning arrived, Paul Burman stood tall as a poplar, clenched his fists and vowed that he would no longer suffer being made a fool of. He stealthily followed his spouse the next time she set out on a jaunt to the Üröm chapel. There he managed to catch Eveline in flagrante with a tomcat-whiskered officer of the cuirassiers who knelt as worshipfully in front of her as if she had been a holy icon untouched by human hands.
“You poor jackass,” shouted Mr. Burman and spat in Eveline’s face.
“I hope you’ll avenge this,” screamed Eveline, her eyes flashing, and indeed the honest cuirassier had no alternative but to challenge Mr. Burman to a duel.
The combat that ensued resulted in Mr. Burman’s unnecessary death. In a wooded corner of the city park, perhaps the very same place where the Colonel’s blood had spilled on the fallen leaves, Mr. Paul Burman dropped face first, the cuirassier’s bullet in the middle of his forehead. It must be noted that this austere civil servant behaved most calmly before the duel, and stated in front of his seconds more than once that were he to die in the duel, he would consider his death as absolution, for his sad end would serve as a memorial to all husbands who, in spite of being deceived by their wives, still leave an exemplary last will and testament.
He left everything to Eveline, who had asked his forgiveness on the final night, confessing that she herself had written the anonymous notes because she had started to doubt her husband’s love for her. She announced that she had always loved him, and him alone, just like a plant loves the soil it grows in. Thus she consoled and prepared him for death, giving much pleasure and gratification in the process.
And so, at the age of thirty, Eveline became Ákos Álmos-Dreamer’s fourth wife.
All we know about Ákos Álmos-Dreamer, the father of our Andor, is that he was an even-tempered, phlegmatic village gentleman who enjoyed sound sleep and digestion, a man who had buried his three former wives without undue emotional distress. From each woman’s trousseau and belongings he selected the useable items — clothes, shoes, furs, shirts — and carefully saved them for the next. For his fourth wife he did not bother to remake the marriage bed in which the previous one had expired in particularly agonizing circumstances. The ill-fated woman had swallowed poison, and the assembled midwives and medicine women did everything in their power to remove the ingested substance from her stomach. Repulsive traces of the sickness were still evident in the bedroom when Ákos Álmos-Dreamer brought the pampered Eveline from the capital down to his rustic mansion. Eveline immediately fainted upon arrival.
“My poor ex-wife,” murmured Ákos, “her passing was definitely not for the weak of heart. Well, it’s up to you now to put the place in order.”
As it turned out, Eveline would even put up with the occasional beating, as long as she could amply console herself with vagabonds, peasants, and itinerant musicians. She routinely told her husband about all her affairs. Ákos Álmos-Dreamer roared like a lion, and with each passing day his love for his wife grew stronger. It was an aging man’s desperate, sleepless passion.