Miss Maszkerádi swallowed as lightly as a dreamer, wary lest her lovely dream fade.
“Just what I need,” she breathed, raising her eyelashes, the blade of her knife-sharp glance flashing against Mr. Pistoli’s white vest.
“Life,” Pistoli went on, in rather measured accents, weighty, halting, like a wise old county magistrate, “life is no joke, my dear young lady (who could be my daughter). For the farsighted, the folks in the know, life is a deer park, where gentle breezes and fragrant grape leaves keep you company, complete with afternoon foot-soakings, peaceful snoozes, fine hounds and desirable wenches, the hell with all care; a long life, a nice pipe from time to time, mellow dinners: that’s the way to spend life, life that digs your grave even now, steadfastly, like the ever-burrowing mole. To want nothing, and ask only for peace and quiet. Hope for nothing besides fair weather on the morrow. Trust no one, believe no one, think no extraordinary thoughts, just live, live, and love; fall asleep, and wake up healthy…Wear comfy slippers and pass the night in a feather bed. Live out a happy and long old age, the best part of life. To get an honest night’s sleep, and then a snooze after lunch, let out a few whoops, fight and make up. Will you marry me, you glorious rosebud?”
He reached out and took Miss Maszkerádi by the arm.
The stern young lady did not resist. Dreaming, she sat on, only her eyelashes glowed, darkling as spent stars. When she spoke, it was almost as if she were talking to herself:
“Life is a great masked ball, my good sir,” she spoke musingly, as if picking her words from somewhere afar. “I can’t really telclass="underline" are you actually asking for my hand?”
Pistoli did not wish to rush matters, for he had learned around women that a judiciously even and sedate comportment always works better than rash, impulsive behavior. Enjoying his moment in the limelight, he took his time stuffing his small pipe. After a prolonged and painful sigh he motioned at the Gypsy band to step forth and play his favorite song. Hearing this tune, his eyes bulged like old maids crowding in a window. His foot, tapping, created a racket like ghosts riding roughshod under the table. He raised both hands repeatedly, a paterfamilias trying for a moment’s quiet among unruly offspring. Finally he slammed his fist on the tabletop like a highwayman. The Gypsies ceased. Pistoli’s head swung left and right a few more times.
“My life…is at your disposal,” he said, in a husky voice. “I’m ready to jump from any church steeple at the crack of dawn, if that happens to be your wish.”
“Then you really love me? When nobody loved me till now,” Miss Maszkerádi murmured.
“I’m past the midpoint of my life, I’ve eaten the better part of my bread, like they say, and I’ve never loved anyone but you,” was Mr. Pistoli’s solemn reply.
“But Mr. Pistoli!” exclaimed Eveline.
“Let’s stop fooling around. Miss Eveline, I’m here to betroth the young lady, your guest. I beg you to give her to me in marriage.”
Mr. Pistoli, having said this, lowered himself onto one knee, much to the amusement of the ladies of Hideaway. The Gypsies underscored this with a tremolo flourish of strings, meanwhile nearly smashing the sides of the contrabass, whereupon the dogs began to howl, waking the haystack-embedded watchman, who was already approaching at a run.
“I am in love like a common vagabond. I implore you to forgive me.” Mr. Pistoli turned clasped hands toward Eveline.
“Let’s not get all mushy,” Miss Maszkerádi interjected dryly. “In this house it’s always Eveline who winds up the musical clock to play the tune from grandma’s time. I happen to be a seriously world-weary woman, my fine young man. Let’s talk turkey now, like traveling salesmen in the waiting room at the train station. What will you give me if I marry you?”
Pistoli dusted off his knee. In his frustration he gave a twist to his thick mustache like a pork butcher left holding the knife while the squealing pig runs off. Women he very much preferred to address in theatrical tones like a wandering comedian, ranting and raving, “slain,” only to move on, without wasting one serious word all his life. As a rule he bestowed his favors on women only as long as they believed his lies. Like lunatics, these women stared goggle-eyed, nostrils flaring and quivering, ears pricked up at his never-before-heard avowals, and gazed out through the window in a prolonged brown study. Yes, Mr. Pistoli’s favorites were women prone to hysteria, whom he would sniff out seven counties off. He would rub his hands together in ecstasy hearing news of a woman who had had her hair shorn because she fancied it singed her shoulders. He capered like a billy goat when a woman confessed to him that she had swallowed her child. And he was utterly elated meeting a young wife at Munkács, who confided in a whisper that ever since her chin sprouted a man’s beard she’s been afraid to look in a mirror. He dealt with these women like a lion tamer, and packed up as soon as he tired of the fun.
“What will I give you?” he mumbled and surveyed the scene. “First of all, I give my name, which only locals mispronounce the way they do, as Pistol. It is an ancient Florentine name brought by my ancestors to the court of Louis the Great. In these northeastern parts a noble coat of arms still means something. The closed crown above the shield carries some weight in these parts. Mine contains pelicans, seven of them, the mother feeding her brood with her own blood. For the Pistolis were always known for self-sacrifice.”
“As for me, I’m a freethinker,” replied Miss Maszkerádi. “Let me repeat, in this house Eveline is the one who respects all those ne’er-do-well, windbag forefathers, dropped from peasant wenches’ wombs, or all those granddams that lay down with every drunken retainer or purring pageboy. I live by myself and for myself, like a tree, alone in a field. I’ve always been proud of being companionless. But let’s drink, my good Mr. Suitor, for all this talk gives me the dry mouth.”
Maszkerádi grasped the goblet, kicked away her chair in the manner of a traveling circus equestrienne, and leaning close to Mr. Pistoli, locked the winsome twin blades of her eyes into his. Draining her glass, she tossed it into the garden among the shrubs.
“Let no one else ever drink from it again. For I drank your health, Mr. Pistoli.”
“I won’t mind if you call me Pistol, like the women around here,” said the overjoyed gentleman, rollicking with laughter. “I can already see that you don’t wear tin pants like the feminists.”
“No sir, mine are lacy and dainty, fit for any man’s eyes,” was Maszkerádi’s rapid riposte.
She pulled up her fur coat a ways. Her two shanks reminded him of the forelegs on the noblest breed of rat-catching terrier. Her two feet pointed straight forward, clad in diminutive fur-lined slippers. Her black stockings stretched taut like youthful desire. There was a flash of lacy underpants that made Mr. Pistoli snatch away his gaze, as if he’d looked at the sun.