Of course Peter Kis did not himself grasp the reason for this distinction. He was already flattered and grateful that he alone of the politicians had been asked to stay to dinner and he decided that, in appreciation, he would make a speech which would show these aristocrats that he, too, was a man of the world and knew how to behave in grand company. Accordingly he sat in silence, trying to work out a play of words on his hostess’s Christian name.
On the Prefect’s right sat Alice Laczok, a skinny version of her brother; after her was Joska Kendy, who just managed to pocket his pipe while dinner lasted, and then young Ida Laczok, named after her mother, and Balint.
Next to Crookface on the other side sat the pretty little Dinora, Countess Abonyi, and after her Uncle Ambrus and Adrienne. Countess Laczok had put Uncle Ambrus between the two young women because she thought they would have more fun being next to someone so popular.
At the centre of the table, on both sides, were seated all the young people, boy next to girl but in no special order. They sat where they chose. Only three seats were reserved, furthest away from the places of honour. These were for the two young Laczok boys who were seated at the centre of the long table with their tutor between them. At the far end of the table Count Jeno had Aunt Lizinka on his right and Countess Gyalakuthy, the rich Adelma, on his left. From where the hostess sat that end of the table seemed unbalanced. Aunt Lizinka’s tiny shrunken head was only just visible above the table cloth while Adelma, though a woman of only medium height, seemed to tower a head above her neighbours. Countess Ida, thinking someone had made a mistake, called down the table to her husband:
‘Jeno! Change chairs with Adelma! Someone’s given her too high a chair.’
Countess Gyalakuthy protested: ‘I’m perfectly all right!’
But the hostess insisted: ‘Not at all! Come along, change the chairs!’
Count Jeno looked up but did not move, so Tihamer Abonyi, who was sitting on Adelma’s left, jumped up, eager to please, and gave up his chair. Somewhat unwillingly Adelma rose and accepted the other chair … but when she sat down she was just as tall as before. There was a painful silence and a few artificial coughs — and some barely suppressed giggles from the young. Then Lizinka spoke up, her voice shrill and malicious as ever:
‘Dear Adelma, no matter where you sit you will always be a queen upon her throne!’
The embarrassed widow said nothing but the whole table rocked wirth mirth. The loudest laughter came from the two young Laczoks who, quite without manners, laughed so hard that one lolled forward until his head was in his plate and the other doubled up and disappeared under the table. Between them their tutor sat tight-faced and serious, upright in his high-buttoned Franz-Josef tunic, his face expressionless.
Balint, sitting opposite the tutor, noticed his non-committal expression and wondered where he had seen his hard wooden face before. Between jutting cheekbones a smallish pug-shaped nose divided slanting black eyes. Above his rather fleshy face there was a huge dome skull whose shape was emphasized by the closely shaven hair — every division of the cranium was defined by faint grey lines as in an anatomy model.
I know that face, thought Balint, Where? Where? And, as the laughter subsided, he turned to his neighbour, the young Ida Laczok.
‘Who is he, your brothers’ tutor?’
‘Oh! He’s only here for the summer. Papa hired him as those rascals failed their exams. He’s preparing them to take the maths again at the end of the holidays. He’s called Andras Jopal and he’s very good even if he isn’t qualified,’ she said. Then, confidentially; ‘You know he’s quite crazy! Imagine, he thinks he’s going to invent a flying machine!’ She laughed softly.
Then Balint remembered. They had met in Kolozsvar when Balint had attended Professor Martin’s lectures on higher mathematics. It was during his third year when he had no examination. Andras Jopal had been by far the best student and though they had only exchanged a few words, Balint had found him intelligent and full of interesting ideas.
The first course was served. Janos Kadar entered the great hall at the head of three footmen, all carrying huge dishes. The old butler, breathing noisily, carried a tray on which reposed two giant pike whose white eyes gleamed in the candlelight. He looked round at the footmen, nodding his head to show where they should start serving. Behind each of them was a young maid carrying trays with sauce-boats and, behind Kadar, was the little apprentice Ferko.
Countess Laczok watched anxiously to be sure that the service was properly carried out and then turned to her neighbour, the Prefect, and said proudly:
‘Do take some more! Don’t be afraid, there aren’t any bones in my pike!’ She served pike to her guests whenever she could, and she always said this when it was offered. It was one of the treasured secrets of Var-Siklod how this delicious but exceptionally bony fish could be presented apparently completely whole, head, tail, fins and skin in place, and yet without a bone in its body! It was a real mystery, and a great surprise to those to whom it was offered for the first time. Not a bone … not one. It was indeed remarkable, and it was Countess Ida’s special pride.
The Prefect was suitably impressed at this marvel and the hostess smiled with pleasure and gratification when all the older ladies started exclaiming that it simply wasn’t possible!
The plates were changed with much clatter as soon as the first course was finished. Then in came the main dish of the dinner, the classical pièce de résistance at all Transylvanian banquets; cold Richelieu turkey with truffles, huge birds bulging with a variety of delicious stuffings.
The guests fell to heartily, hardly noticing the arrival of the gypsy orchestra, who tiptoed silently into the hall, along the table, edging their way between the guests and the great tiled stove, trying not to trip over the legs of the chairs or crash their instruments against the wall or over the guests’ heads. Even the cymbalist managed it somehow, though he once almost dropped the great brass plates as he stumbled over the chair legs. Gathered behind the hostess and led by the famous Laji Pongracz who had played for the Archduke Rudolf, the band, gently at first and then louder, struck up the old tune ‘Blue Forget-me-not’, which Countess Ida had chosen for her own when she was still very young and when, like so many girls of her generation, she had been half in love with its composer, Gyurka Banffy.
The hostess looked round, as if in surprise — though of course, as nothing escaped her, she had been perfectly aware of the band’s arrival. She smiled a welcome to Laji, who bowed low directly to her, his arms outstretched on either side of him, the violin in one hand, the bow in the other, thus silently offering his homage on her name day. Then he straightened up and went on playing, his bow caressing the strings, the well-known melody that everyone associated with Countess Ida.
When he had finished he looked down the table at Count Jeno and, with a playful smile that said much he started to play the host’s favourite: ‘Long, long ago when I drove the carriage for beautiful ladies …’
Suddenly, as the tune was being played, the Prefect got up. He cleared his throat and tapped his glass with a knife. The music stopped as if cut by scissors.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen!’ Then, to Sandor Kendy who went on talking, ‘I beg the Count’s pardon, but I would like to say a few words!’ Crookface scowled and muttered half under his breath, ‘Go fu …’, but the words were almost inaudible through the thick moustache, and no one noticed. The Prefect had already begun his toast.