Not that they guessed the whole truth, which was that the older man was no longer spry enough for dancing and preferred to rest his feet under the card-table. This was also profitable, as he usually took quite a lot of money from younger players less experienced than himself.
At Uncle Ambrus’ table, next to which trays of tall glasses and delicate Bohemian crystal decanters had been placed on a side-table, sat the two middle young Alvinczys, Adam and Zoltan, together with Pityu Kendy and Gazsi Kadacsay. This was a family party, since Ambrus’s mother had been an Alvinczy, while Pityu was his second cousin and Kadacsay was Uncle Ambrus’s brother-in-law’s son. But Ambrus never let kinship stand in the way of his winning a little money and, sometimes, more than a little. No one was a better player than Ambrus. He was a great gambler and the younger players could never guess what he was up to. Sometimes he would bet high on a single ace or throw in a winning hand. Sometimes he would act coy and complaisant, as if he were holding good cards, and then egg the others on with loud-mouthed hints that he held nothing — but no one ever knew whether he really had a good hand or not. He would complain to the heavens of his bad luck and swear obscenely and then tease them, saying: ‘Don’t go on, son, I’ll have the pants off you!’ And his resounding laugh and avuncular good humour made the young almost glad to lose to him.
As Balint stepped into the library Uncle Ambrus was in full flood.
‘Oh, my God! What shall I do? I’ll bet one of you has a pair of these! Jesus! And the other’ll have these. You Alvinczys’ll skin me, I know it!’ and he leaned back, banged the table, struck his head and turned in mute appeal to Daniel Kendy who was sitting behind him already far gone in drink, and then, as if risking his all in mad despair, he pushed a pile of coins into the centre of the table, and cried: ‘Devil take it! Might as well lose the lot! Here, I’ll stake four hundred more and don’t you dare give it back!’
One of the Alvinczys threw his hand in at once. The others followed suit … and the game was over.
‘Don’t you want your revenge? I would! I’m terrified of you all Well, don’t you want to see what beat you?’ and, dealing out his hand, card by card, he showed a straight flush, better than anything the others could possibly have held. And he still pretend to be astonished that he’d won, though he’d known it ever since the cards had been dealt.
‘What luck! What fucking luck! Lucky at cards, unlucky in love! The girls don’t love me any more, poor old man that I am!’ And he reached out with his great hairy hands and scooped up all the money with a gesture of pure grief.
Balint remained standing near Ambrus’ table. He felt faintly disgusted by this shameless display of feigned disingenuousness and ashamed too of his own generation who drank too much and fawned on the old vulture with servile admiration.
Lost in these thoughts he did not notice that the dawn was breaking. The candles and lamps began to lose their brilliance and the library, which had been like a huge cavern lit only by pools of light, was now revealed in its true size. The carved pillars between the bookshelves and the golden-green columns of light cherry-wood, began to define themselves, and between them one could again make out the thousands of beautifully bound books that were arranged in no order but placed on the shelves regardless of size. They all had ribbed and gold-embossed spines. Some had been collected by the Vice-Chancellor Laczok when he had first transformed the medieval castle into a nobleman’s mansion. His were the thick volumes of Compilatums and Tripartitums, law-books bound in ivory-coloured vellum, and the volumes of the French Encyclopédie and the works of Voltaire. Most, however, had been collected by his grandson who had added the wings and the library. When Balint looked up at the shelves he saw there many rare architectural works of the late eighteenth century, huge volumes which included the whole of Palladio, whose reissue had so influenced the neo-classical movement, the Ornamentisme of Percier and Fontaine, and a complete collection of the Ecole de Rome competitions dating from the first decade of the nineteenth century.
How cultivated Transylvania had been in those days, reflected Balint, as he saw what had been collected on those shelves. He was just passing the next pair of columns when he found his way was blocked. Old Daniel Kendy was swaying from side to side, clutching at one of the pillars for support. He had an unfamiliar look in his watery old eyes, a look of nostalgic sorrow quite different from his usual air of cynical mockery.
‘Mon p-p-prince! Though he stuttered his pronunciation was excellent: ‘… diese sind w-wunderbare w-Werke!’ and going on in English, ‘Quite w-wonderful!’ He stroked the backs of those magnificent books, shining with golden blazons and embossed lettering. Perhaps he was reminded of his own golden youth when everyone thought him to be a young man who would go far, before he began to drink and had run through all his money, when he had travelled all over Europe and moved always in the highest circles. He reached out again to caress these magic symbols, as if reminded, by this treasure-house of learning, of lost memories and the great career he had himself destroyed. It was his last gesture, for as he put out his hand he collapsed and slid to the ground like a puppet without strings and half-sat, half-lay on the floor, with his legs stretched out in front of him, and immediately started to be sick. Wine and vomit poured from him without effort or retching, in jets, as from a water pistol, and spread in a pool over the parquet in front of him.
Everyone jumped up from the card-tables, and gathered round him, everyone except old Crookface, who said ‘Filthy old swine!’ several times before throwing down down his cards and stalking out of the room.
The poker players looked at the old man on the floor and just laughed. This was nothing unusual. Pityu and Gazsi edged behind him — as no one could go near in front — put their arms under his shoulders and dragged him like some huge wooden doll on to one of the sofas; and there they left him. No one could have remained in that dreadful sour-smelling room.
In the growing light of day many carriages had gathered in front of the castle entrance. Cocks were crowing in the village and the ball was drawing to a close. Already some of the mothers, tired and thankful, were coming down the steps with their dancing daughters in tow, huddled into silken wraps to hide their sweating faces from the daylight. Quickly they mounted the folding steps and disappeared into the dark interiors of the carriages. A few young men had come out to wave to the girls they had flirted with, and perhaps even to snatch a hasty hand-kiss.
Kadar the butler, alone this time, bustled about calling for one carriage after another and opening the doors with his left hand. His right hand was held in such a way that tips he seemed to find their way there as if by chance.
Balint found Laszlo Gyeroffy waiting in the hall. They arranged to go back to their hotel in Vasarhely together and so went into the guests’ cloakroom to find their bags and coats. The hall was filled with departing guests, but Balint could not see Adrienne among them. For a moment he thought of going back upstairs to say goodbye, but then thought better of it. What was the use of a few commonplace words in the sober light of day? He and Laszlo followed the stream of guests out into the courtyard, where several ladies stood shivering in the cold air, and started to search for their hired fiacre. Passed a waiting group they sensed that something unusual was happening. A wave of excitement flowed through the crowd and a booming stammer could be heard: