Spinning round the room in Balint’s strong arms Dinora soon forgot her troubles. She opened her full lips in a smile of contentment; she was so obviously enjoying herself that no one would have thought that only a few moments before she had been obsessed by worry and the possibility of a scandal.
Balint, on the other hand, seethed with inner indignation for a long time until, with dancing, champagne, more dancing and more champagne, his anger began to dissolve and Dinora’s worries ceased to upset him. Still he was not entirely untroubled; his suppressed anger at the way he had been treated by Adrienne still welled up from time to time as he, too, sought forgetfulness in the dance.
Chapter Eight
THE LAST BALL of the Carnival season the dancing went on well into the small hours. The older ladies, tired after two nights-out running, urged their daughters to go home, and finally, about six o’clock they all left, though most of the men remained behind. Many of them would soon be going back to their estates in the country, while others would be returning to the county towns where they had official duties. For the men at least this was their last chance for some months of seeing each other all together.
They pulled up chairs around the now devastated supper table and called for more champagne. This was the moment when Laji Pongracz came into his own and he played with renewed fervour, wittily titillating his hearers by subtly juxtaposing the tunes of all those he knew to be involved in courtship or dispute. Laji never forgot anyone’s special tune, nor who was or had been in love with which girl and who no longer spoke to who. Now that he was not restrained by the presence of the ladies the tunes he played chronicled the loves and hates of more than a quarter of a century. With a roguish look in his eye he would gaze pointedly at the man to whose past the music referred. Sometimes he would step close to someone, his violin barely audible, just breathing an old tune in their ears and sometimes, with a wild flourish he would make everyone laugh as they recalled a forgotten scandal. Uncle Ambrus, of course, enjoyed the musician’s mockery more than anyone. He sat, still drinking heavily, sprawled in an armchair, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his huge bulk the centre of a group of young men. Daniel Kendy, now completely sodden but who could not afford to order bottles himself, sat nearby and held out his glass whenever the champagne was being poured. On a sofa behind him sat Joska Kendy, pipe in mouth, and Isti Kamuthy, who had fallen asleep. Most of the company were pretty drunk.
Balint too had had far more than he usually did but, though he tried hard to get drunk, the effect of the wine was merely to increase his sense of irritation. He sat, cross and out of temper, at one end of the long buffet table while, beside him, Pityu Kendy morosely drank glass after glass from a giant goblet that must have held nearly a litre.
To vary his programme Laji would sometimes break off his chronicle of love and start a rollicking csardas. Each time he did so Baron Gazsi would jump up and dance unsteadily in his shirtsleeves, waving his arms, snapping his fingers and bawling out the words of the song at the top of his voice. When drunk, as this evening, but only when drunk, he would fancy himself dying of love for the eldest Laczok girl and would sit slightly apart from the others moping. But when he danced he would more often look at Joska Kendy, his long woodpecker nose fixed in Joska’s direction like that of his favourite pointer and his eyes filled with a silent plea for pity and understanding. Joska never noticed this any more than did Adam Alvinczy, who sat cross-legged on the floor at the feet of the orchestra, a cigar drooping from his lips, and who was being constantly jostled by Baron Gazsi’s antics. Even when Gazsi nearly sent him sprawling across the floor he took no notice but continued to stare fixedly at the window where the morning light was beginning to shine ever more brightly.
Despite the approach of day the electric chandeliers were still lit. No one wanted to be reminded that the night’s revelries must come to an end. Clouds of cigarette smoke hung in the air and Pongracz was still playing even though few of his listeners were in a state to take much notice. After another csardas he broke into an Godefrey waltz of the ’60s, the ‘Gardes de la Reine’, which old Dani Kendy had always asked for in the days when he could afford to reward the musicians himself. Pongracz played it specially for the bankrupt old aristocrat, knowing that it would remind him of the days when they called him le comte Candi in Paris and when he had been an ever-welcome guest at the Empress Eugénie’s court at Biarritz.
The Galahad of former days looked gratefully at the gypsy until suddenly the music was interrupted.
Pityu Kendy jumped up violently and, without any apparent reason, started yelling: ‘God damn it! … God damn it!’ and in his anger struck out at the great goblet on the table in front of him. No one ever knew what had provoked this outburst, whether it was because he didn’t like the music, or if he had had a flash of intuition that drink would be his ruin, or whether perhaps Laji’s waltz-tune had made him think of Adrienne.
The glass flew towards Balint and though he was quick enough to jump out of the way he could not avoid the wine which spilled over his trouser-legs. At any other time he would have laughed off the incident, but tonight his ill-humour was too strong and he shouted at Pityu in a rage:
‘Hey! Hey! Hey! Watch out!’ Though the words were innocent enough, his manner was unmistakably threatening. Everyone jumped to their feet, including old Dani who stood straight and tall even if he did sway like a reed in the wind.
‘Une affaire d-d-d’ honneur! Une affaire d-d-d’ honneur!’ he cried, waving his arms, mistakenly believing that the insult had been intended for him and for his past.
Quickly Joska Kendy and Gazsi grabbed the old man from behind. They knew what happened when old Dani suddenly stood up with too much drink inside him so they half dragged half pushed him out through the door. Two footmen silently stepped forward, picked up the broken pieces of the shattered goblet and mopped up the wine on the floor.
Everyone sat down again, Abady a little apart from the others. No one spoke and even though the music started up once again the mood had been shattered. Within less than half an hour it was broad daylight and everyone went home.
The next evening Abady went again to the Casino. As he passed through the big drawing-room it seemed to him that a group of elderly men who were chatting in a corner fell silent at his approach. In another corner he saw Pityu deep in conversation with Adam Alvinczy and two others. He moved on into the card-room where everyone present looked up at him enquiringly as if they were expecting something from him. No one spoke, and he went on into the library to read the day’s newspapers. As he was sitting there he was joined by Tihamer Abonyi, who came out of the card-room.
‘Excuse my interrupting you,’ he said, ‘but what are you proposing to do?’
‘About what?’ said Balint, not knowing what he was talking about.
‘About what happened last night, of course! It’s my view that you are the offended party, not Pityu Kendy. He threw the glass and that constitutes an Act of Violence according to the Code Duverger. On the other hand, your reply of ‘Hey! Hey! Hey! Watch out!’ was much less serious. I don’t want to meddle, but this is how I see it and, as your friend, I would advise you to look at it from this point of view.’
Abonyi looked at Balint, his protruding light-coloured eyes full of sympathy. He was one of those men, not so rare, who feel involuntarily drawn to the men their wives find attractive.