‘Yes.’ She spoke so low he could hardly hear, and they embraced calmly as if they really were brother and sister.
Balint got up and went slowly to the door. Then he looked back at Adrienne who had not moved from where she sat among the cushions. The fire had died down and gave hardly any light so that he could barely see her as she waved him goodbye before letting her hand fall resignedly to her lap.
While putting on his coat Abady saw that his right shoulder was wet from her tears.
He walked home slowly, making a wide detour so as not to get there too quickly. As he slowly placed one foot in front of another he was surprised to realize how deeply touched he had been by Addy’s distress and how now he felt only compassion and tenderness.
The street lamps shed pools of light in the mists of evening, iridescent, shining, as if filtered through a web of tears.
PART FOUR
Chapter One
IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CARNIVAL SEASON, Laszlo Gyeroffy had found himself appointed to the much sought-after and respected post of elotancos — leading dancer and organizer of all the balls, public and private, that were given in Budapest during the social season. Every hostess giving a dance for her daughter would consult the leading dancer on all aspects of her party and rely upon him to see that everything was carried out properly. It was his skill, energy, unflagging attention to detail, good humour, tact, high spirits and knowledge of the sequence of the quadrille with its many complicated steps and formations that made a success or failure of the party; and as elotancos he also had to lead each dance. Everything depended on him, on his ideas, his stamina, his knowledge of music and authority over the gypsy musicians and, no less important, his iron control over those young men who seemed reluctant to dance and who, not infrequently, had to be practically ordered on to the floor. When the elotancos knew his job, there were no wallflowers and everyone enjoyed themselves. No one doubted the importance of the position and there were few who did not envy the man appointed to the post.
Laszlo had succeeded to the post when his predecessor, Ede Illesvary, had become engaged in the middle of January and resigned. Although Laszlo had been Illesvary’s assistant, this in itself was not enough to ensure his succession, and he would not have been chosen had not something occurred which added to his social prestige just at the critical moment. Until then Laszlo had been thought of merely as one of a crowd of well-born younger dancers, related of course, to the Kollonichs and the Szent-Gyorgyis, sort of an ‘extra’, one who carried a spear in the battle scene but who only got a featured part when some girl needed a partner for the garland dance. To be considered for appointment as leading dancer something more was needed, some demonstration of authority, of standing, of exceptional social poise.
Laszlo achieved this almost by chance. One evening towards the end of January a gypsy party was being held in one of the private rooms at the Casino where Laszlo’s cousin, Peter Kollonich, used to go with Kristof Zalamery and some other rich young men. Laszlo was invited because no one was better than that ‘good Laci’ in keeping the gypsy band up to the mark until the special guests — two new little dancers from the Orfeum — could get away from the theatre after the evening’s performance.
On this particular evening the host was Zalamery, who was much richer than most of the others and who loved to entertain his friends with plenty of champagne and brandy served in huge goblets. As well as his cousin Peter, Laszlo found Fredi Wuelffenstein there. When the girls finally arrived they danced, either with each other or solo, while the men drank and watched them, or else told gossipy tales of the demi-monde while sipping their wine and moving flirtatiously from one man to another.
Laszlo was bored. He did not know many of the men in this group, and even those he saw only occasionally, and he did not know who or what they were talking about. More and more he felt himself an outsider; so, to anaesthetize himself, he began to drink more heavily than usual. After a while he glanced at his watch and found that it was already past two o’clock. Since he had come back from Simonvasar he had attended the Academy of Music with unfailing regularity, not only from ambition to become a great musician himself, but also to prove himself worthy of Klara’s love. ‘I must be there by eight!’ he said to himself, realizing, as he looked round the darkened room where the girls were reclining on divans whispering and giggling with the young men, that it would be easy to slip away unnoticed.
To get his coat, which had been left in the cloakroom at the foot of the main staircase, Laszlo had to cross the open courtyard. As he did so, the cold night air struck him and he realized that he had drunk far more than was good for him.
With considerable effort he managed to steady himself and control his legs which were showing a disconcerting tendency to stagger under him. A cold light rain was falling steadily and, seeing that he would get soaked to the skin if he walked home, he asked the cloakroom attendant to fetch him a hired car. There were none, he was told, they had all been taken, though no doubt they would return later. Laszlo told the man that he would be in one of the public rooms upstairs and asked to be informed when a car was available.
The big rooms on the first floor were all empty, the chandeliers dimmed to half their brilliance. Walking through them Laszlo saw that light was coming from the card-room at the top of a secondary stair and realized that the usual chemmy session was probably still going strong. He went up to see, as he had several times before, not to play, as he was quite indifferent to the game, but simply to stand behind the players and watch, for it was better than remaining in the public rooms to be bored by the endless talk of politics, horses or farming. Sometimes he had stood by the chemin de fer table for an hour. The play was always high and huge sums would change hands each evening.
There were nine men seated round the table. Laszlo stationed himself opposite Ernest Szent-Gyorgyi, whom everyone called Neszti. He loved to watch this magnificent-looking man, who much resembled his second cousin, Laszlo’s Uncle Antal. They had the same tall, lean greyhound figure, the same finely modelled aquiline nose and cold grey eyes. In one respect only did they differ: while Antal’s iron-grey moustaches were clipped close in the English fashion, Neszti’s were long and jet-black, and curved in a thin line on each side of his mouth giving a haughty air of disdain to the otherwise noble lines of the face. Apart from the closely shaven bluish line of the jaw Neszti’s skin was as pale as an ancient parchment, perhaps because nowadays he lived most of his life after dark, rarely being seen outside his house during the daytime. This ivory colour was spread evenly over his cheeks, forehead and the bald crown of his head where the skin shone like polished marble. Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi was immensely rich. He had never married and at this time must have been about fifty. It was said of him that he enjoyed life so fully that it would have taken a hundred years for any ordinary man to do as much as he had in his first half-century. Every pleasure that a rich man could buy had been his and he had exploited to the full advantages of excellent health, good looks and high social position.
In India he had hunted tiger and in the Sudan he had stalked lions. He rode to hounds in England, Ireland and France as well as in his own country. He kept a steam yacht on the Riviera and his racehorses were famous all over Europe. Many beautiful women had been in love with him and given themselves to him, but none had been able to tie him down, though he had fought duels to defend their honour considering this just another form of sport that was an essential part of the turmoil and confusion of life.