Still the young man listened without saying a word. There was so much force and deep feeling in everything this deep-chested, eagle-beaked, twisted-mouthed old man had to say — and, behind his words, such concern and goodwill — that Laszlo listened patiently, almost humbly. Everything that Crookface was now saying so harshly was exactly what Laszlo, if ever he happened to wake up sober, had become accustomed to thinking of himself. Crookface’s accusations were no different from the self-accusing thoughts with which Laszlo would torture himself and which would only make him despise himself all the more. And when he had said all that to himself he would once again take refuge from this self-inflicted judgement — and from further accusations of which Crookface knew nothing — by reaching for the brandy bottle. As the old man talked on so Laszlo came to feel that it was not another being who was adding up his faults and frivolity, his waywardness and total lack of any sense of responsibility, but that he was merely looking in a mirror and seeing his alter ego repeating what was always and forever in his own soul. No one would be as severe as he himself and it might have been to himself that he was listening.
Crookface went on for a long time until Laszlo found himself desperately looking round to see if there was any liquor to hand. There was none, but Laszlo was by now so used to nipping whenever he felt the need that the present deprivation made his whole body scream out for its regular dose of alcohol. He could not ask; it was against all etiquette!
Crookface now started to say what he thought should be done and, as was his manner, his advice took the form of an order. ‘You will file a petition in the Chancery court asking to be made a Ward of Court and asking for an official guardian to be appointed since you are incapable of managing your own affairs. I will accept the office of guardian; and I’ll keep you on the straight and narrow path no matter what! I won’t allow you to destroy yourself in this way!’
Laszlo’s face changed. Again those words ‘destroy yourself which Balint had used to him not long before. Now someone else was saying the same thing; another person was trying to save him, to order him around, maybe even offer to pay for him as once did Fanny Beredy and more recently Dodo. Laszlo felt himself swelling with anger and resentment and rebellion at this constant meddling in his own life by other people. It was the bitter rebellion of the weak against the strong.
‘If I want to destroy myself I will! It’s none of your business!’ he shouted angrily and stood up. Now the words poured from him. ‘All my life, ever since I was a child, I’ve had people telling me what to do, pulling me in this direction or in that, my guardian, my aunts, everybody. Everything’s always been arranged for me; everyone’s told me what to do. Well! Now’s the time to say No! No! No! I’ve had enough! Enough, I say! Now I’m going to do as I please and live as I want …’ and he went on saying the same thing, time and again, building up his courage by shouting and making as much noise as possible; and repeating over and over again, ‘It’s my life and nobody else’s!’ and ‘I’m not going to take anything from anyone else ever again, from nobody, nobody, I tell you!’ until, gesticulating wildly, he screamed out once more, ‘If I want to destroy myself I will! Everyone has the right to do as he wishes with his own life!’
Old Crookface sat quite still. He said nothing but just listened and as he did so he was watching Laszlo carefully. Those eyebrows that met in the middle, those unusual little movements of the arms as if he was first reaching back and then throwing his words forward … and even those last words ‘everyone has the right to do as he pleases with his own life!’, how they reminded him of the past! And what a throw-back Laszlo was! Julie Ladossa all over again! Memories of the past flooded back: Julie Ladossa had talked in just the same way and said just the same sort of thing. She too had rebelled against everything; and she too had destroyed herself, knowing what she did and doing it of her own free will. He had loved her since she had been a girl — and out of spite she had married someone else. Out of spite too she had bolted from her husband, not with Crookface but because of him. It had been a clash between two rigid, difficult characters and when she had said the things that her son had just unwittingly repeated so many years later, she had thrust her arms forward in the same way and looked at him with the same expression in her eyes, the very same eyes …
The old man stood up. Putting his hand on his young companion’s shoulder he said, ‘Don’t be angry with me, son. Don’t be angry! There’s no need, you know, and … and I ask your forgiveness.’ Crookface had never said this to anyone before, neither had he ever spoken so gently. He went on, quite softly, ‘There isn’t enough love in the world for anyone to throw it carelessly away. I know you feel you’ve had less than your share, and I understand how you feel. No doubt what I said sounded wrong and interfering, and perhaps I ought to have spoken differently. You’ve had no father and no mother, and many things … things that people have had … have been lacking in your life. This is what you resent so much and what is so hard to bear. But I would like, if it’s possible and if you feel you can do it in your own way, that you should … Well, you should pull yourself together; and I … I’d try to help, if you would accept it?’
As Crookface spoke, faltering as he did so, a remarkable change came over Laszlo’s face. First his mouth opened and his chin dropped and then his eyes opened wide in wonder before filling with tears. All the rigidity of his body, so recently tense with anger, melted away until he was like a puppet whose strings are broken. He fell into a chair and started to weep, with deep racking sobs.
Old Kendy remained standing where he was.
‘Well! Well! Come on, now! Mustn’t do that, you know!’ he said in a deep, rumbling voice and then, most unexpectedly and with clumsy awkwardness, he started to stroke the young man’s hair just as if he had been his own son. ‘Don’t … don’t do that!’ he repeated, his gruff voice deeper than ever.
Laszlo cried for a long time as he crouched ever deeper in the large armchair. At last something had been set free inside him, something hitherto imprisoned had been liberated. Soon he was crying quietly, crying for himself and his wasted life, for the hurt he carried within himself for so many years, and for the talent that he had abandoned so frivolously, for his dissipated life and for the chances he had missed. Now all was clear to him. It was a long time before he looked up at the old man who had waited so patiently, wiped his eyes and his face and said, ‘Forgive me, sir! I am deeply ashamed. I don’t usually … Please, forgive me!’
The old man looked down, and then, his old self again, merely grunted some brief four-letter obscenity and said, ‘Nothing to be ashamed about! It happens, you know. Does you good, like enough!’
‘But what can I do?’ asked Gyeroffy humbly.
Crookface pulled up a chair and sat down. Briefly he drew up a plan. Laszlo should go home at once and make a list of all his debts — and if necessary get someone to help him. Also he should list all his possessions, forestlands, houses and farms, even if he had disposed of them in some way. When this was done he should bring them to him and together they would discuss what should be done. Matters could not be completely hopeless and anyhow one had to make a start somewhere.
Laszlo agreed to do what Crookface had suggested and the two men shook hands. As they did so Kendy just added, ‘And try not to drink so damn much!’
It was many years since Laszlo had felt so at peace with himself and so light-hearted. When he left Crookface’s house he saw a café-bar across the street. For a moment he hesitated. Then he went in and the need that habit had instilled in him triumphed over his will. In a few moments he had downed three large measures of brandy.