Journey by Moonlight (15 page)

He woke in the morning with the exquisite feeling that he had dreamed of Éva. He did not remember the dream, but his whole body registered the silky euphoria that only that dream could give, or waking passion on very rare occasions. In the context of this bleak, ascetic sleeping-place, this mellow feeling took on a strange, paradoxical, sickly-sweet quality.

He rose, washed himself, an act of no little self-mortification in the antiquated washing-place, and went out into the courtyard. It was a bright, cool, breezy morning. The bell was just tolling for Mass, and brothers, lay people, monastery servants and pilgrims were
hurrying
from all directions into the chapel. Mihály joined them, and attended devoutly to the timeless Latin of the service. He was filled with a festive, happy feeling. Ervin would surely tell him what to do. Perhaps he would have to do penance. Yes, he would become a
simple
workman, earning his bread with the labour of his hands … He had the feeling that something new was beginning in him. It was for him that voices rose in song, for him rang out the crisp and mellow tones of the spring bells. For his special soul.

When Mass was over he went out into the courtyard. Ervin came up to him, smiling:

“How did you sleep?”

“Well, very well. I feel quite different from last night, I have no idea why.”

He looked at Ervin, full of expectation; then, when he said nothing, asked:

“Have you thought about what I should do?”

“Yes, Mihály,” Ervin said quietly. “I think you should go to Rome.”

“To Rome?” he blurted out in astonishment. “Why? How did you arrive at that?”

“Last night in the choir… I can’t really explain this to you, you’re not familiar with this type of meditation … I do know that you must go to Rome.”

“But why, Ervin, why?”

“So many pilgrims, exiles, refugees have gone to Rome, over the course of centuries, and so much has happened there … really, everything has always happened in Rome. That’s why they say, ‘All roads lead to Rome.’ Go to Rome, Mihály, and you’ll see. I can’t say anything more at present.”

“But what shall I do in Rome?”

“What you do doesn’t matter. Perhaps visit the four great
basilicas
of Christendom. Go to the catacombs. Whatever you feel like. It’s impossible to be bored in Rome. And above all, do nothing. Trust yourself to chance. Surrender yourself completely, don’t plan things … Can you do that?”

“Yes, Ervin, if you say so.”

“Then go immediately. Today you don’t have that hunted look on your face that you had yesterday. Use this auspicious day for your setting forth. Go. God be with you.”

Without waiting for a reply he embraced Mihály, offered the priestly left cheek and right cheek, and hurried away. Mihály stood for a while in astonishment, then gathered up his pilgrim’s bundle and set off down the mountain.

W
HEN ERZSI
received the telegram Mihály had sent via the little
fascista
she did not linger in Rome. She had no wish to return home, not knowing how to explain the story of her
marriage
to people in Budapest. Following a certain geographical pull, she travelled to Paris, as people often do when they have no hopes or plans but wish to start a new life.

In Paris she looked up her childhood friend Sári Tolnai. Even as a young girl Sári had been notorious for her somewhat
unfeminine
character and practical capability. She had never married, not having the time for it. It always happened that there was some burning need for her services in the company, the business or the newspaper where she was working. Her love life was conducted on the move, as it were, like a commercial traveller’s. In due course, having become bored with everything, she emigrated to Paris to begin a new life, and continued in just the same way, but in French companies, businesses and newspapers. At the time when Erzsi arrived in Paris, she was working as the secretary of a large commercial film studio. She was the statuary sole unattractive woman in the house, the pillar of stone who remained untouched by the general erotic ambience of the profession, whose
common-sense
and impartiality could always be relied upon, who worked so much harder, and expected so much less, than everyone else. Meanwhile, her hair had turned grey. Cut very short, it gave the head on her delicate girlish body the distinction of a military bishop. People would turn to stare at her, of which she was very proud.

“What will you live on?” she asked, after Erzsi had briefly
outlined
the history of her marriage, softening the tale with a few Budapest witticisms. “How will you live? You’ve always had so much money.”

“Well you know, this business of my money is all rather tricky. When we broke up Zoltán gave back my dowry, and my father’s legacy, which by the way was a great deal less than people think. I put most of it into Mihály’s family firm, and the rest into the bank in case I should ever need it. That’s what I should be living on, only
it’s very hard to get at. The bank money can’t be sent here through legal channels. So I have to depend on what my ex-father-in-law sends me. And that’s not a simple matter either. When it comes to paying out money from his own pocket my father-in-law is
usually
a very difficult person. And we have no proper arrangement about it.”

“Hm. You’re going to have to get your money out of their
business
, that’s the first thing.”

“Yes, but to do that I should have to divorce Mihály.”

“Well of course you must divorce Mihály.”

“It’s not quite so ‘of course’.”

“What, after all he’s done?”

“Yes. But Mihály isn’t like other people. That’s why I chose him.”

“And that was a fine move. I really dislike the sort of people who aren’t like other people. It’s true other people are so boring. But so are the ones who aren’t like them.”

“Very good, Sári. Can we just leave this? Really I can’t do Mihály the favour of divorcing him just for this.”

“But why the devil don’t you go back to Budapest, where your money is?”

“I don’t want to go back until all this is cleared up. What would people say at home? Can you imagine what my cousin Julie would say?”

“They’ll talk anyway, you can be sure of that.”

“But at least here I don’t have to listen. And then … no, no, I can’t go back, because of Zoltán.”

“Because of your ex-husband?”

“Because of him. He’d be waiting at the station with bunches of flowers.”

“You don’t say. He isn’t angry with you, after the callous way you walked out on him?”

“He’s not the least bit angry. I believe what he says. He’s
waiting
in all humility for me to go back to him some day. And as a penance he’s definitely broken off with the entire typing pool and living a celibate life. If I went back he’d be round my neck all the time. I couldn’t bear that. I can put up with anything, but not goodness and forgivingness. Especially not from Zoltán.”

“You know what, for once you’re dead right. I hate it when men are all good and forgiving.”

Erzsi took a room in the same hotel as Sári: a modern hotel, free from smells and aromas, behind the Jardin des Plantes. From it you could see the great cedar of Lebanon, with foreign, oriental dignity stretching out its many-handed branches to the unruly Parisian spring. The cedar was not very good for Erzsi. Its
foreignness
always made her think of some exotic and wonderful life whose advent she longed for in vain.

Initially she had her own room, then they moved in together because it was cheaper. In defiance of hotel regulations they took things up to their room and made supper together. It became apparent that Sári was as skilled at preparing dinners as she was at everything else. They had to lunch separately because Sári ate in town, coffee and sandwiches, taken standing up before hurrying straight back to the office. Erzsi at first tried various of the better restaurants, but became aware that these places mercilessly
overcharged
foreigners, so she took instead to visiting little
crémeries
, where “you can buy the identical thing, but so much cheaper.” Likewise, at first she would always drink black coffee after lunch because she adored the fine Parisian
café noir
, but then she came to realise that it was not absolutely essential for survival and gave it up, except that once a week, every Monday, she went to the Maison de Café on the Grand Boulevard to regale herself with a cup of the famous beverage.

The day after her arrival she had bought herself a splendid reticule in a very genteel shop near the Madeleine, but this was her sole luxury purchase. She discovered that goods identical to those retailed to foreigners at such high prices in the more
fashionable
areas could be found in simple shops and flea-markets in the side streets, the rue de Rivoli or the rue de Rennes, and very much cheaper. But her final insight was that not to buy was in fact cheapest of all, and from then on she took a special pleasure in objects she thought she would have liked to purchase, but did not. Following this, she discovered a hotel two streets further along which, while not quite so modern as the one they were living in, did have hot and cold running water in the rooms, and after all they might just as well live there as where they were, only it was
so much less expensive, nearly a third. She persuaded Sári, and they moved.

By degrees the saving of money became her chief
preoccupation
. She realised she had always had a strong inclination to save. As a child, chocolate bonbons given to her as presents would usually be stored away until they went mouldy. She hid her best clothes, any length of silk, pair of fine stockings or expensive gloves, and the maids would find them in the most surprising places, grubby and ruined. Her later life did not permit any expression of this economising passion. As a young girl she had to be on show beside her father, and conspicuous extravagance was required if she was to do him credit. And as Zoltán’s wife she could not possibly have dreamed of saving money. If she declined an expensive pair of shoes, Zoltán would surprise her the following day with three even more expensive pairs. Zoltán was a ‘generous’ man. He patronised art and artists (female), and made an absolute point of showering largesse on their husbands, partly to ease his sense of guilt. And in all this Erzsi’s ruling passion, the saving of money, remained unexpressed.

Now, in Paris, this repressed yearning erupted in her with overwhelming force. It was helped by the French ambience, the French way of life, which promotes the urge for economy in the most feckless breasts. It was reinforced by subtler factors. Her neglected love, her failed marriage, the aimlessness of her life, all these somehow sought compensation in the saving of money. Then, when Erzsi gave up her daily bath because she had realised the hotel was grossly overcharging for it, Sári could not let it go on without saying something:

“Tell me, why the devil are you so worried about spending money? I can let you have some, on an I O U of course, as a
formality
… ”

“Thank you, you’re very kind, but I do have enough. I had three thousand francs from Mihály’s father yesterday.”

“Three thousand francs! My God, that is a lot of money. I hate it when a woman skimps and saves the way you are. There’s
something
not right about it. It’s like when a woman spends the whole day cleaning and then goes hunting for leftover dust, or spends the whole day washing her hands and carries a special cloth around
with her so that when guests arrive they can wipe their hands on that. Women can be stupid in so many ways. And while I’m on the subject, just tell me: what do you do all day while I’m at the office?”

It became clear that Erzsi had little idea how she spent her time. All she knew was that she saved money. She hadn’t gone here, and she hadn’t gone there, and she hadn’t done this, and she hadn’t done that, so that she wouldn’t have to spend money. But what she had actually done apart from that was mysterious, dreamlike …

“Madness!” cried Sári. “I always thought you had some man and spent all your time with him, and it turns out that you stare in front of you the whole day, in a daydream, like these half-mad women (they at least are on the right road). And meanwhile of course you put on weight however little you eat, so of course you’re getting fat. You should be ashamed of yourself. Well, it can’t go on like this. You must get out among people, and you must take an interest in something. Damn, damn, damn! If only I had enough time for things in this god-awful life … ”

“Hey, tonight we’re going out,” she announced radiantly a few days later. “There’s a Hungarian gent who wants to put some shady outfit in touch with the studio. He’s buttering me up because he knows I’ve got the boss’s ear. Now he’s asked me out to dinner. He says he wants to introduce me to his rich friend, the one he’s representing. I told him I’m not interested in the ugly rich, I meet quite enough dowdy characters at the office. He said, ‘He really isn’t dowdy, he’s a very handsome chap, a Persian.’ ‘Well, alright,’ I said, ‘then I’ll come, but I’m bringing my girlfriend with me.’ He said that was splendid. He was just about to suggest it himself, so I wouldn’t be the only woman in the party.”

“My dear Sári, you know I can’t go. What an idea! I really don’t want to, and I haven’t got a thing to wear, just my rubbishy Budapest things.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. You look wonderful in them. Listen, compared to these scrawny Paris women, you’re the real thing … and the Hungarian will certainly like you because you’re from home.”

“There’s no question of my going. What’s this Hungarian’s name?”

“János Szepetneki. At least that’s what he said.”

“János Szepetneki … my God, I know him! Do you know, he’s a pickpocket!”

“A pickpocket? Could be. I see him more as a burglar, myself. Would you believe it, that’s how everyone starts off in the film business. But apart from that, he’s very good-looking. Well, are you coming or not?”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

The little
auberge
where they went to dine was of the type
classified
as Old French: check curtains and table-cloths, very few tables, excellent and hugely expensive food. During her earlier visit with Zoltán, Erzsi had often eaten in such places, or better. Now,
coming
to it from the depths of her penny-pinching, she was strongly affected as she caught the first whiff of the familiar atmosphere of wealth. But this emotion lasted only a moment before the arrival of the greater sensation, János Szepetneki. Not recognising Erzsi, he kissed her hand with elaborate courtesy and formality,
complimented
Sári on her excellent choice of friends, and led the ladies to the table where his friend was waiting for them.

“Monsieur Suratgar Lutphali,” he announced. From behind an aquiline nose two fiercely intense eyes met Erzsi’s, causing her to shudder. Sári too was shocked by the penetrating stare. Their first feeling was that they had sat down at table with a somewhat
imperfectly
tamed tiger.

Erzsi did not know whom to fear the more: Szepetneki the
pickpocket
, with his rather too good Parisian accent and the studied nonchalance with which he selected their perfectly judged menu, as only a dangerous swindler could (she remembered Zoltán’s timidity before the waiters of these elite Parisian restaurants and how stupid this fear made him in their eyes), or on the other hand the Persian, who sat there in silence, a benign European smile on his face, as quick and inappropriate as a pre-knotted tie. But the
hors d’oeuvre
and first glass of wine loosened his tongue, and from then on he directed the conversation, in a strange staccato French sounding from deep within his chest.

He knew how to captivate an audience with his speech. A kind of romantic eagerness flowed out from him, something medieval, a more instinctive and authentic humanity, pre-industrial. This man lived not by francs and forints, but by the values of the rose,
the mountain crag and the eagle. And yet the feeling remained that they were sitting at table with an imperfectly tamed tiger—the impression created by those burning eyes.

It emerged that back home in Persia he owned rose-gardens and mines and, most important, poppy-plantations, and his main business was the manufacture of opium. He had a very low
opinion
of the League of Nations, which had banned international traffic in opium and was causing him severe financial difficulties. He was obliged to maintain a gang of bandits up on the Turkestan border to smuggle his opium through to China.

“But that, sir, makes you a public enemy,” declared Sári. “You’re peddling white poison. You’re destroying the lives of hundreds of thousands of destitute Chinese. And then you’re surprised that all thinking people are united against you.”

“
Ma chère
,” said the Persian with unexpected anger, “you shouldn’t talk of things you know nothing about. You’ve been taken in by the stupid humanitarian platitudes of the European newspapers. How could this opium harm the ‘destitute’ Chinese? Do you think those people have money for opium? They’re glad of a bellyful of rice. In China only the very rich smoke opium, because it is expensive and the prerogative of the wealthy, like all the other good things of this world. It’s as if I were to start
worrying
about the excessive amounts of champagne consumed by the working classes of Paris. And if they don’t stop the Parisian rich drinking champagne when they want to, by what right do they meddle with the Chinese?”