Journey by Moonlight (25 page)

E
RZSI ARRIVED BACK
in Paris. She telephoned János, who came for her in the evening to take her out to dinner. But she found him rather distracted, and not especially pleased to see her. This suspicion grew stronger when he announced:

“Tonight we’re dining with the Persian.”

“Why? On our first night!”

“True, but I can’t do anything about it. He insisted on it, and you know how I have to butter him up.”

During the dinner János was mostly silent, and the conversation flowed between Erzsi and the Persian.

The Persian was talking about his homeland. There, love was a difficult and romantic business. Even today it was still the case that the young man in love had to climb a ten-foot wall and hide in the garden of his beloved’s father, to watch for the moment when the lady might walk by with her companion and they might exchange a few words in secret. But the young man was playing with his life.

“And this is a good thing?” asked Erzsi.

“Yes, a very good thing,” he replied. “Very good. People tend to value things much more highly when they have had to wait for them, to struggle and suffer. I often think Europeans don’t know what passion is. And really they don’t, technically speaking.”

His eyes glowed, his gestures were exaggerated but noble—untamed, genuine gestures.

“I am delighted you have returned, Madame,” he suddenly announced. “I was just beginning to be afraid you would stay in Italy. But that would have been a shame … I should have been very sorry.”

Erzsi, in a gesture of thanks, placed her hand for a moment on the Persian’s. Beneath it he closed his, making it like a claw. She was alarmed, and withdrew hers.

“I would very much like to ask you something,” continued the Persian. “Would you accept a small gift from me? On the happy occasion of your return.”

He produced a beautifully wrought gold
tabatière
.

“Strictly speaking it’s for opium,” he said. “But you can also use it for cigarettes.”

“I’m not sure on what basis I can accept this,” Erzsi said, in some confusion.

“On no basis whatever. On the basis that I am happy to be alive. On the basis that I am not a European, but come from a country where people make gifts lightly and with the best of intentions, and are grateful when they are accepted. Accept it because I am Suratgar Lutphali, and who knows when you will ever meet such a bird again.”

Erzsi looked inquiringly at János. She greatly admired the
tabatière
, and would have loved to accept it. János gave her a look of approval.

“Then I accept,” she said, “and thank you very much. I would accept it from no-one else, only you. Because who knows when I shall ever meet such a bird again in my life.”

The Persian met the bill for all three of them. Erzsi was a little irritated by this. It was almost as if János had found her for the Persian, as if, not to put too fine a point on it, he were his
impresario
, now withdrawing modestly into the background … but she dismissed this thought. Most likely János was again out of funds and that was why he allowed the Persian to pay. Or the Persian, with his oriental magnificence, had insisted on it. Besides, in Paris one person always paid.

That night János fell asleep early, and Erzsi had time to reflect:

“It’s coming to an end with János, that’s for certain, and I’m not sorry. What is interesting in him I already know by heart. I was always so afraid of him—that he might stab me, or steal my money. But it seems this fear was misplaced, and I’m a bit
disappointed
in him. What comes next? Perhaps the Persian? It rather seems he fancies me.”

She thought for a long time about what the Persian would be like at close quarters. Oh yes, he certainly was the real
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright/In the forests of the night
. How his eye glowed … It could be quite terrifying. Yes, quite terrifying. She really should give him a try. Love has so many unexplored landscapes, so many secret, wonderful, paradisal places …

Two days later the Persian invited them on an outing by car to Paris-Plage. They bathed in the sea, had dinner, and set out for home in the dark.

The journey was a long one and the Persian, who was driving, began to be more and more uncertain.

“Tell me, did we see that lake when we came?” he asked János.

János looked thoughtfully into the dark.

“Perhaps you did. I didn’t.”

They stopped and studied the map.

“The devil knows where we might be. I don’t see any kind of lake here.”

“I said at the time the driver shouldn’t drink so much,” said János in exasperation.

They drove further on, in some uncertainty. No-one, not a
vehicle
, in the whole countryside.

“This car’s not right,” said János. “Have you noticed it
spluttering
from time to time?”

“Yes, it certainly is.”

As they drove on the spluttering became quite pronounced.

Do you understand this contraption?” asked the Persian. “Because I don’t know the first thing about it. For me, the mechanics of a car are still the work of the devil.”

“Pull over. I’ll see what the trouble is.”

János got out, lifted up the bonnet, and started to investigate.

“The fan belt is completely ruined. How on earth could you drive around with a fan belt like that? You really should look at your car occasionally.”

Suddenly he swore, copiously and brutally.

“ … the belt’s torn! Now we’ve done it!”

“Now you’ve done it.”

“I’ve certainly done it. We can’t go on until we find another belt. You might as well get out.”

They got out. Meanwhile it had started to rain. Erzsi fastened up her waterproof coat.

The Persian was angry and impatient.

“Hell and damnation, what do we do now? Here we are in the middle of the main road, and, I’ve a strong suspicion, this isn’t the main road any more.”

“I can see some sort of house over there,” said János. “Let’s try our luck there.”

“What, at this time of night? By now the whole French countryside is asleep, and anyone who is up won’t be talking to suspicious-looking foreigners.”

“But there’s a light on,” said Erzsi, pointing to the house.

“Let’s try it,” said János.

They locked the car, and made off towards the house. A wall enclosed the hill on which it stood, but the gate was open. They went up to the house.

It was a very grand-looking building. In the darkness it seemed like a miniature château, bristling with marquesses and the noble families of France.

They knocked. An old peasant-woman thrust her head out of a small opening in the door. János explained what had brought them there.

“I’ll just have a word with their lordship and ladyship.”

Soon a middle-aged Frenchman in country attire stood before them. He looked them up and down while János repeated his account of what had happened. His face slowly brightened, and he became immensely friendly.

“God has brought you amongst us, Madame and Gentlemen. Come in and tell us all about it.”

He led them into an old-fashioned room, reminiscent of a
hunting
lodge, where a lady sat at a table over her embroidery,
evidently
his wife. The man briefly explained the situation and made his visitors sit down.

“Your misfortune is our good luck,” said the lady. “You can’t imagine how dull these evenings are in the country. But of course one can’t leave one’s estates at this time of year, can one?”

Erzsi felt somehow ill at ease. The whole mansion seemed unreal, or indeed too real, like the set of a naturalistic play. And either these two people had sat there forever under the lamp, wordlessly waiting, or they had sprung into being at the precise moment of their arrival. Deep down she had the feeling that something was not quite right.

It emerged that the nearest village where they might find a garage was three kilometres off, but the hospitable couple had
no-one they could send, as that night the male staff were sleeping out at the farmhouse.

“Do spend the night here,” suggested the wife. “There’s sleeping-room for all three of you.”

But János and the Persian were insistent that they still had to be in Paris that night.

“I am expected,” said the Persian, his discreet smile implying it was a question of a lady.

“There’s nothing else for it,” said János. “One of us will have to walk to the village. Three kilometres really isn’t much. Naturally I shall go, since I broke the fanbelt.”

“Not at all,” said the Persian. “I’ll go. Since you are my guests, I must see to it.”

“Well, let’s draw lots,” suggested János.

The draw determined that János should go.

“I’ll be straight back,” he said, and hurried off.

The host brought wine, his own vintage. They sat around the table, drinking and talking quietly, listening occasionally to the patter of rain on the window-pane.

Erzsi’s sense of unreality grew and grew. She no longer knew what the host and his lady were talking about. Probably they were explaining the tedious round of their country life, in tones as
unvaried
and soporific as the rain. Or perhaps it was the patter of rain that was so soothing; or the fact that she no longer belonged to anyone, anywhere. Here she sat at the end of the world, in a French château whose name she did not even know, and where she had arrived quite without rhyme or reason, for one might equally sit thus at the other end of the world, in another château, with no more cause or explanation.

Then she sensed that this was not what was soothing and lulling her, but the glance with which the Persian caressed her from time to time. It was a tender, warm, emotional glance, quite different from the cold blue gaze of a European eye. In the Persian’s glance there was animal warmth and reassurance. Soothing and lulling. Yes, this man loved women … but not merely as … he loved them not because he was a man, but because they were women, dear creatures,
needing
love. That was it: he loved them the way a true dog-fancier loves dogs. And perhaps that is the best love a woman can have.

In her half-trance she became aware that, under the table, the Persian was holding her hand in his and stroking it.

He did not betray himself by the slightest movement as he
conversed
politely with the hosts. Yet Erzsi still felt that everyone was posing, so outrageously that she almost expected them to stick out their tongues at her. And the Persian was just waiting,
perhaps
without any particular plan in his head, at that late hour of night …

“Does he think I am some unapproachable Persian woman? My God, we ought to go out for a stroll … but it’s raining.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. The peasant-woman brought in a thoroughly sodden youth, who was obviously known to the host couple. From what the lad had to say it transpired that János had reached the neighbouring village but had not found a suitable fan belt there. However he had sprained his leg, and thought it best to spend the night with the local doctor, who was a most kindly man. He asked if they would come and collect him, should they somehow manage to repair the car.

This news was received with dismay. Then they decided that if that was the way things stood, it would be better to go to bed, as it was already long past midnight. The lady of the house conducted them upstairs. When it had been tactfully established that Erzsi and the Persian were not together, each was assigned a separate room, and the hostess took her leave. Erzsi took her leave of the Persian and went into her room, where the old peasant-woman made up her bed, and bade her goodnight.

It was as if everything had been prepared in advance. Of this Erzsi no longer had any doubt. The little play being enacted in her honour was no doubt the brainchild of János: the problem with the car, the little
château
by the roadside, his accident, and now the final scene with the happy ending.

She looked round her room. She carefully locked the door, and then had to smile. There was another door in the room, and this had no key. She cautiously opened this second door. It revealed an unlit room. But in the far wall of the darkened room was another door, under which a strip of light appeared. She tip-toed over to it. Someone was walking about in the next room. She thought back to the arrangement of the rooms as they had gone along
the corridor, and decided that the one behind the door was the Persian’s. He was certainly not going to lock his door. Through it he would make his way comfortably to her room. And this was quite natural, after the intimate way they had sat together down below, under the lamp. She returned to her room.

Her mirror showed her how deeply she was blushing. János had sold her to the Persian and the Persian had bought her, as he might a calf. He had made her a down payment in the form of the
tabatière
(which Sári had established was a great deal more valuable than you might think at first glance)—and János had
certainly
had his ‘pocket money’. She was filled with deep humiliation and anger. How she could have loved the Persian … but that he should treat her like a commodity! Oh how stupid men were! By this he had spoilt everything.

“Why do they all try to sell me? Mihály sold me to Zoltán—even his letter made it clear that there had been a deal—and now János sells me to the Persian, and, God knows, in time the Persian will sell me to some Greek or Armenian; and after that I’ll be sold again and again by men who don’t even view me as their own property.” She racked her brains to discover what there might be in her that made men do this. Or perhaps the fault lay not in her, but in the men she fell in with, Mihály and János, and the fact that both of them had loved Éva, a woman who was for sale, and were therefore unable to see her as any different?

A few minutes more and the Persian would come, and, in the most natural way in the world, would wish to complete the
transaction
. What nonsense! She must do something. Go to the lady of the house, and make a great scene, call for her protection? It would be ridiculous, since the people of the house were the Persian’s hired lackeys (Who could they be? They had played their parts very well. Perhaps they were actors, since he was now a film entrepreneur.) She walked up and down, at her wits’ end.