herself offered the European stranger her lips and proceeded to instruct him in the art of love.
Mimosa would not let go of the youth, holding him in a brazen embrace. This woman knew no shame at all. The two mouths remained glued together for some time, devouring each other, tearing at each other, drinking in delight, refusing to break asunder. The smouldering embrace grew still more passionate, while the good citizens of Sárszeg waited breathlessly for what should follow, their eyes riveted to the couple, watching, learning, like children at school, thinking of how they too, in similar circumstances, would do exactly the same.
The glasses brought this image so close to Ákos that for a moment he shrank back.
He put the glasses down disapprovingly, frowned, then glanced at his wife as if to ask what she thought of this unsightly scene.
The woman said nothing. She had long held a rather damning opinion of actors. She often spoke of Etel Pifkó, an ancient local actress who had poisoned herself while pregnant and whose grave lay beyond the walls of Sárszeg cemetery because she had not been buried in consecrated ground and hadn't enjoyed the Church's final blessing.
Wun-Hi lightened the couple's spirits. This pigtailed Chinaman, owner of the Tea House of Ten Thousand Joys, went dashing busily to and fro. His powers of invention knew no bounds.
“You know who that is, don't you?” whispered Ákos.
“Who?'
“Szolyvay.”
“Never!'
“Look at the programme.”
“Goodness, I'd never have recognised him. What an excellent disguise!'
“And the voice too, the voice. Just listen to it. Totally unrecognisable.”
Szolyvay lisped and hawked and bleated. After his every prank the Vajkays looked at each other, their smiles spreading wider each time.
When Marquis Imari appeared beneath a red parasol, threatening to put Wun-Hi's tearoom up for auction, the panic-stricken Chinaman immediately threw himself at the marquis's feet. The whole theatre erupted in a roar of laughter. Ákos and his wife laughed too.
They laughed so much that they didn't hear a knock at the door behind them. Környey came into their box; the first act was nearly over.
“Well,” he inquired, “enjoying yourselves?'
“Tremendously,” the woman replied.
“Amusing stuff and nonsense,” said Ákos, tempering his response. “Entertaining, at any rate.”
“Just you wait; the best is still to come.”
Környey, true theatre buff that he was, only used his opera glasses to observe the audience.
“Look up there,” he said.
He pointed to a box in the upper circle where Imre Zányi sat in the company of a shady-looking woman with straw-blonde hair.
“He sits there every evening,” said the commander in chief pointing up at Zányi. “But only when
she's
playing. The great
she
, Olga Orosz. He's madly in love with her, you know. Has been for two years.”
Ákos focused his opera glasses alternately on Zányi and Olga Orosz. His eyes couldn't seem to get enough of them.
During the interval Környey entertained Mrs Vajkay with local gossip, while Ákos, in his serious frock coat, neatly combed hair and waxed moustache, made an appearance in the club box before the gentlemen of Sárszeg. He paid his respects to the Lord Lieutenant, who received him very warmly, his light, fidgety body leaping out from, and back into, his seat in a flash. He immediately invited Ákos to join him for lunch the following day, when the Budapest commissioner would also be present. Then they began to discourse on the proper conduct of elections, so freely and in such depth that they failed to notice that the second act had already begun. This Ákos watched in their company from beginning to end.
Miklós Ijas arrived halfway through the act, having only just completed his editorial duties. He sat down in the seat permanently reserved for the
Sárszeg Gazette
. As always, he didn't cast a single glance at the stage. He rested his head on the back of the seat
Mimosa would not let go of the youth, holding him in a brazen embrace. This woman knew no shame at all. The two mouths remained glued together for some time, devouring each other, tearing at each other, drinking in delight, refusing to break asunder. The smouldering embrace grew still more passionate, while the good citizens of Sárszeg waited breathlessly for what should follow, their eyes riveted to the couple, watching, learning, like children at school, thinking of how they too, in similar circumstances, would do exactly the same.
The glasses brought this image so close to Ákos that for a moment he shrank back.
He put the glasses down disapprovingly, frowned, then glanced at his wife as if to ask what she thought of this unsightly scene.
The woman said nothing. She had long held a rather damning opinion of actors. She often spoke of Etel Pifkó, an ancient local actress who had poisoned herself while pregnant and whose grave lay beyond the walls of Sárszeg cemetery because she had not been buried in consecrated ground and hadn't enjoyed the Church's final blessing.
Wun-Hi lightened the couple's spirits. This pigtailed Chinaman, owner of the Tea House of Ten Thousand Joys, went dashing busily to and fro. His powers of invention knew no bounds.
“You know who that is, don't you?” whispered Ákos.
“Who?'
“Szolyvay.”
“Never!'
“Look at the programme.”
“Goodness, I'd never have recognised him. What an excellent disguise!'
“And the voice too, the voice. Just listen to it. Totally unrecognisable.”
Szolyvay lisped and hawked and bleated. After his every prank the Vajkays looked at each other, their smiles spreading wider each time.
When Marquis Imari appeared beneath a red parasol, threatening to put Wun-Hi's tearoom up for auction, the panic-stricken Chinaman immediately threw himself at the marquis's feet. The whole theatre erupted in a roar of laughter. Ákos and his wife laughed too.
They laughed so much that they didn't hear a knock at the door behind them. Környey came into their box; the first act was nearly over.
“Well,” he inquired, “enjoying yourselves?'
“Tremendously,” the woman replied.
“Amusing stuff and nonsense,” said Ákos, tempering his response. “Entertaining, at any rate.”
“Just you wait; the best is still to come.”
Környey, true theatre buff that he was, only used his opera glasses to observe the audience.
“Look up there,” he said.
He pointed to a box in the upper circle where Imre Zányi sat in the company of a shady-looking woman with straw-blonde hair.
“He sits there every evening,” said the commander in chief pointing up at Zányi. “But only when
she's
playing. The great
she
, Olga Orosz. He's madly in love with her, you know. Has been for two years.”
Ákos focused his opera glasses alternately on Zányi and Olga Orosz. His eyes couldn't seem to get enough of them.
During the interval Környey entertained Mrs Vajkay with local gossip, while Ákos, in his serious frock coat, neatly combed hair and waxed moustache, made an appearance in the club box before the gentlemen of Sárszeg. He paid his respects to the Lord Lieutenant, who received him very warmly, his light, fidgety body leaping out from, and back into, his seat in a flash. He immediately invited Ákos to join him for lunch the following day, when the Budapest commissioner would also be present. Then they began to discourse on the proper conduct of elections, so freely and in such depth that they failed to notice that the second act had already begun. This Ákos watched in their company from beginning to end.
Miklós Ijas arrived halfway through the act, having only just completed his editorial duties. He sat down in the seat permanently reserved for the
Sárszeg Gazette
. As always, he didn't cast a single glance at the stage. He rested his head on the back of the seat
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