Beware of Pity (14 page)

“Of course,” I instinctively said. It was the first remark that I had made directly to him, and indeed what he said seemed to me clear and sensible.

But the old man still sat there transfixed and motionless. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes empty. I realised that he did not in fact understand any of what Condor was trying to explain because he didn’t want to. Because his mind and all his fears were set on the crucial question—will she get better? Will she get better soon? And if so, when?

“What course of treatment do you mean?” He was
stammering
disjointedly, as usual when he was agitated. “What new cure? … You spoke of a new cure of some kind … What new course of treatment do you want to try?” (I noticed at once how he clung to the word “new”, because it suggested to him new hope.)

“Leave it to me, my dear friend, to decide what I will try and when—don’t press me, don’t keep trying to achieve something that can’t be done by force! Your own ‘case’, as we doctors unattractively put it, is the worst of my anxieties. We’ll have to do something about that.”

The old man looked at us, silent and depressed. I saw him forcing himself not to ask yet another of his insistent questions. Condor himself must have felt some of that silent stress, because he suddenly got to his feet.

“And that’s enough for today, don’t you think? I have told you what I think, anything else would be nothing but nonsense and drivel … even if Edith proves more irritable than usual in the near future, don’t take alarm, I’ll soon find out what’s behind it. All you have to do is refrain from pestering her with your own distress and anxiety. Oh, and another thing—do take good care of your own nerves. You don’t look to me as if you are getting enough sleep, and I’m afraid that with all your fretting and worrying you’ll do harm to your own health. You can’t inflict that distress on your child. You’d better start by going to bed early this evening—take a few valerian drops before you fall
asleep, and then you’ll feel well rested in the morning. There, that’s the end of my prescription for today! I’ll finish smoking my cigar, and then I’ll be off.”

“Are you really … are you really leaving already?”

Dr Condor was firm about it. “Yes, my dear friend, that’s enough for today! I have one last patient to see this evening, he’s rather run down, and I prescribed him a good walk. As you can see, I’ve been out and about since seven-thirty today, I spent all morning at the hospital—a curious case, that one, but let’s not talk about it. Then I was in the train, and then here, and even we doctors need to get fresh air in our lungs now and then to clear our heads. So please don’t offer me your car today, I’ll walk to the station. There’s a wonderful full moon. Of course I won’t deprive you of Lieutenant Hofmiller’s company, and if you want to stay up this evening in spite of my medical advice then I’m sure he’ll keep you company a little longer.”

But at once I remembered my mission. No, I said firmly, I had to be on duty early next morning, and had been thinking of leaving for some time. “So if you don’t object, let’s walk back to the town together.”

And now, for the first time, I saw Kekesfalva’s ashen glance light up. My task! The question! The answer I was to find out! He too had remembered.

“I’ll go straight to bed, then,” he said, with unexpected docility, but giving me a surreptitious and meaning look behind Condor’s back. It wasn’t necessary; even without such a reminder I felt the pulse in my wrist beating strongly against my cuff. I knew that this was the moment for me to do as Kekesfalva had asked.

Condor and I involuntarily stopped as soon as we were on the top step of the little flight of steps outside the door of the house, for the front garden was an amazing sight. During the hours that had been spent in earnest discussion indoors, it had not occurred to any of us to look out of the window, but now a
transformation
scene surprised us. A huge full moon stood overhead, a shining, polished silver disc in the middle of the starlit sky, and as the breeze, warm from the sunny day, blew mild summer air into our faces a magical winter seemed to have descended on the world in that dazzling moonlight. The gravel looked white as freshly fallen snow between the neatly pruned trees that cast their dark shadows on the open path, and the trees themselves seemed to be holding their breath, standing now in the light and now in the dark, like alternating mahogany and glass. I cannot remember ever feeling moonshine as haunting as here in the total peace and stillness of the garden, drenched in the icy light of the moon, and the spell it cast was so deceptive that we instinctively hesitated to set foot on the shining steps as if they were slippery glass. And as we walked down the apparently snow-covered gravel drive, suddenly we were not two but four, for our shadows went ahead of us, clear-cut in the bright moonlight. Against my will I had to keep watching those two black companions who persistently marked out our movements ahead of us, like walking silhouettes, and it gave me—our feelings are sometimes so childish—a certain reassurance to see that my shadow was longer, slimmer, I almost said “better-looking”, than the short, stout shadow of my companion. That superiority—I know that it takes courage to admit to such naivety—slightly increased my self-confidence. A man’s state of mind is always influenced by the most curious coincidences, and the smallest outer factors can increase or decrease his sense of security.

We had reached the wrought-iron gate without speaking a word. In closing it we necessarily had to look back. The facade of the house looked as if it were painted with bluish
phosphorus,
and in the dazzling moonlight we couldn’t see which of the windows were still lit from within and which only on the outside. Nothing but the sharp sound of the gate latching broke the silence. As if encouraged by that earthly sound in the midst of the ghostly silence, Condor turned to me and said, as much at his ease as I could have hoped, “Poor old Kekesfalva! I’ve been reproaching myself all this time. Of course I know he would have liked to keep me there for hours, asking me hundreds of questions, or rather the same question hundreds of times. But I couldn’t take any more. It’s been a long day, patients from morning to night, and none of them cases that are making any progress.”

By now we were walking down the avenue, where the
moonlight
filtered through the shadowy canopies of the trees meeting overhead. The snowy-white gravel shone all the more brightly in the middle of the path, and we both walked along that bright channel of light. I felt too respectful to Condor by now to reply, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“There are days when I just can’t take any more of his persistence. You know, the patients aren’t the hardest part of a doctor’s life; we learn to get along with them, we work out a technique. And after all, if patients complain and ask questions and press you for answers, it’s part of their
condition
, like a high temperature or a headache. We expect them to be impatient from the start, we’re prepared for that and armed against it, and every one of us has soothing phrases and white lies on the tip of his tongue, just as he can
prescribe
sleeping pills and painkillers. But no one makes our
lives more difficult than the relations who intervene, unasked, between doctor and patient, and always want to know ‘the truth’. They act as if no one else in the world were ill at the moment but this one invalid, and there’s no one else to be treated anywhere. I really don’t mind Kekesfalva’s constant questions, but you know, if impatience becomes a chronic condition sometimes the doctor’s own patience lets him down. I’ve told him ten times over that I have a severe case in Vienna, it’s a matter of life or death. And although he knows that, he keeps telephoning day after day, urging and urging me, trying to force some words of hope out of me. At the same time, as his doctor, I can see how bad all this stress is for him. In fact I’m far more concerned about him than he knows, far, far more. It’s as well that he doesn’t know how poor the prospects are.”

I was alarmed. So the prospects were poor? Frankly and spontaneously, Condor had told me what I was supposed to be worming out of him. I said, in great agitation myself, “Forgive me, doctor, but I’m sure you’ll understand how anxious that makes me feel … I had no idea that Edith was in such a bad way.”

“Edith?” Condor turned to me in surprise. He seemed to notice, for the first time, that he had been talking to someone else. “What do you mean—Edith? I never said a word about Edith … you’ve entirely misunderstood me. No, no, Edith’s condition is the same as ever … I am sorry to say, but yes, the same as ever. However, I’m concerned about
him
, Kekesfalva, increasingly concerned. Hasn’t it struck you how much he’s changed in these last few months? How ill he looks, how he’s getting worse every week?”

“Well … of course, I can’t judge that. I’ve had the honour of knowing Herr von Kekesfalva only for a few weeks, and …”

“Oh, I see. Forgive me … then of course you couldn’t have seen the change … But I’ve known him for years, and
speaking
for myself I was genuinely horrified when I happened to look at his hands today. Have you noticed how translucent and bony they are? You know, when a doctor has seen the hands of many dead people, it’s always distressing to see that particular bluish colour on a living hand. And then—I don’t like to see him so quickly moved to emotion. His eyes fill with tears at the least little thing, the slightest new fear drains the colour from his face. It’s particularly alarming to see a man who used to be as thrusting and energetic as Kekesfalva giving up like that. I’m afraid it doesn’t bode well when hard men suddenly turn soft—I don’t even like to see them become kindly. It shows that something’s wrong, something inside them has given way. Of course, for some time I’ve intended to give him a thorough examination—only I just don’t trust myself to broach the subject to him. Because my God, suppose I start him thinking of himself as ill now, let alone thinking that he might die and leave his crippled child behind … well, I don’t like to imagine it! He’s undermining his own health anyway by all that brooding of his, his headlong impatience … no, no. Lieutenant Hofmiller, you misunderstood me. I’m far more worried about him than Edith … I’m afraid the old man won’t last much longer.”

I was devastated. I had never thought of that. At the time I was twenty-five years old, and I had never seen anyone close to me die. I couldn’t immediately take in the idea that a man with whom I had just been sitting at table, a man I had been talking to, drinking with, could be lying cold in his shroud tomorrow. At the same time a slight, sudden pang at my heart told me that I really had become fond of the old man. Moved and awkward about it as I was, I wanted to say something, anything.

“That’s terrible,” I said, still feeling bemused. “That would be really terrible. Such a distinguished, generous, kind man—in fact the first genuine Hungarian nobleman I’ve ever met …”

But here a surprising thing happened. Condor stood still so abruptly that I instinctively stopped as well. He stared at me, the lenses of his pince-nez gleaming as he brusquely turned his head. Only after taking a deep breath once or twice did he ask, in astonishment, “A nobleman? A genuine nobleman at that? Kekesfalva? Forgive me, my dear sir … but do you mean that seriously? I mean about his being a genuine Hungarian nobleman?”

I didn’t entirely understand the question. I just had a sense of having said something foolish, and I replied, in embarrassment, “Well, I can’t judge that kind of thing for myself, but Herr von Kekesfalva has always shown his kindest, most distinguished side to me … and in the regiment we’ve always had the Hungarian gentry described to us as particularly arrogant. But … I … I never met a kindlier man … I … I …”

My voice died away. I sensed Condor still examining me with a careful, sidelong look. His round face shone in the moonlight, the lenses of his pince-nez looked larger than life, and I could see the searching glance behind them only indistinctly. It gave me the uncomfortable feeling of being a scrabbling insect placed under a very strong magnifying glass. Facing each other now in the middle of the country road, we would have presented a curious sight to any passer by, but the road happened to be entirely empty.

Then Condor lowered his head, began striding on again, and muttered, as if to himself, “Well, you really are an oddity—forgive me, I don’t mean it in any bad sense. But it really is odd, you must admit, very strange … you’ve been going to the house
for some weeks, I hear. And you’re living in a small town, a kind of chicken coop full of cackling fowls at that, and you still think Kekesfalva is a great magnate. Haven’t you ever heard any of your comrades make certain … well, let’s not say derogatory remarks, but haven’t you just heard hints that he’s not really one of the old nobility? You must have been told something.”

“No,” I said firmly, feeling anger rise in me (it is not pleasant to be described as an oddity and very strange). “I’m sorry, but I have heard no such imputation. I have never discussed Herr von Kekesfalva with any of my comrades.”

“How curious,” murmured Condor. “How very curious. I always thought he was exaggerating in what he said about you. And since this seems to be my day for making the wrong diagnosis, I’ll admit frankly that his enthusiasm made me slightly suspicious. I couldn’t really believe that you were such a regular visitor because of your faux pas in asking Edith to dance, and then you kept going back purely out of pity for her, out of sympathy. You’ve no idea how the old man has sometimes been exploited, and I had made up my mind (why shouldn’t I tell you?) to find out what really draws you to that house. I was thinking—either this is a fellow—how can I put it politely?—a fellow with ulterior motives for trying to fleece the old man, or else he must have the feelings of a very young man, because only the very young are so strangely attracted to tragedy and danger. That instinct of theirs, by the way, nearly always does them credit, and your feelings didn’t deceive you—Kekesfalva really is an unusual man. I know exactly what can be said against him, and all that struck me as rather funny—do please forgive me—was to hear you describe him as a nobleman. But you may believe me—I know him better than anyone else around here—there is nothing for you to be ashamed of in showing
such friendship to him and his poor child. Whatever you may yet hear, don’t let it mislead you; it bears no relation to the touching and remarkable character that Kekesfalva is today.”

As he walked on, Condor said this without looking at me. It was some time before he slowed down. I felt that he was thinking something over, and I did not want to disturb him. We walked on side by side in total silence for four or five minutes; a cart came towards us, and we had to step aside. The rustic driver stared curiously at the strange couple we made, a lieutenant beside a small, stout gentleman in pince-nez, the two of them walking together along the road in silence so late at night. We let the cart go past, and then Condor suddenly turned to me.

“Listen, Lieutenant Hofmiller. Matters half finished and hints half dropped are never a good idea. All the evil in the world comes from doing things by halves. Perhaps I’ve let slip too much already, and I wouldn’t like to offend you when your attitude is so generous. But I’ve also made you too curious not to ask other people about what I have just said, and I am afraid I can’t help fearing that you will not get very accurate
information.
After all, it’s impossible to keep visiting a house without really knowing what the people who live in it are like—and if you heard such rumours you probably couldn’t visit them in future in your former easy way. So if it would really interest you to know a little more about our friend, Lieutenant, then I am entirely at your service.”

“Yes, of course I’d like that.”

Condor took out his watch. “A quarter to eleven. That gives us two good hours. My train doesn’t leave until twenty-past one. But I don’t think that such stories can be told out in the road. Perhaps you know a quiet place somewhere, a place where we could talk in peace.”

I thought about it. “I’d suggest the Tyrolean Wine Bar in Erzherzog Friedrichstrasse. It has little private boxes, like the boxes in a theatre, where we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Excellent! That sounds just right,” he replied, and he
quickened
his pace again.

Without another word, we walked all the way down the road into town. Soon the first houses were lining our route in the bright moonlight, and fortunately we met none of my comrades in the already deserted streets. I don’t know why, but I would have felt awkward to be asked next day who my companion had been. Ever since becoming so strangely entangled with the Kekesfalva family, I had been anxiously hiding any thread in the tangle that might lead others to the labyrinth which, I felt, was enticing me into new and ever more mysterious depths.

The Tyrolean Wine Bar was a comfortable little tavern with a slightly raffish air about it. Standing in a rather secluded
position
in a crooked, old-fashioned alley, it was really part of a second- or third-rate inn, an establishment that was particularly popular in our military circles because of the understanding way the clerk at the reception desk would diligently forget to ask guests who wanted a room with a double bed—sometimes in the middle of the day—to fill in the registration form required by police regulations. Further assurance of privacy for those indulging in trysts of long or short duration was the convenient fact that, to reach those love nests, you didn’t have to draw
attention
to yourself by coming through the main entrance (for there are a thousand eyes on the watch in any small town), but could make your way at your leisure straight from the bar to the
stairs, and thus reach your discreet destination. While the inn itself might be a place of dubious repute, there was no fault to be found with the good Terlaner and Muscatel wines served in the bar downstairs. The townsfolk sat comfortably here every evening at the heavy wooden tables, which were graced by no tablecloths, earnestly or casually discussing the usual kind of local and world affairs over several jugs of wine. Around the rectangular common room of the bar itself, usually frequented by the humbler sort of topers who were only after the wine and each other’s down-to-earth company, there was a gallery a step higher up consisting of ‘boxes’, separated from each other by thick, soundproof wooden partitions which were also,
unnecessarily
, adorned with pokerwork and drinking mottoes. Thick curtains cut the eight boxes off from the room in the middle, so that each could almost claim to be a
chambre séparée
, and to some extent served the same purpose. If the officers or
gentlemen
volunteers serving a year in the garrison wanted to amuse themselves, undisturbed, with a couple of girls from Vienna, they would reserve one of these boxes, and rumour had it that our colonel, usually a strict disciplinarian, had expressly
approved
this sensible measure because it kept civilians from seeing too much of his young men’s moments of off-duty relaxation. Discretion also reigned in the internal arrangements of the inn. On express orders from the proprietor, a man called Ferleitner, the waitresses in their Tyrolean costume were strictly forbidden ever to raise the sacred curtains over the boxes without clearing their throats loudly first, or to disturb the military gentlemen in any other way unless they were summoned by a bell, so that the dignity of the army and its pleasures were both preserved.