They Were Counted (66 page)

 

Laszlo was deeply upset by the little maid’s misfortune. The
injustice
meted out to poor Ilus made him understand for the first time that life was as cruel to others as it was to him. Until now he had had no idea of the practical horrors that faced ordinary
people
. His own world had been an artificial one where the pains and sorrows and loneliness, however harrowing, had been
cerebral
and emotional. Though Laszlo reflected that the degree of pain suffered must be subjective, he had never until now known someone who did not know from one day to another where his next meal would come from nor where he would lay his head that night; never met an unfortunate girl like this young unwed mother who did not know where her baby would be born. All this was new to him and he found it shocking and totally unexpected. He had never grasped that for thousands of people this was a
daily
reality, a misery that lasted their whole lives. Even now, he did not think of the multitudes whose experience of life was
continual
unhappiness and uncertainty; on the contrary he saw only a single reality where tyranny had been merciless and unjust.

He was filled with rage as he stood silently in the middle of the room.

The sun now began to set, its rays just visible over the roofs of the museum. It was time to go to the Park Club, where it was
possible
that he might see Klara from a distance, even perhaps get a chance to exchange a few words with her.

Laszlo rushed downstairs and flung himself into the hired four-wheeler which waited outside his door from noon each day. He told the driver to take him to Stefania Street. Klara and her family were nowhere to be seen. Laszlo went through all the rooms several times, as well as searching the gardens and even the grotto. They were not there.

Later he drove back to the Casino, changed into evening dress and dined. He was in a bad mood, depressed and unhappy, and to cheer himself up he drank a bottle of champagne. After dinner he had himself driven once again to the Park Club hoping that the Kollonich party might come in to dance, for on the evenings when no official ball was planned there would be music and
dancing
in one of the big reception rooms. On these occasions Laszlo would take over the organization and add a quadrille or garland dance to the usual waltzes or foxtrots. This evening, however, he did not feel in the mood and contented himself with drinking a couple of glasses of brandy in a forlorn attempt to cheer himself up. Time went by, and it became increasingly clear that Klara would not appear.

Just before midnight Niki Kollonich came in. Laszlo, as
casually
as possible, said: ‘Aunt Agnes and the others aren’t coming tonight?’

‘No. They went for a picnic on the river – all the way to
Ester-gom
and back. It was delightful, but they’re all so fagged out they can hardly stand!’ replied Niki, laughing with malicious pleasure at the thought of their tiredness, and giving Laszlo the impression that he was also laughing at him. Finding it difficult to hide his
disappointment
Laszlo turned away, and grabbing a girl who
scarcely
knew him, waltzed off as quickly as he could. When the music stopped and he had escorted his partner back to her chair, he decided he could not stand it any more and would not stay. He turned to one of the young men who always helped him and said:

‘I’ve got a headache. Please carry on without me!’

He called for his carriage and drove back to the Casino, where he went straight up to the baccarat-room, the only place where he felt at home. Every night, after the dancing had finished, he had always, without fail, come back here for a while before going home to bed. That fatal card-room was somehow soothing and attracted him even though he was no longer interested in playing. Indeed, the frustration that he felt by holding to his promise and merely standing there gave him an almost masochistic delight. It was true that on some nights there would have been little
pleasure
to be gained from joining in the play, for as dawn
approached
the only players left would be those bad losers who, anxious to pass on their bad luck would depart in a hurry the
moment
they had had a couple of wins. On such nights they had tried to draw him in, but since he had made his promise to Klara, he had resisted, saying that it was too late. This evening it was
different
, for it was only shortly after midnight and the game was in full swing with all the great gamblers there in full force; Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi, Arzenovics, Zalamery and the others. Enormous banks were called and huge bets staked.

Laszlo did not go near the table but sat down on a couch far from the rest of the company and ordered some supper and champagne and a decanter of brandy, determined somehow to get himself
sufficiently
drunk to dull the thoughts that so tormented him.

The room was dark apart from shaded lights over the chemmy table, but to Laszlo it was soothing to be there and to hear from afar the murmur of the familiar liturgical phrases …
je
donne
…
passe
la
main
… Eight! …
coup
de giro
… which, with the soft rattle of the chips, were like a comforting melody or the soft echo of a rustling brook. His scorn and sorrow were not removed, but the faint, rhythmic sounds had all the effect of a mother’s lullaby.

Laszlo ate his supper quietly and into every glass of champagne he poured even larger doses of brandy, but though he emptied each glass almost as soon as he had refilled it, filled it again and drunk again, it did not work. On the contrary the alcohol seemed only to bring home ever more clearly the sorrows of the last few days, while memories of that day’s awful events only increased his bitterness and resentment.

That poor little maid! That pathetic Ilus Varga, to be ill-treated to the point of being thrown on the streets in her condition. What cruelty! And no one, not even Klara, had had pity on her! Not even Klara! How could it be that Klara had refused to see her and had permitted her dismissal? There must be some
explanation
. Perhaps she had not dared to speak up in the girl’s defence and that was why she had shut herself in her room and refused to see her. Or perhaps she didn’t mind? It would be terrible if she didn’t mind, if she were too heartless to care, for this would mean that he had been completely deceived in his idea of her.

It was a hateful thought; and it opened a deeper wound in his diminishing self-confidence than anything else that had occurred to him, a wound through which even more poisonous thoughts found their way to his by now drink-sodden brain. Did Klara really mind as much as he did that they had not seen each other for four days? If she did, surely she would have found a way to see him, or at least get word to him? Or had she submitted to her
family
’s pressure and abandoned him as she had little Ilus? It was impossible, unthinkable; but the thought, like a snake’s venom in the bloodstream, was not so easily removed. Desperately he tried to convince himself that he was wrong and that it was absurd even to think such things, but the nagging doubt could not be suppressed. Sitting alone on the sofa at the end of the room, he straightened up and shook his head as if the movement of denial itself would waft away the agony. Then he thought she could have sent a message by Magda Szent-Gyorgyi. He had seen her once … or was it several times? No, only once.

On the evening of the King’s Cup ball she hadn’t even come over and asked for him when it was the Ladies’ Choice part of the cotillion. No, that was not right, she had asked him and they had danced together, but she hadn’t spoken a single word to him, not one. Why hadn’t she said anything then? Later, from his seat beside the dull little archduchess, he had watched her laughing and joking with the even duller Warday, and as far as he could see she had had a wonderful time with that boring fellow. Could she be in love with Warday? That’s an absurd idea, the better voice within cried out; but the other voice, the serpent-like voice of doubt, merely whispered insidiously: Who knows? Why not?

So as somehow to get away from his self-torturing,
introspective
dialogue, Laszlo got up and moved slowly over to the
card-table
. Near Arzenovics there was an empty chair and pulling it slightly away from the table, Laszlo sat down, putting his glass, now filled with neat brandy, on a small table beside him.
Thinking
that it might distract his thoughts, he called for a float of twenty hundred-crown chips, deciding that he would place just an occasional side bet to keep himself amused.

‘Won’t you join us?’ asked Wuelffenstein who, since Laszlo started gambling, had quite changed towards him and now courted his friendship.

‘Not today,’ said Laszlo, and to soften the effect of a curt
refusal
, he explained: ‘You see, today I have a superstitious feeling – a presentiment – that I should only bet on the side!’

Occasionally, therefore, he threw in a chip or two. It was an
excellent
narcotic as he had to pay attention and at least notice if he won or lost. Gradually he became calmer and, as he did so, his little store of chips vanished from the table in front of him. Then, after several big ‘hits’, a big bank came up which the
ponte
could not quite cover.

‘Two more thousand will do it!’ said the banker, confident of his luck. This was just the sum the Laszlo had lost. It’s fate, he thought, if I win this I’ll break even. So he spoke up: ‘
Je
reste.
’

Cards were dealt and the banker won. Laszlo signalled to the steward to bring him the rest of his credit. After a short time this, too, had gone and then he ordered a further five thousand crowns’ worth of chips for which someone willingly offered to countersign. From this float he continued to play, throwing in a chip here and there when an occasion arose – but now his bets were rarely less than five hundred or a thousand.

I’m not breaking my promise, Laszlo said to himself
reassuringly
; after all, I’m not touching the cards, only betting as one does at the races!

But nothing went right. The five thousand soon disappeared, and so did another, and now Laszlo, as he never had before, started ‘chasing his money’. Previously he had always taken his wins and his losses calmly and philosophically, unmoved by either good or bad luck; but now he became stubbornly determined to win,
recklessly
plunging, because of the bitterness in his soul – or perhaps
because
the quantity of alcohol that he had put away had removed all sense of moderation. He would win it back, he would!

When Laszlo’s losses had nearly reached fifteen thousand crowns, Pray called across the table:

‘Your presentiment has hardly been a lucky one tonight, friend Laszlo!’ he said, winking slyly, for there was nothing he liked more than teasing the other players and turning the knife in their wounds. Laszlo did not reply, but poured himself another large glass of brandy which he drank down at once. Outwardly he
appeared
in perfect control, but inside he was not himself. What
stupidity
, he was thinking, to stay out of the game, losing money on other men’s bet! No one can win like this, making side bets on the bad luck of others: only the man who holds the bank can win. This was idiotic, quite idiotic…

Well, he’d join the game properly. Just this once, he’d explain to Klara, just this once. He’d explain it so that she’d understand …

Laszlo asked for more credit and changed the few thousands he had in his pocket as well. When the cards came his way he called out: ‘
Passe
le
main!
’

As he did so he was shaken by the overpowering thought that he should desist, that this was something he must not do. But the magic words had been spoken and once said, no one should back out. If he got up now the others would laugh at him – and his
fifteen
thousand crowns would be gone forever.

It was four in the morning when Laszlo joined the game, and at this hour even the most faithful of the onlookers who had passed an agreeable evening being horrified at the scale of the high play in front of them, were beginning to drift away and make for their beds. They left well satisfied, knowing that they would have plenty to talk about in the morning, deploring, with great indignation, what the world was coming to. Naturally they
disapproved
; it sounded better that way.

Laszlo played deliberately, paying great attention to whoever seemed to have the run of the cards and where the
taille
was
leading
. He had never watched the game with such care and in less than half an hour he had won back all his previous losses and some ten thousand crowns more. He then rose and left the table without a word.

That night Laszlo walked home as dawn was breaking filled with a sense of triumph as he told himself he had defied Fate and crushed that infamous goddess. He would show them, he said to himself, with all the arrogance born of a skinful of brandy, he would show them!