Sunflower (31 page)

“Ah, you all come up with that line,” Pistoli countered, plaintive. “You expect a man to be chivalrous, generous, honorable and self-sacrificing, while you yourselves are as vile as rats. But I have paid the dues for wearing the pants. I've done my share of playing the noble man. Actually, what do you want from me?”

Maszkerádi cast down her eyes and the smile that flashed across her face was like Saul's vision of heaven. It was a smile full of secrets, lifelong playful thrills, sultry female dreams, desires stifled into the pillow.

“I would like you to dance the fox dance for me, for I've heard you are its greatest master in these parts.”

Pistoli shook his head in surprise:

“The fox dance?”

He started to laugh, and Maszkerádi's laughter joined his with the tinkle of golden thalers:

“Yes, the fox dance...”

All of a sudden a madcap carnival atmosphere pervaded the gloomy manor house. As if a cheerful group of guests had pulled up unexpectedly on a sleigh in front of the house and were already on their way in.

The things that now befell Mr. Pistoli happen only in dreams. Maszkerádi draped herself over him like a swan and kissed him on the mouth so forcefully that the good squire began to choke.

“I love you,” the lady said, and the shadow of a black dog ran across the room. The dog instantly disappeared in a corner and was never seen again. Weeks later, Miss Maszkerádi realized that the black canine must have been Mr. Pistoli's soul, for that noble gentleman's face was never again seen in human company after that night.

The blessed May rain kept falling in the vast night, on grasses, trees, meadows, heaven's waters descending to fertilize all things down here on earth. Each drop of rain swaddled a newborn that would grow up to man's estate by summer's end. One would become an ear of wheat, another a bunch of grapes, the third only a clunky-headed onion. A downpour, an infinite host of tiny newborns in the mysterious night. The patter of millions of little feet woke the tiller of the soil, who crossed himself gratefully lying on his cot. The fields, the shaggy trees, the sleeping and deeply respiring shrubs lay sprawled under the rain's kisses, like dreaming women. To make sure the labor of fertilization goes on underground as well, was now the task of Mr. Pistoli and his companions, the ones who died this night in Hungary. They would all stoke the furnace down below, these old men turned to coal and fuel, who sacrificed their shanks, hipbones, and enlarged livers, so that up here all sorts of beautiful new flowers may bloom, trees may unfurl their foliage, and lovers tumble in the fuzzy hair of meadows. Those pockmarked old faces give rise to tea roses that blossom on the earth's surface. Those sad old hands, weary limbs, aching backbones, knees long past their spring are the fuel that nurtures anemones in the graveyard.

The rain falls, but Pistoli's gouty foot no longer bothers him, his eyes no longer cast resentful looks at the mud, at wenches' feet treading in it; he no longer hears ghosts in the attic as the rain rattles on the roof. Motionless, at peace and forgiven, he lies sprawled on the floorboards of his house. Someone has pinned a slip of paper onto his chest:

HERE LIES
PISTOLI FALSTAFF
unhappy in life, dead at pleasure's peak
STRANGER, LEAVE HIM A LEAF

Kakuk and his wife kept the wake by the dead man's side on the following night, and the next day the talk had it that around midnight Mr. Pistoli began to hum one of his songs, on his way out: first in the coffin, then outside the window, and later on the highway. They could even hear his footsteps. That night there was a wedding somewhere in the neighborhood and the groaning contrabass could be heard from afar. Could it be that Pistoli had rushed off to the feast?

This is how the noble squire departed from The Birches.

Anyone
who thinks that Miss Maszkerádi failed to attend Mr. Pistoli's funeral simply does not know this remarkable young lady. Yessir, off she went, having persuaded Eveline that they must not omit to pay their final respects.

“With any luck, we'll get to see every scoundrel and loose hussy in this county assembled around their gang leader's coffin. The local Falstaff, Pistoli, is dead. What hobo, tramp or callusheeled servant girl could stay away?”

Thus spoke Maszkerádi, putting over her face a dark veil that had formerly sheltered her tender complexion on an ocean cruise. Behind that veil she was free to shed a tear or smile and turn serious. Why should these villagers get to see the private thoughts of such a fine lady at the funeral of the black sheep?

The coffin was walnut wood, and only one man was sitting next to it. It was Kakuk, who had for the occasion replenished his impoverished wardrobe by consulting Pistoli's closet. The oversize jacket and trousers hung rather loosely on the self- appointed heir. He had to stuff paper into the hat to make it fit. The bootlegs stuck out. His hands had to stay in the pockets of the pants (cut tight along traditional Hungarian lines).

Out in the courtyard the villagers stood about in solemn silence—as if Mr. Pistoli's death had not yet been quite verified. Who knows, maybe this whole thing was an elaborate prank. Any moment he might screech and thump inside his coffin.

Risoulette arrived in deep mourning.

This remarkable lady never felt ashamed in public on account of her lovers. Her only concern was that the Captain should not suspect a thing. This was perhaps the tenth time she had donned the mourning outfit she had ordered after the death of her first lover, a Calvinist clergyman. Since then, many a time did Risoulette's nose turn red from crying behind her veil, for even the most melodious lovers have a way of dying, just like any old field hand. How strange, the way a person is laid out, someone who only yesterday was still waltzing around, organizing picnics, telling subtle lies to women, roaming and fretting like a maniac. Yes, ordinary lovers die—as do exceptional ones. Those refined gentlemen, who launch midnight serenades and poems for openers, and have to be teased and encouraged until they are good and ready to do the deed, patient loving plus gorgeous words...Just about every man has his own peculiar manner of stringing words together, and there are many who like to regurgitate something they read the day before in some encyclopedia or book of poems. Around these parts,
the poet Tompa
's
Flower Myths
was a fixture of every library once upon a time. Anyway, they had all gone and died, the simple ones, the taciturn, the bored, the slow-witted, the devil-may-care. The sly ones and the play-it-safers, they too had to go and meet their Maker, and Risoulette was there to weep for them, musing about their lives, their acts, their long-expired words. The veil of mourning was earned by anyone who had ever spent a pleasant hour or two at the house where Risoulette was the reigning lady. Returning home, she laid a flower for the dead by the photo of the deceased, and recited the rogation her prayerbook designated for this purpose.—Ah, nothing remained in life now but reveries!

Yet others arrived for Pistoli's funeral, as for some event of vital importance. The deceased take away with themselves a piece of one's own life. From now on anyone who had known Mr. Pistoli would have that much less to live for.

Here came Fanny Late, keeper of the Zonett, and here came Stony Dinka, from The Rubadub. As long as Pistoli had been alive, these two women never missed a chance to revile each other. They thought of each other with envy and hatred; each held the other beneath contempt. Yet now they instinctively stood side by side, as if keeping an order of rank—well behind the sobbing Risoulette, Eveline and Maszkerádi.

Whoa, if my good lord Pistoli were to stick his head out of the coffin just now, how quickly he would pull it back in! Although the faces confronting him no longer carried the least sign of blame, still, he might recall certain threats made by this or that little woman...Why, one had threatened to tear out her rival's hair. Another had promised she would only visit his grave after all had quieted down, the feasting was over, the burial mound abandoned and awaiting a few heartfelt tears.

They were decked out as if going to a ball or wedding. Fanny Late wore two necklaces hung with gold coins; Stony Dinka sported flowery blue silk from top to toe. Even the soles of their little shoes were immaculate. The two stood with arms linked, proud, not one whit ashamed of having been the eminent man's affairs of the heart. From time to time they measured the assembled company with a scornful glance. Strictly speaking they were the only ones who had a right to cry, for they were the ones who had been nicest to Pistoli while he lived. They had not wanted anything from him, except to love him. They had not taken up his time, robbed him of his good mood or health. Maybe they stood guilty of a thing or two, for who on earth is not guilty of one thing or another—but with regard to Pistoli, they could maintain their snow-white innocence in front of the highest heavenly tribunal. Therefore they were the preeminent ones here, and condolences should be addressed to them...They put their heads together and decided to hold Pistoli's wake that very night at The Rubadub. After the funeral they would notify a few older women who had been Pistoli's lovers so many years ago that they themselves had forgotten about the affair by now.

“Let me cook dinner, I know our dear departed's favorite dishes,” offered Stony Dinka.

“And Kakuk should bring the Gypsies,” added Fanny Late. “Let'em play once more my good man's favorite songs.”

The two women warmed up to the idea of their bereavement, achieving a kind of Christmastime mood. All of life should be a feast. Even a death may have its beneficial as well as its harmful aspects. Many a wake has turned into a dance.

Back in a corner of the yard stood the village poor, who had claimed only an hour or two in Pistoli's crowded life. Old peasant women dabbed kerchiefs at the corner of their eyes, and tradeswomen clad in black gossiped about the gentlefolk. The usual audience of village funerals was awaiting the performance.

At last the members of the glee club Pistoli had presided over made their entrance. Men in threadbare black suits, walrus mustaches, some lanky, some stout, and all of them flustered. There were six songsters in all, and all of them wore over their shoulders the national colors muffled with black. Their entrance was somewhat timid and uncertain, for they lacked Mr. Pistoli's self-confident figure at the head of their company, leading them into battle. So they stumbled and stepped on each other's heel, and it took a considerable effort on the part of Gerzsábek, the director of funerary affairs and the sender of death notices, to settle them down on the left of the coffin. It was rather miraculous that Pistoli had lain motionless in the box all this time. When the glee club was at last installed in place, the members' necks started craning toward the open gate. For they were still without their famous basso profundo, who, in order to fortify his singing voice, had dropped in somewhere on the way for a pint. And Mayer, it appeared, was still fortifying his voice.

Meanwhile other problems had arisen.

The Catholic priest sent the sexton with a message that he would not undertake Mr. Pistoli's funeral service, for the good gentleman had been an atheist from way back, having lapsed from the faith decades ago.

So what had been Pistoli's religion?

Nobody knew. Only the deceased could have told now whether he had believed in God, and if so, according to what rite he had praised the Lord. No one seemed to recall ever seeing him in church.

So the funeral would have to be held without the priest.

Eveline's sensibilities were excessively offended by the abstention of the Church.

“I'm leaving,” she told Maszkerádi, and could hardly hold back her sobs.

“Stay,” her friend whispered. “Gerzsábek's already sent for the vicar. A Calvinist clergyman won't refuse to bury the old reprobate.”

“I am a Catholic,” Eveline insisted. “I respect my religion. I cannot participate in the funeral of a heretic.”

“Then go,” snapped Maszkerádi. “But I'm staying to the end, even if the dogcatcher comes to bury him. Go on, I can walk home.”

Eveline, shamefaced, slipped out of the yard. Her example was followed by others. Some of the old women sidled away from the coffin, as if it carried contagion. Once outside the gate, they hung around to keep an eye on the proceedings from the safe distance of the far side of the street.

But the general mood turned agitated after Gerzsábek returned empty-handed. Apparently the Calvinist preacher had gone to the next village for a funeral, and would not be back before nightfall. There was no other man of the cloth in the area.

Maszkerádi had to adjust the veil over her face so that no one would notice her smile.

Now Fanny Late stepped up. Timid at first, she gathered her pluck and surveyed the scene.

“Ladies and gentlemen, why don't we say the Lord's Prayer. That should be enough for a soul's salvation.”

“And what about the glee club?” Kakuk argued.

“Ah, the hell with'em,” replied Fanny Late. “So who can recite the Lord's Prayer here without a mistake?”

Again it was Kakuk who stepped forth, determined to save some of the dignity of the occasion, as if he had been specifically instructed to do so by Mr. Pistoli.

He crossed himself and began to recite the Lord's Prayer in a loud voice.

But in vain did Kakuk pilfer Pistoli's pants and jacket. The assembled company was well aware that the man leading the prayer was nothing but a common tramp. In ones and twos, women and men began to slip away. Maszkerádi and the two tavern keepers were the last to remain. At last Fanny Late venomously hissed at the young lady:

“And what about you, pretty mask?! Why don't you, too, beat it?”

Maszkerádi shuddered. She gave the flushed woman a withering glance, then hurried out of the courtyard.

Quitt drove up the hearse, and now the coffin had to be hoisted. They tried levering the black wooden box with poles, but it was as heavy as lead. The two hefty females and the two older men had a sweaty time of hoisting Mr. Pistoli up for his last carriage ride. Stony Dinka quite forgot herself and let out a couple of oaths, sotto voce.