They Were Counted (54 page)

The gambler was also a lord in other ways. He lived well. It was of no importance if his dinner cost a hundred and twenty crowns and each bottle of claret another sixty or seventy. And what if he invited others to dine with him? What did the cost
matter
to a man who, an hour later, might win or lose tens of
thousands
of the same meaningless filthy lucre? And this every night of his life! Not even the richest of millionaires lived like a gambler. How long this might last was another matter; but while it did the gambler was the real king, and no one in the clubs was more
admired
and looked up to than he.

Of course no one ever put such thoughts into words, but
everyone
felt them. Even the most crotchety of the old gentlemen who snoozed away every afternoon in the deepest of leather armchairs and who complained unceasingly of the ‘dreadful prodigality’ of modern youth, knew that the luxury of the clubs of those days – the excellent cooking, the service, the comfort to which they were all deeply attached – was only made possible by the high stakes played nightly in the gaming-rooms upstairs, and not at all by their own more modest games of whist or bezique.

Laszlo felt completely at ease. He had never known such easy acceptance, such camaraderie, and at once ordered himself a
bottle
of champagne, which he would rarely have done at any other time. And he savoured with the expertise of an experienced
bon
viveur
the goblet of Zalamery’s own special Armagnac when the latter, previously so standoffish and superior, suggested that Laszlo might like to try it and give his opinion. When later they all moved automatically upstairs he needed no coaxing to join in the game. It all seemed so natural, the only thing to do, and the fact that the Steward immediately brought out a chit for Laszlo to sign showed the others that he had already settled the previous night’s losses. This was immediately noticed – and enhanced his newly won reputation.

It was these events which led to Laszlo’s appointment as
elotan
cos
– which, to everyone’s dismay was about to become vacant right in the middle of the Carnival season – for the post was only offered to a man whose social prestige was beyond reproach and who apparently had the means to afford it. The possession of means was vitally important for it cost the dance leader a great deal of money. He had to have a carriage always available, for he must always be the first to arrive. He had to be impeccably dressed for all occasions – and for this several well-cut dress suits and at least two changes of shirts every night were needed (for who could tolerate a dancer whose boiled shirt was limp with sweat?), buttonholes for picnics and private parties had to be bought daily and his hand had always to be in his pocket
providing
champagne and tips for the band-leaders and gypsy
musicians
. Laszlo might have thought twice about accepting the position if he had not become a regular gambler but, even though he was by no means always on a winning streak, and indeed his losses normally left him slightly out of pocket, money was no
longer
important to him. The few thousand crowns that he had kept in reserve so as not to have always to go running to his estate
manager
in the middle of winter each time that he might have need of something extra, were soon gone. He had formerly made the acquaintance of some complaisant money-lenders who now gave him credit because he had paid them off without bargaining when he came of age. Presumably they had somehow discovered what properties he owned and what his expectations were, for now that he needed money again they gave it to him without
demur
, though still charging exhorbitant rates of interest. When he won at cards he had plenty of money, and spent it freely, and when he lost he borrowed enough to pay his debts and leave him enough to carry on as before.

 

Laszlo was a great success as dance leader for he was
exceptionally
good at the job. He could bring any party to life, invented new figures for the quadrille and even his innovations to the
traditional
movements of the cotillion, which many of the young
people
disliked, were so fresh and amusing that this old dance became the high spot of each evening. He introduced new
csardases
and the gypsies never played as well as they did for him. With deference and understanding he delighted all the dowagers, not only the prominent hostesses and great ladies whose balls were famous and with whom he spent every afternoon discussing the details of the evening’s entertainment, but also those forlorn mothers who wearily attended every dance in their efforts to
marry
off their not very attractive and often by no means
well-dowered
daughters. For these ladies, who were used to spending entire nights by the buffet in sad resignation, or gently snoring in a quiet alcove, he had a special word of gentle encouragement which would send them back to the ballroom with head held high and a new lightness in their step. He was deservedly popular.

 

Since the shooting party he had not seen Klara. He had been asked to Simonvasar for Christmas but he had not gone, feeling that his aunt had only invited him with reluctance. She had written ‘
Come
to
us
if
you
have
nothing
better
to
do
…
’
which did not seem
encouraging
, and he sensed that she had only sent the invitation as a matter of form. Also, he could not forget his own sense of outrage and his hurt feelings when she had so cruelly ordered him to leave by the next train. He had answered her letter casually, saying in a
somewhat
offhand manner that he would probably have to go back to Transylvania during the holidays as he had business to attend to. As it happened he had not gone anywhere, but had stayed in
Budapest
alone. He had regretted later that he had not accepted, but it had been too late to change his mind. And so Christmas Eve was spent in his sordid little apartment sitting alone at his window by a tiny tree he had bought, and thinking about all those other Christmases when he had been with his Kollonich cousins.

Naturally it was the picture of Klara that he had conjured up and thought about; Klara as a child, Klara as a schoolgirl, Klara as a young woman still unawakened. He saw her with white socks and flat-heeled shoes, her hair streaming over her shoulders. He saw her in pigtails, long-legged and skinny, but with huge shining eyes, radiant in a white lace dress standing under the towering, brightly lit Christmas tree. It was so vivid that he could not bear the memory and had got up from the window seat, turned off the lights in the shabby little room, and lit one tiny candle on the artificial shop-bought tree that he placed on the drawing board that served as his work table. As one candle burned out he lit
another
and, gazing into its minute flame, tried to make his lonely Christmas Eve last as long as possible. In this way he nursed his sorrow and transformed the Holy Night of joy into an agonized vigil of self-torment.

Near the tree he had placed a teapot and a bottle of rum so that he could get himself drunk, for if he drank enough he knew that he would be able to sleep and so forget. But when the last candle had burned out and he was forced once again to turn on the lights, there was still some rum in the bottle. With uncertain
fingers
he poured all that remained into the last of the tea, swilled it down and went to bed. He slept until noon, heavily and without dreaming, and when he went back into the little sitting-room he found that the electric light was still burning and that the room was filled with the stifling smell of burnt candle-wax.

 

For Laszlo Christmas Eve had been the darkest moment of this sorrowful period. Later, with the new-found self-confidence that he learned at the gaming tables, with his appointment as
elotancos
and his growing social success, he began once again to feel the
elation
with which he had returned from Simonvasar filled with the knowledge that he was loved by Klara. Of course he no longer went to the Academy of Music; there was no time, for if he was to sleep at all he could not get up before midday, and in the
afternoons
there were too many visits to pay and too much to organize. He told himself that once Carnival was over he would go back into seclusion, as he had done the previous autumn, and then he would be able to catch up with his studies. Until then it would be
impossible
. In the meantime he was living a wonderful life and soon, very soon, the Kollonich family would arrive, Klara with them, and he would be able to lay at her silk-clad feet every flower, every melody, every dance and every new social success that he had achieved since they had last met. In the middle of February she and her mother would be back from Paris where they had gone to buy clothes. In a few days he would see her again.

 

Suddenly they had arrived. There was to be a ball in the evening, a so-called ‘picnic-dance’ in the lower rooms of the Casino. Laszlo stood at the entrance to the smaller of the drawing-rooms to greet the mothers and daughters and their escorts, for on such occasions the
elotancos
acted as host. At first he did his job
automatically
, almost formally, for all his attention was riveted on the great doors which opened on to the street. He held himself as straight as he knew how so as to show to the best advantage the new tail-suit he had recently ordered from England, that suit which moulded his shoulders so well, and the snow-white
waistcoat
which emphasized the slimness of his waist. Indeed he looked at his best, very slim and tall, closely shaven, his wavy brown hair impeccably brushed, a saffron yellow carnation on the silk of his broad lapel, a figure worthy to greet a princess!

There was such a crowd in the entrance hall that he could no longer see the doors. Even so he knew at once when Klara
arrived
. He could not see her, but he knew she was there and his heart beat faster. In a few seconds there she was, moving serenely in the wake of her mother, and to Laszlo it was as if the room were suddenly filled with a light of dazzling brilliance in the centre of which stood Klara. It was as if all this glitter emanated from somewhere inside her pale shoulders, irradiating her white tulle balldress in much the same way that Virgin saints are portrayed as the centre of flickering golden flames that make everything around them fade to dull insignificance. The diamond at the
centre
was Klara, with her full mouth and smiling eyes, and no one, no one but she, existed in the whole wide world.