They Were Counted (99 page)

‘Did he leave an address?’

‘No, but I believe he went back to Transylvania. I don’t really know.’

B
EFORE GYEROFFY WENT TO VARAD
, and afterwards to Kolozsvar where he had the unfortunate encounter with Wickwitz, he had promised Fanny Beredy to remain in
Transylvania
only for two or three days before returning to go with her, and the rest of her court, Szelepscenyi, d’Orly, Solymar, Devereux and the two nieces, to Milan to hear a new Puccini
opera
. Fanny hoped that the trip might help wean her lover away from his foolish wasteful life and she had also thought how
wonderful
it would be to travel together, to stay in the same hotels, spend the nights in each other’s arms, and do so many things that were impossible for them in Budapest where their every move was sure to be seen by someone they knew. When a week had gone by and Laszlo had not returned, she sent him a telegram: no reply. She sent him another and another. Still no reply. Fanny was deeply hurt and, telling herself that her lover needed to be taught a lesson, she swallowed her disappointment and left for Italy with the others.

Gyeroffy got back to Budapest the day after Fanny had left. He arrived late in the evening. In the depressed and
self-tormenting
mood that he had been unable to shake off since his discovery of Wickwitz’s perfidy and unscrupulous behaviour, nothing would have induced him to remain alone in his cold little furnished apartment. The mere thought of it filled him with repulsion.

All the time in the train from Transylvania, during which he had felt impelled to reassure himself every few minutes that the great wad of banknotes was still safely in the inner pocket of his jacket, for that large sum of money was the sacred ransom by which he would redeem Fanny’s pearls and his own honour, he had been obsessed by the thought that he himself was no better than Wickwitz. You are a scoundrel, he said to himself, just like Nitwit. By what right did you insult him when you are just as guilty as he is? And, as the train rumbled on he kept on repeating to himself to the rhythm of the train’s movement: You’re as bad as he is … as bad as he is … as bad as he is … as bad as he is …

He had to go out. But where? He went to the Casino, his legs seemingly finding their own way with no conscious direction from his head. He just dashed out, unchanged, only pausing long enough to throw some cold water on his face and wash his hands. On the way he kept on touching the packet in his pocket, that sacred packet which must not be lost as it represented all that he had left in the world. When that had gone there would be no more!

It was midnight when he walked up the Casino steps.

A ball was in progress in the great ground-floor rooms.
Carnival
had lasted longer than usual that year and the huge building resounded with the music of the band. As Laszlo walked through the hall they were just carrying into the ballroom the cotillion
favours
, those little delicate nosegays of flowers, and the sight pierced Laszlo’s heart sharply. All this life was finished for him now. Never again would he set foot here, immaculately dressed, to lead the dancing. Here, too, he had failed. He almost ran to the stairs so as to escape the sounds of music and gaiety that came from the ballroom. In the hall there were a number of little groups of men discussing politics, arguing and making
statements
. Laszlo hurried past and disappeared up the stairs.

In the big card-room on the first floor poker was being played for small stakes. Gyeroffy decided not to join in but had a small table brought close to the play and told them to serve his dinner there. He ordered a bottle of absinthe, the most potent of the waters of Lethe, hoping that thereby he could drown the
self-accusatory
feelings that gnawed at his heart. Time went by and some of the onlookers from the big game at the baccarat-room upstairs came down and told how play was higher than ever
upstairs
, with astronomical sums being won and lost. Laszlo
automatically
felt his inner pocket to be sure that the packet of money was still in its place. He went on drinking in silence, talking to no one. Later on someone else came in and told everyone that the Black Cockatoo, the Croatian millionaire Arzenovics, was ‘losing his shirt’ upstairs. It seemed that he had had the most amazing run of bad luck. A little later someone else put their head round the door and said the same thing.

Laszlo got up and went into the little anteroom from which led the stair up to the baccarat-room. He paused, listening. From above nothing could be heard except the soft chink of counters and the occasional phrase: ‘
Je
donne
…
Non!
Les
cartes passent.
’ 

He stood there for a long time his fingers just touching his
jacket
where he could feel the wad of money in the inside pocket.

Then slowly, as if drawn by a magnet, automatically, he started up the stairs.

For a while Laszlo watched the play, standing mesmerized
behind
the seated gamblers. There were never less than twenty or thirty thousand crowns on the table. Donci Illesvary, young Rosgonyi, Wuelffenstein and Gedeon Pray were all there and whether they bet high or low they always won. Stacks of chips were ranged in front of Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi and across the table from him sat Zeno Arzenovics; but no one was standing near Zeno, for onlookers don’t like to stay too close to a loser. All those not playing were grouped behind Szent-Gyorgyi across the table: it was as if everyone were laying siege to the rich man from Bacska who, his elbows spread wide on the baize-covered table and seated between two empty chairs, stood his ground with a stony, expressionless face. Each time he lost he calmly noted the sum on a slip of paper by his side. The only sign that these continual losses were becoming a serious matter even for him was the chewed-up state of the cigar in his mouth. ‘Sixteen!
Banco
!’ He lost again. ‘Twenty-four!
Banco
!’ That went too. And so it went on. Arzenovics did not win once; but one of the others at the table won twenty-eight times running, and most of what he won had been lost by the Black Cockatoo.

A little voice inside Laszlo said: ‘You could win all you need on a single hand!’ but Gyeroffy did not move. The voice went on: ‘Try it! The money’s on the table: you’ve only got to grab it! You can stake ten or fifteen thousand, that’s all you need, and there’s plenty in your pocket. Remember Napoleon’s ‘
La
victoire
est
aux
gros
bataillons!
’
But Laszlo stood fast, not moving, only his hand fingering his waistcoat pocket. Then Pray, who was sitting next to the empty chair on Arzenovic’s right, won nine times running. ‘You idiot!’ muttered Laszlo’s little voice. ‘If you’d joined in as I suggested a lot of that would be yours. Go on! Join in! Just with the four thousand that’s your own, if you must, but at least with that …’

At this moment the Steward came round to see if anyone needed more chips or wanted to cash in their winnings.

‘Here! Bring me a float!’ said Laszlo as he passed, and sat down in the empty place between Zeno and Pray. It was considered lucky to sit on the right of a big loser. When the
taille
came in front of him Laszlo uttered those decisive words: ‘
Passe
la
main!
’ Some time went by before the cards came his way again. They
remained
for a long time on the other side of the table. In the
meantime
Laszlo ordered his bottle of absinthe to be brought up to him and, feeling a chill of fear run down his spine, took several large swigs to chase away the unwelcome feeling. The pack came round to him at last. Zeno, on his left, won a single coup. Laszlo put two thousand crowns on the table. He won. He won four more times and when the fifth time came he lost but, even though he had not halved, some twenty thousand remained on the table in front of him, for his last bank had not been matched.

Now Laszlo was flooded with a strange sense of liberation, his conscious mind hardly registering what was going on around him. He felt as if he were floating in a great sea, on the crest of waves that themselves were merely the surface of profound
unknown
depths. He was like a man who, after days thirsting in a waterless desert, could at last plunge his body in a cool mountain stream. In this instant he was almost happy, freed of the nagging thoughts and self-reproaches that had recently so haunted his imagination. Now he thought of nothing but the game, the
esprit
de
taille
– the way the cards were running. This was the only thing of importance in the world: for this one had to know if one really wanted to win.

Laszlo no longer played with the elegant disdain which has so won Neszti Szent-Gyorgyi’s admiration when he had started playing eighteen months before. At that time everything had seemed unreal, the chips signifying only numbers, not money; for then all that mattered was that he should be accepted as an equal among them, accepted and respected. But later, firstly when he had lost Klara by breaking his word to her and even more so since the day when Fanny had paid his debts by pawning her pearls, Laszlo had played with a fierce intensity, intent only upon winning. Win! Win! At all costs he must, must win … and, as a result, he played with intense determination, his nerves stretched ever tauter by the knowledge of his mounting losses and rapidly approaching ruin.

The time had come when any heavy loss would mean disaster.

The game continued for a long time as fast and furious as when Laszlo had first come in to watch. Now that he was playing the pile of chips in front of him sometimes grew and sometimes dwindled almost to nothing. At nearly half-past four the run of the cards changed. Arzenovics suddenly began to hold better cards, winning outright several times running. Gyeroffy, still on his right, started to swim with the bank, though by no means
betting
high. In a few moments he was losing heavily. A chill ran down his spine. Now he was really in deep water, for he was
playing
with money that was not his. He knew that he must not do this, must not run after his money, but if he did not, what was he to do? Somehow he had to win back what he had lost. Twice more he tried to come to the surface, like a man drowning; and twice more he sank to the depths, losing all he had staked. The Black Cockatoo still held the bank, but Laszlo sat back in his chair, the world darkening around him.

He closed his eyes, but fiery circles danced before him and he came to his senses only when the Steward announced that five o’clock had struck and everyone else started to get up and leave.

‘How much do I owe, please?’ said Laszlo as he got up from his chair beside Zeno.

‘Wait a moment, I’ll just add up! Seventy-two, yes, that’s it.’

‘Thank you, I just wanted to know.’ said Laszlo, and walked slowly to the door and down the stairs. He fingered the thick wad of notes in his pocket to pay. He had eighty-six thousand. It was there, still there …

It was daylight when Laszlo walked home. Market carts were rumbling through the streets and the refuse collectors’ bells tinkled as they stopped in front of one house after another.

 

Laszlo slept until the late afternoon. Then, lying in the darkened room, he took stock of his position and passed judgement on
himself
. He sentenced himself to social death. From this, he realized, there was no escape. The choice was simple – public disgrace or secret shame. Either he would be thrown out of the Casino for not paying his debts, and out of society, too, of course, or else he could pay his debts and forget about redeeming Fanny’s pearls, thereby living a lie, living without honour, no better than that Wickwitz whom he had publicly insulted for doing precisely the same! He had to choose one of these alternatives; there was nothing else open to him. It would be terrible to live on, shunned by everyone and branded as a fool and a defaulter, but it would be even more terrible to have to live with his secret shame if he did not honour his debt to Fanny. The first would be more bearable, for all his worldly ambitions had crumbled to dust anyhow during the last year. He said to himself that everything had to come to an end sooner or later, and that if social ruin was to be his fate it was better that it should come of his own free will and by his own decision.

He sat for a long time at the desk he had placed in the window and where once he had worked so hard upon his music and with such a will. Now it was covered in dust, unused for many months, and on it was the packet of banknotes, worth more than he had lost the previous night, which was to be the ransom for Fanny’s pearls, wrapped in brown paper and tied with thread, untouched. And so it should remain. This was her money, not his, and if he were to use a cent of it he would be a thief as well. That he would not do.

Now that his mind was at last made up he felt a calm
indifference
spread over him, as if he were making plans not for himself but for someone long since forgotten.