Journey by Moonlight

“Madness!” cried Sári. “I always thought you had some man and spent all your time with him, and it turns out that you stare in front of you the whole day, in a daydream, like these half-mad women (they at least are on the right road). And meanwhile of course you put on weight however little you eat, so of course you’re getting fat. You should be ashamed of yourself. Well, it can’t go on like this. You must get out among people, and you must take an interest in something. Damn, damn, damn! If only I had enough time for things in this god-awful life … ”

“Hey, tonight we’re going out,” she announced radiantly a few days later. “There’s a Hungarian gent who wants to put some shady outfit in touch with the studio. He’s buttering me up because he knows I’ve got the boss’s ear. Now he’s asked me out to dinner. He says he wants to introduce me to his rich friend, the one he’s representing. I told him I’m not interested in the ugly rich, I meet quite enough dowdy characters at the office. He said, ‘He really isn’t dowdy, he’s a very handsome chap, a Persian.’ ‘Well, alright,’ I said, ‘then I’ll come, but I’m bringing my girlfriend with me.’ He said that was splendid. He was just about to suggest it himself, so I wouldn’t be the only woman in the party.”

“My dear Sári, you know I can’t go. What an idea! I really don’t want to, and I haven’t got a thing to wear, just my rubbishy Budapest things.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. You look wonderful in them. Listen, compared to these scrawny Paris women, you’re the real thing … and the Hungarian will certainly like you because you’re from home.”

“There’s no question of my going. What’s this Hungarian’s name?”

“János Szepetneki. At least that’s what he said.”

“János Szepetneki … my God, I know him! Do you know, he’s a pickpocket!”

“A pickpocket? Could be. I see him more as a burglar, myself. Would you believe it, that’s how everyone starts off in the film business. But apart from that, he’s very good-looking. Well, are you coming or not?”

“Yes, I’m coming.”

The little auberge where they went to dine was of the type classified as Old French: check curtains and table-cloths, very few tables, excellent and hugely expensive food. During her earlier visit with Zoltán, Erzsi had often eaten in such places, or better. Now, coming to it from the depths of her penny-pinching, she was strongly affected as she caught the first whiff of the familiar atmosphere of wealth. But this emotion lasted only a moment before the arrival of the greater sensation, János Szepetneki. Not recognising Erzsi, he kissed her hand with elaborate courtesy and formality, complimented Sári on her excellent choice of friends, and led the ladies to the table where his friend was waiting for them.

“Monsieur Suratgar Lutphali,” he announced. From behind an aquiline nose two fiercely intense eyes met Erzsi’s, causing her to shudder. Sári too was shocked by the penetrating stare. Their first feeling was that they had sat down at table with a somewhat imperfectly tamed tiger.

Erzsi did not know whom to fear the more: Szepetneki the pickpocket, with his rather too good Parisian accent and the studied nonchalance with which he selected their perfectly judged menu, as only a dangerous swindler could (she remembered Zoltán’s timidity before the waiters of these elite Parisian restaurants and how stupid this fear made him in their eyes), or on the other hand the Persian, who sat there in silence, a benign European smile on his face, as quick and inappropriate as a pre-knotted tie. But the hors d’oeuvre and first glass of wine loosened his tongue, and from then on he directed the conversation, in a strange staccato French sounding from deep within his chest.

He knew how to captivate an audience with his speech. A kind of romantic eagerness flowed out from him, something medieval, a more instinctive and authentic humanity, pre-industrial. This man lived not by francs and forints, but by the values of the rose, the mountain crag and the eagle. And yet the feeling remained that they were sitting at table with an imperfectly tamed tiger — the impression created by those burning eyes.

It emerged that back home in Persia he owned rose-gardens and mines and, most important, poppy-plantations, and his main business was the manufacture of opium. He had a very low opinion of the League of Nations, which had banned international traffic in opium and was causing him severe financial difficulties. He was obliged to maintain a gang of bandits up on the Turkestan border to smuggle his opium through to China.

“But that, sir, makes you a public enemy,” declared Sári. “You’re peddling white poison. You’re destroying the lives of hundreds of thousands of destitute Chinese. And then you’re surprised that all thinking people are united against you.”