Journey by Moonlight

“Ma chère,” said the Persian with unexpected anger, “you shouldn’t talk of things you know nothing about. You’ve been taken in by the stupid humanitarian platitudes of the European newspapers. How could this opium harm the ‘destitute’ Chinese? Do you think those people have money for opium? They’re glad of a bellyful of rice. In China only the very rich smoke opium, because it is expensive and the prerogative of the wealthy, like all the other good things of this world. It’s as if I were to start worrying about the excessive amounts of champagne consumed by the working classes of Paris. And if they don’t stop the Parisian rich drinking champagne when they want to, by what right do they meddle with the Chinese?”

“The comparison doesn’t hold. Opium is much more harmful than champagne.”

“That’s such a European idea. It’s true that when a European takes up opium smoking he doesn’t know when to stop. Because Europeans take everything to excess — gluttony, house-building, violence, all equally. But we know how to preserve the golden mean. Do you think opium has done me any harm? I smoke it regularly, and I eat it.”

He puffed out his powerful chest, then displayed his biceps, somewhat in the circus manner, and was about to raise a leg when Sári intervened: “Slow down. You’d better leave something for next time.”

“Excuse me … Alcohol is another thing Europeans take to excess. What a horrible feeling it is when you’ve too much wine in your stomach and know that sooner or later you’re going to be sick. The effect of the wine gets steadily stronger until you suddenly collapse. It doesn’t produce the steady, controlled ecstasy that opium does. There is no greater pleasure on earth … Really, what do people in Europe know about it? You should consider the circumstances before you meddle in the affairs of other countries.”

“This is why we want to make this educational propaganda film with you,” said Szepetneki, turning to Sári.

“What? A propaganda film about opium smoking?” said Erzsi. Up to this point she had found the Persian’s point of view somewhat attractive. Now she was horrified.

“Not to promote opium smoking, but the free movement of the product and human rights in general. The film is dedicated as a great individualist statement against every form of oppression.”

“What’s the story-line?” asked Erzsi.

“The opening shots,” replied Szepetneki, “take you into a family living peacefully on a simple, kind-hearted, traditional opium farm in Persia. For reasons of social rank they can only marry their daughter (the heroine) to the young man she loves if they can find a buyer for the year’s harvest. Whereupon the bad guy, who is also in love with the girl, but is a wicked communist prepared to do anything, betrays the father to the authorities and, in a night ambush, seizes the entire stock. This bit will be very exciting, with car chases and sirens blowing. But later the girl’s innocence and nobility of soul so impresses the hard-nosed general that he returns the seized opium, which sets off merrily for China, in tinkling wagons. That would be the outline of the story … ”

Erzsi had no idea whether Szepetneki was joking or not. The Persian listened solemnly, with an air of naïve pride. Doubtless the story was his idea.

After the meal they went to a fashionable dancing-place. Here they were joined by some other acquaintances. They sat round a large table and made conversation, in so far as the general din allowed. Erzsi kept her distance from the Persian. János Szepetneki asked her to join him, and they began to dance.

“How do you like him?” he asked as they stepped out. “A very interesting character, don’t you agree? A complete romantic.”

“Do you know, every time I look at him I think of the words of an old English nonsense poem,” said Erzsi, visited suddenly by a flash of her former intellectuality: “Tiger, Tiger, burning bright / In the forests of the night … ”

Szepetneki looked at her amazed, and Erzsi felt embarrassed.

“A tiger perhaps,” said Szepetneki, “but he’s come a terribly hard road. And yet he’s so naïve, so unsure and cautious in business matters. Even the film people can’t take him in. But it isn’t for commercial reasons that he wants to make the film. It’s for the message. And the other main reason, as I see it, is so that he can make a harem out of the female extras. Now, when did you leave Italy?”

“So you recognised me?”

“Of course. Not just now, a few days ago, in the street, when you were with Sári. I’ve a pretty sharp eye. I actually arranged this evening so that I could talk to you … Tell me, where did you leave my good friend Mihály?”

“Your good friend is probably still in Italy. We don’t write.”

“Sensational. You separated on your honeymoon?”

Erzsi nodded.