Journey by Moonlight

“Just sit down for one more minute,” he said, as softly as a man speaking in extreme anger. “Is it true you’re going to India?” he asked. “For a very long time?”

Éva nodded.

He wrung his hands.

“You really are going, and I shan’t see you any more?”

“That’s true. What will become of you?”

“There’s only one thing for me: to die my own, proper death. Like … like Tamás.”

They were silent.

“Do you seriously think so?” Éva asked eventually.

“Absolutely seriously. There’s no point in my staying in Rome. And there’s even less point in my going home. There’s no point in my doing anything.”

“Could I possibly be of help?” she asked, without enthusiasm.

“No. Or rather, there is a way, after all. Could you do something for me, Éva?”

“Well?”

“I’m afraid to ask, it’s so difficult.”

“Ask away.”

“Éva … be at my side, when I die … like you were with Tamás, Éva.”

Éva considered.

“Would you do it? Would you do it? Éva, this is all I ask of you, and after it, nothing ever again, till the end of the world.”

“All right.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

XXIII

ERZSI ARRIVED BACK in Paris. She telephoned János, who came for her in the evening to take her out to dinner. But she found him rather distracted, and not especially pleased to see her. This suspicion grew stronger when he announced:

“Tonight we’re dining with the Persian.”

“Why? On our first night!”

“True, but I can’t do anything about it. He insisted on it, and you know how I have to butter him up.”

During the dinner János was mostly silent, and the conversation flowed between Erzsi and the Persian.

The Persian was talking about his homeland. There, love was a difficult and romantic business. Even today it was still the case that the young man in love had to climb a ten-foot wall and hide in the garden of his beloved’s father, to watch for the moment when the lady might walk by with her companion and they might exchange a few words in secret. But the young man was playing with his life.

“And this is a good thing?” asked Erzsi.

“Yes, a very good thing,” he replied. “Very good. People tend to value things much more highly when they have had to wait for them, to struggle and suffer. I often think Europeans don’t know what passion is. And really they don’t, technically speaking.”

His eyes glowed, his gestures were exaggerated but noble — untamed, genuine gestures.

“I am delighted you have returned, Madame,” he suddenly announced. “I was just beginning to be afraid you would stay in Italy. But that would have been a shame … I should have been very sorry.”

Erzsi, in a gesture of thanks, placed her hand for a moment on the Persian’s. Beneath it he closed his, making it like a claw. She was alarmed, and withdrew hers.

“I would very much like to ask you something,” continued the Persian. “Would you accept a small gift from me? On the happy occasion of your return.”

He produced a beautifully wrought gold tabatière.

“Strictly speaking it’s for opium,” he said. “But you can also use it for cigarettes.”

“I’m not sure on what basis I can accept this,” Erzsi said, in some confusion.

“On no basis whatever. On the basis that I am happy to be alive. On the basis that I am not a European, but come from a country where people make gifts lightly and with the best of intentions, and are grateful when they are accepted. Accept it because I am Suratgar Lutphali, and who knows when you will ever meet such a bird again.”

Erzsi looked inquiringly at János. She greatly admired the tabatière, and would have loved to accept it. János gave her a look of approval.

“Then I accept,” she said, “and thank you very much. I would accept it from no-one else, only you. Because who knows when I shall ever meet such a bird again in my life.”

The Persian met the bill for all three of them. Erzsi was a little irritated by this. It was almost as if János had found her for the Persian, as if, not to put too fine a point on it, he were his impresario, now withdrawing modestly into the background … but she dismissed this thought. Most likely János was again out of funds and that was why he allowed the Persian to pay. Or the Persian, with his oriental magnificence, had insisted on it. Besides, in Paris one person always paid.

That night János fell asleep early, and Erzsi had time to reflect:

“It’s coming to an end with János, that’s for certain, and I’m not sorry. What is interesting in him I already know by heart. I was always so afraid of him — that he might stab me, or steal my money. But it seems this fear was misplaced, and I’m a bit disappointed in him. What comes next? Perhaps the Persian? It rather seems he fancies me.”