Kornel Esti Read Free Page A

too.
    “Hello,” I said.
    “Hello,” said he immediately, as if he wanted to pick up just where we had left off.
    He wasn’t at all surprised at my bursting in so late. He wasn’t surprised at anything. He didn’t even ask what I wanted.
    “How are you?” he asked.
    “Very well, thank you. And you?”
    “Likewise,” he replied.
    He stared at me and laughed.
    He was wearing a raincoat. There was snow on his collar too.
    “Just got in?”
    “Yes,” he nodded.
    I looked round the room. It was a dingy hole. A narrow, dilapidated sofa, two chairs, a cupboard, a five-day-old newspaper on the table, a bunch of wilting violets. A mask, too, goodness knows what for. Cigarette butts on the floor, yellow spectacles and quince jelly in the violin case, open suitcases. A few books, mostly timetables. No pen or paper to be seen. Where he worked was a mystery.
    My father had been right. He hadn’t amounted to anything. Here there was nothing but the poverty of a hermit, the liberty and independence of a beggar. I had wanted that sort of thing at one time. My eyes filled with tears.
    “What’s new?” he inquired.
    Outside the wind was howling. The cutting spring wind whistled shrilly. A siren too was wailing.
    “Ambulance,” he said.
    We went to the window. The blizzard had stopped. The sky shone crystal clear, as did the frosty roadway. The ambulance siren shrieked in competition with the spring wind.
    Scarcely had it passed when a fire engine roared past to somewhere, its light flashing.
    “Accidents,” I said. “All day long bricks have been falling, shop-signs crashing down on the heads of passersby. People have been slipping and falling on the icy sidewalks, hurting their hands, spraining their ankles, bleeding. Houses and factories have been catching fire. All sorts of things have been happening today. Frost, heat, mist, sunshine, rain, rainbow, snow, blood, and fire. It’s spring.”
    We sat down and lit cigarettes.
    “Kornél,” I broke the silence, “aren’t you angry?”
    “Me?” and he shrugged. “Idiot! I can never be angry with you.”
    “But you’d have good reason. Look, I was angry with you. I was embarrassed by you in front of people that mattered, I’ve had to get on, I’ve denied you. Haven’t even looked in your direction for ten years. But this afternoon, when the wind whistled, I thought of you and felt remorse. I’m not young any more. I turned forty last week. When you’re not young, you mellow and you can forgive everything. Even youth. Let’s make up.”
    I stretched out a hand.
    “Oh, you haven’t changed,” he scoffed. “Always so sentimental.”
    “But you have, Kornél. When we were children you were the grownup, you were the leader, you opened my eyes. Now you’re the child.”
    “Aren’t they both the same?”
    “That’s what I like about you. That’s why I’ve come back, and now I’m going to put up with you forever.”
    “What’s the matter with you today, that you’re saying such nice things about me?”
    “Well, who else am I to say nice things about, Kornél? Who is there but you that I could love and not feel jealous of? Whom can I admire in this round world if not you, my brother and my opposite? Identical in everything and different in everything. I’ve gathered, you’ve thrown away, I’ve gotten married, you’ve stayed a bachelor, I worship my people, my language, I can only live and breathe here in Hungary, but you travel the world, fly above nations, in freedom, shrieking ever lasting revolt. I need you. I’m empty and bored without you. Help me, otherwise I’ll die.”
    “I could do with somebody as well,” he said, “a pillar, a handrail, because look, I’m going to pieces,” and he gestured at the room.
    “Let’s stick together,” I suggested. “Let’s make a deal.”
    “To do what?”
    “Let’s write something, together.”
    He opened his eyes wide. Spat his cigarette onto the floor.
    “I can’t write anymore,” he