Satantango Read Free

irresistible desire to break off a chunk of nitrous plaster in the machine hall of the old engine-house where he lived and to cram it into his mouth so that he might recognize the taste of the Vigilance! sign among the disturbing riot of normally ordered flavors. Death, he felt, was only a kind of warning rather than a desperate and permanent end. “It’s not as if I’m asking for a gift,” Schmidt continued, growing tired: “It’s a loan. You understand? A loan. I’ll return every last cent of it in precisely a year.” They sat at the table, both of them worn out. Schmidt’s eyes were burning from exhaustion, Futaki was furiously studying the mysterious patterns of the stone tiling. He mustn’t show he is afraid, he thought, though he would have found it hard to explain what it was he was afraid of. “Just tell me this. How many times did I go out to Szikes, all by myself, in that intolerable heat where a man is scared to breathe the air in case it sets fire to his insides?! Who got hold of the wood? Who built that sheepfold?! I have contributed just as much as you, or Kráner, or Halics! And now you have the nerve to touch me for a loan. Oh yes, and it’ll all be returned next time I see you, eh?!” “In other words,” Schmidt replied, affronted, “you don’t trust me.” “Damn right!” Futaki snapped back. “You and Kráner meet up before dawn, planning to make off with all the money and then you expect me to trust you?! Do you take me for an idiot?” They sat silently together. The woman was clattering dishes by the stove. Schmidt looked defeated. Futaki’s hands trembled as he rolled a cigarette and got up from the table, limped over to the window, leaned on his stick with his left hand and watched rain billowing over the rooftops. The trees were leaning with the wind, their bare branches describing threatening arcs in the air. He thought of their roots, the life-giving sap, of the soaked earth and of the silence, of the unspoken feeling of completion he so dreaded. “In that case tell me. . . .!” he asked in a hesitant manner, “Why you came back, once . . .” “Why? why?!” Schmidt grumbled. “Because that’s what occurred to us — and before we could think better of it we were on the way home, and back . . . And then there was the woman . . . Would I have left her here? . . .” Futaki nodded understandingly. “What about the Kráners?” he asked after a while. “What’s your arrangement with them?” “They’re stuck here, like us. They want to head north. Mrs. Kráner heard there was an old neglected orchard or something there. We are to meet by the crossroads after dark. That’s what we arranged.” Futaki gave a sigh: “A long day ahead. What about the others? Like Halics? . . .” Schmidt rubbed his fingers together despondently: “How should I know? Halics will probably sleep the whole day. There was a big party yesterday at the Horgoses. His highness, the manager, can go to hell on the first bus! If there’s any trouble on his account, I’ll drown the sonofabitch in the next ditch, so relax, pal, relax.” They decided to wait in the kitchen till night fell. Futaki drew up a chair by the window so he could keep an eye on the houses opposite while Schmidt was overcome by sleep, slumped over the table, and began to snore. The woman brought the big iron-strapped military trunk out from behind the cupboards, wiped away the dust, inside and out, then wordlessly began packing their things. “It’s raining,” said Futaki. “I can hear,” replied the woman. The weak sunlight only just succeeded in penetrating a jumbled mass of clouds that was slowly proceeding eastwards: the light in the kitchen dimmed as if it were dusk and it was hard to know whether the gently vibrating patches on the wall were merely shadows or the symptoms of the despair underlying their faintly hopeful thoughts. “I’ll go south,” Futaki declared, gazing at the rain. “At least the winters are