Satantango Read Free Page B

washed into each other during the agonizing wait, the pans by the wall coming to life along with the icons and it even seemed there was someone in the bed. They hoped to escape these hallucinatory visions by stealing glances at one another but all three faces radiated helplessness, and while they knew they couldn’t get started till nightfall (because they were sure that Mrs. Halics or the manager would be sitting at their windows watching the path to Szikes with even greater anxiety now that Schmidt and Kráner were almost half a day late), every so often Schmidt or the woman made a move as if to say, screw caution, let’s make a start. “They’re off to see a movie,” Futaki quietly declared. “Mrs. Halics, Mrs. Kráner and the manager, Halics.” “Mrs. Kráner?” Schmidt snapped: “Where?” And he rushed to the window. “He’s right. He’s damn right,” Mrs. Schmidt nodded. “Hush!” Schmidt turned on her: “Don’t be in such a hurry, sweetheart!” Futaki calmed him: “That’s a smart woman. We have to wait till dark anyway, don’t we? And this way no one gets suspicious, right?” Schmidt was edgy but sat back down at the table and buried his face in his hands. Futaki carried on despondently puffing smoke by the window. Mrs. Schmidt drew out a length of twine from the depths of the kitchen cupboard and, because the locks were too rusty to close, tied the trunk up with it and set it down by the door before sitting down next to her husband and clasping her hands. “What are we waiting for?” asked Futaki. “Let’s split up the money.” Schmidt stole a glance at his wife. “Don’t we have plenty of time for that, pal?” Futaki rose and joined them at the table. He spread his legs and, rubbing his stubbled chin, fixed his eyes on Schmidt: “I say we split it up.” Schmidt ran a hand over his brow. “What are you worried about? You’ll get your share when it’s time.” “Then what are you waiting for, pal?” “What’s with the fuss? Let’s wait till we get Kráner’s contribution.” Futaki smiled. “Look, it’s very simple. We just halve what you’ve got there. Then when we get what’s owing we’ll split that up at the crossroads.” “All right,” Schmidt agreed. “Fetch the flashlight.” “I’ll get it,” the woman leapt up, agitated. Schmidt plunged his hand into his trench coat and brought out a package tied round with string, somewhat drenched through. “Wait,” cried Mrs. Schmidt and quickly wiped the table with a rag. “Now.” Schmidt shoved a piece of paper under Futaki’s nose. (“The document,” he said, “just so you see I am not trying to cheat you”) who tipped his head to one side and briefly took stock of it before pronouncing: “Let’s get counting.” He pressed the flashlight into the woman’s hand and watched the bank notes with shining eyes as they passed through Schmidt’s stubby fingers and slowly piled up at the far side of the table, and, as he watched, his anger slowly evaporated, because now he understood how “a man’s head might get so confused by the sight of so much cash that he’d risk a lot to possess it.” Suddenly he felt his stomach cramp up, his mouth filled with saliva and, as the sweat-spotted wad in Schmidt’s hand began to shrink and swell the piles on the other side of the table, the light from the flickering unsteady light in Mrs. Schmidt’s hand seemed to be shining in his eyes as if she were deliberately doing it to blind him and he felt dizzy and weak, recovering only when Schmidt’s cracked voice announced: “That’s the precise amount!” But just as he was reaching forward to take his half share somebody right by the window shouted: “Are you in, Mrs. Schmidt, darling?” Schmidt snatched the flashlight from his wife’s hand and snapped it off, pointing to the table, whispering: “Quick, hide it!” Mrs. Schmidt, lightning fast, swept it all together and stuffed the bills between her breasts, mouthing