Skylark Read Free Page B

clear to him. A caterpillar under a rosebush, he thought to himself.
    He ambled along in his mouse-grey suit until they reached Széchenyi Square, the only square, the only
agora
, in Sárszeg, where instinctively he strode a couple of paces ahead, so as not to have to walk beside her.
    Here stood the Town Hall, the Baross Café, the old grammar school with its worn and hollowed stone steps, its little wooden tower whose bell would chime each morning, calling the children to school; here was the King of Hungary restaurant and, across the square, the Széchenyi Inn, backing on to the Kisfaludy Theatre and offering a slanting view of a one-storey palace, decorated with climbing roses and a bright gold lightning conductor, one of the finest buildings in the town, and home of the Gentlemen's Club. Further down began the shops: the paint shop, two ironmongers, Vajna's stationery and bookshop, the St Mary Pharmacy and a new, smartly furnished leather-goods store, Weisz and Partner. The owner stood smoking a cigar in the doorway, bathing his cheerful watermelon face in the sun. Removing the cigar from his mouth, he bowed and greeted the Vajkays with a broad grin.
    Ákos, like the rest of his family, rarely ventured into town. The gaping openness and never-ending curiosity made him feel awkward.
    Sitting on the terrace sipping beer, the afternoon clientele of the Széchenyi Café looked up from their newspapers and stared at Skylark. Not disrespectfully, just the way they always did: with a look of grey, benevolent sympathy, lined in red with a certain malevolent pleasure.
    With this the old man put a stop to his sullen, self-tormenting thoughts. He slowed his step, allowing his daughter to draw level, then marched beside her defiantly, so that he too should face the sympathy and malevolent pleasure. And as always at such times, he tugged nervously at his left shoulder, pulling it close, as if to cloak his embarrassment at the offence his own flesh and blood had caused to the order of nature.
    They arrived at the railway station. The local train was already puffing and fuming on the track like a little coffee grinder. The bell sounded for all aboard.
    They bustled along the platform towards the ladies’ carriage, hoping to find a suitable seat for Skylark. But to their dismay, there was not a single place unoccupied. Skylark had to stagger from one crowded carriage to the next before finding a second-class compartment at the end of the train, occupied by a young man and an old, gaunt Catholic priest. They decided this would have to do and Father climbed aboard to arrange the luggage.
    Ákos swung the suitcase on to the train and lifted the wicker basket up to the luggage rack all by himself. He handed his daughter the white striped woollen blanket, then the water flask so that she shouldn't drink strange water during the journey. He drew the curtains so that she shouldn't fry in the burning sun, and even bounced up and down on her seat to try the springs. Then he bade his daughter farewell, kissing her on both cheeks. He never kissed her on the lips.
    He climbed down from the train. Pulling his black bowler hat over his eyebrows, he joined his wife, who stood waiting beside the carriage anxiously watching the window. And yes, disguise it as they might, Mother and Father were already crying. Quiet, unaffected tears, but tears all the same.
    The good citizens of Sárszeg who watched them with their curious, provincial, peering eyes, could hardly have been surprised.
    They had long grown accustomed to the Vajkays crying in public. They cried every Sunday in church, at Mass, during the sermon, they cried at funerals, at weddings, at national celebrations, when all the solemn flags and speeches raised their spirits to a higher plane. It was almost as if they cherished such occasions.
    At home they lived quite cheerfully. But whenever an opportunity presented itself, some pretext for being generally moved, they'd “have a good cry” as