Journey by Moonlight

The host brought wine, his own vintage. They sat around the table, drinking and talking quietly, listening occasionally to the patter of rain on the window-pane.

Erzsi’s sense of unreality grew and grew. She no longer knew what the host and his lady were talking about. Probably they were explaining the tedious round of their country life, in tones as unvaried and soporific as the rain. Or perhaps it was the patter of rain that was so soothing; or the fact that she no longer belonged to anyone, anywhere. Here she sat at the end of the world, in a French château whose name she did not even know, and where she had arrived quite without rhyme or reason, for one might equally sit thus at the other end of the world, in another château, with no more cause or explanation.

Then she sensed that this was not what was soothing and lulling her, but the glance with which the Persian caressed her from time to time. It was a tender, warm, emotional glance, quite different from the cold blue gaze of a European eye. In the Persian’s glance there was animal warmth and reassurance. Soothing and lulling. Yes, this man loved women … but not merely as … he loved them not because he was a man, but because they were women, dear creatures, needing love. That was it: he loved them the way a true dog-fancier loves dogs. And perhaps that is the best love a woman can have.

In her half-trance she became aware that, under the table, the Persian was holding her hand in his and stroking it.

He did not betray himself by the slightest movement as he conversed politely with the hosts. Yet Erzsi still felt that everyone was posing, so outrageously that she almost expected them to stick out their tongues at her. And the Persian was just waiting, perhaps without any particular plan in his head, at that late hour of night …

“Does he think I am some unapproachable Persian woman? My God, we ought to go out for a stroll … but it’s raining.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. The peasant-woman brought in a thoroughly sodden youth, who was obviously known to the host couple. From what the lad had to say it transpired that János had reached the neighbouring village but had not found a suitable fan belt there. However he had sprained his leg, and thought it best to spend the night with the local doctor, who was a most kindly man. He asked if they would come and collect him, should they somehow manage to repair the car.

This news was received with dismay. Then they decided that if that was the way things stood, it would be better to go to bed, as it was already long past midnight. The lady of the house conducted them upstairs. When it had been tactfully established that Erzsi and the Persian were not together, each was assigned a separate room, and the hostess took her leave. Erzsi took her leave of the Persian and went into her room, where the old peasant-woman made up her bed, and bade her goodnight.

It was as if everything had been prepared in advance. Of this Erzsi no longer had any doubt. The little play being enacted in her honour was no doubt the brainchild of János: the problem with the car, the little château by the roadside, his accident, and now the final scene with the happy ending.

She looked round her room. She carefully locked the door, and then had to smile. There was another door in the room, and this had no key. She cautiously opened this second door. It revealed an unlit room. But in the far wall of the darkened room was another door, under which a strip of light appeared. She tip-toed over to it. Someone was walking about in the next room. She thought back to the arrangement of the rooms as they had gone along the corridor, and decided that the one behind the door was the Persian’s. He was certainly not going to lock his door. Through it he would make his way comfortably to her room. And this was quite natural, after the intimate way they had sat together down below, under the lamp. She returned to her room.

Her mirror showed her how deeply she was blushing. János had sold her to the Persian and the Persian had bought her, as he might a calf. He had made her a down payment in the form of the tabatière (which Sári had established was a great deal more valuable than you might think at first glance) — and János had certainly had his ‘pocket money’. She was filled with deep humiliation and anger. How she could have loved the Persian … but that he should treat her like a commodity! Oh how stupid men were! By this he had spoilt everything.