Trüffel Milán
A regényből irodalmi folyóiratokban megjelent részletek, novella adaptációk

The Hungarian Quarterly - 2010. Oct
http://www.hungarianquarterly.com/no199/4.shtml

István Kerékgyártó
Milán Trüffel, or the Fortunes and Misfortunes of an Adventurer
Excerpt from the novel

The Diamond Necklace

It had been a year since I first met Zelma, and it was more out of guilty conscience than love that I equipped myself with a gift for the anniversary. By then I was bored with her. I was not truly in love with her even early on in our relationship; at first I was enthralled by her docility, then by her very wildness, for she turned wild in bed. I became her captive so to say, when I saw her nipples burst out of their pod, her clit emerge, and when I nibble on her calves she turns me into a savage male with her passionate cries, the averting of her eyes and, later on, her deep moaning. All the same, time and habit... In the course of my travels increasingly often I sought (and found) country beauties, and there were times when I did not go near the theatre for days on end. Zelma mutely tolerated this with never even a single word of reproach, and when I returned to her she would look up at me with tearfilled eyes and embrace me. So I equipped myself with a nice gift for the anniversary, which, in strictest confidence, I also conceived of as being a parting gift.

I took the morning train to Budapest and in a jewellery boutique in Haris Passage I picked out a necklace richly encrusted with diamonds.

"I'll pay by cheque," I said to the jeweller, who ran his eyes over my immaculate tails and glossy top hat before nodding and pushing an inkstand before me. While I made out the bill of exchange, he retired to his office at the rear of the premises.

When he came back with a sour look on his face I realized that he must have tried to phone through to the bank to check if my account held three thousand crowns. But after all it is 1 o'clock on a Saturday afternoon; the banks are closed, but you can relax, my friend, the cheque is covered, I smiled to myself. The jeweller accepted the duly completed banker's order without a word; I pocketed the jewel and bill and left.

"May we have the pleasure of serving Sir again in the future," said the jeweller with a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Once on the train to Szolnok, I cautiously raised the lid of the box and marvelled at the sparkle of the diamonds. Then I suddenly snapped shut the lid on the velvet box, but with such force that the noise woke up a squire who was snoozing in one corner of the compartment. I sprang to my feet and looked out of the window before pacing uneasily in the corridor. I had got wind of something and now could not rest easily. I had myself taken from the station to a tavern; I picked out from among my costumes some raggedy working clothes that I donned when in the role of an apprentice miller, then I got out the frock coat that I wore as lead in the Gergely Csiky play, and after some deliberation stuffed this into my calfskin valise, along with a sheet of brown wrapping paper and ball of twine. First I asked the cab driver to take me to the central post office, where I telegraphed my friend, Ármin Komlós, then had myself taken to the railway station. Since the next train was headed for Cegléd, it was to there that I bought a ticket and went to the buffet to order a glass of beer. In the men's room I put on the frayed tails and left via the other exit onto the platform with a parcel wrapped up in paper, which I then deposited at the left-luggage office.

I reached Cegléd at six o'clock that evening. I found just one jeweller's shop on the high street-admittedly a fairly classy establishment. The jeweller had by then already removed the more valuable sparklers from the shop window and was pulling down the grille when I slapped him on the back to entreat, would the gentlemen be so good as to let me into the shop as I had a serious business proposal to make.

The shopkeeper sizes me up uncertainly, but when he steps behind the counter I pull the item of jewellery and the receipt out of my jacket pocket, set these down in front of him and launch into a lengthy explanation.

"I bought this pretty piece in a boutique in Haris Passage for my fiancée in Cegléd, but not long ago I caught the lady in question red-handed with someone else, and don't ask me, Sir, who the lady might be, because as a true gentleman I cannot reveal her identity under any circumstances. All I will say is that never again will I set foot in this sinful town because while the grain business is not exactly a finishing school for young ladies, I have never been gulled so badly even in that."

"Do I take that to mean that you are in the grain business, Sir?" the jeweller interrupted while eyeing me from head to toe several times with his left eye, the right still clenching the loupe through which he had been examining the necklace.

"Milán Trüffel, grain merchant, at your service, resident of Golden Duck Street in the Tabán District of Buda!" I give a bow.

"So, you purchased this piece in Haris Passage, Sir, at... Gyarmati's," he reads the gilt lettering on the lid of the box.

"Yes, by your leave," I reply readily.

"And you have a receipt for it too, I see," the jeweller takes the loupe off his eye, flicks a glance at the paper before his gaze fixes on the grubby lapel of my tails and then my immaculate top hat resting on the counter, nods as though he had cleared up the mystery: he was obviously dealing with a con man who had switched his worn titfer for this elegant number.

"Paid by cheque, I suppose?" he finally asked.

"Naturally, but what's that got to do with you?" I go onto the attack. "I don't want to buy from you, but I am looking to sell a necklace now that my fiancée has disgraced herself. I would make do with two thousand, even though, as you can see, I paid three thousand."

At this juncture, the jeweller's spouse steps out from the back of the shop and takes over from her husband the task of attending to me while he closes the door to his office behind himself. I imagine the first thing he did was to ask the switchboard girl to connect him with the shop at Haris Passage to ask if any check was run on the validity of my bank transfer as I now want to get rid of the piece of jewellery, and when he learns that they haven't, the next thing he'll do is ring the police-so that they can pick up a dangerous passer of fraudulent cheques.

When the police arrive I protest angrily that they will be making a big mistake to arrest me now. I mould the character in whatever way the mood takes me: I may entreat, but not as far as bursting into tears; I may raise my voice, but not shout. A student of verismo would be proud.

"This will cost you a pretty penny, Sir, if you don't withdraw your false and slanderous accusation right away! It will cost me a fortune to be arrested," I snarl into the proprietor's face.

He just laughs and rubs his hands: see what a smart invention the telephone is, dearest. "Didn't I tell you we should get connected! Right away we've unmasked this dangerous crook!" The senior officer gets the proprietor to sign a piece of paper to the effect that he suspects me of passing forged cheques and I am then escorted to the local police station.

For the official record I then told the officer the story about how I came to purchase the jewellery, and I acknowledged that the purchase was made after the banks had closed for business, but I vigorously assert that the balance in my account will amply meet the price, and I warn him emphatically that if I am not released, then I shall be unable to get back to Budapest, with horrendous losses.

"A contract to deliver fifty railcars of wheat from the Banat is waiting for me in Seehmann's coffee house, which, as I'm sure the officer is well aware is where the biggest grain deals are done, and if I'm not there by 10 o'clock on Sunday morning, the business will be lost and that will cost somebody dear!" "Not me, that's for sure!" the officer grumbled, assiduously dipping his pen in the inkwell as he wrote down my statement. "A well-grounded complaint has been lodged against you based on reasonable suspicion. Until the matter is cleared up you'll be staying here."

I was fully aware, of course, that this meant I would have to kick my heels until ten o'clock on Monday morning, when the banks would next be opening for business.

How different now the click of the key locking the cell door from the time, eight years ago, when I was confined in that transit slammer! At that time I was overcome by immense anguish, whereas now I stretched out contentedly on the doss. At nine o'clock that evening I rattled up the duty officer to offer him fifty Crowns if he would get a hot dinner sent over from the inn in the market square.

"If possible a locally shot hare with a sauce on the sour side and dumplings-and not just one but three portions so we can both tuck in and anyone else on duty. Choose whatever you care for to drink, Sergeant!" The sarge was dubious of taking custody of such a large sum of money- almost a month's pay for an ordinary policeman-but half an hour later the door of the cell was opened and I was asked to come along to the duty room, the supper had arrived. Rabbit with a chasseur brown sauce, and beer to go with it from a five-liter jug, if that was alright by me. It was.

Nothing remarkable happened in the duty room the next day, on the Sunday, unless you count the fact that for breakfast we ate grilled black pudding with fried onions and scalding-hot white liver sausages with grated horseradish and English mustard, again with beer to go with them, after which the sergeant had a menu brought over from the Crown restaurant for us to take our pick of lunch. "But gentlemen! Gentlemen! Don't be shy! Don't look at the prices! After all, we only live once, is that not so?" I slapped the corpulent sergeant on the back. He had cast his eyes over the fare on offer while tiny bubbles of saliva appeared in the corners of his mouth.

During the day I whiled the time away in the office, leafing through some interesting police newspaper, and after lunch I asked to be able to retire to my cell for forty winks of a siesta. There I was reminded of my old mate, Komlós, who had talked me into trying my hand with dodgy cheques. I can heartily recommend breaking with a girl like this, Ármin, you old mucker, I chuckled to myself. Just before the evening change in shift the two duty sergeants locked the door to the clink, but they soon asked me to come along so they could introduce me to the pair of coppers who were relieving them. They said mournful farewells before setting off home, where the milted remains of their Sunday lunch were no doubt awaiting.

The cell door swung open again at 10.30 on the Monday morning. I stood, washed and freshly shaved, by my kip and, head craned forward and with angelic patience, awaited the police officer's contrite explanation.

"Sir," he started off, "we are all victims of a terrible misunderstanding. Your bank, Sir, has communicated to us that there is ample surplus of cash in your account to cover the cheque in question. I humbly beg your pardon, and can only hope you were treated well. You are of course free to leave at once a building that is now, no doubt, associated with bad memories for you." He clicked his heels and handed me the necklace.

I asked for a copy of the official report, to which all I said was: "You have some fine men, lieutenant. I have no problem with the police force, and I am not going to claim compensation from you for the huge losses I have incurred, unlike the jeweller who lodged the false accusation." The officer spread his hands before stiffly saluting me by way of parting.

I took a train back to Szolnok, withdrew my parcel, changed, had myself driven to my quarters, where I took possession of a telegram with a Saturday date from a certain Ármin Komlós. It was addressed to Milán Trüffel Esq. c/o Count Sigray. After that I went over to Zelma's place and presented her with a gift of a necklace richly encrusted with diamonds. Her tears of joy plopped onto the blue velvet box.

"But that must have cost you a fortune, my love!" she sniffed.

"A mere bagatelle, I can assure you!" I retorted. "I may even have turned a profit on the transaction." We both had a good laugh on that; Zelma sat on my lap, her calves delicately trembling, and when I noticed that I began drawing shorter, deeper breaths.

It was not until the Wednesday that I travelled back to Cegléd, by which time I could be sure that the story of the jeweller's mistake would have been spread all round town and his friends duly scared him out of his wits. After all, a prosperous trader has no greater enemies than envious friends. First of all, I rapped on the front door of the solicitor who flaunted the flashiest brass plate on the high street, showed him the receipt and the official police report as well as a telegram in which I had received an offer to purchase a considerable quantity of wheat that would expire at 10 a.m. on Sunday.

"The forfeiture of that deal has cost me around six thousand crowns, and given time I shall be able to append suitable expert opinions to that effect," I told the solicitor. "I wish to seek that amount by suing the Cegléd jeweller in question for punitive damages for slander and making a false accusation." The legal eagle read through the documents after which we strolled over to the jeweller's shop. I nodded reticently, with the jeweller being astounded to clap his eyes on my dapper tails before my legal adviser suggested they have a talk in the back room. Later on the solicitor drew me to ask, "Is there no other solution, your Honour, because a lawsuit of this nature, particularly if punitive damages are sought, can ruin the jeweller, even if not financially then at least in regard to his reputation." "I have no rooted objection to a settlement outside court," I replied. "A trial might carry on for years, and even though I have no doubt I shall win, and any award would be payable with interest, that will be of no use to me in buying any grain tomorrow. Compared with that, seeing the jeweller convicted is of little interest to me." It took three rounds of negotiation by the legal eagle before we agreed on a sum of eight thousand crowns. I took delivery in cash, plucked out a one-hundred crown piece and handed it to the solicitor before signing a declaration that I had no claims, nor outstanding matters of honour or legal redress, against the jeweller. When the solicitor had left the jeweller could still not get over staring at me. I rapped my silver-capped walking cane on the counter before him and declared: "You're too hasty to judge, my friend! Reckless even! To chuck eight thousand crowns out of the window like that," I shook my head and left.

I paused for a moment in front of the shop door before making a barely perceptible nod towards the street. I pinned my ears back for the sound of applause, but there was only a many-petticoated washerwoman, basket on head, to take a quick glance at me before hurrying on.

Translated by Tim Wilkinson

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István Kerékgyártó studied law and philosophy, taught history of philosophy as assistant professor at the University of Pécs (1977-87), then switched to business. He started to write at the age of 47-his first novel was based on his experiences in the business world-and has been a freelance writer since 1999. He has four novels to his name including Trüffel Milán avagy egy kalandor élete (2009) from which the above excerpt is taken. It is reviewed by János Szegő on pp. 125-131 of this issue.

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