Free Kornel Esti by Deszö Kosztolányi Page B

accent: “Breakfast, sir?” Esti didn’t reply, waited a moment, then said, “ Si, una tazza di caffé. ” The waiter happily reverted to his native language: “ Benis-simo, signore, ” and was about to go. In his delight at having passed that test with flying colors, Esti called after him: “ Camariere, portatemi anche pane, acqua fresca e giornali. Giornali italiani, ” he added nonchalantly and unnecessarily. “ Sissignore, subito, ” replied the waiter, and hurried away with his indescribably pleasant s -es.
    Esti was happy. Happy that he had been taken for something other than what he was, perhaps even for an Italian, but in any case a foreigner, a person, and that he was able to continue to play his role, escaping from the prison in which he had been confined since birth. He sipped his espresso, which the waiter poured into his glass from a large aluminum jug, devoured six croissants and four rolls, then, as if he’d been doing it all his life, buried himself in the Corriere della Sera .
    While he was thus reading a voice rang out: “ Pane. ” A ragged, filthy street urchin was standing by his table, a four-year-old child, barefoot, and pointing most determinedly at the basket of bread. Esti gave him a roll. But the little boy didn’t go away. “ Un altro, ” he exclaimed again. “ Che cosa? ” inquired Esti. “ Un altro pane, ” said the child, “ due, ” and held up two fingers as is customary in those parts to show that he was asking for not one but two, “ per la mamma, ” and her too he indicated, standing a few yards away on the road as if on stage, to be seen and exert influence as in a tear-jerking farce, but even so, dignified. She was a youthful, weather-beaten mother, also barefoot, wearing a chemise but no blouse. A wretched skirt hung from her, and her hair was unkempt, but the skin of her face was that olive shade that one sees in Abruzzo. Her eyes gleamed darkly. She and her child watched, standing erect, not bending, watched what the straniero would do. Esti held out another roll to the little boy. He and his mother, his mamma , whom he must have loved so much, strolled slowly on. Neither of them thanked him for his kindness.
    This, however, pleased Esti beyond words and made him feel good. “See,” he thought, “these people don’t beg, they demand. They’re an ancient free people, glorious even in penury.” He sat on at the table of life. He knew that life was his, as the bread was. “I ought to live here. This sensitivity, this sincerity, this sunlight that permeates everything, this easy-going exterior which must conceal all sorts of things, all excite me. No blood relationship can be as strong as the attraction that I feel to them. They alone will be able to cure me of my muddled sentimentality.”
    When the time came to pay, a few problems cropped up, as Esti failed to understand a couple of Italian words, and the waiter, who had immediately realized from Esti’s accent that he wasn’t an Italian, began to ask, with the frankness that is permissible with the young, what his nationality was. He listed numerous possibilities— Austri-aco? Tedesco? Croato? Inglese?— and Esti just shook his head. Then the waiter inquired where he lived, from what town he came, where he was from. With a stern gesture Esti dismissed the old man, who withdrew behind a pillar not far from the table and from there continued to assess this inscrutable boy.
    “Where am I from?” recited Esti to himself, intoxicated by the espresso and lack of sleep. “Where everybody’s from. The purple cavern of a mother’s womb. I too started out from there on an uncertain journey, and neither destiny nor destination are stated in the passport. A pleasure trip? I hope it will be, because I very much want to enjoy everything. Or a study trip? If only I could know all that has been known until now. Or just an affaire familale ? I wouldn’t mind that either, because I adore children. So, I’m an