Skylark Read Online Free Page A

no one, and didn't care who saw her.
    Then all her nerves and muscles began to jerk and twitch, convulsions seized her throat, rasping and scratching like some unbearably bitter poison chasing down a mouthful of sweet wine.
    The two men witnessed in silence the timeless process of weeping. Lungs billowing with a single sigh, twitching lips snatching desperately for air, a few more gasps and spasms, then the winding-down, which also hurt, even if it signalled the death of pain.
    Skylark leaned back against the door of the compartment to spread the heavy burden of her labour. There was hardly a grimace, hardly a sign of physical pain on her face. Only that flood of boiling tears flowing through the channels of her eyes, nose and mouth, shaking her otherwise unaffected body from the knees to the shoulder blades, a force invisible to anyone but her, the rising presence of a shapeless memory, a half-formed thought, an image of torment, no less acute for being inexpressible.
    She sat down in her place. Her broad face warmed in the sunshine, stains of hot lymph making her nose glow red. In that feathered hat of hers, poor thing, she really did look quite grotesque.
    The young man–a handsome but gormless sort–who had been reading until now, set his book down on his knees and stared at the quietly sobbing girl. An offer of assistance kept finding itself on the tip of his tongue, but never passed his lips. He simply couldn't imagine what had happened. Perhaps she had fallen ill, or suffered the kind of “blow” they wrote about in the cheap paperback novels he read.
    Skylark paid him no attention whatsoever. She stared resolutely, almost malevolently above his head. He was no different from all the other young men who avoided her gaze and registered her approach with the same spiteful, studied coldness. This was her only form of self-defence.
    The boy understood this instinctively. He withdrew his inquisitive gaze and buried it in his book. Skylark changed places. She sat down facing the priest, who all this time behaved as if he had noticed nothing. He was reading from a breviary printed in red letters, resting his head against the inner window of the corridor. The protruding cheekbones of his somewhat sickly face betrayed a kind of inner peace.
    He wore a threadbare cassock with a button missing and a crumpled celluloid collar. This slight, humble soldier of the cross, who had returned to his village to grow old, engulfed by love and goodness, knew exactly what was going on. But out of tact he said nothing, and out of sympathy showed not the slightest sign of interest. He knew the world was a vale of tears.
    Only now did he cast a glance at the girl, his keen, blue eyes intense from regular encounters with the Lord; a steadfast glance that caused Skylark no offence, and almost seemed to cool her burning face. She looked back gratefully, as if to thank him for his kind attention.
    She still had tears in her eyes, but no longer shook or sobbed. Before long she had completely calmed down. She gazed at the passing countryside and, from time to time, at the worn and haggard priest, who, past sixty and already nearing the grave, radiated a certain serene simplicity, reassuring and consoling her without words. Throughout the journey they did not speak at all.
    Some thirty minutes later the young man got to his feet, slung his double-barrelled shotgun over his shoulder, picked up his hunting hat and left the compartment. Skylark nodded a silent goodbye.
    At Tarkő the priest helped her down with her baggage. Uncle Béla stood waiting by his chaise, his friendly, dumpy face, discoloured by the healthy air of the plains, shining as he beckoned. As always, a cigarette burned between his teeth.
    Skylark smiled. Her uncle's beard was yellow-red, just like the Persian tobacco he always smoked. His familial kiss reeked of the same tobacco.
    And someone else was waiting for her, too. Tiger, the hunting dog. She ran alongside the chaise when