He made her laugh with his imitations of religious Jews in the rapture of prayer, and of different Hungarian types, people who thought themselves important—fops, dandies, hypocrites, and his crazy patients.
He addressed her the way the nobleman father and the peasant father would, all in proper Hungarian dialects; she was so enchanted she believed it. And when he became himself again—his face slackened with an expression of deprecation, almost disgust—he made what was noble appear ridiculous; it was such a disappointment. His impersonations were truly grand and he knew it. His final gesture of dropping the act, the mask softening into wistful irony, belonged to it. “I could have been a great actor,” he said, throwing away his opportunity for renown.
On Sundays he belonged to her; they did wonderful things together. Going on walks was what Sophie enjoyed most, more than going to the theater or the amusement park. She pulled him or stopped him. She marveled at her power over someone so much bigger, a man who earned money, owned a house—was this what the dog felt when she took him on walks?—this mad joy in running, jumping on and off all the ledges? Why couldn’t he run? The dog and she both went after his walking stick. They could ruffle him, they weren’t afraid. Could he make the dog behave at least? He made solemn and threatening faces, trying to get her to listen. He wanted to show her things, explain things. She wanted to play; she didn’t know what explanations did. He wanted to talk. She asked questions, why and what then and so what—made him grind out answers just to exercise power over him. Power and curiosity and wonder that this big man with a walking stick and bushy eyebrows who smoked cigarets could be pushed and pulled and made to talk and buy things for her, and she was happy till he spoiled it for her by putting it in words. “...why do you think I spend the one free afternoon of my week with you and buy you things, and why do you think I love you?” On and on about all that he did for her. And why? Why did he do all this for her? Because he was stupid. He put the words in her mouth. No, she only thought it and he said it. It was all right, he said and spoke about the laws of nature, the selfishness of children; they were all instruments of nature but he was resigned to it, he said, making it sound sad. Then she hopped and skipped and ran till she got rid of her anger.
Why did people really come to him, she asked; what was the matter with them, what did he do for them. She listened very carefully so she could avoid this happening to her. He told her about the sick people he treated: a man who hardly had any skin on his hands because he had to wash them every time he touched anything. Why did he have to? He explained but she still didn’t understand why he had to. She was only a little girl and there were many things she couldn’t do but there was nothing she couldn’t stop doing once she decided. He told her about a man who came to see him, his head wrapped in an enormous bandage, and when he took it off there was no wound. That made Sophie laugh. People came to him just to lie down on the couch and talk. They didn’t want to be seen by other sick people or anybody in the house—not even Sophie or the maid.
Each patient had his hour. They didn’t want anybody to know that they came to her father, so Papi never mentioned them by name. He talked of his ten o’clock patient. In the five minutes he left free between patients he’d talk to her.
The five o’clock patient was always late. This was very significant, Papi explained to her. There was a reason why she came late. Sophie wondered why the patient couldn’t stop being late—even if just to spite her father, as she herself would do, not to give him the opportunity to say, Ha! But perhaps the five o’clock patient didn’t realize that her father noted this against
