Over the last few days, the wind has gradually picked up on Lake Balaton. Beneath the wooden boards of the jetty, the crashing waves can be heard. The swans that were gliding lazily on the lake surface only the day before yesterday are now occasionally diving in, raising their grey-and-white trapezoidal tails towards the sky. It appears that, due to the windy weather, the prey is swimming in the upper layers of the water.
What has not changed, however, is the habit of old men and their ilk to lure swans and ducks with breadcrumbs. The fishermen, who spend hours on the promenade every day, have also remained in place. One of them just reeled his rod for several dozens of seconds until he pulled out a twig adorned in a verdant cloak of algae. Fisherman’s work is hard. The incident does not seem to him like a waste of time, but just an episode in the slow flow of time.
He is watched over by a friend sitting on the embankment wall, who will later help him pack his tools to continue the day’s work elsewhere. The care with which they will prepare their bundles and stow in the bicycle baskets suggests a hint of disappointment. The swans have luck, but they don’t! They don’t react to the appearance of the third old man and his question of greeting – for what could they say? –, and he does not insist. Yet there is no animosity or mistrust between them: work is more important than empty words, even someone else’s work for a stranger. All three look towards the hook and know what is happening.
On the promenade, the middle-aged and the elderly, locals and strangers, are strolling continuously, like one and the same eternally passing Walking Couple. I leave for a while, but when I return I see the Couple in their perpetual and unconstrained onward march. Every morning the Couple takes their place, both here and in Budapest, to divide the path it has been shown into a maze of a thousand trajectories. Middle-aged women walking alone always have a bag slung over their shoulder.
September 2016