Ervin Lázár: The Chillologist

Humphrey Mumbler the dumplinghead did not move a lot unless he really had to. But when Chilly Shiver Frozenhill performed, it got him going every time. He would even run just to be there. And that really says something!
Now he was running again. You wouldn't think he had seen the amazing spectacle six times. Never mind! - he kept on running, just to be there. He had to see it again - for the seventh time!
Chilly Shiver Frozenhill performed at beaches all around Lake Balaton. On these occasions a wooden stand was put up in front of the deckchair-to-let man's hut and beach huts, among the candy floss and ice cream stands, and the fishfryers would let the roofs of their little stalls for a pretty penny, for latecomers to get a fishfryer-stall-height-wiew of the stupefying performance.
Hours before it was to begin, the folk would begin to throng to the lucky beach. At the ticket booth everybody shelled out an incredibly high entrance fee. Children got a reduction, the price of their tickets was credibly high. For the rich, it was no more difficult to afford than to shoo a fly off their noses, for others it took a while scratching the top of their heads delving deep into their pockets and the bottom of their purses to dig out their last lonely pennies. And so too did Humphrey Mumbler the dumplinghead. Rummage for his last coin. At home, he had been keeping money in jam-jars. He labelled each of his jars neatly to remember what he had put the money aside for. The first jar, 'Granny's Shawl, Christmas' was spent on the first performance, the second 'Fare to visit cousin Humphlinger Mumblinger' was spent on the second show, the third, 'ham and coldcuts' went on the third, the fourth 'for the Rent' on the fourth, the fifth jar 'for Bread' was emptied for the fifth, and the sixth 'warm socks, winter boots' was spent on the sixth show. So now, before the seventh it was the turn of the very last jar. The label said: 'Firewood'. Fortunately it was just enough to pay for the ticket. But he didn't give a monkey's! The only important thing was to see the chillologist.
By then people in swimsuits were thronging higleddy-piggledy. The fishfryer-stalls were bending under the burden, and the stands that had been hastily cobbled together were creaking and groaning, about to collapse. Humphrey Mumbler deftly clambered up through a stand to get the best view of the stage towering in front. That was where the gobsmacking feat was going to take place.

The sun was glowing in its full glare, drops of sweat were glistening and rolling down necks. The man who was selling fans on the beach got on his mobile to his office, and asked them to rustle up some more supplies. No matter if the fans were only half ready, because he was sold out! Beer, and ice cold coke and cold vitamin-free thirst quenchers were selling like hot cakes, and even the trees were in danger of getting heat-stroke. But the show was only ever held in this weather. If a single fleece of cloud appeared Chilly Shiver Frozenhill's road-team would be shaking their heads, saying 'Oh My! The show might have to be called off!' Heaven forbid if on the big day a tiny cool summer breeze, or not to mention a storm, or angry cloud should appear, the whole event was cancelled, because it was for 'Brilliant Weather Only'. When was a chillologist supposed to chill after all? Obviously, in 'Brilliant Weather Only'.
And then among drums, trumpets and blinding flashes of light which almost beat the sun's glare: here he comes, nearer and nearer. Chilly Shiver Frozenhill, the chillologist is following his imperious nose towards the stage surrounded by the most beautiful ladies. He is shivering. Although it's forty degrees in the shade, some spectators are claiming proudly, that you can already see his goosebumps. A lady is so carried away, that in her amazement, she forgets all about her ice cream, and it melts away in the twinkling of an eye. Chilly Shiver Frozenhill shivers up to the stage, and shudderingly takes a seat on the Thonet-chair prepared in the middle. In his pink swimwear, with that frozen expression of fright on his face it can only be he, Chilly Shiver Frozenhill. His pretty little doublechin is rippling gently, his chubby arms swinging and dangling jerkingly about, his proper belly is swelling out and deflating again in turns. He is cold, poor thing, he is trembling, shaking, shivering, and everybody, even those in the last row can hear his teeth chattering, like the rattle of the machine-gun. Icicles appear to be building up on his ears, poor one, he's about to freeze to death! Someone, do something about it! - gasps the crowd in desperation! At this point, two members of the staff rush onto the stage with a thick woollen shirt and long johns to pull on Frozenhill. But no use, he keeps trembling, shivering, he's clasping his legs tightly together as if he was praying with knitted toes. Anybody can see, how he is just trying to warm one toe with the other and the other with the one. Assistants burst on the stage with thick woollen socks and fur lined cloth boots, but Frozenhill is just as cold in boots and socks as he was before. Did I say cold? He's an iceberg, he's shaking violently. By now, the chair he is sitting on is dancing to the rhythm of his trembling. The audience cannot believe their eyes, they're raving frantically, clapping their hands, stamping with their feet, and bursting out laughing and crying both at the same time, wildly ecstatic! Meanwhile the chillologist is getting more frozen, little by little, in the hottest of summer days. He is shivering, he's shuddering, quivering, trembling. One of the spectators faints in the heat. The ambulance is there, ready to take the patient away. But no one notices or cares, because they're all eyes, hooked upon the chillologist, who badly needs urgent help of some sort, otherwise he'll ultimately, and for good, freeze solid, and like a heap of ice would fall down on stage with a huge crash, breaking the stage planks into pieces, or perhaps this enormous ice cube would fly into thousands of splinters. First there's this Frozenhill but then only a late Frozenhill. But help is coming, fur lined trousers, a thick woollen sweater is pulled over him, a bearskin cap, and a lambskin coat. But what good does it do? He shivers on and on, the frost creeping into his bones. Go and get him another lambskin coat then! No use, he goes on shivering, shuddering, shaking with the cold. Get him the sealskin coat, and fetch the mink fur coat and the musk and the bluefox and wolf! There's a pretty heap of fur coats, almost a mountain of them, there's not much left free of his face, but there doesn't need to be after all, as you can clearly hear the chattering of teeth, and the whole heap is trembling, shaking, quaking.
The team grabs Frozenhill by his chair and runs away with him. Now the audience bursts out into an enthusiastic, frenetic and ecstatic applause. Slow-hand clap, fast-hand clap. The staff helpers are running to rescue Frozenhill beneath his pile of fur coats. It's obvious to everybody that over there, a heated trailer is waiting for the freezobat, ready to warm him up. They have to get there before it's too late!
All the people are recovering from their astonishment. Good Heavens! What an experience! What a daring feat! How marvellous! Just extraordinary! It was something living worth for. They rush back into the water lightheartedly. They're panting, letting go of the shocking experience. Somebody suffers a heart attack, from rushing into the water too hastily. The ambulance takes him away. People fight for their beer, and the ice cream man charges 1000 Forints for a single cone! Taking a quick look into his empty purse, Humphrey Mumbler still spellbound, mumbles to himself: 'I can do without that ice cream.' Plodding homewards, he's pondering: 'What an experience! What a feat!' You can bet he's not running this time. It's as if he wouldn't even know what running is.
Meanwhile, Chilly Shiver Frozenhill is cooling down in his air conditioned trailer. The clobber and the duds have been peeled off him. The staff is drying the sweat off his body.
'How was I like?' he's asking in a puffed up manner not really waiting for an answer. Still stuff in one voice cry out:
'­Maestro, you did a brilliant job! Splendid! Magnificent! They were beside themselves! They were mad about you! We made more money than ever before!'
Chilly Shiver Frozenhill, whose real name is Duarf Gubmuh, is smiling conceitedly.
Winter has come. Chilly Shiver Frozenhill is sitting in one of the fifty spacious rooms in his villa, logs glowing in the fireplace. From the top of Lillyhill the Maestro has a good look over the snow covered woods at the lights of Europe, a sight which fills him with satisfaction and he rubs his hands together.
And Humphrey Mumbler is lying wearily on the floor of his cottage which is open to every blast of wind, and thinks about his unpaid rent. The iron stove is a reproachful blackness. It's colder with it, than without. We all know that the money he put aside for firewood like the rest, went up in smoke. 'It was worth it, though' he thinks, as if to convince himself. Humphrey Mumbler is hungrily listening to the wind whistling through the trees. He shivers, shudders, trembles.
'But this is too easy, it's no big deal.' he thinks. 'There's no artistry to being cold in winter.'
And poor granny can wait, she won't get that shawl for Christmas.
Translated by Márta Fogarasi