Gyurkovicsin tytöt

A bright spring summons a reluctant city lawyer to become godfather to a half‑year‑old child born into a stubbornly old‑world pagan household. The narrator’s hurried preparations—an over‑sized wooden horse, a nickel‑plated carriage, even a gold coin for the priest—lead him onto a rattling train that slides through sun‑lit fields of wheat and mustard, past bustling stations where farmwomen in fur scarves chatter with Turkish‑dressed peasants. Along the way, Herczeg paints the Hungarian countryside with a wry, observant eye, turning everyday encounters into vivid, slightly absurd vignettes that sparkle with humor and a hint of satire.

As the train pulls into a modest village, the godfather finds himself surrounded by a curious mix of modest cottages and grand manor roofs, while three lively young women in bright dresses stride confidently across the platform, drawing amused glances from travelers, policemen and the narrator alike. Their carefree demeanor contrasts sharply with the nervous shepherds and the impatient priest, hinting at the social quirks and hidden tensions the newcomer will have to navigate. The opening promises a colorful journey through rural life, where sharp dialogue and keen observation reveal both the charm and the absurdities of a world caught between tradition and modernity.