Egy krajcár története

In a shadow-bent Budapest that still smells of gas-lamp and coal-dust, an almost weightless copper coin—a single krajcár—slips from a calloused palm into the Danube’s oily swirl and, like a demonic skipping-stone, ricochets through a dozen destinies. It rattles across the tongue of a consumptive printer who trades it for a splash of plum pálinka, then lands in the silk-gloved hand of Böske T. Oláh’s bohemian seamstress, who stitches it inside a fraying corset as a talisman against heartbreak. The coin becomes the eye of a needle through which threadbare lives are re-sewn: a syphilitic journalist (Ferenc Szécsi) scribbles his last column on its surface with a rusty nib; a widowed trolley-driver (László Z. Molnár) grinds it under his boot heel to keep from hurling himself before his own tram; a night-court judge (Gyula Köváry) flips it to decide whether a starving boy will be jailed for stealing bread. Each transaction leaves a fingerprint of soot or blood, so that by the time the krajcár clinks back into daylight it has become a miniature mirror of the city’s collective soul—scratched, blackened, yet stubbornly glinting. Karinthy’s script refuses linear fate: the coin travels backward via flashback, forward via premonition, sideways into Expressionist dream-scenes where Budapest’s bridges fold like paper fans. The final image—an orphan girl skipping rope while the krajcár, now holed and strung as a pendant, flashes against her collarbones—feels less like closure than like a wound that learns to sing.