Irimiás waited for everyone to return to their chairs, returned to his own, stood there, cleared his throat, threw out his arms in a gesture of emotion, then let them drop helplessly to his sides, raising his slightly tearful eyes to the ceiling. Behind the deeply moved company, the Horgos family — now quite isolated from the others — stared at each other, helplessly confused. The landlord was emotionally scrubbing the top of the counter with his drying-up cloth, polishing the cake tray and the glasses, then sat back on his stool but, however he tried, he could not tear his eyes away from the great pile of money in front of Irimiás.
Now, my most dear friends . . . What can I say! Our paths have crossed by chance but fate demands that, from this hour on, we stick together, inseparably together . . . Though I worry for you, ladies and gentlemen, on account of the chance you are taking. I must confess your trust moves me . . . it feels good to be the subject of an affection of which I do not feel myself worthy . . . But let’s not forget how we have arrived in this situation! Let’s not forget! Let us always remember, let us never forget, the cost! What a cost! Ladies and gentlemen! I hope you will agree with me when I suggest that a small part of this sum, this money in front of me, should cover the cost of the funeral, so that the unfortunate mother might be saved the burden — as a gesture to the child who went to her final sleep most certainly for us or because of us . . . Because, in the end, it is impossible to decide whether it was for us, or because of us that she died. We cannot prove the case either way. But the question will remain in our hearts for ever, as will the child’s memory, a child whose life might have been lost for this precise purpose . . . so that the star that governs our lives might rise at last . . . Who knows, my friends . . . But life is harsh, and it has dealt harshly with us in this matter.
V.
The Distance, As Seen
For years after, Mrs. Halics would insist that as Irimiás, Petrina and the “demon child” who had in the end attached himself to them, disappeared down the road leading to town in the pattering rain, leaving those that remained standing silently around in front of the bar because the figure of their savior had not quite vanished in the bend of the road, the air above their heads was suddenly filled with brightly colored butterflies. Where they came from no one knew but you could clearly hear the gentle angelic music from on high. And though she was perhaps alone in such an opinion, this much was certain: they had only just begun to believe in what had happened, and were only now capable of realizing that they weren’t the subject of some lulling but false vision with a bitter awakening to follow, but an enthusiastic, specially chosen band that had just passed through the painful process of liberation; and as long as they could still see Irimiás, recall his clear instructions, and be cheered by his words of encouragement, they could keep at bay the fear that something terrible might happen at any moment, something that might sweep away their fragile sense of victory and leave it utterly in tatters, for they also knew that, once he had gone, the glowing sparks of enthusiasm could quickly turn to ashes; and so, in order that the time should seem longer between striking the agreement and the farewells that would inevitably follow, they had tried to delay Irimiás and Petrina’s departure by a variety of artful distractions; by discussing the weather, or complaining about their rheumatism, or opening new bottles of wine, babbling all the while — as if their lives depended on it — about the general corruption of life. And so it was understandable that they could breathe freely only once Irmimiás had gone, for he embodied not only the promise of a bright future, but also the fear of disaster: no wonder that it was only after he had gone that they dared truly believe that from now on “everything would be right as rain’, and also only now that they could relax, let joy sweep over them, allaying their anxiety, and enjoy the sudden dizzying sense of liberation that could overcome even the usual “sense of apparently inevitable doom.” Their boundless good cheer only increased when waving farewell to the landlord (‘Serves you right, you old miser!” — shouted Kráner) who was leaning, exhausted, against the doorframe, his arms crossed, with rings under his eyes, watching the merry chattering band as they moved away, and capable — after having exhausted his self-consuming fury, long-simmering hatreds and the agony of his sheer helplessness — was capable of nothing more than shouting after them: “Drop dead, you miserable, ungrateful bunch of bastards!” He had spent the night awake plotting ways — all ineffective, all flawed — of getting rid of Irimiás who had had the nerve to take over even his bed, so while he was debating with bloodshot eyes whether to stab him, strangle him, poison him, or simply chop him into pieces with his axe, “the hook-nosed swine” was happily snoring at the back of the store, not taking the least bit of notice. Talking had proved useless too, utterly useless, though he had done everything possible, in anger, in fury, in warning, or simply by pleading, to dissuade “these ignorant bumpkins” from this guaranteed disaster of a plan, a disaster that would destroy them all, but it was like talking to a brick wall (‘Come to your senses, dammit! Can’t you see he’s leading you by the nose?!’), so there was nothing for it, but to curse the whole world and admit the humiliating truth that he was ruined once and for all. For “what’s the point of staying in business for one drunken pig and one old tramp” — what could he do except gather up his belongings and to do what everyone else was doing, to leave, to move back into his house in town, and hope to sell the bar, maybe even make some use of the spiders. “I could offer to sell them to someone for use in some scientific experiment; who knows, I might even get a bit of money for them,” he pondered. “But that would be just a drop in the ocean . . . The fact is I have no idea how to start over again from scratch,” he sadly admitted. The intensity of his disappointment was only matched by the intensity of Mrs. Horgos’s delight at his despair. Having surveyed “this whole idiotic ritual” with a sour expression, she had returned to the bar, to mock the landlord behind his counter. “You see. Just look at you! The horse has bolted, all right!” The landlord controlled himself but he’d happily have kicked her. “That’s the way it goes,” she went on. “Now up, now down. You’d better get used to it and accept it. See where all your bright ideas have got you? A lovely house in town, a car, your lady wife — but that’s not enough for you. So now you can choke on it!” “Shut up with your cackling,” the landlord growled back. “Go home and do your cackling there!” Mrs. Horgos downed her beer and lit a cigarette. “My husband was just like you, never satisfied. Nothing was ever good enough for him, not no how. By the time he realized his mistake it was too late. There was nothing left but to hang himself in the attic.” “Why don’t you just shut up!” the landlord snapped back. “Stop hassling me! Go home and look after your daughters before they run off too!” “Them?” Mrs. Horgos grinned. “Forget it. You think I’m simple or something? I’ve locked them up at home till this bunch on the estate are safely away. Why not? They’d leave me in my old age to look after myself. This way they can carry on looking after the farm — they’ve done enough whoring, after all. They might not like it, but they’ll get used to it. It’s only the kid, Sanyi. I’m cutting him loose. He can go where he likes. I can’t see any use for him at home anyway. He eats like a pig. I can’t support him. Let him go — wherever he wants. One less thing to worry about.” “You and Kerekes can do what you like,” growled the landlord. “But it’s all over for me. That rat-faced bastard has ruined me for good.” He knew that by evening, when he had finished packing — because until then nothing else could go in the van apart from the coffin, not next to it, not behind it, not on the seats, anywhere — once he had carefully locked all the doors and windows and was driving to town in his battered old Warszawa, cursing all the while, he wouldn’t be looking back, wouldn’t turn round once, but would vanish as fast as he could and try to wipe all trace of this miserable building from his memory, hoping it would sink from sight, and be entirely covered up, so that not even stray dogs would stop to piss on it; that he would vanish precisely the way the mob fro
m estate had vanished, vanish without a last look at those moss-covered tiles, the crooked chimney, and the barred windows because, having turned the bend and passed beneath the old sign indicating the name of the estate, feeling elated by their “brilliant future prospects’, they trusted the new would not only replace the old but utterly erase it. They had decided to meet by the old engine house in two hours at the latest, because they wanted to get to Almássy Manor while it was still light, and in any case that seemed ample enough time to pack their most important belongings, for what was the point of dragging stupid bits of bric-a-brac with you for ten or so miles, particularly when they knew they wouldn’t lack for anything once they got there. Mrs. Halics had suggested they start straightaway, not bothering with anything, leaving it all behind to start in the spirit of Christian poverty, since “we are already blessed and well-provided for with the Bible!” but the others — chiefly Halics — eventually convinced her that it was desirable to take at least a few basic personal necessities. They parted excitedly and feverishly set to packing, the three women going through their wardrobes first then emptying kitchens and pantries, while Schmidt, Kráner and Halics’s first thoughts were for their tool cupboards sorting out essentials, then checking everything else with eagle eyes in case the women in their carelessness had left “anything valuable behind.” The two bachelors had the easiest job of it: all their possessions fit into two large suitcases: unlike the headmaster who packed fast but very selectively, constantly bearing in mind the idea of making “the best use of whatever the new place offers.” Futaki quickly threw his belongings into the old suitcases left to him by his father and, quick as lightning, snapped the locks shut — it was like locking a genie back in its bottle — then put them in a pile and sat on them, lighting a cigarette with his trembling hand. Now that there was nothing left to remind him of his personal presence; now that, cleared of his clutter, the place that enclosed him was bare and cold; having packed, he felt he had left no sign that he had ever been part of this world, no shred of evidence that might have proved he once existed here. But however many days, weeks, months, perhaps years of hope lay before him — since he was quite sure his lot was finally cast for the better — squatting on his baggage now, in this drafty, foul-smelling place (of which he could no longer say, “I live here” though he was in no position to answer the question, “If not here, where?’), he found it ever harder to resist an increasingly suffocating sense of sadness. His bad leg was aching so he got off the suitcases and carefully lay down on his wire bed. For a few minutes he was overcome by sleep, then, having suddenly awoken with a fright, he clumsily tried to leap off the bed and his bad leg got caught on a gap between the wires so he almost fell flat on his face. He cursed and lay down again, putting his feet up on the bedstead and examined the cracked ceiling for a while with a melancholy expression, before propping himself up on his elbows and making a survey of the bleak room. Doing so, he understood why he had, time and time again, put off the idea of making the decision to leave: he had rid himself of the one single security in his life and now he had nothing left; and, as before he hadn’t had the guts to stay, so now he lacked the guts to leave, because having packed up for good, it was as if he had denied himself even greater possibilities, and had simply exchanged one trap for another. If, up until now, he had been a prisoner of the engine house and the estate, now he was subject to — in fact being exploited by — mere chance; and if he had until now dreaded the day when he wouldn’t know how to open the door anymore and the window would allow no more light in, now he had sentenced himself to be the prisoner of some eternal momentum, a momentum he might equally well lose. “Another minute and I’ll be on my way.” He allowed himself some slight delay, and felt for the cigarette pack by the bed. He bitterly recalled the words spoken by Irimiás by the door of the bar (‘From today, my friends, you are free!’) because right now he was feeling anything but free and though time was pressing he was quite incapable of making up his mind to leave. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his “needless” worries by imagining his future life, but instead of being calmed he was seized by anxiety to such an extent that he had to mop drops of sweat from his brow. Because however he willed his imagination to move on it was the same image that kept recurring time after time: he saw himself on the road in his ragged old coat and a torn carrier bag, trampling exhausted through the rain, then stopping and indecisively turning back home again. “Stop it!” he growled at himself in desperation. “Enough of this, Futaki!” He got up from bed, tucked his shirt back into his trousers, threw on his heavily worn overcoat and strapped the handles of his baggage together. He carried them outside under the eaves then — not seeing anyone else — set off to hurry the others. He was about to knock on the door of the Kráners, his nearest neighbors, when he heard a great clattering inside, as if several heavy objects had collapsed. He retreated a few steps because at first he thought there was a problem. But when he was about to try knocking again he could clearly hear Mrs. Kráner’s gurgling laugh, then the sound, first of a plate, then of a mug being broken on stones. “What the hell are they up to?” He looked through the kitchen window, shading his eyes with his hand. He couldn’t believe what he saw: Kráner, just raising a heavy-duty cauldron above his head, threw it with all his might against the door. In the meantime Mrs. Kráner was tearing the curtains from the back windows facing the yard before motioning the out-of-control Kráner to get out of the way and then dragging the empty sideboard away from the wall and effortfully pushing it over. The sideboard hit the stone flagging of the kitchen floor with a mighty crash. One side of it came away and Kráner kicked the rest to pieces. Then Mrs. Kráner climbed on top of the already broken pile in the center of the kitchen and, with one great yank, tore the tin light fixture from the ceiling, swung it above her head and Futaki had only just enough time to dive before it was flying towards him, crashing through the window, rolling a few yards and landing under a bush. “Hey! What are you doing?” Kráner shouted at him when he finally managed to inch the window open. “Good God!” screamed Mrs. Kráner behind him, watching pale faced as Futaki cursed, got up, leaned on his stick and carefully shook the splinters of glass off his clothes. “You’re not cut, are you?” “I came to get you,” muttered Futaki, frowning: “But if I’d known this would be my reception I’d have stayed at home.” Mrs. Kráner was dripping with sweat and however she tried she couldn’t get rid of the look on her face, clearly intent on havoc. “Well, serves you right for peeping!” she retorted with a malicious grin. “Never mind. Come in, if you can, and we’ll have a drink to make up!” Futaki nodded, beat the mud from his boots, and by the time he had succeeded in scrambling over parts of an enormous broken mirror, a dented oil-stove and a shattered wardrobe in the hall, Mrs. Kráner had filled three glasses. “So what do you think?” Kráner asked with great satisfaction. “Nice work, eh?” “You should leave your things in one piece,” Futaki replied, clinking glasses with Mrs. Kráner. “I’m not going to leave them for a bunch of gypsies to take away, am I? I’d sooner smash it all!” Kráner explained. “I see,” Futaki cautiously answered, thanked them for the pálinka, and quickly left. He cut across the ridge dividing two rows of houses but took better care at the Schmidts’ house, taking a sly look in at the kitchen window first. But there was nothing threatening here, only the wreckage, with Schmidt and his wife sitting exhausted on top of an overturned cupboard. “Has everyone lost their minds! What the hell has got into these people?” He tapped at the glass and gave the confused, round-eyed Mrs. Schmidt a wave to say they should hurry up because it was time to go; then started towards the gate but stopped after a few steps because he spotted the headmaster carefully creeping over the ridge, entering the Kráners’ yard and peeping through their broken window, then — still thinking he wasn’t seen by anyone (Futaki was hidden by the Schmidts’ gate) he set off back to his own house, uncertainly at first, but then on his arrival, slamming the entrance door over and over again, ever more forcefully. �
��What’s got into him? Have they all gone crazy?” Futaki wondered in astonishment, leaving the Schmidts’s yard, walking slowly towards the headmaster’s house. The headmaster was slamming his door ever more furiously, as if trying to work himself into a hysterical state, then, seeing he was having no success, lifted the door off its hinges, stepped back two paces then, using all his strength, smashed it against the wall. But this was still not enough to break the door so he jumped on it and kept kicking it until only a single plank of wood remained. If he hadn’t happened to glance back and see the grimacing figure of Futaki he might have started smashing whatever furniture was still in one piece inside the house; but, having seen him, he was deeply embarrassed, straightened his heavy grey coat and gave Futaki an uncertain smile. “Ah, you see . . .” But Futaki made absolutely no reply. “You know how it is. And besides . . .” Futaki shrugged. “Obviously. All I want to know is when will you be ready. The others have finished packing.” The headmaster cleared his throat. “Me? Well, I’m ready now. I just have to stack my baggage on the Kráners’ cart.” “Good. You can sort that out with them.” “It’s already settled. It cost me two bottles of pálinka. If things were different I’d make more fuss about it, but sine we have, I suppose, a long journey before us . . .” “Obviously. It’s worth it,” Futaki assured him then said goodbye and set off back to the engine house. The headmaster meanwhile — it was just as if he had been waiting for Futaki to turn his back — spat through the open doorway, picked up a brick and took aim at the kitchen window, and when Futaki, hearing the glass break, suddenly turned round, the headmaster dusted off his coat, and pretending not to have heard anything, he tried to look as though he were busying himself with the broken bits of wood that lay about him. Half an hour later they were all at the engine house ready to go, with the exception of Schmidt (he having drawn Futaki aside in attempt to explain whatever had happened, saying, “You know, friend, it would never have occurred to me to do that. It was just that a saucepan fell off the table and the rest just sort of followed.’) it was only the flushed faces and the eyes sparkling with satisfaction that betrayed the fact that, for the others, “the leave-taking had gone pretty well.” On top of the headmaster’s two suitcases, most of the Halicses possessions fitted easily on the Kráners’ small two-wheeled handcart and the Schmidts had their own cart, so there was no need to worry that the journey would be slowed down by the weight of luggage. So there they were, all ready to go, and they would have started, had there been anyone to give the word. Everyone was waiting for someone else, so they just stood about in silence, staring at the estate in increasing confusion, because now, on the point of departure, they all felt some proper “words of farewell” to be appropriate, a matter in which they were most likely to trust Futaki but he, having witnessed all those incomprehensible acts of destruction, struggled for words, and by the time he found some that might do for an “in some way ceremonial” address, Halics had got fed up of waiting, grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow and grunted, “Right!” Kráner was in front pulling the cart behind him, leading the parade, Mrs. Kráner and Mrs. Halics supported the luggage on either side to prevent a suitcase or shopping bag being shaken off and close behind them followed Halics, pushing his wheelbarrow, the rear being brought up by the Schmidts. They passed through the old main gate of the estate and for a good while only the creaking of the wheelbarrow and cart’s wheels could be heard, because, apart from Mrs. Kráner — who really couldn’t hold her tongue for long and made frequent remarks about whatever happened to be the state of the luggage piled on their cart — not one of them was up to breaking the silence, if only because it was hard getting used to the peculiar blend of excitement, enthusiasm, and tension about their unknown future, a blend that only deepened the anxiety about their ability, after two long sleepless nights, to withstand the hardships of a long journey. But none of this lasted very long because they were all reassured by the fact that the rain had been light for hours and that they didn’t expect the weather to take a turn for the worse, and because it became progressively more difficult not to give vent to their sense of relief and pride at their own heroic decision in words that anyone setting out on an adventure finds hard to contain. Kráner would happily have given a great whoop as soon as they hit the metalled road and set out in the direction away from town, leading to Almássy Manor, for the moment that the march got under way, the frustration of decades — only half an hour ago still oppressing him — utterly vanished and though the contemplative mood of his companions restrained him right until they reached the entrance to the Hochmeiss estate, his high spirits eventually got the better of him and he cried out in joy: “Damn those years of misery! We’ve done it! We’ve done it friends! My dear friends! We’ve finally done it!” He stopped his cart, turned round to face the others and slapping his hand against his thigh, cried out again: “See here, friends! The misery is over! Can you believe it?! Do you get it, woman?!” He leapt over to Mrs. Kráner, picked her up as he would a child and spun her round as fast as he could, as long as he had the breath, then let her down, fell into her arms, and kept saying over and over: “I told you! I told you!” But by that time “the tide of feeling” had burst in the others too: Halics was first, fluently cursing heaven and earth, before turning to face the estate to shake a threatening fist at it, then Futaki went up to the still grinning Schmidt and, in a voice trembling with emotion, simply said, “My dear friend . . . !’; meanwhile the headmaster was enthusiastically explaining things to Mrs. Schmidt (‘Didn’t I tell you we should never give up hope! We have to believe, I say, believe unto death! Where would doubt have brought us? Tell me where?’) while she, being just about capable of containing the tide of undiluted happiness welling up inside her but unwilling to draw attention to herself, forced an uncertain smile; and Mrs. Halics, tipped her head back, cast her eyes up to heaven and, in a hoarse, tremulous voice, kept repeating “Blessed be Thy name” at least until the rain falling on her face prevented her, and in any case she’d noticed by then that she couldn’t out-shout this “Godless crew.” “Hey people!” Mrs. Kráner bellowed “let’s drink to this!” and produced a bottle from one of her shopping bags. “God damn it! Well, you really have prepared for a new life!” Halics rejoiced and was quick to stand behind Kráner so that he might be first in the line, but the bottle followed a completely arbitrary path from mouth to mouth and, before he realized it, there was just a mouthful left at the bottom. “Don’t look so mournful, Lajos!” Mrs. Kráner whispered to him, even giving him a wink. “There’ll be more, you’ll see.” After this there was no coping with Halics: it was as if he’d grown immeasurably lighter, and he started wildly dashing back and forth with his wheelbarrow, only calming down a little once he caught the eye of Mrs. Kráner a few yards away, and she gave him back a look as if to say, “Not yet . . .” His great cheer naturally egged on the others and so, though they continually had to be adjusting now this bag, now that, piled on one or other of the carts, they made pretty good progress and soon they had left the little bridge of the old irrigation canal behind them and could see in the distance the great pylons carrying high-tension cables with the wires sagging and undulating between then. Futaki occasionally joined in the general chatter though it was he who found the march the most trying, since he had strapped his heavy suitcases — suitcases that, despite Kráner and Schidt’s best efforts, proved impossible to fit on any of the carts — to his shoulders which made it extra hard for him to keep up with the others, not to mention the trouble of his lame leg which cost him even more effort. “I wonder how they’ll cope,” he pondered. “Who?” Schmidt asked. “Well, Kerekes, for example.” “Kerekes!” Kráner shouted as he turned back. “Don’t go bothering your head on his account. Yesterday he went home, threw himself on his bed and, provided the bed hasn’t collapsed under him, I don’t suppose he’ll wake until tomorrow. He’ll grunt and grumble at the bar for a while then he’ll head off to Mrs. Horgos’s for a good time. They’re as like as two peas
in a pod, those two.” “No doubt of that!” Halics interrupted. “They’ll get thoroughly smashed! You think they care about anything else? Mrs. Horgos had the mourning gear off the next day . . .” “I’ve just thought!” Mrs. Kráner butted in. “What happened to the great Kelemen? He vanished on the sly — I never saw him.” “Kelemen? My bosom buddy?” Kráner grinned back. “He skipped it yesterday, after lunch. He’s had a bad time, he-he-he! I got the better of him first, then he took on Irimiás, the idiot. Well, he took on a bit too much there because Irimiás didn’t stand for any of his nonsense, and told him to fuck off as soon as started moaning on about this, that and the other, telling Irimiás what should be done, that the whole bunch of us should be in the clink, and that he himself deserved something a little better than the rest, that kind of stuff! Then he grabbed his things and fucked off without another word. What really finished him off, I think, was when he waved his volunteer police armband at Irimiás, and Irimiás told him to, pardon me, go wipe his ass with it.” “I wouldn’t say I missed the bastard much,” Schmidt noted.. “But I could certainly do with his cart.” “I can well believe that. But how would we cope with him? That man would pick a quarrel with a shark!” Mrs. Kráner made a sudden stop. “Wait!” Kráner stopped the cart in fright. “Listen everyone! What are we thinking of?!” “Go on, tell us,” Kráner agitated: “What’s the problem?” “The doctor.” “What’s with the doctor!?” They fell quiet. “Well,” the woman began hesitantly, “well . . . I never said as much as a word to him! Surely! . . .” “Come on, woman!” Kráner turned on her: “I thought there was something really wrong? Why are you bothered about the doctor?” “I’m sure he would have come. He’ll starve to death by himself. I know him — how could I fail to know him after all these years? I know he’s just like a child — if I didn’t put food in front of him, he’d starve. Then there’s the pálinka. And the cigarettes. The dirty clothes. Give it a week or two and the rats will have eaten him.” “Don’t play the Good Samaritan with us,” Schmidt angrily retorted. “If you’re so keen on him, go back! I don’t miss him! Not a bit! I think he’ll be happy as hell not to be seeing us . . .” Then Mrs. Halics joined in: “Quite right! We should praise the Lord that that particular slave of Satan has not come with us! He’s definitely one of Satan’s, I’ve known that a long time!” Everyone having stopped, Futaki lit a cigarette, and offered them round. “All the same, it’s strange,” he said. “Didn’t he notice anything?” Mrs. Schmidt, who hadn’t said a word till then, now came up and spoke. “That man is like a mole. No, worse than that! At least a mole puts his head up above ground now and then. But it’s like the doctor wanted to be buried alive. It’s weeks since I’ve seen him . . .” “For heaven’s sake!” Kráner exclaimed in delight. “He’s perfectly all right! Every day he gets nicely drunk and has a good snore because there’s nothing else for him to do. We needn’t feel sorry for him! I wouldn’t mind having his maternal inheritance in my pocket right now! And in any case, we’ve been standing round here long enough. Let’s get going or we’ll never get there!” But Futaki was still not satisfied. “He sits the whole day by the window. How couldn’t he have noticed?” he thought uneasily, and leaning on his stick, set off after Kráner. “He couldn’t have failed to hear that racket! And everyone milling about, all the carts, all the shouting. . . . Well, I suppose it’s possible he might have slept through it all. It was Mrs. Kráner who spoke to him last, the day before yesterday, and there was certainly no problem then. In any case, Kráner is right, everyone should mind their own business. If he wants to meet his maker there, that’s fine by me. But I’ll lay a bet on it that — in a day or two, when he hears what’s happened, and thinks it over — he’ll just pull himself together and follow the rest of us. He couldn’t exist without us there.” After half a mile or so the rain started to come down more heavily and they went on their way grumbling as the bare acacias on either side of the road thinned out: it was as if their life-supply was slowly vanishing. Further on there were still fewer trees remaining on the rain-sodden earth; then not a tree, not even a crow. The moon had risen in the sky, its pale disc just about visible as it filtered through a solemn mass of unmoving cloud. Another hour, they realized, and it would be dusk, then night would suddenly fall. But they couldn’t walk any faster, and when exhaustion hit them, it hit them hard. Passing the storm-ravaged tin figure of Christ at Csüd, Mrs. Halics suggested a brief rest (as well as a quick Our Father . . . ) and they angrily rejected the thought, convinced that, if they stopped now, they’d hardly have the strength to start again. It was in vain for Kráner to try to cheer them up with a few memorable incidents (‘You remember when the landlord’s wife broke her wooden spoon on her husband’s ass?” or “You remember how Petrina once salted that ginger cat’s, begging your pardon, asshole?’): rather than cheering up, they started cursing Kráner because he wouldn’t stop talking. “Anyway!” Schmidt fumed, “who told him he’s in charge around here? What’s he doing bossing me about? I’ll have a word with Irimiás and tell him to feed his balls to the sharks, he’s been so full of himself recently. . . .” And when Kráner wouldn’t give it up, and had another go at lightening their spirits (‘Let’s rest for a minute and have a drink. Every drop is pure gold and we didn’t get it from the landlord either!’), they grabbed at the bottle so impatiently it was as if Kráner had been trying to hide it from them. Futaki couldn’t resist joining in. “You’re full of cheer all right. I wonder if you’d be so damn cheerful if you were lame and had to drag these two suitcases around . . . ?” “You think this lousy cart is easy work?” Kráner threw back at him: “I’ve no idea what to do when it falls to pieces on the damn road!” Insulted, he fell silent and from that time on spoke to no one but dragged the cart along, keeping his eyes on the road at his feet. Mrs. Halics was silently cursing Mrs. Kráner because she was as sure as could be that she wasn’t doing anything useful on the other side of the cart; Halics cursed Kráner and Schmidt every time he thought of his aching hands because “Of course it’s easy for them to be chatting away . . .” But it was Mrs. Schmidt who was the particular bugbear for everyone because now — if not before — it seemed obvious to them that she had been strangely silent ever since they set out, and what’s more — “Hang on! when I think back,” the same thought flashed through both Mrs. Kráner and Schmidt, “she has hardly said a word since Irimiás arrived . . .” and then, “There’s something shady going on,” thought Mrs. Kráner. “Is something bothering her? Is she ill? Surely not! Ah, no — she knows what she’s doing. Irimiás must have said something to her when he called her into the storeroom last night . . . But what would he have wanted from her? After all, everyone knows what went on between them last time . . . But that was ages ago! How many years back?” “She thinks of nothing but Irimiás,” Schmidt uneasily continued: “The look she gave me when Mrs. Halics brought the news!.. Her look went straight through me! There can’t have been a way . . . ah, no. She’s not going to lose her head at this age. Yes, but . . . what if? She must know I’d wring her neck, just like that! No, she wouldn’t do it. In any case, she can’t possibly imagine that Irimiás fancies her now, her of all people! You’ve got to laugh. However much cologne she splashes on during the day she still smells like a pig. Oh yes, she’s just Irimiás’s type! He has more women than he can shake a stick at, each more gorgeous than the last, he’s not going to be lusting after a country goose like her. Ah, no . . . But then why are her eyes sparkling like that? Those two great cow’s eyes of her? . . . And how the hell does she have the gall to be making up to Irimiás, God blast her?! Well, of course, she makes up to anyone, it doesn’t matter who, as long he’s wearing trousers . . . Well, I’ll beat that out of her! If she didn’t learn last time, I don’t mind giving her another lesson. I’ll make her come to her senses, don’t you worry about that! May her tits dry up, the whore, and all the whores on this shithouse of a planet!” Futaki found the pace ever harder, the straps of his cases had rubbed his shoulders so r
aw they were bleeding. His bones seemed to be made of fire and when his bad leg got painful again he fell a long way behind the others though they didn’t even notice until Schmidt turned round and shouted at him (‘What’s up with you? We’re going slow enough as it is without you dragging us down’) because he was growing increasingly furious with Kráner for “playing the big chief’, and so he grunted at Mrs. Schmidt to keep up, while he himself began to scurry ahead on his tiny legs. He quickly caught up with Kráner’s cart and stood at the head of the procession. “Go on then, rush ahead!” Kráner silently raged: “We’ll soon see who can last!” “For heaven’s sake, friends . . . Don’t be in such a hurry! These blasted boots are playing havoc with my heels, every step is agony!” “Don’t go sniveling,” Mrs. Halics hissed at him, What’s there to blub about? Why don’t you show them what a real man you are, right here instead of just in the pub!” Hearing this, Halics clenched his teeth, and tried to keep step with Kráner who was now in a private race with Schmidt, the two bitterly competing, first one then the other leading the procession. And so Futaki got ever more left behind and once the distance had increased to two hundred yards or so he simply stopped trying to keep up. He tried more and more ways of carrying the load of his ever-heavier cases, but however he adjusted the straps the pain wouldn’t go away. So he decided not to torture himself any further and when he spotted an acacia with a broader trunk he turned off the road and, just as he was, baggage and all, he collapsed in the mud. He leaned against the trunk and spent the next few minutes painfully gasping for air before removing the straps and stretching his legs. He reached into his pocket for a light but suddenly sleep overcame him. He woke needing to piss, so he struggled to his feet but his legs were numb and he immediately collapsed again, and was only successful on the second attempt of rising and staying on his feet. “What idiots we are . . .” he grumbled aloud, and having relieved himself, sat back down on one of the suitcases. “We should have listened to Irimiás. He told us to wait, and what did we do? We had to move right away! That very evening! Now here I am sitting in the mud, dog tired . . . As if it made any difference whether we started today, tomorrow or in a week’s time . . . Irimiás might have got hold of a truck by then! But no, that’s not what we do, oh no! Do it right now! . . . Right away! . . . Its chiefly Kráner’s fault! . . . But never mind . . . it’s too late to be sorry. We’re not that far away now.” He pulled out a cigarette and took a first deep lungful. He was already feeling better though still a little dizzy and had a dull constant headache. He stretched his stiff limbs again, rubbed his numb legs, then started scratching the ground in front of him with his stick. It was growing towards dusk. The road was barely visible now but Futaki felt calm: you couldn’t lose your way since the road went precisely as far as Almássy Manor and in any case over the years he had often made this journey because he had acted as a kind of funeral director for redundant machine parts, it being his task, among others, to remove ruined, no longer usable components and deposit them in the building that even then was in poor condition. “And when you think about it,” he suddenly thought, “there is something else very strange about all this. I mean take this manor for a start. No doubt back in the count’s time, it must have looked pretty good. But now? The last time I saw it the rooms were covered in weeds, the wind had blown the tiles off the tower, there wasn’t a window or door intact, and even the floor was missing in places so you could see through to the cellar. . . . Best not to interfere, of course. . . . Irimiás is the boss, and he’ll know why he picked the manor! Perhaps it’s the very fact that it’s so isolated that makes it the best place . . . because, after all, there isn’t even a farm nearby, nothing. . . . Who knows? It might be because of that.” He didn’t want to risk using a match since it would be hard to light in the damp weather so he lit the new cigarette using the still glowing end of the old one but he didn’t throw the stub away yet, holding it between cramped fingers for a while because the slight warmth it gave out felt good. And then this whole thing . . . that business yesterday . . . “However I try, I still don’t understand it . . . Because he’d be confident that we knew him well enough. So why all the clowning? Talking like an evangelist preacher . . . You could see he was suffering as much as we were . . . I don’t understand. He would have known what we wanted! And he’d have known the only reason we went along with all that nonsense about the idiot child was because we wanted him to say, “OK, enough of all this! Here I am, boys and girls. What’s all this moaning and groaning about? Let’s pick ourselves up and do something clever for once. Any good ideas out there? . . .” But no. It was all “ladies and gentlemen” this and “ladies and gentlemen” that, and you are all miserable sinners . . . I mean, it’s beyond belief! And who knows whether he’s doing this in earnest or just messing around? There was no way of telling him to stop either. . . . And all that stuff about the retard. . . . So she ate a lot of rat poison, so what? It was probably the best thing for the sad creature, at least she’s spared more suffering. But what’s all that to do with me!? There’s her mother: it was her job to care for her! And then . . . all that frantic searching through bog and brake, the whole day in awful weather, combing every inch of the place till we find the miserable little thing! . . . It should have been that old witch, her mother, doing the searching. But that’s how it is. Who can understand Irimiás? No one! It’s just that . . . he wouldn’t have done this back then . . . I mean I didn’t know where to look, I was so surprised . . . He has certainly changed a lot, that’s for sure. Of course we don’t know what he’s been through in the last few years. But his hooknose, his checkered jacket and his red tie — that’s exactly the same! Everything’s OK.” He gave a relieved sigh, got up, picked up his bags, adjusted the straps on his shoulders then, leaning on his stick, set off down the road again. So that time might pass more quickly and to distract himself from the pain of the straps biting into his flesh, and lastly, because he was a little scared to be all alone here at the end of the world on a desolate road, he started singing, “How lovely thou art, our dear Hungary” but he had forgotten everything after the second line and so, because nothing else occurred to him he sang the national anthem. But the singing only left him feeling more lonely so he quickly stopped and held his breath. He seemed to hear a noise to his right . . . He began to walk more quickly, as far as that was possible given his bad leg. But then there was the sound of something cracking on the other side. . . .’What the hell is it . . . ?” He thought he’d better resume his singing after all. There wasn’t such a long way to go. And it would fill the time . . .
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