Satantango

by László Krasznahorkai

  Our father . . . um, our father

  which art there, art, art in the sky, er,

  in heaven, let us praise, er..hallowed be

  our lord Jesus Christ,

  no . . . let them praise . . . no, let us praise

  rather, let them praise Your name,

  and give us this . . . what I mean is,

  let everything be according to, er,

  whatever you want.. in earth as

  it is on earth . . . in heaven . . .

  or in hell, amen..

  III.

  The Distance, as Approached from the Other Side

  Quietly, continually, the rain fell and the inconsolable wind that died then was forever resurrected ruffled the still surfaces of puddles so lightly it failed to disturb the delicate dead skin that had covered them during the night so that instead of recovering the previous day’s tired glitter they increasingly and remorselessly absorbed the light that swam slowly out of the east. The trunks of the trees, the occasionally creaking branches, the sticky festering weeds, and even the “manor” — everything was sheathed in a refined but slimy gauze as though the elusive agents of darkness had marked them all out so that they might continue their work of corrosive, continual destruction the next night. When, far above the unbroken layers of cloud, the moon rolled unobserved down the western horizon and they peered blinking into the gaping hole that had once been the main entrance or through the high window cavities into the frozen light they slowly understood that something had changed, that something was not quite where it had been before dawn, and having understood this, they quickly realized that the thing they had secretly most feared had actually happened: that the dreams that had driven them forward the previous day were over, and it was time for the bitter awakening . . . Their first feelings of confusion gave way to a frightened acknowledgment of how stupid they had been to rush into “thing’; their departure having been the result not of sober calculation but of an evil impulse, and that because they had, in effect, burnt their bridges, there was no chance now of taking the sensible course and returning home. It was dawn, the most miserable of hours: their stiff limbs were still sore and there they were, shivering in the cold, their lips almost blue, foul smelling and hungry, struggling to their feet among the scraps of their possessions, forced to face the fact that the “manor” that only yesterday had seemed the fulfillment of their dreams, was today — in this pitiless light — simply a cold, relentless prison. Grumbling and ever more embittered, they roamed through the deserted halls of the moribund building, exploring in somber chaotic fashion the dismantled parts of rusted machinery and in the funereal silence the suspicion grew in them that they had been lured into a trap, that they were, all of them, naïve victims of a low plot to dump them there, homeless, deceived, robbed and humiliated. Mrs. Schmidt was the first that dawn to return to the miserable prospect of their makeshift beds; she sat down shivering on the crude bundles of their belongings and stared in disappointment at the light as it grew brighter. The eye make-up she had received from “him” as a present had smeared across her puffy face, her mouth was turned down in bitterness, her throat was dry, her stomach ached and she felt too weak even to attend to her tousled hair and crumpled clothes. Because it was all in vain: the memory of the few magical hours spent with “him” was not enough to allay her fear — especially now that it was plain that Irimiás had simply reneged on his promise — that all was lost now. . . . It wasn’t easy, but what else could she do: she tried to resign herself to the fact that Irimiás (“ . . . until this matter is finally closed . . . ’) would not be taking her away, and that her dream of disentangling herself from Schmidt’s “filthy paws” and taking her leave of this “stinking hole of a place” would have to be postponed for months, perhaps years (‘Good heavens, years! More years!’) but the terrible thought that even that might be a lie, that he was now over the fields and far away in search of new conquests, made her clench her fists. True, if she thought back to the previous night when she gave herself to Irimiás at the back of the storeroom, she had to admit that even now, at this most dreadful hour, it was no disappointment: those magnificent moments, those moments of extraordinary blissful satisfaction had to compensate for everything else; it was only the “betrayed love” and the crushing and besmirching of her “pure burning passion” that could never be forgiven! For after all, what could one expect when, despite the words whispered in secret at the moment of parting (‘Before dawn, for certain! . . . ’) it finally became clear that everything was “a filthy lie’!.. Without hope but still stubbornly longing, she gazed at the rain through the enormous gap where the main entrance had been, and her heart contracted, her entire body doubled up, and her tangled hair fell forward to cover her tortured face. But however she tried to concentrate on the thirst for revenge rather than on the agonizing sadness of resignation, it was the tender murmuring of Irimiás she kept hearing; it was his tall, broad, respect-demanding, solid body she kept seeing; the strong self-confident curve of his nose, the narrowing of his soft lips, the irresistible glow of his eyes, and time and again she felt his delicate fingers half-consciously playing with her hair, the warmth of his palms against her breasts and thighs, and every time she heard the slightest noise she imagined it might be him, so — when the others had returned and she saw the same bitter funereal expression on their faces as she felt on her own — the last weak barriers of her proud resistance were swept away by despair. “What will happen to me without him?! . . . For the love of God, . . . leave me if you must, but . . . but not now! Not yet! . . . Not just at this time! . . . An hour more! . . . A minute! . . . What do I care what he does to them, but. . . . Me! Not to me! . . . If nothing else make him allow me to be his lover! His handmaid! . . . His servant! What do I care! Let him kick me, beat me like a dog, just . . . this one time, let him come back just this one time! . . .” They sat by the wall, depressed, with humble packed meals in their laps, chewing away in the cold draft of ever brighter dawn. Outside, the shaggy pile that had once formed the bell tower of the chapel to the right of the “manor” — that’s when it still had a bell — gave a great creak and from within it came a suppressed rumbling sound, as if yet another floor had collapsed . . . There was no doubt about it now, they had to admit it was pointless to hang about any longer since Irimiás had promised to come “before daylight” and dawn was practically over. But not one of them dared break the silence or pronounce the appropriately grave words “We’ve been properly screwed over” because it was extraordinarily difficult to regard “our savior Irimiás” as “a filthy liar” and “a low thief’, not to mention the fact that what had happened was still something of a mystery . . . What if something unexpected had delayed him? . . . Maybe he was late because of the bad roads, because of the rain, or because . . . Kráner got up, went over to the gate, leaned against the damp wall, lit a cigarette and nervously scanned the path leading down from the metalled road, before furiously standing up and swiping at the air. He sat back in his place and spoke in an unexpectedly trembling voice. “Listen . . . I have a feeling . . . that. . . . we’ve been conned! . . .” Hearing this, even those who had been staring vacantly into space lowered their eyes. “I tell you, we’ve been conned!” Kráner repeated, raising his voice. Still nobody moved and his harsh words echoed menacingly in the frightened silence. “What’s the matter with you, are you all deaf?” screamed Kráner, quite beside himself, and leapt to his feet. “Nothing to say? Not a word?!” “I told you,” Schmidt cried out with a dark expression. “I told you right from the start!” His lips were trembling and he pointed an accusing finger at Futaki. “He promised,” Kráner ranted on, “he promised to build a new Eden! There! Have a good look! There’s our Eden! That’s what we’ve come to, damn the miserable scoundrel! He enticed us here, here to this waste land, while we . . . ! Fucking sheep! . . .” “While he,” Schmidt picked up the thread, “gleefully scuttles off in the opposite direction! Who knows where he is now? We could be looking fo
r him the rest of our lives! . . .” “And who knows in which bar he’s gambling away our money?!” “A whole year’s work!” Schmidt continued, his voice shaking. “A whole year of miserable scrimping and saving! I’m back where I was, without a penny again!” Kráner started stalking up and down like an animal in a cage, his fists clenched, giving more occasional swipes in the air. “But he’ll regret it! He’ll be damn sorry, the bastard! Kráner is not the sort of man to let such things go! I’ll find him if I have to look in every nook and cranny! And I swear I’ll strangle him with my bare hands. With these!” He held his hands up. Futaki raised a nervous hand. “Not so fast! Not so fast with that threat! What if he appears in a couple of minutes! Where’s all this ranting going to get you then? Eh?!!” Schmidt sprang to his feet. “You dare to open your mouth?! You dare to say a word?! Where’s that going to get us?! It’s you I have to thank for being robbed! Who else but you?!” Kráner went up to Futaki and looked deep into his eyes. “Wait!” said Futaki and took a deep breath. “All right! We’ll wait two minutes! Two entire minutes! And then we’ll see . . . what will be will be!” Kráner pulled Schmidt along with him and they stood together at the threshold of the main entrance, Kráner spreading his feet and swaying back and forth. “Well! So now we’re ready! And there he is, just coming,” Schmidt mocked, turning to Futaki. “You hear?! Here comes your savior! You poor bastard!” “Shut up!” Kráner interrupted him and squeezed Schmidt’s arm. “Let’s wait the full two minutes! Then we’ll see what he has to say, him and his big mouth!” Futaki rested his head on his knees. There was absolute silence. Mrs. Schmidt sat huddled in the corner, terrified. Halics gave a great gulp then, because he had some vague idea of what might happen, almost inaudibly said, “It’s really awful . . . that even at a time . . . like this . . . I mean, each other . . . !” The headmaster rose. “Gentlemen,” he addressed Kráner, trying to calm him: “What’s all this?! This is no solution! Think it over and — ” “Shut up, you ass!” Kráner hissed at him and seeing his threatening look the headmaster quickly sat down again. “So, friend?” Schmidt asked dully with his back to Futaki, gazing down the path. “Is the two minutes up yet?” Futaki raised his head and hugged his knees. “Tell me, what’s the point of this performance. Do you really think I can do anything about it?” Schmidt grew beetroot red. “So who convinced me in the bar? Huh?” and he slowly moved towards Futaki: “Who kept telling me I should take it easy because this and that and the other will be all right, eh?” “Are you out of your mind, buddy?” Futaki replied raising his own voice, beginning to twitch nervously. “Have you gone mad?” But Schmidt was in front of him by then so he couldn’t get up. “Give me my money back,” Schmidt snarled, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “You heard what I said!? Give me back my money!” Futaki pressed his back against the wall. “There’s no point in asking me for your money! Come to your senses!” Schmidt closed his eyes. “I’m asking you for the last time, give me my money!” “Listen everyone,” Futaki cried. “Get him away from me, he’s really gone — !” but he couldn’t finish what he was saying because Schmidt, with all his strength, kicked him in the face. Futaki’s head snapped back and for a second he sat absolutely still, the blood starting to gush from his nose, then slowly slipped to one side. By that time the women, Halics, and the headmaster had leapt over, twisted Schmidt’s arm behind his back, and then with great difficulty, not without a violent struggle, dragged him away. Kráner grinned nervously in the entrance, his arms crossed, then started moving towards Schmidt. Mrs. Schmidt, Mrs. Kráner and Mrs. Halics were screaming and fussing in terror around the unconscious Futaki, until Mrs. Schmidt pulled herself together, took a rag, ran out to the terrace, dipped it in a puddle and ran back with it. She knelt down by Futaki and started wiping his face, then turned on the weeping Mrs. Halics, shouting, “Instead of blubbering you could do something useful like fetching another rag, a bigger one, to soak up the blood!” . . . Futaki was slowly regaining consciousness and opened his eyes to stare blankly first at the sky, then at Mrs. Schmidt’s anxious face as she leaned over him. Feeling a sharp pain, he tried to sit up. “For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything, just lie still!” Mrs. Kráner shouted at him. “You’re still bleeding!” They laid him down again on the blanket and Mrs. Kráner tried to wash the blood off his clothes while Mrs. Halics knelt beside Futaki, quietly praying. “Get that witch away from me!” groaned Futaki. “I’m still alive . . .” Schmidt was gasping for breath in another corner, clearly confused, pressing his fists into his groin as if that were the only way he could keep himself from moving. “Really!” the headmaster shook his head as he stood together with Halics with his back to Schmidt to block his way in case he tried to attack Futaki again. “Really, I can’t believe what I’m seeing! You’re a grown man! What are you thinking of? You just go and assault someone? You know what I call it? I call it bullying, that’s what I call it!” “Leave me alone,” Schmidt answered through gritted teeth. “That’s right!” Kráner said, stepping closer: “This has nothing to do with you! Why are you so determined to poke your nose in everywhere? In any case the clown deserved it! . . .” “You shut up, you low life!” the headmaster snapped back: “You . . . you were the one who encouraged him to do it! You think I can’t hear? You’d better keep quiet!” “What I suggest, pal . . . ,” hissed Kráner with a dark look, seizing the headmaster, “What I suggest is that you get out of here while the going is good! . . . I don’t advise you to pick a quarrel with — ” At that moment a resonant, severe, self-confident voice cut across them: “What’s going on here?!” Everyone turned around to the threshold. Mrs. Halics gave a fearful cry, Schmidt leapt to his feet and Kráner took an involuntary step back. Irimiás stood there. His seal-gray raincoat was buttoned up to the chin, his hat drawn far down his brow. He stuck his hands deep into his pockets and surveyed the scene with piercing eyes. A cigarette dangled from his lips. There was stony silence. Even Futaki sat up, then tried to stand, swaying a little, but hid the rag behind his back, the blood still dribbling from his nose. Mrs. Halics crossed herself in astonishment then quickly lowered her hands because Halics was signaling to her to stop it immediately. “I asked what’s going on?” Irimiás repeated threateningly. He spat out the cigarette and stuck a new one in the corner of his mouth. The estate stood before him, their heads hung low. “We thought you weren’t coming . . .” Mrs. Kráner wavered and gave a forced smile. Irimiás looked at his watch and angrily tapped the glass. “It says six-forty-three. The watch is accurate.” Barely audible Mrs. Kráner replied, “Yes, but . . . but you said you’d come at night . . .” Irimiás furrowed his brow. “What do you think I am, a taxi driver? I work my fingers to the bone for you, I don’t sleep for three days, I walk for hours in the rain, I rush from one meeting to another to overcome various obstacles, while you . . . ?!” He took a step toward them, cast an eye at their makeshift beds then stopped in front of Futaki. “What happened to you?” Futaki hung his head in shame. “I got a nosebleed.” “I can see that. But how?” Futaki made no answer. “See here, . . .” Irimiás gave a sigh, “this isn’t what I expected of you, friends. From any of you!” he continued, turning to the others. “If this is how you start what do you think you are going to do next? Stabbing each other? Shut up . . . ,” he waved away Kráner who wanted to say something, “I’m not interested in the details! I’ve seen quite enough. It’s sad, I can tell you, pretty damn sad!” He walked up and down in front of them with a grave face then, when he had returned to his original spot at the entrance, he turned around to face them again. “Look, I have no idea what exactly happened here. Nor do I want to know because time is too precious to spend it dealing with such piddling matters. But I won’t forget. Least of all you, Futaki, my friend, I’ll not forget you. But I will overlook it this time, on one condition, that it never happens again! Is that clear?!” He waited a moment, ran his hand across his brow and with a careworn expression continued: “All right, let’s get down to business!” he drew deeply on the tiny rem
nant of his cigarette then threw it down and stamped on it. I have some important news.” It was as if they were just now emerging from some evil spell. They were sober at a stroke but they simply couldn’t understand what had happened to them in the last few hours: What demonic power had taken possession of them, stifling every sane and rational impulse? What was it that had driven them to lose their heads and attack each other “like filthy pigs when the swill is late’? What made it possible for people like them — people who had finally managed to emerge from years of apparently terminal hopelessness to breathe the dizzying air of freedom — to rush around in senseless despair, like prisoners in a cage so that even their vision had clouded over? What explanation could there be for them to “have eyes” only for the ruinous, stinking, desolate aspect of their future home, and completely lose track of the promise that “what had fallen should rise again’! It was like waking from a nightmare. They formed a humble circle around Irimiás, more ashamed than relieved, because, in their unforgivable impatience, they had all doubted the one man who could save them, a man who, even if he had been delayed a few brief hours, had after all kept his promise, and to whom they had every reason to be grateful; and the agonizing sense of shame was only increased by the knowledge that he had not the least idea how far they had doubted him and taken his name in vain, accusing him of all kinds of crimes, he who had “risked his life” for them and who now was standing among them as living proof of the falseness of their allegations. And so, with this extra load on their conscience, they listened to him with a greater and still more unshakable confidence, and were enthusiastically nodding even before they knew what he was talking about, especially Kráner and Schmidt who were particularly aware of the gravity of their sins, although the “changed, less favorable circumstances” Irimiás now referred to might well have soured their mood, since it turned out that “our plans for Almássy Manor have to be suspended for an indefinite period” because certain groups “wouldn’t take” to a project with an “as yet unclear purpose” being established here, and had objected particularly, as they learned from Irimiás, to the considerable distance between the manor and the town that made getting to the “manor” all but impractical for them, which in turn reduced the prospect of regular inspections to less than the required bare minimum . . . “Given this situation,” Irimiás continued, sweating a little but still resonant, “the only possibility of bringing our plans to a successful conclusion, the only possible way forward, is for us to disperse into various parts of the country until these gentlemen entirely lose track of us, at which point we can return here and set about realizing our original objectives.” . . . They acknowledged their “particular importance in the scheme of things” with a growing sense of pride, especially prizing their privilege in being considered “the chosen few” while appreciating the recognition of their qualities of steadfastness, industry and increasing vigilance that were considered, apparently, quite indispensable. And if some aspects of the scheme lay beyond them (especially phrases like “our goal points to something beyond itself’) it was immediately clear to them that their dispersal was just “a strategic ploy” and that even if they were to have no contact with each other for a while they would continue to be in lively, continual communication with Irimiás . . . “Not that anyone should think,” the master raised his voice, “that we can just sit and wait for things to improve by themselves during this time!” They registered, with an astonishment that quickly passed, that their task was to be the unceasing, vigilant observation of their immediate surroundings, meaning that they should rigorously note down all opinions, rumors and events which “from the perspective of our agreement might be of the utmost importance” and that they should all develop the indispensable skill of distinguishing between favorable and unfavorable signs, or, to put it in plain language, “knowing the good from the bad”, because he — Irimiás — sincerely hoped that no one would seriously think it possible to take a single step forward down the path he had revealed to them in such painstaking detail without it . . . So when Schmidt asked “And what will we live on in the meanwhile?” and Irimiás assured them, “Relax, everyone, relax: it’s all planned, all thought through, you will all have jobs, and to begin with you will be able to draw on basic survival funds out of mutual, accumulated funds,” the last traces of their early morning panic vanished at a stroke and all that remained for them was to pack up their belongings and take them down to the end of the path where an idling truck was waiting for them on the metalled road . . . So they did pack up again in a feverish hurry and, after a little awkwardness, started chatting to each other as if nothing had happened, Halics setting the best example who, with a bag or suitcase in his hand would follow now the bear-like Kráner, now the striding, manly figure of his wife, sneaking behind them like a monkey, imitating them, and who, once he had finished his own packing, carried the luggage of the uncertainly swaying Futaki over to the road, remarking only that “a friend in need is a friend indeed . . .” By the time they had succeeding in bringing everything down to the side of the road, the “kid” had managed to turn the truck around (Irimiás had, after long pleadings, relented and allowed him a go at the wheel), so there was nothing left after that than to take a brief silent look of farewell at the “manor” that was to be their future, and to take their places on the open truck. “So, my dear companions,” Petrina stuck his head through the passenger’s window. “Please arrange yourselves so that this dizzyingly fast miracle of transport might get us to our destination in at least two hours! Button your coats, on with your hoods and hats, hold on tight, and feel free to turn your back on the great hope of your future because if you don’t you’ll get the full force of this filthy rain in your faces . . .” The baggage took up a good half of the open truck so the only way they could all fit in was by huddling close to each other in two rows, and it was no surprise that, when Irimiás revved the engine and the truck juddered and started back towards the town, they felt the just the same enthusiasm for the warmth of “the unbreakable bond between them” as had sweetened their memorable journey the day before. Kráner and Schmidt were particularly loud in their determination never again to give vent to idiotic rages and to declare that, if there should be any future disagreement, they would be the first to put an immediate stop to it. Schmidt — who had tried in the midst of all this merry badinage, to signal to Futaki to indicate that “he deeply regretted what he had done” (partly because he had somehow failed to “bump into him” along the path, but partly because he lacked the necessary courage) — had only now decided to offer him “at least a cigarette” but found himself jammed in between Halics and Mrs. Kráner, both of whom were immovable. “Never mind,” he reassured himself, “I’ll get around to it when we get off this damn wreck . . . we can’t part in anger like this!” Mrs. Schmidt’s face was flushed, her eyes sparkling, as she watched the rapidly receding manor, that enormous building covered in weeds and rampant ivy, its four miserable towers extending at the corners, while the metalled road, billowing with ridges behind them, vanished into infinity, and her relief at the return of her “darling” so excited her that she didn’t notice the wind and rain beating her face, though she had no protection against any of it however she pulled the hood over her head, because in the great confusing mêlée she found herself at the end of the rear row. There could be no doubt, nor did she feel any; nothing now could shake her faith in Irimiás. It was not like before because here, on the back of the speeding truck, she understood her future: that she would follow him like a strange dreamlike shadow, now as his lover, now as his maid, in absolute poverty if necessary, and in this way she would be reborn time after time; she would learn his every movement, the secret meaning of each distinct modulation of his voice, would interpret his dreams and should — God forbid! — any harm befall him, hers would be the lap in which he would lay his head . . . And she would learn to be patient and wait, to prepare herself for any ordeal, and if fate decreed that Irimiás left her for good one day
— for what else could he do? — she would spend her remaining days quietly, knit her shroud and go to her grave with pride knowing that it had once been given her to have “a great man, a real man” as her lover . . . Not were there any bounds to the good cheer of Halics, who was squashed up beside her: not rain, not wind, not the bumpy ride, no discomfort of any kind could deflate him: his corn-hardened feet were flat and frozen in his boots, the water on top of the driver’s cabin occasionally slopped down the back of his neck and powerful gusts of wind from the side of the truck brought out tears, but he was cheered, not only by the return of Irimiás, but by the sheer delight of traveling for, as he had said often enough in the past, “he could never resist the intoxicating pleasure of speed’, and here was his big chance to enjoy it, now, while Irimiás, ignoring all the dangerous potholes and ditches along the road, had his foot on the gas right down to the floor, so whenever he was able to open his eyes, even if ever so slightly, he was thrilled to see the landscape rushing by at dizzying speed, and he quickly formed a plan, because it wasn’t too late, in fact it was a very good time, to make one of his long-cherished dreams come true, and already he was seeking the right words to convince Irimiás to help him realize it, when suddenly it occurred to him that the driver was obliged to reject opportunities that he — alas! — “granted his old age” found irresistible . . . So he decided simply to enjoy the pleasures of the journey as far as he could so that later, over a friendly glass, he could conjure every detail to his prospective new friends, because simply imagining it as he had so far was “as nothing to the real experience . . .” Mrs. Halics was the only one who found nothing to enjoy in “this insane rush” since, unlike her husband, she was firmly set against any kind of new foolishness, and because she was pretty sure that if they carried on this way they would all break their necks, and so she closed her hands, praying fearfully to the Good Lord to protect them all and not to desert them at this hour of danger, but however hard she tried to convince the others to do the same (‘In the name of Our Savior, Jesus Christ please tell this lunatic to slow down just a little!’) they didn’t “give a hoot” either about the wild speed or her terrified mutterings, on the contrary, they “seemed to find pleasure in the danger!.”. The Kráners, and even the headmaster, were childishly exhilarated, proudly braced against the back of the truck squinting like lords at the barren landscape flying past them. It was exactly as they had imagined the journey, as fast as the wind, at mind numbing speed, passing every obstacle — utterly invincible! They were proud to see the landscape vanish in a haze, proud that they could leave it behind, not like miserable beggars but — behold! — with heads held high, full of confidence, on a triumphant note. . . .Their only regret, as they rumbled past the old estate and reached the road-mender’s house on the long bend, was that in their hurry they didn’t get a glimpse of the Horgos familu, or of blind Kerekes or of the landlord, his face purple with jealousy . . . Futaki carefully tapped his swollen nose and considered himself lucky to have “got away” with nothing worse, not having dared to touch it at all until the sharp pain had completely gone, so he couldn’t know whether it was broken or not. He was still not quite in control of his senses, and felt dizzy and faintly nauseous. His mind confused images of Schmidt’s twisted scarlet face and Kráner behind him, ready to leap, with the stern gaze of Irimiás, a gaze that seemed to be burning him up. As the pain in his nose faded he slowly became aware of other injuries: he had lost part of an incisor, the skin on his lower lip was broken. He could hardly hear the consoling words of the headmaster crushed up next to him — “You shouldn’t take it too much to heart. As you see, it has all turned out for the best . . .” — because his ears were ringing and the pain made him turn his head this way and that, not knowing where to spit the salty blood still left in his mouth, and he only started feeling a little better when he caught a flash of the deserted mill and the sagging roof of Halics’s house, but however he twisted and turned he still couldn’t see the engine house because by the time he had got into position the truck was passing the bar. He cast a sly look at the squatting figure of Schmidt then confessed to himself that, however strange it sounded, he felt absolutely no anger towards him; he knew the man well and had always known how quick his temper was, and so — before any thought of revenge could occur to him — having full heartedly forgiven him, he decided to reassure him at the earliest opportunity because he could guess his state of mind. He watched the trees rushing past him on either side of the road with a certain sadness, feeling that whatever had happened in the “manor” simply had had to happen. The noise, the whistling wind and the rain that from time to time hit them from the side eventually drew his attention away from Schmidt and from Irimiás too for a while. With great difficulty he dragged out a cigarette and, by leaning forward and covering the match with his palm, eventually succeeded in lighting it. They had left the estate and bar a long way behind now and he judged that they could be only a few hundred yards from the electric generator, and therefore only some half hour from town. He noted how proudly and enthusiastically the headmaster and Kráner, who was sitting immediately next to him, were turning their heads this way and that as if nothing had happened, as if all that had happened at the manor was hardly worth remembering and could rapidly be forgotten. He, on the other hand, was by no means sure that the arrival of Irimiás had solved all their problems. And while the sight of him standing in the doorway had changed everything for them while they were in despair, the whole mad scramble after it, and now this strange dash along a deserted highway, was not for Futaki any kind of proof that the rush was to some specific place; it seemed to him more like a kind of stampede, a “blind and uncertain rush into the unknown” that was somehow pointless: they had not the least idea what was waiting for them, that’s if they ever stopped. There was something ominous about having no clue what Irimiás was planning: he could not guess why they were in such a panic to leave the manor. For a brief moment he recalled a terrifying image he hadn’t been able to forget, not in all these years: once again he saw himself in his old tattered coat, leaning on his stick, hungry and infinitely disappointed, trudging down the metalled road, the estate fading into the dusk behind him, the horizon in front of him still far from clear . . . And now, numbed by the rattling truck, his premonition seemed to be coming true: penniless, hungry, and broken in body, here he was, sitting in the back of a truck that had turned up out of the blue, on a road that led God knows where, heading into the unknown, and should they come to a fork in that road, he couldn’t begin to decide which road to take because he was helpless, resigned to the fact that his fate was being decided elsewhere, by a noisy, rattling, ancient wreck of a truck over which he had absolutely no control. “It seems there’s no escape,” he reflected in apathy. “This way or that, I’m lost either way. Tomorrow I’ll wake in an unfamiliar room where I won’t know what’s waiting for me, and it will be as if I had set out on my own . . . I’ll put my minimal possessions out on the table by the bed, if there is one, and there I am, staring out of the window at dusk watching the light fade all over again . . .” It shocked him to realize that his faith in Irimiás had been shaken the moment he saw him at the “manor” entrance . . . “Maybe, if he hadn’t come back, there might still have been some hope. . . . But now?” Right back at the manor he had sensed the well-concealed disappointment behind the words, and saw, even as Irimiás was standing by the truck watching them loading up, how he was hanging his head, and that something was lost, lost forever! . . . Now suddenly everything was clear. Irimiás lacked the strength and energy he once had; he had finally lost “his old fire’; he too was just filling in time, driven along by habit; and, realizing this, Futaki now understood that the speech at the bar with its clumsy rhetorical tricks was simply a way of concealing from those who still believed in Irimiás the truth that he was as helpless as they were, that he no longer hoped to lend meaning to the power that was strangling him as much as it was them, that even he, Irimiás, could not fre
e himself from it. His nose was pulsing with pain, his nausea refused to pass and even a cigarette did not help, so he threw it away without finishing it. They crossed the bridge over “the Stinker’, a water stagnant with weed and frogspawn, lying perfectly still, the roadside ever denser with acacia, and there were even one or two abandoned farm buildings in the distance, surrounded by trees. The rain had stopped but the wind was buffeting them ever more violently and they were worried in case baggage was blown off the top of the pile. For the time being there was neither sight nor sound of humanity and to their astonishment they met no one at all, not even when turning off at the Elek fork on the road leading into town. “What’s with this place?” yelled Kráner. “They got rabies?” It reassured them to see two figures in raincoats swaying with their arms around each other by the entrance of The Scales, then they turned down the road leading to the main square, their eyes thirstily drinking in the low level houses, the drawn blinds, the fancy drains and the carved wooden entrances: it was like leaving prison. By now, of course, time was simply rushing by and before they could take it all in the truck braked right in the middle of the wide square in front of the station. “OK, folks!” Petrina stuck his head out of the cabin window and shouted. “End of the sightseeing tour!” “Wait!” Irimiás stopped them as they were preparing to get off, and left the driver’s seat. “Just the Schmidts. Then the Kráners and the Halicses. Get your things together! You, Futaki, and you, Mr Headmaster, wait here!” He led them with firm decisive steps, the herd after him struggling with their baggage. They entered the waiting room, piled the baggage in a corner and stood round Irimiás. “There’s time enough to talk things over calmly. Are you very frozen?” “We’ll be snoring tonight like nobody’s business,” sniggered Mrs. Kráner. “Is there a pub round here? I could do with a drink!” “Sure there is,” Irimiás answered and looked at his watch. “Come with me.” The waiting room was practically empty except for a railwayman leaning on a rickety counter. “Schmidt!” Irimiás spoke up once they’d downed a glass of pálinka. “You and your wife are going to Elek.” He brought out his wallet and found a piece of paper that he pressed into Schmidt’s hand. “It’s all written down there, who you look for, what street, what number and so on. Tell them I sent you. Is that clear?” “It’s clear,” nodded Schmidt. “Tell them I’ll be along in a few days to check up. In the meanwhile they are to give you work, food and rooms. Understand?” “I understand. But who is this person? What’s the deal?” “The man’s a butcher,” said Irimiás pointing to the paper. “There’s plenty of work there. You, Mrs. Schmidt, you’ll be on the counter, serving. And you Schmidt, you’re there to help generally. I trust you can manage this.” “You bet your life we can,” Schmidt enthused. “Fine. The train comes in at, let’s see . . .” and he looked at his watch again, “yes, in about twenty minutes.” He turned to the Kráners. “You’ll find work at Keresztúr. I haven’t written it all down so make sure it’s engraved on your memory. The man you want is called Kálmár, István Kálmár. I don’t know the name of the street but go to the Catholic church — there’s only one so you can’t miss it — and to the right of the church there is a street . . . are you remembering all this? You go down that street until you see a sign on your right saying Women’s Tailoring. That’s Kálmár’s place. Tell them Dönci sent you, and make sure you remember that because they might not remember my usual name. Tell them you need work, accommodation and food. Immediately. There is a laundry room at the back where you are to sleep. Got that?” “Got it,” clucked Mrs. Kráner brightly. “Church, road on right, look for sign. No problem.” “I like that,” smiled Irimiás and turned to the Halicses. “You two will get on the bus to Postelek: the stop is in front of the station in the square. Once in Postelek you find the Evangelical rectory and look for Dean Gyivicsan. You won’t forget?” “Gyivicsan,” Mrs. Halics enthusiastically repeated. “Correct. You tell him I sent you. He’s been after me for years to get him two people, and I can’t think of anyone better than you. There’s plenty of room there, you can take your pick, and there’s consecrated wine as well, Halics. As for you, Mrs. Halics, you will clean the church, cook for three and look after the housekeeping.” The Halicses were quite overcome with joy. “How can we possibly thank you?” Mrs. Halics declared, her eyes filling with tears. “You’ve done everything for us!” “Come, come,” Irimiás waved her away. “There’ll be time enough to be grateful. Now all of you, listen to me. To start with, before things settle down, you’ll get a thousand forints each from the communal chest. Look after it well, don’t waste it! Don’t forget what it is that binds us! Never forget, not for one minute, what it is you’re there to do. You must observe everything carefully in Elek, in Postelek and in Keresztur, because without that we won’t get anywhere! In a few days I will visit all three places and look you up. Then we’ll go into proper detail. Any questions?” Kráner cleared his throat: “I think we understand everything. But might I formally . . . I mean . . . in other words . . . we’d like to thank you for . . . everything you’ve done . . . for us, since . . .” Irimiás raised his hand. “No, friends. No gratitude. It’s my duty. And now,” he stood up, “it’s time for us to part. I have a thousand things to do . . . Important negotiations . . .” Halics, deeply moved, leapt over and shook his hand. “Look after yourself,” he muttered: “You know we care about you! We want you hale and hearty!” “Don’t worry about me,” smiled Irimiás, moving toward the exit: “You look after yourselves, and don’t forget: constant vigilance!” He stepped through the station doors, went over to the truck and gestured to the headmaster, “Listen! We’ll drop you at Streber Street. Go and sit in The Ipar and I’ll come back for you in about an hour. We’ll talk more then. Where’s Futaki?” Here I am,” Futaki replied, stepping out from the other side of the vehicle. “You . . .” Futaki raised a hand. “Don’t bother with me.” Irimiás looked shocked. “What’s wrong with you?” “With me? Nothing at all. But I know where to go. Someone is bound to offer me a job as a night watchman.” Irimiás was irritated. “You’re always so stubborn. There are better places for you, but fine, do what you want. Go to Nagyrománváros, the old Romanian quarter, and there next to The Golden Triangle — you know where that is? — there’s a building. They’re looking for a night watchman there — they’ll give you a room too. Here is a thousand forints to be getting on with. Get yourself some dinner. I suggest the Steigerwald, it’s within spitting distance. They have food there.” “Thank you. You like the idea of spitting?” Irimiás made a face: “It’s impossible to talk to you at the moment. Get your stuff. Be at the Steigerwald tonight. All right?” He extended his hand. Futaki accepted it uncertainly, gripped the money with his other hand, took his stick and set off towards Csokos Street, leaving Irimiás standing by the truck without a word. “Your baggage!” Petrina shouted after him from the driver’s cab, then leapt out and helped Futaki get his lugage on his back. “Isn’t that heavy?” the headmaster asked, feeling awkward, then quickly put out his hand. “Not too bad,” Futaki quietly answered: “See you.” He set off again with Irimiás, Petrina, the headmaster and “the kid” staring puzzled after him, but then they got back in the truck, the headmaster in the back and started back into the town center. Futaki was making halting progress, feeling close to collapse under the weight of his cases, and when he reached the first crossroad he dropped them, loosened the straps and, after a little thought, threw one of them into the ditch and went on with the other. He wandered aimlessly down street after street, from time to time putting his suitcase down so as to get his wind back, then off he went again with a bitter feeling . . . If he met anyone he would hang his head because he felt that if he looked into the stranger’s eyes his own misfortune would seem even worse. He was after all a lost cause . . . “And how stupid! How steadfast, how full of hope I was yesterday! And now look at me! Here I am stumbling down the street with a broken nose, cracked teeth, a cut on my lip, muddied and bloody as if this was the price I had to pay for my stup
idity . . . But then . . . there’s no justice in anything . . . no justice . . .” he kept repeating in a perpetual melancholy that remained with him that evening when he turned on the light in one of the sheds of the building next to The Golden Triangle, and noted his distorted image in the glass of a dirty window. He had a vacant look. “That Futaki is the biggest idiot I’ve ever met,” Petrina noted as they drove up the street leading to the town center. “What’s got into him? Did he think this was the Promised Land? What the devil does he think he’s doing?! Did you see the face he made? With that swollen nose?!” “Shut up, Petrina,” grumbled Irimiás. “You keep talking like that you’ll get a swollen nose too.” The “kid” behind them whooped with laughter, “What’s up Petrina, has the cat got your tongue?” “Me?!’, Petrina snarled back. “You think I’m scared of anyone?!” “Shut up, Petrina,” Irimiás repeated in irritation: “Don’t mumble at me. If you have anything to say spit it out.” Petrina grinned and scratched his head. “Well boss, if you’re asking . . . ,” he started cautiously. “It’s not that I have any doubts, believe me, but why do we need Páyer?” Irimiás bit his lip, slowed down, allowed an old woman to cross the road then stepped on the gas. “Stay out of grown-up business,” he grunted. “I’d just like to know. Why do we need him? . . .” Furious, Irimiás looked straight ahead. “We just do!” “I know boss, but guns and explosives . . . really?! . . .” “We just do!” Irimiás shouted at him. “You really want to blow up the world and us with it . . . ?” Petrina spluttered with a terrified look: “You just want rid of things, don’t you?” Irimiás didn’t answer. He braked. They had stopped in Streber Street, The headmaster jumped off the back of the truck, waved goodbye to the driver’s cab, then, with firm steps, crossed the road and opened the doors of The Ipar. “It’s after eight-thirty. What will they say?” the “kid” wondered. Petrina waved him away. “The damn Captain can go to hell! What does it mean to be late? “Late” means nothing to me! He should be pleased we are seeing him at all! It’s an honour when Petrina comes to call! Understand, kid? Remember that because I won’t say it again!” “Ha ha!” the “kid” mocked him and blew smoke in Petrina’s fac:. “What a joke!” “Get it into your thick head that jokes are just like life,” Petrina grandly declared: “Things that begin badly, end badly. Everything’s fine in the middle, it’s the end you need to worry about.” Irimiás was looking up the road, not saying anything. He felt no pride now that it was all settled. His eyes stared dully ahead, his face was gray. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, a vein was pounding in his temple. He saw the neat houses on either side of the street. The gardens. The crooked gates. The chimneys belching smoke. He felt neither hate nor disgust. His head was clear.