‘Don’t you recognize me, Uncle Minya? It’s Balint Abady, from Denestornya.’
The patriarchal figure looked at him with eyes grown pale with age. After a brief struggle with half-forgotten memories, he seemed to recognize the grandchild of his oldest friend.
‘So you are little Balint! How you’ve grown!’ He stuck his spade in the soft earth, wiped his hands on the threadbare trousers, and clasped the young man by the shoulders. ‘How nice of you to come and see an old man! Let’s go inside.
Balint introduced his cousin and they walked slowly back towards the house, slowly but strongly, for the old man moved with assurance and held himself erect. As they passed the yard he called to the girl: ‘Julis, my dear! Bring plum brandy and glasses for the gentlemen!’
‘At once, Uncle!’ she replied and ran indoors.
‘She is my sister’s great-granddaughter,’ Minya explained, and made his visitors go before him into the living-room. It was a wide cool place whose door gave onto the portico and which was lit by the three windows overlooking the road and the flower-garden. The walls were whitewashed and it was sparsely furnished with an old rocking chair near one of the windows, a long, painted chest against one wall and in the centre of the room there was a pine-wood table with an oil lamp on it and two wooden chairs. There were simple bookshelves in one corner, with a thick black Bible among twenty or thirty tattered volumes. At the other end the bed was piled high with pillows covered in homespun cloth. The walls were bare except for an old violin, darkened with age, hanging on a nail near the foot of the bed, its bow threaded through the strings. Over a chair hung a single print in a narrow gilt frame showing a Roman knight in full armour who seemed to be making a speech.
Minya showed his guests to the table, where they sat down, and then pointed to the picture.
‘That was me,’ he said. ‘Miklos Barabas made the drawing from life. It was my last appearance.’
Balint read the inscription, ‘MIHALY GAL, illustrious member of the National Theatre, Kolozsvar, in the role of Manlius Sinister, 17 May, 1862’
‘Where did you go, after your last performance?’
‘Nowhere. I realized I couldn’t do it any more so I retired. I was no longer any good, and one shouldn’t try to force something one can’t do properly. That’s when I bought this house. I didn’t spend all my money like most actors. Perhaps if I had been more like them I’d have been better. As it was I was rotten! So I took to gardening and tending the vineyards. This I do well! Julis!’ he called to his young niece, who had just put the plum brandy on the table, ‘Bring some bunches of the ripe Burgundy grapes, you know – the ones on the left!’ Julis bustled out, and the old actor went on:
‘Anyone who tries to do what he can’t do is mad!’ Balint caught a bitter note he had never heard before. To change the subject Laszlo asked about the violin. He had noticed it as soon as they came in.
‘That old fiddle?’ answered Minya. ‘I only keep it as a souvenir. It was His Excellency Count Abady, your grandfather,’ he said, looking at Balint, ‘who gave it to me, oh, so many years ago. It must have been ’37 or ’38 – I think it was ’37. He asked me me look after it for him; but later, whenever I tried to give it back he refused. He never played again’.
Balint was astonished. He had never known that Count Peter even liked music, let alone could play. He had never spoken of it.
‘Oh, yes!’ said Minya, ‘he played beautifully. Not light stuff or gypsy music. He played Bach, Mozart and suchlike … and all from the music. He could read beautifully.’
Laszlo asked if he might look at the instrument.
‘May I take it down?’ he asked.
‘Of course!’
‘But this is a marvellous violin! It’s beautiful! Look what noble lines it has!’ He brought it to the table to inspect it more closely.
‘Yes, that is the Count’s violin. He really did play very well. He started when still at school, and I sang. I was a baritone. Oh, Lord, where did it all go? He must have studied very hard; he was a real artist. I remember when I got back to Kolozsvar – in ’37 it was because I was with Szerdahelyi then. Yes, that’s when it was. Every evening that winter, when there wasn’t a party or something, he always went to – oh, she was so lovely – he went quite secretly, and sometimes they asked me to join them, no one else, mark you, just me. They knew they could trust me not to tell.’
The old man said nothing for a moment. He bent forward, his open shirt showing the grey hairs thick as moss on his powerful chest. He reached a gnarled hand towards the violin and caressed it lightly.
Balint longed to know more about his grandfather’s past, but somehow it seemed indiscreet to ask. However Laszlo went on: ‘Did he play with a piano accompaniment?’
‘Yes, of course, with a piano, always with a piano.’
‘Who played for him?’
The dignified old actor lifted his hand in protest. He would not reveal the lady’s name then, or ever, the gesture seemed to say. Then he started to reminisce in half sentences and broken phrases, as if his tired mind and faded eyes could only catch glimpses of the past in uncertain fragments. Following his memory’s lead he was talking more to himself than to his listeners. Everything he said was confused and mixed up, complicated by a thousand seemingly irrelevant, and to the young men, incomprehensible details. He talked of other old actors, of plays and dates and though most of it meant nothing to Laszlo and Balint, it was clear that to old Minya it was all still as real as if everyone he mentioned were still alive. Throughout the scattered monologue, they sensed that he was recalling a personal drama which had nothing to do with the theatre, a real-life drama that had taken place seven decades before. But however alive this memory was, the old man never once spoke the name of the woman who had meant so much to his friend, nor even a hint as to whether she were an aristocrat or an actress. Though everyone he spoke of had been dead for many years, he still guarded the secret entrusted to him so long ago.
As he spoke they felt that he was getting near to the climax. His voice was very low:
‘How beautiful they both were! And how young – she was even younger than he, so young, so young. And then it ended. There was a concert in the Assembly Rooms … Beethoven, Chopin … Was it the music? What was it? I can see them now, they were so beautiful, a wonderful shining couple. Everybody felt it, everybody saw it! Through their playing, you could tell they belonged together. The trouble was that, everyone saw it, everyone …’ The old man frowned, ‘And, three days later it was over. I was given a letter for him – a goodbye note, though I didn’t know it then – and I had to give it to my best friend, me – of all people.’
He was silent. Laszlo had listened politely, untouched by the rambling tale, but Balint had been deeply moved. Mysterious though it all was, a memory had been stirred by the incoherent story. Once, sitting beside his grandfather’s writing desk, he had seen a tiny ancient pair of lady’s dancing slippers inside an open drawer. They were old-fashioned party shoes of white satin and, though old, they looked almost new; even the little satin ribbons which tied like the strings on Greek sandals, were smooth and fresh. The tiny heel-less slippers were shaped like ladies-finger biscuits and were thin as paper. When Balint asked his grandfather about them the old Count had taken them out of the drawer and shown him how worn the soles were. ‘Look,’ he had said, smiling, ‘see how much that little charmer danced!’ and he had tied the ribbons together again and dropped the slippers back into the drawer where he had kept them for so many years.
Only now, as the memory of old Count Peter came back to him, did Balint understand the regret and nostalgia that lay behind his grandfather’s always kind and welcoming smile. Was the heroine of old Minya’s story the owner of the little dancing shoes?
‘What happened then?’ asked Balint, with a catch in his throat.
‘Count Peter went abroad. He didn’t come back for a long time, not for years. He travelled to countries few people visited then; perhaps
few go today. He once wrote to me from Spain just a brief word, and later from Portugal. Once he went on a walking tour in Scotland, just as I did as an itinerant actor. He wrote to me then that there were many lakes and the country was wild and bare, just like the hills of Mezöses …’
Balint had known nothing about all this. Old Abady had never mentioned his travels. Looking back, Balint realized, though he had never given it a thought at the time, that no matter what part of Europe was mentioned, his grandfather had known it well. Had he been impelled to travel by sorrow, or had there been some other reason, some irrepressible wanderlust? Now, hearing the old story that revealed so much and yet kept its essential secret, Balint looked once more at the old violin on the table. How beautiful if was, lying there on the bare planks. What melodies still slept behind the myriad golden lights reflected in the dark patina of its varnish? What enchanting melodies and ancient passions? And would those melodies, poured forth by two young people alive only to their love and to their music, ever be heard again, or would the old violin be forever silent, the tomb of their secret love?
Young Julis brought in the grapes and, as she put them down, a cart, drawn by an old horse with harness tinkling with bells, drew up in front of the house. The girl looked out of the window.
‘Look! Uncle Minya, Andras has arrived!’ She ran out, beaming with pleasure.
Steps were heard outside and in a moment the door was opened and Andras Jopal came in. He seemed disconcerted to see who the old man’s visitors were, but made them a stiff formal bow. Then he turned to Minya and started whispering to him. The old man looked up at Jopal’s face, murmured something, shook his head and then slowly took a ten-crown note from his wallet and handed it to the newcomer. Jopal went out, and they could hear the cart drive into the yard.
‘You must excuse me, gentlemen,’ said Minya. ‘That was Andras Jopal, my nephew. He’s a very clever, learned fellow!’ But there was a note of annoyance in his voice, despite the words of praise. ‘He could have been a professor by now, but he wouldn’t take his finals. He’s got a crazy idea he can build a flying machine. He’s so stubborn. Now he’s out of a job again.’
‘We saw him yesterday, at the Laczoks’.’
‘That’s where he’s just come from. It seems they’ve just thrown him out. He didn’t even have any money for his fare and he pretends left on his own accord. Bah! He’s crazy!’ The old man got up and looked angrily out of the window.
On the little cart was a jumble of fine wooden laths, rolls of paper, tangled wire and great sheets of stretched canvas like the wings of a gigantic dead moth.
‘Well, there it is, the precious model! He spends every penny of the little money I give him on it!’ Old Minya strode across the room, and then turned back to them, ‘And even if he succeeds, what’s the use, I ask you? What purpose would it have? People would still kill each other, even from the air!’
Balint wanted to say it wasn’t true, but the old man went on: ‘If human beings invent something new, they always use it first for killing. Iron was made into clubs and swords, bronze into cannon. And what did they do with gunpowder? Split rocks and build something? No! They destroyed each other more than ever!’ He waved his arms about and stumbled to a chair where he sat down heavily, tired, exhausted and disillusioned, and the weight of his many years seemed to overcome him.
‘It’s time I left this world,’ he murmured, oblivious of his visitors. ‘High time!’ The two young men stole away, but the old actor hardly noticed.
Balint and Laszlo walked together back up the hill. Then Balint decided he must go back to Minya’s house and talk to Jopal. He wanted to help the unhappy young mathematician, as was always his impulse when he found someone in trouble. While still in school at the Theresianum he had helped half the class with their examination papers and sometimes this had got him into trouble. He might have been inherited this from his grandfather, who always did his best to help and protect others, or it might have been an unconscious reversion to the noblesse oblige habits of his more distant ancestors who had voluntarily served their people, their church or their country. Back at Minya’s little house, Balint found that Jopal had taken the broken model off the cart. The ex-tutor was annoyed with himself because, however much he told himself that he was right to have acted as he did, an inner voice constantly reminded him that, if he hadn’t let his temper run away with him, things would not have ended as they had, up in the tower room at Var-Siklod.
This is what had happened.
Count Jeno Laczok had gone to bed at five, but by nine o’clock he was wide awake and unable to go back to sleep. Tired and cross, he had got up. No one was about. After much shouting he had roused a cook to get him some breakfast; but when it arrived the coffee was cold and his egg almost raw. Although normally good-tempered, a bad breakfast always irritated him and put him in a bad temper. He went to the stables, but found all the lads and the coachmen were asleep, lying like corpses in the straw. In the kitchens even the cook had gone back to bed: in the gardens, not a gardener, not a sweeper, not a handyman.
Count Jeno could find no one on whom to vent his ill-humour until it occurred to him that, as his sons had not stayed up all night, they would be up and about. So he walked over to the corner tower where the boys’ work room was on the ground floor, with Andras Jopal’s lodging above it.
When he entered the room the boys were already dressed. Dezso was lying on a couch reading an adventure story while Erno was sharpening a pencil. Their tutor was nowhere to be seen.
‘Is this how you work, you rascals?’ shouted Count Jeno. ‘Where is your teacher?’
‘He’s just gone up to his room.’ The boys lied to protect Jopal who, always busy with his invention, never made them work hard. One of them jumped up to go and find him, but their father barred the way with his walking stick. ‘You stay here! I’ll go myself!’ he shouted, and made for the steep wooden stairs.
The boys were dismayed. They realized that this meant serious trouble, because Jopal always bolted the door when he was in the room, and when he went out, he locked it and took the key with him.
The boys knew what was in the room. Hanging from the roof-rafters was a huge dragonfly-shaped contraption, whose wings were made of canvas stretched over wooden laths. A big designer’s desk near the window was spread with gigantic drawings which meant nothing to them. But there the answer was, for all to see in large letters on each plan: ‘Blueprint for Jopal’s Flying Machine’. They had discovered it one day when the tutor had gone into the village and they had climbed in through a window that gave on to the ramparts. It had been a dare-devil adventure. Taking care that it did not break under their weight they had had to climb up the centuries-old ivy that grew up from the edge of the moat and, slipping through the battlements, clung to the inside of the walls. Then had come the most difficult part. After edging their way along the side of the wall, hanging on only with their hands, they had had to bridge a two-metre gap between the wall and the open window. This they had managed by stepping, one by one, on the old stone supports of a former wooden defence platform that jutted at intervals from the wall like chipped teeth over the abyss below. They had made it without mishap, being experienced nest-robbers who were used to scaling sixty-foot high poplars to get at the doves’ eggs in the spring.
They had never told anyone what they had found in the room. By anyone, they meant grown-ups. Under great oaths of secrecy they did tell their sisters and with them, and them alone, they laughed at the Mad Professor who was their tutor.
When Count Jeno had heaved his heavy bulk up the rickety wooden steps with considerable difficulty, he leaned, out of breath, against the door of Jopal’s room. It did not yield.
‘Who’s there?’ cried an angry voice from inside.
‘It’s me! Open at once!’ cried Count Jeno, rapping on the door with his stick.
The bolt rattled and the door swung open under the weight of the irate count, sweeping Jopal, who tried to stop him, out of t
he way.
At first the master of the house stood dumb with surprise at what he saw. Then he started shouting: ‘What the Devil’s going on here? What’s this contraption? Instead of doing your job you waste your time making toys for children?’
The inventor, whose quick temper always landed him in trouble, was cut to the quick. Full of his own self-importance, and conscious that his so-called ‘toy’ could be of world-shattering importance, he stepped in front of the model machine and spread out his arms dramatically.
‘This! This! This! Do you know what this is? It’s the most important invention … the Flying Machine!’ He was sure this staggering answer would confute all criticism, but it had quite the reverse effect. At another time Count Jeno might have found the situation absurd and laughable, but now, angry already, he growled deeply and then shouted:
‘So you’re spending my time on this … this idiotic contraption? That’s not what I pay you for. You ought to be locked up in an asylum!’ and he went on in the same vein, working himself up into a towering rage.
For a while Jopal listened, his face stony, his lips tight over clenched teeth, and only his blazing eyes revealed the extent of his hurt and anger. Suddenly he screamed at the count: ‘Shut up!’
Surprised, Count Jeno fell silent, and now it was Jopal’s turn to pour forth a torrent of words. He went at it with all the fanaticism of someone bent on a single goal. All the bitterness of years of privation and frustration erupted at this moment. Blind to everything but his own unrecognized genius he became defiant, praising his lonely struggle and his importance and reviling the blindness, ignorance and lack of imagination of people like Count Laczok. Finally he spat out: ‘It’s I! I … who would have brought everlasting fame to this stinking, rotten owl’s nest, this God-forsaken rat-hole. My name would have made Siklod go down in history!’
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 11