‘Dine with us, my boy,’ said Count Miloth. ‘The moon rises about eleven.’
But Wickwitz did not accept. He told them that Count Abonyi had gone to Budapest and left him in charge of the racehorses. He would have to be up at dawn to exercise them.
‘Are you on your own then, at Szilvas?’
‘No, Countess Dinora is at home. She’ll expect me for dinner and I couldn’t leave her alone. It’s almost seven already.’
Old Rattle laughed deeply. ‘Ah ha!’ he said, ‘what an idiot that Abonyi must be to leave you alone with the little Countess, eh?’ And he dug Wickwitz sharply in the ribs.
Adrienne and the girls smiled but Balint didn’t like it. He didn’t like the joke and didn’t like, either, the way that the Austrian’s face froze for an instant while his straight athlete’s body stiffened before he relaxed, grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders. Wickwitz’s handsome, calm face and dreamy brown eyes had taken on a cynical expression which Balint found inexpressibly repellent.
Wickwitz’s chariot, drawn by Count Abonyi’s pair of beautiful black Russian trotters, was already at the veranda steps brought round by the Miloth’s coachman and a stable boy. Wickwitz clicked his heels, saluted, and hurried down the steps and jumped into the open carriage. In a flash he was in the driver’s seat between the big front wheels and when his hosts leaned over the veranda railings to wave goodbye, he was halfway down the drive
‘Are you coming back tomorrow for tennis?’ they called after him, and from behind the lilac bushes that concealed a bend in the road Wickwitz’s voice came back: ‘The day after tomorrow.’
The carriage brakes screeched as he started down the slope to the village. After that they could hear the Russians’ hoofbeats die away in an ever faster and more mettlesome pace.
‘Come and have tea at once, AB,’ said Adrienne, ‘and then we can all go out again.’
‘How restless you are, Addy!’ Countess Miloth sounded as sour as ever as she sat knitting on the sofa. She looked very much like her sister, Ida Laczok. She had the same Kendy profile, the same plumpness; but while Countess Laczok’s chubby limbs seemed to radiate good humour, Countess Miloth seemed made of more ill-tempered material. And while her sister was always busy with household tasks, she herself was prone to migraine and nervous headaches and would remain idle for days, resting in a darkened room. She went on, speaking to her eldest daughter in a complaining tone, ‘… and you make everyone quite mad when you’re here. Elle les rend folles quand elle est ici,’ she added, turning to Mile Morin, the desiccated old French spinster who sat beside her on the sofa, and pointing to her younger daughters.
Mile Morin had been governess to the two Kendy sisters when they were young and had stayed on in Transylvania after they had both married. Now she was governess to the Miloth girls thus tackling a second generation even though she was really past doing the job properly.
‘Oh, mon dieu, ces enfants!’ replied the old Frenchwoman, noticing that Judith and Margit could hardly wait for their guest to finish his tea.
Adrienne took no notice of her mother or the governess but turned to Balint with sparkling eye:
‘A hedgehog comes out in the kitchen garden at about this time. We want to catch him!’
Countess Miloth, who seemed to be having difficulty with her knitting needles – she was very shortsighted – gestured to the children that they could leave the table.
Balint accompanied them as they all ran out into the garden. They slowed down in the orchard and started to move quietly so as not to disturb the hedgehog if he were there. When they arrived at the entrance to the kitchen garden they crept silently along a path between a cabbage patch and the potato beds, pausing from time to time to hide behind the blackcurrant and gooseberry bushes from where they could spy out the land.
They waited for a long time in the damp kitchen garden. Up from the village, deep in the valley below them floated wisps of sweetish smoke, that characteristic smell of the high moorland which came from burning dried cow-dung instead of the wood which was scarce in those parts.
Adrienne knelt patiently on the right of the weed-covered path and Balint, on her left, found his good humour gradually evaporating. During the long silent wait he began to ponder consciously on a theme that had hitherto lurked only in his subconscious. What was that Nitwit doing at Varjas? Why did he ride more than forty kilometres a day leaving his mistress, Dinora Abonyi, all alone? Surely not just to play tennis? He was convinced that it was a pretext to cover up a much more sinister purpose.
Balint’s instinct was not wrong. But he was not right in thinking that the Austrian lieutenant was chasing Adrienne. Wickwitz came to Varjas, not for Adrienne’s sake but to pay court to Judith. He was so good at concealing his intentions that no one, except Judith herself, noticed anything out of the usual; and even she was not sure, because Egon Wickwitz was very careful, very silent and very shrewd.
His request for long leave had been granted immediately. He had not wanted to ask for it but he had had no alternative. He had serious debts which he could not meet, and unless these were settled he would automatically be dismissed from the army in disgrace. His colonel had sent for him and said that, out of respect for Egon’s father who had commanded the same regiment, he would take no action for the moment. But he had also said that he could not avoid taking notice of the situation if Wickwitz were to remain with the regiment at Brasso. He must therefore go on leave at once and find a solution to the problem and, until he had found it, he should not return. The next day Wickwitz applied for six months’ leave. He had to find something … but what?
Baron Wickwitz was penniless. His mother lived in Graz and gave him a small allowance out of the meagre pension she received as a field marshal’s widow. She gave as much as she could, but even if she were to mortgage part of her pension – as she had once before when Egon got himself into trouble at the military academy (and that, too, had been overlooked for the sake of his father) – it would not be enough. Even Egon himself could not bear the thought of troubling her further, good-hearted though she was. He had to find some other solution.
Marriage? A rich wife? There seemed no other way.
His first thought was young Dodo Gyalakuthy. She was perfect. An only child who had inherited from her father five thousand acres at Radnotfalva and two other estates in the high prairie-land, she was the ideal candidate to get him out of a tight spot. Later she would inherit more from her rich mother. No one could be better.
It was lucky that Radnotfalva was not far from Maros-Szilvas where the Abonyis lived. He could easily propose himself there, to pretty little Dinora who had been so sweet to him the previous winter. At Maros-Szilvas he would have no expenses, he would be close to the field of action. And as for that good old Tihamer Abonyi, he would be delighted. Had he not asked him several times before to come and train his horses? He ought to thank him – he might even win some races for him!
Wickwitz worked all this out sitting at a marble-topped table in a cafe in Brasso after the disagreeable interview with the colonel. His thinking was slow, with the plodding logic of a limited intelligence. And when he thought of Count Abonyi’s gratitude he chuckled to himself, pleased with his own quick-wittedness. His spirits rose and he walked over to the pretty little cashier-girl, with whom he had already spent several agreeable evenings, and started to whisper to her. She agreed to meet him after closing hours and, in high good humour in spite of his miserable situation, he ordered a bottle of champagne. After all it was his last night in Brasso … and one only lives once.
He had arrived at Szilvas the following day and been warmly welcomed by the Abonyis. Almost at once they went to look at the racing stables and Wickwitz commented contemptuously on the condition of Tihamer’s horses. Weren’t they given any oats, he asked? And when Abonyi said that they had twelve pounds a day, Wickwitz laughed as if he didn’t believe it but said nothing.
That afternoon Abonyi asked him to stay and take charge
of the stables. And the little countess was pleased because it meant she would have her friend with her. All this had happened at the beginning of June.
Wickwitz soon took Dinora into his confidence and told her some of his plans. He said that he loved only her but he had to marry; there was no other way.
At Radnotfalva he was welcomed equally warmly. The widowed Countess Gyalakuthy was a kind good-natured woman, and she had noticed what a difficult time her daughter had. It would be good for her to be with someone who entertained her. And if it led to anything, if Dodo fell in love with him – though, as a foreigner and coming from a family of which she knew little, he was hardly the ideal son-in-law that she had had in mind – did it really matter? The widowed Countess suspected that this strong silent young man was really rather stupid, but he seemed to be a good boy who would appreciate her daughter and, after all, Dodo had enough brains for two.
Wickwitz had met Judith Miloth at the Gyalakuthys’ and, with the keen sense of the totally self-centred, he had felt that the young girl was attracted to him, something of which he had seen no sign in Dodo. Thinking in sporting terms, as he was apt to do, he had said to himself that one should not put all one’s money on the favourite but hedge the bet with a wager on a hopeful outsider. As there were three girls and a boy in the Miloth family it was clear the Judith’s dowry would not be large but, if the worst came to the worst and Dodo would not have him, it would surely be enough to clear the debts if he married her. Time was running out. One way or another he had to find the means to pay before his leave ended in December.
Something made a slight movement between Balint and Adrienne; it was the hedgehog who had come out from under the leaves of a big plantain weed that covered the ground just beside the path on which they waited.
The little animal moved with quiet confidence a few inches away from the place where Adrienne had rested her suede-gloved hand. Something must have struck him as strange as he sniffed warily to catch its unfamiliar smell, the little snout covered with fine hairs quivering with concentration. He looked around with little bright button eyes and his needle-sharp quills, sleekly at rest, seemed as smooth as a soft fur coat. Such a strange little animal, he did not hurry, but moved deliberately down the path, sniffing to right and to left as he went, for all the world like a miniature bear. Suddenly he was no longer there. Without any noise and moving surprisingly swiftly he disappeared off the path; and even the grass did not move in his wake.
As he finally vanished from their sight, young Zoltan and the girls cried out: ‘Why didn’t you catch him, Addy? He was right there, beside you. What a shame! You ought to have caught him!’
For a moment Adrienne did not answer. Then she said: ‘I couldn’t! We shouldn’t do it! Poor thing, we must let him live his own life. He must be free.’
Her voice sounded faint, remote …
After dinner they all sat in the countess’s sitting-room and listened to Akos Miloth’s stories of his days with Garibaldi. He was happy to have someone there to whom he could recount all over again the tales his family had heard so many times already. He loved to recall those days and the stories had been well polished with retelling. He had fought in Sicily with the Thousand and had had many adventures which were fascinating to anyone who had not heard them before. Count Miloth told them well, with humour and without conceit.
His daughters grew impatient and soon fled back to the dining-room where they had laid out a jigsaw puzzle, which was then all the rage and which they had brought back from the party at Siklod. Soon they became completely absorbed.
‘Come on, AB, come and help us,’ they called after a while. But Balint, out of politeness to his host and because he was so interested in the tales he was hearing, did not obey until Adrienne came back into the sitting-room and, laughing, took his hand, dragged him up from the sofa and led him into the adjoining room.
The next morning Balint was woken by voices calling to him. Someone knocked on the shutters of his room and called out: ‘Come on, lazy-bones, get up! We’ve been up for hours!’
In fifteen minutes he had joined them on the long veranda where they were having breakfast. The girls and young Zoltan had already finished and could hardly wait for Balint to drink his coffee and buffalo milk. Then they all walked up through the garden, laughing and talking until they found a small meadow with a haystack, up which young Zoltan immediately climbed and started pretending to be an Indian chief doing a war-dance.
‘Come down, you idiot, you’ll spoil the hay!’ they shouted at him, but the boy just jumped about all the more, hooting war-cries.
At once the others joined the game and started besieging young Zoltan in his fort. Not that they took the war seriously, for as soon as Adrienne succeeded in getting to the top she changed sides and joined the enemy. Now the battle became more equal, two against three, and the outcome less sure; but suddenly one side of the haystack collapsed and Zoltan came tumbling to the ground, leaving only Adrienne on top clinging precariously to the stackpole. For a moment she hesitated, high above the ground, but, as Balint extended his arms towards her, Addy cried ‘Catch me!’ and flung herself into the air laughing. Somehow Balint did so, and for a moment she clung to him, her arms round his neck, knees bent, like a little girl hanging round her grandfather’s neck.
Her warm, shapely body pressed against Balint’s, her bare arms encircling his neck in a cool embrace, or at least what would have been an embrace if it had not been a game and their closeness unintentional. In those few moments, before she moved, while her slender female body was pressed to his, Balint felt desire welling up inside him, all his being crying out to go on holding her close, to kiss her warm naked shoulder, to make her his. He wanted to stay like that for ever, oblivious to everything and everyone around them; but Adrienne just laughed unconcernedly, and put her feet to the ground, apparently unconscious of anything but the merriment of their game.
They continued their walk all talking at once, teasing each other in easy comradeship, though Balint found it difficult to fit into their mood.
One of the maids ran up with a telegram for Adrienne. ‘Excuse me, it was the Countess who opened it,’ she explained as she handed the envelope to Adrienne.
Adrienne read the telegram. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘you can go back to the house now.’ Her expression showed only that she was controlling herself with a certain effort. She tucked the folded telegram into her waistband and turned to the others.
‘Where shall we go now?’ she queried. Zoltan suggested that they visit the cowsheds where there were some newborn calves. Everyone agreed and off they went, petted a few cows, stroked the heads of the farm dogs, teased the turkeys and chased the ducks into the pond. But however light-hearted they seemed, a cloud had come over their merriment. Even though only Adrienne knew what was in the telegram, its arrival had spoilt their mood and everyone seemed depressed. At long last it was time to return for lunch and they all went back to the manor house with dampened spirits.
The weather was still so fine that they had coffee on the veranda. Shafts of sunlight penetrated the vine-leaves overhead and scattered tiny spots of light which sparkled on the chairs, the tablecloth and the paved floor, almost like glow-worms did at night. Some of the vine leaves were already turning red and they glowed like hot embers in the strong sunlight.
Adrienne touched Balint on the shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ she said, and led him in silence until they reached the end of the garden, where a simple wooden seat, lilac-coloured with age, overlooked the slope of the valley below. They sat down.
‘This is my favourite place,’ she said. ‘When I was a child I always took refuge here.’
From where they sat they could see the outlines of bare mountains receding into the distance. The view was beautiful, but it was not at all the sort of romantic landscape usually considered so. Here was no picture postcard beauty of forests, mountains and soaring rocky cliffs. Strangers unused to this bare Transylvanian upland country might find it
too unusual, perhaps even ugly in its austerity and wildness. Yet it was beautiful, with a grandeur of its own, chain upon chain of bare woodless mountains, rising behind each other as far as eye could see, each range seemingly identical to the last.
Everywhere there was silence.
In front of where Balint and Adrienne sat there was an old burial ground with ancient neglected headstones standing among untended grass and nettles. It was the remains of a Protestant cemetery, abandoned when the community died out. Farther down the slope of the hill, on a small ridge, could be seen the races of old walls where once a small chapel had stood.
Adrienne sat with legs crossed, motionless, with her head resting on her right hand. She looked straight ahead of her without speaking.
After some time she took out the telegram and handed it to Balint. It read, ‘COME HOME AT ONCE – UZDY’.
‘What does it mean?’ he asked
‘Nothing. Nothing that means anything. They wouldn’t send for me if the baby was ill: they wouldn’t need me. Neither then nor any other time. Six months ago when the child had a fever they locked me out of the nursery. My husband’s mother takes charge of everything. When the baby was born they took her away at once – You don’t know anything about babies! they said. They don’t believe I know anything about anything. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do. They don’t want anything from me, anything at all. I’m only an ornament – a living toy who has only one use … that’s why I’m there.’
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 13