‘What a tremendous joke that’d be!’ shouted Wuelffenstein. ‘Fancy General Nyiri running about in all directions, paper in hand, and no one there to give it to! Why, he couldn’t even call a meeting as the house-rules state you have to have forty members for that.’
‘Pity they hadn’t thought of this before. It’s a bit late now!’ said someone else.
So they waited and talked until word came from the party leaders: everyone was to be at the parliament building and in their seats by half-past nine at the latest. Nothing else; but it was enough.
In the morning all entrances to Parliament Square were blocked by police. No one could pass without showing his official papers. The square itself presented an alarming, sinister sight. Everywhere there were soldiers, national guards with their rifles stacked in neat pyramids, and Colonel Fabritius, their commander, standing in front of them. Right in the centre there was a squadron of hussars, mounted but at ease. Behind the police cordons waited groups of silent, grey-clad working men, not many but certainly a few hundred. More of them were collected farther back in Alkotmany Street, and a man in the crowd called out that the workers had been summoned by the government itself. There were a few newspaper men in the square and these cheered the better-known deputies as they arrived. All the elected members hurried inside, where they collected in groups whispering among themselves.
Bells sounded to announce that the House was in session and everyone went swiftly to his place. The official notary started reading something, gabbling in a low voice. Then Rakovszky, the vice-chairman, took the stand.
Rakovszky was heard in dead silence. He said that the session had been called to receive the King’s message. General Nyiri, the plenipotentiary Royal Commissioner, had announced that he would expect the people’s elected representatives to attend him at eleven o’clock at the royal palace, when he would read out the royal decree dissolving Parliament. Rakovszky now added his own remarks to the official statement, raising fine points of the legality of such a procedure. It seemed that the royal message was not to be handed to him by the Minister-President but by two army officers, and that it would be in a sealed envelope. Since, he said, it was customary for such documents to be presented to the House by the Minister-President, he advised that the Parliament should not accept the envelope but that it should be handed back at once to the appointed officers. This was the formula decided on by the party leaders at the previous evening’s meeting. It was a revolutionary decision because it would mean that, after all the fuss, nothing would have happened. It would be a fact that Parliament had been called into session … but dissolved? No one would have any knowledge of that, either officially or legally. Those unfamiliar with parliamentary procedure were somewhat bemused by this solution and it took a few moments for Rakovszky’s words to sink in. However, so strong was the feeling that they must act in strict accordance with the law, and that this only was important, that general approval was soon given to the proposal.
The chairman of the assembly now quickly suggested that the house should meet again two days later, on 21 February. Everyone knew that this would never happen, for the army had already been ordered to occupy the Parliament building and at that moment the soldiers were pouring into the ground floor and were already coming up the stairs that led to the chamber. This was disregarded, for everyone felt that they must stand on their own legal rights and proceed accordingly. At this point one of the sergeants-at-arms rushed in and shouted: ‘They’re coming! They’re already in the corridor!’
At once there was a general uproar, the chairman rose, closed the session and hurried off the platform. Everyone made for the exits, jostling each other in their hurry to get away.
Then through the lower door a stout uniformed officer stalked in. It was Colonel Fabritius. All those heading for that exit turned and rushed towards whatever other escape from the chamber they could find. As they did so the colonel mounted the podium and read out the royal decree of dissolution, but the only people to hear him were the journalists in the press gallery. As soon as he had finished the chamber was occupied by armed soldiers.
In the corridors the fleeing members found that soldiers had been posted everywhere. They were all from the National Guard of Budapest. It was a tragic and shameful sight – an armed military occupation of Parliament, the ancient citadel of Hungary’s independence. The soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder facing the entrances to the chamber, like a dark wall shutting out even the grey morning light from the windows behind them.
Balint, who scorned the idea of running away, was one of the last to leave the chamber. He walked slowly and sadly towards the main stairway but stopped when Bela Varju came running towards him.
‘They’ve closed the entrance. No one can get out that way!’ he called from a distance.
‘Perhaps we can go through the common rooms?’ suggested Abady, and together they quickly disappeared through one of the doors. Once inside Balint glanced back and saw that they had only just been in time, for he could already see the backs of soldiers lined up outside the wide glass doors through which they had just slipped.
Balint was quicker than Varju, who was now somewhat out of breath. He turned at the exit on the other side of the room and, for the first time seeing the comic side of it all, called back: ‘Hurry up, my friend, we don’t want to find our coats again in the Vienna prison-house!’
Balint’s train did not leave until two o’clock, so he went first to lunch at the Casino. There the atmosphere was one of unrelieved gloom. One or two people were conferring in low tones, but they fell silent if anyone came near them. Even at the long communal table the events of that morning were hardly mentioned. Shoulders were shrugged but everyone kept their opinions to themselves. Fredi Wuelffenstein, normally so ebullient, never once talked of how his Hungarian blood was boiling. It was the realization that no one knew any longer what the future would bring that deadened everyone’s spirits. Secretly there were many who began to wonder if they had not been wrong in making those demands about the army and the laws which had brought them into direct confrontation with the monarch.
Laszlo Gyeroffy was travelling on the same train. Though Balint and he greeted one another and sat together in the same compartment, Balint sensed at once that the warmth had gone out of their friendship.
‘Are you going home to Kozard?’ enquired Balint.
‘No, I’m getting off at Varad,’ To ward off any further questioning from his cousin, Laszlo added: ‘I have some business there.’ Then he turned away and pretended to look out of the window.
Neither of them spoke again for some time. Laszlo was thinking about the Carnival season which had just ended. Once again he had been named as elotancos and there had been no diminution in his position in society. On the contrary this year he had reached the pinnacle of social success at the archducal ball when he had dined at the same table as the King of Bulgaria, opened the ball with the Queen and spent the entire evening surrounded by Imperial and Royal Highnesses and their Majesties themselves. Despite all this public glory Laszlo himself sensed that this year his prestige had been somehow diminished. He was no longer interested in his job as leading dancer, and he neglected it. During the picnic dances at the Casino he would sometimes disappear for an hour or more, going up to the gaming tables and more than once returning drunk, and angry that his assistant had sent a message asking for him.
He knew that he had been remiss, but even so he had resented it when, three days before, one of the town’s great hostesses had asked Niki Kollonich and Gyuri Warday, Imre’s younger brother, to organize her ball rather than he, the official elotancos. Accordingly he had thrown up the job, giving it out that he was obliged to return to Transylvania. This was the reason for his being on the same train as Balint. Of course, he reflected, it was just as well that he would no longer have to bear all those extra expenses. Neither could he continue to postpone settling the question of Fanny’s pearls. Somehow he had to find the money to redeem them, for he
felt he could no longer bear the shame of being indebted to a woman. It was as bad as being kept!
As they sat face to face in the railway carriage, Balint was closely studying his cousin’s face. It had grown hard, with a bitter line to the mouth, and he had developed a vertical furrow where his eyebrows met. Laszlo’s eyes were both watery and inflamed and Balint knew at once that he must have been sitting up late and presumably gambling as heavily as before. Well, he thought, I’ll try and make him see reason. So, as tactfully as he could he introduced the subjects. Laszlo shrugged his shoulders and his replies were barely polite. This made Balint so angry that he began to say openly everything that was in his mind. His words were cruel and wounding. Finally, enraged, he said: ‘You’re quite mad! If you go on like this you’ll end up bankrupt and dishonoured!’
Gyeroffy got up, the bitter line of his mouth even more marked than before: ‘I am already bankrupt and dishonoured!’ he said quietly. Then he left the compartment.
Laszlo did not return until the train reached Nagy-Varad. While his bags were being collected he came over to his cousin and said: ‘Thank you for caring what becomes of me. But don’t bother any more. I’m a hopeless case!’
Before Balint could reply, Laszlo had disappeared.
When he arrived in Kolozsvar Balint went straight to his apartment in his mother’s house in Farkas Street. It was already late in the evening. He found waiting for him a note from Adrienne: ‘Come to tea tomorrow at half-past four. Turn up unexpectedly. There will be several people there. I’ll tell you more later.’
Adrienne wrote in English and the word ‘unexpectedly’ was underlined.
Balint arrived the next day at five. In Adrienne’s big drawing-room he found a number of men grouped round each woman present. Judith was in one corner with three young men talking to her, and Margit was at the other end of the room with two of the Alvinczys. The two Laczok girls were there, also surrounded by young men, and Adrienne was near the fireplace, not this time sitting on the pile of cushions on the floor but in an armchair, with Adam Alvinczy on one side and Pityu Kendy on the other. Balint went over to join them. Everybody wanted to hear about the marvels of the Riviera and Kamuthy demanded the latest news from Budapest. While dutifully telling everyone what they wanted to hear Balint was straining every nerve, searching for some sign which would explain why Adrienne had called him home. He looked carefully at everyone in turn but he could see nothing out of the ordinary, either in their faces or in their bearing. Everyone looked exactly as they always did and though he fancied that he caught a flash of hostility in Judith’s eyes when he shook hands with her, it disappeared immediately and she went on chatting with her friends. All this continued for some little time.
When the lamps were brought in Adrienne got up so that the servant could reach the pedestal behind her chair. She moved over to the french window which overlooked the Szamos and gazed out into the twilight. Balint stood beside her.
‘Look hard at that bridge!’ murmured Addy softly without turning towards him. She pointed with her chin towards it and then rejoined the others in the room.
Balint stayed where he was studying the little wooden bridge which spanned the river about ten paces from the house. On the garden side, there was a flimsy gate made of canes which was obviously nailed into place. A few planks were missing from the bridge and the wooden parapet was broken in several places. It was clear that it had not been in use for many years. Across the bridge there was a path through the park which followed the banks of the river.
When Balint rejoined the others Adrienne turned to him and said: ‘I nearly forgot! I’ve still got a book of yours. It was most interesting, thank you so much.’ And she picked up a little paperback Tauchnitz volume from her desk and handed it to him. Balint glanced at the title. The book certainly wasn’t his; he had never even heard of it.
He put it in his pocket and, as he did so, realized that something had been slipped between the leaves. A letter? Though filled with excitement, his reply was cool and blandly devoid of emotion:
‘It’s good, isn’t it? Nothing out of the ordinary, but very well written, I thought. I’m glad you liked it.’
‘Oh, yes. A good read …’
Abady continued to make conversation for a little while longer. Then he took his leave and hurried home. Only when he had reached his own room and closed the door behind him did he take out the book and find Adrienne’s letter.
At one o’clock tonight you must find your way over the bridge. If there is a light behind the french window, come straight in. If there isn’t, don’t! It’s very important, but I have to be seen to go to bed because of my sisters. Don’t get any wrong ideas, it’s all about Wickwitz! You are my only friend, I can’t speak about this to anyone else or at any other time. We are in great trouble.
Adrienne had wondered for a long time what to do, and this seemed the only way of getting her news to Balint without being detected. Ever since the incident of the clandestine letter at Mezo-Varjas, Judith had thought of Balint as her sworn enemy and the fact that at the Uzdy villa the three sisters shared Adrienne’s only sitting-room meant that it would be impossible to take Balint on one side and consult him without her sisters being present. If she asked Abady to call in the morning, Judith would get to know of it even if she didn’t catch a glimpse of him from the windows of her room which looked over the forecourt of the villa. If they went walking together in the town, just the two of them, this would be certain to arouse Judith’s suspicions, for all this season the three sisters had been everywhere in a group and some acquaintance was sure to see them together and so Judith was sure to hear about it later. None of these things was possible. Adrienne knew her sister well and realized that if it came to Judith’s notice that Adrienne was asking Balint’s advice, then the girl was quite capable of taking fright and fleeing immediately to Wickwitz, maybe even to his regiment at Brasso. Up until now Judith had had no reason to suspect that she had been carefully watched by her eldest sister for, although the girls had been entrusted to Adrienne’s care by their mother, Adrienne had cunningly arranged their lives so that it seemed to them that they were doing exactly what they themselves wanted. In fact, Judith never went out in the mornings without either Mlle Morin or Margit being with her and from lunchtime until sometimes quite late at night, the three sisters were always together.
The only time that Adrienne would be able to talk to Balint unobserved would be in the middle of the night. Luckily she had discovered that though the little cane gate was nailed into place, the nails were so rusty that it was easily opened. And it could be closed again just as easily. Adrienne checked it again when her sisters had briefly left the room to change.
All the same she was not completely happy about this midnight rendezvous. She wondered how she should receive Balint. Every night her sisters remained with her while she undressed and went to bed, and they often then stayed on chatting until it was late. They would think it odd if she suddenly decided to do something different. Obviously she would have to keep to their nightly routine, but should she get up and dress again after the girls had gone to their own room? It would be rather complicated. Perhaps she should just put on a wrap so as to give the signal for Balint to come in … but then she realized that this would not do either. A wrap would be quite wrong, it might open, for such silken garments were difficult to keep closed, and the last thing she wanted to do was show him a bare knee or shoulder, which he might wrongly take as an invitation. Adrienne shuddered at the thought of being misunderstood. All in all, it would be best to be already in bed when he arrived. Balint had already been in her room at Almasko, and she could easily pull the bedclothes well up as she had done then.
There was just a slight click as Balint opened the french window as silently as he could. Then she heard the door close again. Slow, careful steps, just audible on the floor-boards, and in a moment he was framed in the doorway to her room, the candlestick in his hand. Swiftly he put it down on a side-table
, took off his hat and coat, threw them over a chair and came towards the bed. He kissed Adrienne’s forehead as would a brother.
Balint could just see that Adrienne was looking up at him with frightened hostility, but, seeing that the young man’s manner was quiet and composed, the hostility slowly died from her expression and she relaxed. He sat down in a chair at the foot of the bed.
‘What is it? What has happened? I’m glad you sent for me. Naturally I came at once,’ he said softly.
Adrienne replied in the same low tones. She told him all about Wickwitz’s letter and about her anxiety because Judith had been placed in her care. She had no one, she said, whom she could trust to help or give her advice, who would let her know if Wickwitz arrived in town and who, away from the Uzdy house, would be able to keep an eye out and tell her when she had to be particularly watchful. She felt completely helpless, and there was Judith’s good name to think of.
Adrienne told her tale as dispassionately as if she were asking legal advice in some lawyer’s office and not lying in her scented bedroom. Because she was speaking only in whispers, Balint left the chair he had chosen and came and sat beside her on the bed. As she talked Balint lowered himself down until he was reclining beside her, his head supported on one elbow, his left ear close to her mouth. Now they could talk so quietly that no one near at hand would have been able to hear a word of what they were saying. Consciously subduing his desire, he calmly and matter-of-factly answered all her questions, calmed her fears and agreed to keep watch in town and let her know the moment that Wickwitz arrived in Kolozsvar. In the meantime he would try to think out some plan.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 71