by Peter Nadas
At the same time, he didn’t want to rush anything. Which meant that he had completed only three important pieces by late autumn, virtually minutes before his departure.
After that he had time only to put the objects in their designated locations and call for the photographer.
It was better that way, because he and Mrs. Szemző had no time for a sentimental farewell.
Which only increased their mutual admiration.
They’d never see each other again, how fortunate, they thought, looking into each other’s eyes, and thus they managed to glide through their relationship unscathed, almost.
But in that early April heat, Madzar began his work on the chairs and armchairs. Soon the weather turned cool again, it rained a lot, and occasionally he had to light a fire in the potbelly stove. For him this was the greatest excitement and pleasure, the chairs. He hardly ever listened to news on the radio or picked up a local newspaper, for he didn’t want disturbing news to interfere with his work. Sometimes, information about what was happening around him reached him days after an event. He thought of the Germans’ strategic ideas as a material form or structure. To stupefy the unsuspecting world with revisionist demands, as if peaceful solutions still had a chance. War was imminent. And he did not need Bellardi to convince him of the dangers in German expansionism.* In his aesthetic struggle against decorative decadence, he kept a modicum of indifference about the threatening events. And he went on being annoyed by the nonsense he had heard from Bellardi. He could not get out of his head the childish drivel a spoiled aristocrat like him could come up with. Having seen Bellardi’s childishness, Madzar appreciated all the more the simple yet unusually speculative mechanism of Mrs. Szemző’s thinking. What disgusted him most was Bellardi’s dramatically conceived patriotic sense of responsibility, which no matter from what angle he looked was nothing but empty self-complacency and self-indulgence, just like Tonio Kröger’s many sentiments. He learned two days after the fact that Prague was next to fall, Vienna having been first, though the Czechs were defending themselves, their army’s motorized units were concentrating on their borders with Hungary and Germany. Or perhaps this too was nothing but provocation. While he worked, the thought that he should start packing was always with him, and he could see himself catching the last ship out of Genoa.
For a few days he followed the news persistently and even bought the miserable local papers.
He tried not to think about Mrs. Szemző while he worked, because he wanted to forget he was making these objects for her. Interestingly enough, the chairs were going to be heavier than they looked. He had to be careful not to make this work into a confession of love. He would have found that ridiculous. He was making the furniture out of military sleepers that were supposed to have been used in the war effort. He tried to be amused by this devilish twist of fate but couldn’t be; the coincidence that had brought the wood to him seemed too ominous. Secretly he hoped that Bellardi would stand by his promise and show up unexpectedly for the answer to his question.
It was a matter of just millimeters; there was practically nothing more to simplify in the chairs. Compared to Rietveld, he could at best change some of the proportions, giving greater emphasis to the texture of the material, but the material itself produced that. The emphasis was even stronger than Rietveld’s, and only Madzar knew it was nothing but pure luck.
He was particularly proud of this success of his, which seemed so improbable.
But he did torture himself with waiting for the unexpected.
Or was tortured by the rediscovery that Bellardi existed, that he still loved him, that he loved him despite all his ridiculousness.
But think how well you’ve been getting along without him.
It was not only the obligation he felt toward Mrs. Szemző that held him back from packing and leaving. This was a dangerous place. Dangerous things came to mind concerning Bellardi or, rather, because of Bellardi he mulled over sweet, desirable old issues that in no circumstance did he want to recall. At least while he was thinking about Bellardi he didn’t have to think about Mrs. Szemző; he could not help waiting for him. Or he wanted to forget the things he couldn’t help thinking about without connecting them to Bellardi. When he went to Buda to check up on the work on Orbán Mountain and to look in on the cabinetmaker on Szív Street who was working on the interior furnishings, he took the train to be sure not to meet him. He contacted Mrs. Szemző exclusively by telephone, emphasizing that he had to return to his workshop because after all he was laboring diligently on furniture for her clinic. But he did not dare tell himself that the work was more important than she was, and in addition Mrs. Szemző spoke to him very reservedly.
Which caused him immeasurable pain.
It was always because of Bellardi that he hastened to return to Mohács, and he had neither reason for nor the right to such pain.
He worried that Bellardi might be looking for him in Mohács and that they might miss each other, perhaps for life. He wanted to avoid the woman, and used the furniture as his excuse, but he also didn’t want to miss Bellardi.
Sometimes, when he was listening to the news, he caught himself not paying attention. How can he hear what they’re saying on the damned radio when his mother is so passionately chopping parsley.
Stop for a moment, Mother.
Can’t you see I’m trying to listen to the radio.
After a while, he could not but notice that his irritation was unreasonable. Every incidental noise bothered him. One can’t say that noise bothered him in his work but, rather, in that intimate process, that inner monologue of his open to both past and future that had become integral to his work. And the sharp shrieking of the riverside swallows brought Mrs. Szemző so close that, no matter how hard he tried to distract himself with thoughts of Bellardi, he was always thinking about her to a small degree. As if in his imagination Mrs. Szemző had to be the one to strike Bellardi dead and, if this was impossible because of the swallows, then the other way around.
Slowly, summer came into full bloom, and soon he realized that the birds were indeed swallows and that the days were becoming hotter.
Because of a third person, not to think of the person he was thinking about. How lovely it would be to go for a walk with Mrs. Szemző along the river, among the shrieking swallows. And he decided—in order to bring about some quiet within himself after being buffeted by these two—to bow to Bellardi’s request and not oppose him. And he will not yield to Mrs. Szemző’s attraction, that won’t do, it’s quiet just working for her. After all, the reason he imagines there might be something between him and Mrs. Szemző is so as to forget that poor woman in Rotterdam who stayed with her husband, or rather, to forget the husband, about whom he knew everything, which proved to be too much. He did not want more knowledge now, especially not of another man. And, being human, he did forget the husband, though the woman would not leave his limbs, his hair, the taste buds of his tongue and palate. He had no time to get mixed up in new adventures just to forget her.
He should stop stealing time from himself.
There will be plenty of Jewish women in America.
But to Bellardi he would say yes quickly, this he did decide, he would surprise him with a quick and decisive yes.
He could no longer stay here, if only because of Bellardi’s stupid plans with that secret society.
I’ve thought it over, I’ve changed my mind, he’d tell him.
He wouldn’t let them draw him into anything, of course, that’s out of the question, but this is what he’d say, this is how he’d solve the problem, with a manly yes. Nothing was farther from him than the cause of Hungarians and these childish things, these little conspiracies. But he understood that the undertaking did have a logic to it; it wouldn’t be hard to pretend to accept it. He’d do exactly what Bellardi would in a similar situation: wrap his reservations in inquisitive questions, show enthusiasm and admiration for the cause, then wait and listen, under no circumstance argue with anyone,
and thereby hold all the strings in his own hand.
Hungarians never make decisions about anything; instinctively, he too wanted to avoid that.
He didn’t want to lose Bellardi’s goodwill, though he could not tell why he needed it. Or even if there was some mysterious need in their relationship, with ancient history behind it, like having been bound together by something from before their births or possibly by the dazzle of their shared childhood, he still couldn’t tell, though he couldn’t deny it either. But even so what benefit did he derive from it.
As though friendship’s temperature were measured in units of utility.
Why would he need such a wretched man, what have I to do with such a high-class fraud.
First, he had to cut everything down to size, but that made so much noise it was hard to think about certain persons. He made the necessary drawings in an oversize English sketchbook. He enjoyed drawing and while doing it he worked out every detail of all the possible answers he might give to Bellardi. Now and then he caught himself making his sketches unpleasantly violent because of his thoughts. Violence stared back at him. The simplest way to reject Bellardi’s suggestion would be to show enthusiastic interest in it. Sexual violence, said his sketches. Several times he also drew his mother as she stood in the workshop door, leaning on the doorpost, her white kerchief tied behind her head.
She liked standing around, in the noise of chiseling.
When I was in the store today, I heard the Gottliebs went to America.
To where, who, Madzar shouted back across the noise; the news so surprised him he could not comprehend it.
While drawing, he’d chisel smooth for himself the appearances he wished to maintain in Bellardi’s and Mrs. Szemző’s company, and, for this effort to succeed, he violently tore the violent sketches from his book and crumpled them.
He will take with him to America one sketch of his mother.
And he will transfer his money to another bank.
For that, he will have to go to the capital again.
But he won’t risk it now because if Bellardi hasn’t come for the answer by now, he must surely come any minute. He made a few drawings of him from memory, full-figure drawings, but he tore them up and, finding that inadequate, burned them, though he wanted to turn his image into sketches of attractive nude boys. Each time he burned a drawing, he had to make a new full-figure sketch as a basis for future drawings—until he had another fit and burned them all again.
Consulting the schedule of the Carolina, Madzar figured out when Bellardi would be in Mohács.
He had so much figuring to do anyway, and these various calculations persisted in crossing and accompanying one another.
All right, he said, he didn’t come today, but he might come the day after tomorrow. It became almost unbearable to think that every third or fifth day Bellardi sailed by on the Danube, touching Mohács, but didn’t get off. He made his calculations because he did not want Bellardi to surprise him. Today he didn’t come, so now there’s a respite for a few hours. Thank God he’s not coming. He could not endure his former friend’s capriciousness and inconsistency. When every third or fifth day the critical hour arrived and the moment was approaching, the blood jolted in his head and he felt himself blushing in shame.
His heart beat loud at the sound of the ship’s horn coming close.
Then he preferred to think about Mrs. Szemző; he made as if to think about her but in the end did not. His hand slipped; in alarm he had either hit or grasped something the wrong way. His old friend might show up in a few minutes, though he wished he wouldn’t come—now or ever again. He even sighed and moaned in his wild joy. Such an emotional turmoil was not without its danger because the old power saws made by the Langefelder machine factory had hardly anything by way of protective devices. He was embarrassed to think such thoughts and to be making little moans instead of watching what he was doing with his hands, but he had to admit he had good reason to tease and make fun of himself.
He was indeed waiting for his lover.
So what if at least twelve years had gone by without giving him a thought. Which, of course, was not even true. Bellardi might come this afternoon. Or if not this afternoon he might come five days from now in the middle of the night. The latter was the more exciting image, that he’d arrive at night. They’d sit on the veranda with a bottle of good wine until dawn, he’d ask his mother to bake some of her pork-scraps round cake. He wondered whether he should tell his mother in advance about Bellardi’s possible visit.
Mother, please be prepared, I might have a guest soon.
But he said nothing about it to her.
Yet his mother spoke, from behind his back, asking whether she should count on anyone coming, perhaps a guest.
Yes, he shouted over the noise of the power saw, but don’t make a fuss. If he comes, he comes, if he doesn’t, nobody else will be coming.
And to keep his mother from asking more questions, he quickly asked her whether she knew what had happened to Gottlieb’s dogs.
What dogs, his mother shouted back in German.
Madzar stopped sawing; only the drive belt was making repeated clattering noises.
He had two large dogs, didn’t he.
How in hell would I know what he did with them.
So his mother didn’t dare ask whom they might be waiting for, though she remained for a long time in the workshop doorway, standing silently, watching her son measure everything more than once and make new marks before putting the logs to the saw.
Her son did not like it when every so often she spoke to him in German.
Mother, you probably beat those dogs to death yourself, he said aloud later; he had long wanted to learn the truth from her.
What dogs, son, his mother shouted back, this time in Hungarian.
When the subject was unpleasant she preferred the foreign tongue.
Well, our two big white dogs, the komondors, I’ve been thinking about them, said Madzar, as if in passing, as if he weren’t truly interested and might not even hear her answer in the noise. He did not look up from his work; with such transparent maneuvers he thus occasionally managed to trick his mother.
Oh, son, that was so long ago.
Once again, only the noise of the drive belt was heard. They said nothing for a long time, but as she looked at her son’s strong back while he was checking the cutting surface, she knew that if she did not give a straight answer she’d have to leave, because her son would be angry with her.
First, I killed only one of them, the bitch, she answered.
But why did you do it, that’s what I want to know.
The female was the wilder one. I couldn’t cope with them, because they listened only to your father, son. They were partial to him, how could I live with them.
Now the silence felt better.
The sheer mention of Bellardi’s name always provoked excitement in his mother, so for his peace of mind Madzar did not risk invoking it. She was more in love with Bellardi than he was, if that was possible. She treated him, even when Bellardi was a small child, as if the Lord Jesus had come down to them or had sent the little boy with his schoolbag in his stead.
Ultimately, the Bellardi-Montenuovo clan has always been and will forever remain the first family of Mohács.
Madzar knew this was the right opportunity; he could make it easier on himself because he wouldn’t have to wait alone for Bellardi, but he said nothing. Yet the very next day silent preparations began for receiving the guest; his mother was baking, I’ll bake some cheese bundles ahead of time, she said.
Which made her kitchen bloom with the sweet smell of vanilla.
Maybe you should bake some pork-crackling cones, Madzar said incautiously, for with the crackling cones, which Bellardi could never get at home, he revealed everything to his mother.
He blushed so hard he had to turn away.
I already did, son, don’t worry, just the way you like them, she added tactfully, as if she had no suspici
ons regarding the possible guest, I cut the pork crackling very fine before mixing it in. But it’s not my own anymore, that’s the problem. I had to have crackling delivered from Lehmann’s this morning. At least he has it fresh twice a week.
She cleaned the spacious veranda, the large living room, and the bedroom, where they might have to put the overnight guest. Unless he plans to spend the night elsewhere. Very few tradesmen’s families in Mohács could boast of such expensive bedroom furniture. These pieces had taken up an entire classroom of the local school when they were displayed as part of the great industrial exhibition, which His Excellency the regent came to see as did the royal princes, together with Magda Purgly, not to mention Archduke Frederick,* the prince of Montenuovo, and the Odescalchis. The furniture, made of pure Finnish poplar, was the masterwork of Tóni Windheim Jr., made after he had returned to his father’s plant from his wanderings. They had the wood brought from Finland; Sanyi Csikalek prepared the upholstery for it. The old Windheim manufactured an entire set; we bought ours from the first batch. He also sold a lot in Vienna, he shipped them there himself. Along with old Csikalek, they received a gold medal for it. But they got their medals separately, each for his own work. That’s when your father also received his, in 1926, when the grand exhibition was held on the four-hundredth anniversary, but you do remember that. Old Windheim was still with us then. They were standing like this, I’m telling you, your godmother to my right, and in front of her the whole big Windheim family, including the relatives from Pécs. Don’t forget, they are also our relatives, all of them. I’m saying it just like that, just as we said back then, not only the Catholics, we took an oath and everyone cried, everyone who came to Széchenyi Square that day. No stranger will ever set foot on our homeland as long as one Hungarian is alive. How could we forget the Serb rule. You can’t know about this, what are you laughing at. But Archbishop Zichy could not say this then because the Serbs were standing there crying. My, the things those people did, son. They broke down the door of our house in the dead of night. To this day I cry, son, when I think of that devastation. It was beautiful; you can laugh all you want. We’d swear there would be no discord, no disagreement. But the poor man could not get the gold medal himself, our young Tóni did, though it rightfully belonged to the old man.