by Gyula Krudy
“Not even Eveline’s foot could be whiter,” he thought, as he took his place in Quitt’s cart.
He called Stony Dinka over to the cart’s side, and, as if confiding a secret, whispered the following in her ear:
“I’m going now, and it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again, my heart. I won’t hold you to be faithful to me when I’m in the other world. Nor will I return to haunt you, for I’ve played the white-shrouded ghost enough times already in my life, whenever I had to frighten off superstitious women or cowardly husbands. I want you to go about your business as calmly as ever. Don’t forget to take your mares to the Nyíregyháza stud; and I know you won’t neglect to dilute last year’s wine...Alas, I have too little time left to help you with that. By the way, you should dismiss your serving girl Fruzsinka, for I caught her wearing one of your shirts. Don’t ever let your little daughter, who’s being brought up by your Szatmár aunts, visit this region. It would be best if she found a job at the post office when she grows up. Preferably far away, somewhere in Transylvania, where no one knows her mother. And take care of yourself. Your feet still have their snowy white looks, and I can’t detect any signs of those unappetizing varicose veins on your legs.
“Your hair still has its sheen, for you’ve always taken care to shampoo and comb it. Keep taking those baths, especially in the rainwater that you save in the pantry. You know, if you keep your eyes downcast, they sparkle more when you look up. Don’t laugh too loud with open mouth, because you have a yellow tooth that shows. Try to be quiet and composed, like a lone blackbird. At your age, what men like is a dreamily murmuring voice, like a bumblebee humming in an autumn vineyard. And remember, there’s only one decent man in the whole county, and his name is Andor Álmos-Dreamer. Make sure you never wear your stockings inside out! And now farewell, my love.”
He kissed Stony Dinka on her forehead, whereupon Quitt started to shake the reins, like a village storekeeper driving a cart.
After many a mile of lumpy-bumpy highway, when village steeples like so many whip handles appeared on the horizon, announcing that a tavern must be nearby, the one-eyed Quitt looked back at his passenger:
“So, how was it?” he asked, in the deep, slushy voice of Jews from the Nyírség region.
“Oh, I like’em zaftig like that,” replied Pistoli, who preferred to affect cultivated airs in lower-class company.
“Stop talking Yiddish, you know I don’t understand that. Tell me, Pistoli, did you beat up the little woman, or did she beat up on you?”
Pistoli replied with drooping spirits:
“I’m done with fighting.”
“Then you haven’t got much longer to live,” said Quitt, and went back to contemplating the horses’ ears. When they came to the Süvöltö oaks that guarded the local sands like great shaggy komondor sheepdogs, he looked behind him once again, timid and paling, afraid that his passenger already lay dead in the back of the cart...
“Where to, Fanny Late’s?” he asked, mumbling into his beard.
Pistoli linked his hands behind his neck, pushing his hat forward. He meditatively eyed the graying driver.
“So, you think we owe Fanny Late a visit?...Well, if you think so, Quitt...If that’s what you believe...I guess she does deserve a kind word or two...”
Quitt nodded twice.
“Yes, she’s been good to us...Even when you took a knife to her, and all the times you broke her heart...she was always good to us.”
Of course, Fanny Late, too, was a tavern-keeper’s wife, for where else could Pistoli camp out if not at some roadside inn, where of an afternoon the cat stretched out in the warm ashes, the wine jugs slumbered in the taproom, the flies hung motionless from the ceiling, and the keeper’s wife sat by the window to mend her little son’s pants...For awhile Pistoli would sit in silence like a blackbird in its cage. Noisily sipping his wine he would contemplate his hands as they lay on the tabletop. He would keep nodding pensively at his ring finger that was somehow never without a ring from one of his women. Then he would start in with his lies as the woman sat there in silence. At times he believed his own lies, and this made him supremely satisfied.
“What day is it today?” he now asked Fanny Late, entering the tavern known as the Zonett.
She kept on kneading her bread dough and answered without looking at Pistoli, as if she last saw him a day or two ago.
“It’s Saint Florian Martyr’s day. Fair day at Nyíregyháza. All the horse dealers will be here by nightfall.”
“Well then, for one last time I’ll play cards with your horse dealers.”
“You could do worse,” said Fanny Late in a soft voice, and went on with her kneading.
Kneading dough is a fine occupation. Women like to do it wearing a blouse, petticoats and slippers. A white kerchief goes on the head, as in some ritual. The waist jostles, the calves flex, a delicate dew sits on the forehead, as if a birth were impending, that of sacred bread itself, God’s blessing on earth. But in addition to all that, Pistoli noted the white of Fanny’s plump arms, the noble swan arch of her nape, and the small melons swinging free under her shirt, like little fairies at play. The scent emanating from her as she kneaded the dough was so sweet that Pistoli nearly regretted that his life must end so soon. (Again, as so often in his travels, he thought of her ladyship, Eveline. By the time she is married she would become just such a wholesome, strapping, sweet-scented female, with a light smile on her face when her man rested his head on her shoulder, as if she were also the mother of the recipient of her love. Why, a care-laden man’s head weighs no more than a butterfly weighs on a flower.)
Sending up a great sigh, he took the pack of cards from the cupboard to practice for the night. Kakuk, who had arrived in the meantime, watched Pistoli’s activity with eyes popping. If he could play cards with the gentleman, just once...
Pistoli had his favorites among the cards in the deck.
He especially loved the two kings side by side, or a pair of aces, nor did he disdain sevens in proximity whenever he dealt the cards to the assembled horse dealers. He practiced shuffling the deck at great length. His index finger with its signet ring pushed the cards in and out like old acquaintances.
Fanny Late stood behind his back, having wiped the dough from her hands. She bestowed a kiss on Mr. Pistoli’s ear and placed a key in his hand.
“The money’s in the drawer,” she said.
Kakuk gulped so noisily that Pistoli banished him from the room.
“So, my golden man!” Fanny Late called out, and embraced Mr. Pistoli. “Tell me, am I still the one you love, or is it my youngest servant girl?”
Pistoli gave a limp, weary wave of the hand.
“I’m fed up with women. And anyway, I’m in love. Let me see, I think you look a little bit like that certain someone... Turn the other way! Now sideways.”
Fanny Late obeyed the gentleman’s requests. He gave her the once-over from top to toe.
“Your feet,” announced Mr. Pistoli after lengthy deliberation, “upon my word, your feet appear to be somewhat like hers. Miss M’s. Miss M—that’s a capital M for you—loves to keep her feet in stirrups. You mostly go about in slippers. Still, your ankle’s curve, your foot’s arch, your heel’s turn is as noble as a chatelaine’s. It could be that in a former life you did some falconry in this land, and lived in a castle. Now you are an innkeeper’s wife, and I prefer you that way.”
Fanny Late shook her head in silence. Yes, there was indeed something noble about her face, her forehead, her petite hands and narrow feet, her eyebrows’ arc, the hawk’s curve of her nose, her mouth’s straight and sensuous lines, like some Egyptian queen’s. Possibly it was only some itinerant Italian who had played the hurdy-gurdy in the neighborhood when her mother was a young woman. But it could also have been aristocratic hunters stalking the egret.
“You’ve told me many a time that I am the rarest pipe in your collection. That I am the antique walking stick that is missing from queer old Vidlicskay’s
collection.”
It was a May twilight, when all things appear to be full of life and purpose, and there was nothing and no one moribund or suicidal anywhere near the golden, dusty highway. Frogs had not yet struck up their evensong, although one or two concert masters in the reeds did sound a few tentative croaks, basso profundo. It was easy to see that within an hour the impromptu concert would be in full swing—and who knows why frogs sing? A bridal veil lowered over the sun’s disk. A day in May is still whimsical and sentimental, like a girl who keeps a diary of her emotions. In moments of abandon, her affections gush forth upon the earth, swearing eternal faith both to weeds’ upthrusting spears and to the soft laps of apple blossoms. The day plays with the ruffled pelt of the fields, like a young bride running her fingers over the wolflike backbone of a man. She distributes her kisses equally among highwaymen, hanged men, deep ditches and coldhearted old birches. She belongs to everyone and no one. Meanwhile at nightfall the clouds are ascending so that rain might start to fall round about midnight, tapping and palpating like a physician, examining roof tiles, people’s dreams, and checking the resonance of windowpanes. The rain swishes over meadows, dallies with the flowering trees, speeds up and slows down, just like a skilled dancer; and plays by herself in the night, like an orphaned child. But still, this is May, and even the oldest crone would be startled to find death’s ugly black spider hiding in her nightshirt.
Before it was completely dark, the cart encountered pilgrims heading for a saint’s feast. Quitt pulled off the highway, rested his horses, for although as a Jew he observed only the Day of Atonement (freely consuming smoked sausages the rest of the year), nonetheless he had the greatest respect for other people’s religious convictions. He believed that religiousness was a tremendous advantage in life. For this reason he took off his hat when the pilgrims, a group whom he considered fortunate individuals, approached his cart.
It was the Feast of Our Lady. Knapsack on back, the daughters of the soil marched barefoot and chanted tirelessly on their way to the chapel at Máriapócs. The Blessed Lady was already awaiting them at the church of the sandal-wearing friars, shedding her tears for her devotees, both hands laden with forgiveness and solace. So the women trudged on, like turkey hens with wings weighed down by the leaden rain of transgressions and tribulations. They had brought along one or two older men, in case men were more familiar with the way to the heavenly kingdom. These superannuated elders had regained their manhood for the occasion of the pilgrimage and marched at the head of the procession with an air of leadership, and recited their litanies as if the entire flock’s salvation depended on them. (“Too bad I won’t live to be a pilgrimage leader to the Pócs feast,” thought Pistoli, and all sorts of mischievous prayers crossed his mind.) The women kept chanting their responses, with the same unwearying persistence with which they kneaded the bread dough: “Mary, Mother of God, have mercy on us.”
The banners were held aloft by the supple arms of hefty young virgins. They would earn a special reward in heaven for this. Sunbrowned faces, white teeth, liquid eyes, lush eyebrows, these maidens of The Birches must have learned their gait from the geese, for their ancestresses had come all the way from Asia on carts drawn by buffaloes. Here came the childless ones, chanting loud enough for their voices to be heeded by the baby Moses who was no doubt floating somewhere about in the neighboring reeds. May the kindhearted Virgin Mary bless their wombs to bring joy to their husbands at last. Here came the invalids, who were losing the love of their men. They, too, were chanting, for they had placed great hopes in this pilgrimage. Those who had some clandestine goal marched with downcast eyes; those whose troubles were known by the whole village looked up to heaven. They would pass the night under God’s open sky: the women would wrap their skirts around their feet, tie their kerchiefs under their chins, light small candles in the field, and under the browsing moonbeam dream about the kingdom of heaven and angels clad in crimson. Among the sleepers an old man, the lead gander, keeps the watch, nodding and dozing. If a flock of wild geese should happen to pass overhead, they would surely honk out a greeting to such kinfolk.
By the crack of dawn, when little birds stir on the branch, these women will be on the road again. As they near the village of Pócs, the ragged beggars by the roadside will become more and more pushy, penitent life crying out from their dreadful limbs; the dust is deeper, the air hotter; the bells tolling from the friars’ steeple promise heavenly miracles, the whole world is steeped in a smell of gingerbread and wax candles, wandering Gypsies play their music at the barbecue stands, the organ’s boom resounds from the church...where their revived and quickened steps take them, where the miracle is to be found. Year after year these faces come, wide-eyed, for a glimpse of that flame-lit heaven.
Suddenly Pistoli sat up, as if the prevailing pious atmosphere had turned even him into one of the superstitious old women. At the end of the procession, following the booted, hatted, parasoled contingent of tradeswomen in brown, officials’ wives and small-town ladies, who all cast scornful glances as they passed the cart of the county’s greatest reprobate, there now appeared two figures, at the sight of whom Pistoli squiggled down to lie low on the straw-lined cart bed.
Kerchiefed, clad in a flowery skirt—borrowed from a servant girl—came the petite, cherry-lipped Eveline Nyirjes, sauntering along, her waist swaying. She was carrying her shoes in her hand, her bare feet treading on sand. Her companion, the wasp-waisted Miss Maszkerádi, cast a glance of queenly cruelty over Pistoli’s cart, as if her scornful eyes demanded: “How can this man still carry on, for shame...” Maszkerádi had not taken off her ankle boots of yellow leather, although Mr. Pistoli would have loved to catch sight of her feet, as well. Her peasant skirt allowed a glimpse of calf that revealed a pliant musculature, straight from the dreams of schoolboys. “After the pilgrims!” Pistoli shouted, beside himself, as soon as he regained his composure. “This is one pilgrimage that I must attend.”
But before Quitt had a chance to turn the cart about, Pistoli had lost his élan. His head drooped like a very old man’s.
“My time’s up. Let’s go home,” he growled, disgruntled, as if he noticed his heart skipping a beat every now and then.
But he kept staring after the pilgrim procession, until at last he saw in the far distance Miss Maszkerádi turn around, and send a fiery glance that ran down the shadowy highway like a burning carriage, as if a mirror’s shard had flashed on the horizon. Satisfied, Pistoli nodded toward the one who looked back. Just as he had thought.
All the way home he wondered whether the two ladies would confide to each other what they prayed for at the Máriapócs church...” Ah, women!” he sighed, and concluded that life was no longer worth living.
9. Pistoli’s Twilight
Now follow those events that complete the structure of life and death, the way a clock crowns a tower.
Stonemasons belong to the most ancient craft; they know well that building is indeed a thorough science. Much labor must go into the construction of the foundations, before the roof can be raised over the bare walls—or before one can erect a tombstone over the body of a restless man.
One man’s life may be paced like the tumbleweed’s passage over the wasteland, all day long chased by the wind from one end of the field to the other, to arrive in unexpected places and leave without any farewells after spending the night. Blowing unnoticed past hundreds of people, until suddenly, haphazardly, catching in someone’s hair: an existence that seems aimless, vanishing more rapidly than a shadow toward eveningtime. Yet such a life can cause so much trouble, howl so bitterly, crush so many hearts, create such havoc, evoke such anxieties. Yes, those with tumbleweed lives live life to the fullest, for they do not make any journeys for their own ends. Happenstance, rumors and humors, the vagaries of moods drive them hither and thither, toward good fortune or ill luck.
Yet others prepare the course of their lives as thoroughly as a fly picking its residence in amber. They build their house on a fo
undation of great fieldstones that will not easily be blown down by the wind. A few manage to live out their lives in a den of their own devising, to grow old, and die, all the while avoiding the serpent’s twisted and slippery path. Yes, there are men and women who indeed die innocent. (I wonder if they receive any special recognition for this in the world to come?) They never have to howl in pain, bitter remorse, guilty misery. But just as most of the guilty cannot help falling, the blameless ones have no call to be haughty on account of the purity of their body and soul. No, neither glorifying nor holding this world in contempt is quite justified. No one is responsible for their personal fate because it is unavoidable, like the misfortunes foretold in a fairy tale. And so it is best to leave people to their tumbleweed lives, or to their lonely isolation, as if in a humming seashell. The weather vane cannot help being placed on the peak of the roof. And even a hedgehog in a cellar may feel contentment. Let each live as he or she will, sad or gay. It is equally foolish to try to avoid an hour of bitterness or a moment of joy. The picnic in May, the funeral, the wedding night and the secret grief all have the same ending. Comes the stonemason to immure both the anxiety-ridden and the well- behaved.
Such were Mr. Pistoli’s thoughts, musing alone at home. By now, Ossuary was gone from the garden cottage, having left behind his discarded cigarette butts and his women, who went off on pilgrimages. In the afternoons Pistoli withdrew into a brown study, where he caught alternating whiffs of Miss Maszkerádi and of the precious Eveline.