by Gyula Krudy
At last Pistoli heard a peculiar noise, as if the shadow were blowing her nose. With many a soft sniffle, like all beaten and humiliated women, Miss Maszkerádi kept persistently blowing her bloodied nose. Her steps subdued and wavering, she descended the flagstones of the porch. (A far cry from her once capering, bouncy stride!) Pistoli watched her cross the yard with her head bent and could feel the drops of blood falling at each step. The shadow headed for the well, where a full bucket of water stood ready for a nocturnal fire. The water quietly plashed in the distance. Pistoli did not dare to move closer to the well. He made his way into the house and thanked God when he at last managed to light an oil lamp. He installed himself at the table and knitted his brows, drumming on the tabletop in anticipation. In the lamplight he regained his customary composure. What could possibly happen? The remorse, shame and gnawing pain he felt at first for so brutally beating up Maszkerádi had faded, and a cold, stubborn egotism now manned the gates of his soul. “At least we’re even now,” he thought. And Lady Maszkerádi, having scratched on the door, to timidly open it and stand abashed on the threshold, was received by the cheerful wisecrack often heard in carousing company:
“We’re even-Steven, Miss.”
Maszkerádi stood with downcast eyes and hands crossed in front of her lap, as if she were ashamed of her silken-trousered and -hosed legs.
“My clothes are all bloody. I can’t go back like this. I need a dry set of clothes.”
Thus spoke Maszkerádi, without raising her eyes. Her reddened nose quivered in mute misery. Humiliated, she stood like a schoolgirl before the severe headmaster.
Pistoli extended his arm.
“In that ancient wardrobe over there, you’ll find some ratty old skirts that belonged to my former wives. If you wish, I’ll turn away while you change.”
Maszkerádi advanced toward the wardrobe and Pistoli sluggishly turned his chair about. Leaning on the table, he watched in the mirror as Maszkerádi, all catlike caution, rummaged among the junky clothes in the wardrobe. Then she stopped and noiselessly began to undress. The scene had all the strangeness of some fantastic story taking place at a border guardpost where a refugee, a lady of quality traveling incognito, had happened to stop for the night. Maszkerádi dared not raise her eyes while slowly taking off her jacket and the hard shirtfront. Then, pianissimo, she took off her little knickers. She took care that her blouse never hitched up during this maneuver. This blouse of hers was snow-white. It exuded feminine cleanliness, the most exquisite perfume in the world. And when the lady stood in her chemise, there by the wardrobe, she raised her long eyelashes, and her eyes flashed like a pair of green lamps. She stared so insistently at Pistoli that he was compelled to turn around and face her.
“Swear that you will never ever reveal any of my secrets!” she said, articulating each word as clearly as if she were reading a text.
Pistoli’s face flamed up, as if a pistol had been fired under his nose. But the gorgeous lady in dishabille made him lose his head only for a split second. The next moment he squinted one eye like a horse trader, and began in an insidious, bartering voice:
“Before I promise anything, may I know what’s the meaning of this midnight comedy?”
“I wanted to scare you,” she replied calmly. “I’d wanted to raise the ghosts in your cruel heart, set the mute midnight hounds on you. I was curious to see if you would be afraid. Have you a conscience? Do you shudder with grief? Perhaps I just wanted to give you a fright...”
“So that I’d have a heart attack?” Pistoli asked, bantering.
“Yes,” was her solemn reply.
Pistoli leaned forward, fascinated, as if he were trying to peer into the water under the bridge.
“Perhaps you’ve heard that my ticker’s as weak as a junky old alarm clock? It skips, and beats unevenly, has choking fits, pants, and at times I must take enormous breaths just to keep going...Were you aware of that?”
“I know all about you, for I have loved you from the word go,” came her reply, as solemn as a deposition before a judge.
“Well, you did a real good job of hiding your love...” answered Pistoli sarcastically, thrilled and fluttery, making sure to hide his shaking hands under the table.
Miss Maszkerádi crossed her bare arms over her chest, like some martyr upon the stake.
“Please recall that night at Hideaway when you with your scary stories had so upset me: what did I do then? Didn’t I invite you into the silent, sleeping garden?”
“In order to strangle me.”
“But I would have kissed you first.”
Pistoli, red in the face, slammed his fist on the table:
“God, I’ve had enough of crazy women! Has everyone gone mad around here?”
Maszkerádi made a weary, melancholy gesture:
“At times I’m convinced I am not in my right mind.”
“Get out of here!” bawled Pistoli.
The young woman kept her determined eyes on his:
“Not tonight. Tonight, I’m staying. You can beat me up again, if you want to. After all, I deserve it for coming here. But it’s because of you. Why did you cross my path? Why couldn’t you leave me alone? Why did you persecute me? Why did you show up in all my dreams? Why did you entice me? Well, here I am. You can throw my corpse out into the highway.”
“Why, you rabid wildcat!” howled Pistoli. “I can sense that you want to go for my throat. But I won’t let you. Go on, you devil’s brood. I’m going to rouse the servants, wake the whole village, scourge you and send you packing without a stitch on! Get out before I do something we’d both regret!”
Maszkerádi remained calm.
“You have no servants, and therefore you’ll do nothing unworthy of a gentleman.”
“Ah, you all come up with that line,” Pistoli countered, plaintive. “You expect a man to be chivalrous, generous, honorable and self-sacrificing, while you yourselves are as vile as rats. But I have paid the dues for wearing the pants. I’ve done my share of playing the noble man. Actually, what do you want from me?”
Maszkerádi cast down her eyes and the smile that flashed across her face was like Saul’s vision of heaven. It was a smile full of secrets, lifelong playful thrills, sultry female dreams, desires stifled into the pillow.
“I would like you to dance the fox dance for me, for I’ve heard you are its greatest master in these parts.”
Pistoli shook his head in surprise:
“The fox dance?”
He started to laugh, and Maszkerádi’s laughter joined his with the tinkle of golden thalers:
“Yes, the fox dance...”
All of a sudden a madcap carnival atmosphere pervaded the gloomy manor house. As if a cheerful group of guests had pulled up unexpectedly on a sleigh in front of the house and were already on their way in.
The things that now befell Mr. Pistoli happen only in dreams. Maszkerádi draped herself over him like a swan and kissed him on the mouth so forcefully that the good squire began to choke.
“I love you,” the lady said, and the shadow of a black dog ran across the room. The dog instantly disappeared in a corner and was never seen again. Weeks later, Miss Maszkerádi realized that the black canine must have been Mr. Pistoli’s soul, for that noble gentleman’s face was never again seen in human company after that night.
The blessed May rain kept falling in the vast night, on grasses, trees, meadows, heaven’s waters descending to fertilize all things down here on earth. Each drop of rain swaddled a newborn that would grow up to man’s estate by summer’s end. One would become an ear of wheat, another a bunch of grapes, the third only a clunky-headed onion. A downpour, an infinite host of tiny newborns in the mysterious night. The patter of millions of little feet woke the tiller of the soil, who crossed himself gratefully lying on his cot. The fields, the shaggy trees, the sleeping and deeply respiring shrubs lay sprawled under the rain’s kisses, like dreaming women. To make sure the labor of fertilization goes on underground as well,
was now the task of Mr. Pistoli and his companions, the ones who died this night in Hungary. They would all stoke the furnace down below, these old men turned to coal and fuel, who sacrificed their shanks, hipbones, and enlarged livers, so that up here all sorts of beautiful new flowers may bloom, trees may unfurl their foliage, and lovers tumble in the fuzzy hair of meadows. Those pockmarked old faces give rise to tea roses that blossom on the earth’s surface. Those sad old hands, weary limbs, aching backbones, knees long past their spring are the fuel that nurtures anemones in the graveyard.
The rain falls, but Pistoli’s gouty foot no longer bothers him, his eyes no longer cast resentful looks at the mud, at wenches’ feet treading in it; he no longer hears ghosts in the attic as the rain rattles on the roof. Motionless, at peace and forgiven, he lies sprawled on the floorboards of his house. Someone has pinned a slip of paper onto his chest:
HERE LIES
PISTOLI FALSTAFF
unhappy in life, dead at pleasure’s peak
STRANGER, LEAVE HIM A LEAF
Kakuk and his wife kept the wake by the dead man’s side on the following night, and the next day the talk had it that around midnight Mr. Pistoli began to hum one of his songs, on his way out: first in the coffin, then outside the window, and later on the highway. They could even hear his footsteps. That night there was a wedding somewhere in the neighborhood and the groaning contrabass could be heard from afar. Could it be that Pistoli had rushed off to the feast?
This is how the noble squire departed from The Birches.
10. Pistoli’s Funeral
Anyone who thinks that Miss Maszkerádi failed to attend Mr. Pistoli’s funeral simply does not know this remarkable young lady. Yessir, off she went, having persuaded Eveline that they must not omit to pay their final respects.
“With any luck, we’ll get to see every scoundrel and loose hussy in this county assembled around their gang leader’s coffin. The local Falstaff, Pistoli, is dead. What hobo, tramp or callusheeled servant girl could stay away?”
Thus spoke Maszkerádi, putting over her face a dark veil that had formerly sheltered her tender complexion on an ocean cruise. Behind that veil she was free to shed a tear or smile and turn serious. Why should these villagers get to see the private thoughts of such a fine lady at the funeral of the black sheep?
The coffin was walnut wood, and only one man was sitting next to it. It was Kakuk, who had for the occasion replenished his impoverished wardrobe by consulting Pistoli’s closet. The oversize jacket and trousers hung rather loosely on the self- appointed heir. He had to stuff paper into the hat to make it fit. The bootlegs stuck out. His hands had to stay in the pockets of the pants (cut tight along traditional Hungarian lines).
Out in the courtyard the villagers stood about in solemn silence—as if Mr. Pistoli’s death had not yet been quite verified. Who knows, maybe this whole thing was an elaborate prank. Any moment he might screech and thump inside his coffin.
Risoulette arrived in deep mourning.
This remarkable lady never felt ashamed in public on account of her lovers. Her only concern was that the Captain should not suspect a thing. This was perhaps the tenth time she had donned the mourning outfit she had ordered after the death of her first lover, a Calvinist clergyman. Since then, many a time did Risoulette’s nose turn red from crying behind her veil, for even the most melodious lovers have a way of dying, just like any old field hand. How strange, the way a person is laid out, someone who only yesterday was still waltzing around, organizing picnics, telling subtle lies to women, roaming and fretting like a maniac. Yes, ordinary lovers die—as do exceptional ones. Those refined gentlemen, who launch midnight serenades and poems for openers, and have to be teased and encouraged until they are good and ready to do the deed, patient loving plus gorgeous words...Just about every man has his own peculiar manner of stringing words together, and there are many who like to regurgitate something they read the day before in some encyclopedia or book of poems. Around these parts, the poet Tompa’s Flower Myths was a fixture of every library once upon a time. Anyway, they had all gone and died, the simple ones, the taciturn, the bored, the slow-witted, the devil-may-care. The sly ones and the play-it-safers, they too had to go and meet their Maker, and Risoulette was there to weep for them, musing about their lives, their acts, their long-expired words. The veil of mourning was earned by anyone who had ever spent a pleasant hour or two at the house where Risoulette was the reigning lady. Returning home, she laid a flower for the dead by the photo of the deceased, and recited the rogation her prayerbook designated for this purpose.—Ah, nothing remained in life now but reveries!
Yet others arrived for Pistoli’s funeral, as for some event of vital importance. The deceased take away with themselves a piece of one’s own life. From now on anyone who had known Mr. Pistoli would have that much less to live for.
Here came Fanny Late, keeper of the Zonett, and here came Stony Dinka, from The Rubadub. As long as Pistoli had been alive, these two women never missed a chance to revile each other. They thought of each other with envy and hatred; each held the other beneath contempt. Yet now they instinctively stood side by side, as if keeping an order of rank—well behind the sobbing Risoulette, Eveline and Maszkerádi.
Whoa, if my good lord Pistoli were to stick his head out of the coffin just now, how quickly he would pull it back in! Although the faces confronting him no longer carried the least sign of blame, still, he might recall certain threats made by this or that little woman...Why, one had threatened to tear out her rival’s hair. Another had promised she would only visit his grave after all had quieted down, the feasting was over, the burial mound abandoned and awaiting a few heartfelt tears.
They were decked out as if going to a ball or wedding. Fanny Late wore two necklaces hung with gold coins; Stony Dinka sported flowery blue silk from top to toe. Even the soles of their little shoes were immaculate. The two stood with arms linked, proud, not one whit ashamed of having been the eminent man’s affairs of the heart. From time to time they measured the assembled company with a scornful glance. Strictly speaking they were the only ones who had a right to cry, for they were the ones who had been nicest to Pistoli while he lived. They had not wanted anything from him, except to love him. They had not taken up his time, robbed him of his good mood or health. Maybe they stood guilty of a thing or two, for who on earth is not guilty of one thing or another—but with regard to Pistoli, they could maintain their snow-white innocence in front of the highest heavenly tribunal. Therefore they were the preeminent ones here, and condolences should be addressed to them...They put their heads together and decided to hold Pistoli’s wake that very night at The Rubadub. After the funeral they would notify a few older women who had been Pistoli’s lovers so many years ago that they themselves had forgotten about the affair by now.
“Let me cook dinner, I know our dear departed’s favorite dishes,” offered Stony Dinka.
“And Kakuk should bring the Gypsies,” added Fanny Late. “Let’em play once more my good man’s favorite songs.”
The two women warmed up to the idea of their bereavement, achieving a kind of Christmastime mood. All of life should be a feast. Even a death may have its beneficial as well as its harmful aspects. Many a wake has turned into a dance.
Back in a corner of the yard stood the village poor, who had claimed only an hour or two in Pistoli’s crowded life. Old peasant women dabbed kerchiefs at the corner of their eyes, and tradeswomen clad in black gossiped about the gentlefolk. The usual audience of village funerals was awaiting the performance.
At last the members of the glee club Pistoli had presided over made their entrance. Men in threadbare black suits, walrus mustaches, some lanky, some stout, and all of them flustered. There were six songsters in all, and all of them wore over their shoulders the national colors muffled with black. Their entrance was somewhat timid and uncertain, for they lacked Mr. Pistoli’s self-confident figure at the head of their company, leading them into battle. So they stu
mbled and stepped on each other’s heel, and it took a considerable effort on the part of Gerzsábek, the director of funerary affairs and the sender of death notices, to settle them down on the left of the coffin. It was rather miraculous that Pistoli had lain motionless in the box all this time. When the glee club was at last installed in place, the members’ necks started craning toward the open gate. For they were still without their famous basso profundo, who, in order to fortify his singing voice, had dropped in somewhere on the way for a pint. And Mayer, it appeared, was still fortifying his voice.
Meanwhile other problems had arisen.
The Catholic priest sent the sexton with a message that he would not undertake Mr. Pistoli’s funeral service, for the good gentleman had been an atheist from way back, having lapsed from the faith decades ago.
So what had been Pistoli’s religion?
Nobody knew. Only the deceased could have told now whether he had believed in God, and if so, according to what rite he had praised the Lord. No one seemed to recall ever seeing him in church.
So the funeral would have to be held without the priest.
Eveline’s sensibilities were excessively offended by the abstention of the Church.
“I’m leaving,” she told Maszkerádi, and could hardly hold back her sobs.
“Stay,” her friend whispered. “Gerzsábek’s already sent for the vicar. A Calvinist clergyman won’t refuse to bury the old reprobate.”
“I am a Catholic,” Eveline insisted. “I respect my religion. I cannot participate in the funeral of a heretic.”
“Then go,” snapped Maszkerádi. “But I’m staying to the end, even if the dogcatcher comes to bury him. Go on, I can walk home.”