by Magda Szabo
The next day, at the hospital, I was told the chief doctor wanted to see me. I already knew what he wanted to say. He resembled a certain kind of critic. Those who play by the unwritten rules of the craft toss in something inconsequential, some faint praise, for the writer to chew over like an old dog, then shoot him while he gnaws on his bone. With a shining face he extolled Emerence’s amazing ability to heal, the strength with which, after the initial wave of depression, she had begun to fight for her life, the positive results, the kilograms of pure muscle she had gained. Was I aware that cataracts were forming in both her eyes? No? No matter, it was just a sign of age. It hadn’t bothered her so far because she never read, and she would still be able to watch television. I was waiting for the gunshot, and it came.
“I must ask you to start getting her used to the idea that she must leave and go home. In any case, it’s what she now most wants. She talks about it, and longs to be in her garden. She says she’s missed the early part of summer; and it’s her favourite time of the year. I know that the truth has been kept from her. That was wise. She would never had got better if she’d known everything from the start. But now she has her strength back, and in my judgement she’d be able to face the facts. So would you be kind enough to ask the Lieutenant Colonel to get things ready in the flat, because we’re sending the old woman home?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “It isn’t possible yet. We haven’t made any decision about her future. The flat is just as it was after the decontamination. Nothing’s been done; we have to give it further thought. We can’t do what you are asking. It’s unthinkable.”
“Not at all,” the doctor replied. “It’s not even worth arguing about. I’m keeping her here for one more week, and you can sort things out during that time. Do bear in mind that she will need help with everything. But as for walking, she won’t be up to that for the foreseeable future, if ever. However, we won’t leave her without state help. We’ve spoken to the local council about it. You’ll have to organise someone to do the shopping and cooking for her, because she can’t get out of bed. And she’ll need a bedpan. But the district nurse will be there for the injections, and to bathe her and change the bed. If you can’t sort things out among her family and friends, then obviously the Lieutenant Colonel will find a suitable place for her. But from all the sympathy and affection we’ve seen, we feel sure someone will take her in.”
It was like listening to Sutu. The same conviction.
“But, doctor, what will happen if she doesn’t want to live with anyone?” The moment the words were out I realised what nonsense I was talking: doesn’t want, doesn’t wish, won’t, might object. How could she? Everyone knew that from now on things would only ever happen to Emerence. Nothing would depend on Emerence, except death.
The doctor gazed at me benevolently, as if he hadn’t heard my last foolish remark. He stood up and grasped me by the hand.
“Let us understand one another. I don’t let her go with a light heart. Everyone here likes her, and so do I. Her constitution is a gerontological miracle, and so is her mind. She’s an unusual case. But I can’t keep the bed from someone whom we can put back on their feet, and the old woman, I am sorry to say, will most probably remain paralysed. We can’t keep her here until she dies. Believe me, as it is we’ve done more for her than for anyone else. And there’s something else. This is perhaps the most important thing of all.”
I waited for the second shot. The nice juicy bone had fallen from its mouth, but the animal was still alive. And what I heard next was indeed the most important item of all.
“Don’t put her in the situation where the ambulance men take her to a room she’s never seen before, freshly painted and filled with brand-new furniture, and then move her somewhere else because she can’t stay on her own. At this moment she’s strong enough to take it, so tell her the truth: the hatchet, the decontamination, everything. You must tell her. And tell her here, where I can treat her. Don’t let her get back home and hunt for her old furniture and her cats. I’ve already discussed this with the neighbours, and they tell me she’s closest to you, and that you are the one to tell her. After all, it was you who set everything in motion. And you’re the one she has to thank for her life. If you hadn’t got her to open her door, she would have been dead within forty-eight hours.”
Yes, I thought, she can truly thank me for this life we’ve rescued her into; for the lost or dead cats who eased her loneliness; for the cherished belongings that went up in smoke; and for the generous offer by the residents to share the tasks — which they so obviously can’t keep up in the long term. Emerence would never go into a home, not if they killed her. Only her own will do. But after all that’s happened, where is that? She won’t be happy with us. She needs her own things, her private belongings, about her. And how would I fit a paralysed patient, needing constant attention, into our lives? And since it’s the only option, when would I have time to bring her the bedpan, wash her, cook for her, keep her from getting bedsores? The district nurse won’t come every day, and what shall I do when I have to be away from home? And what will my husband do? Will she even come if I ask her? She’ll reject the idea straight away, but then where will she go? There’s no room with anyone else. Józsi’s boy won’t have her. The Lieutenant Colonel is now married for the second time. There’s no other way. She can only come to us.
I set off home, wondering all the while what I should do if she raised objections when I invited her. I didn’t even look in on her but hurried off to talk things over with my husband. It was clear that something was afoot at Emerence’s villa. People were swarming round a parked goods truck in the street outside. I went along to see what was happening. They were painting the walls of her kitchen and renovating the porch. The boarding had been removed and someone was fitting a door in place of the damaged one. Women were busy scrubbing — the Lieutenant Colonel’s brigade of convicts. So the work was under way. I carried on to our apartment to use the phone. The Lieutenant Colonel couldn’t understand what was bothering me now. The door was in place; the painting done and the floor freshly scrubbed, the furniture would be arriving in a few days and the whitewash was drying fast in the summer heat. So what was the problem? Why all this desperation?
What was the problem? Couldn’t anyone see? I told him about Sutu’s betrayal. This did shake him, but he immediately insisted that the law would protect Emerence. They couldn’t drive her out of her flat. They couldn’t even pressure her to move out, because it was only an assumption that she wouldn’t ever again be fit to work. And anyway, the committee would have to wait two years, since that was the rule governing sick leave. And a great deal could happen in two years. She might recover, or the poor thing might die. Until then, the neighbours would have to cope with things the way they were, and he’d make sure there was a district nurse. So what was I worrying about? Everything was under control. We’d got over the critical period. Everyone had the right to get ill. What he was asking was, would I see through what I had begun? Emerence was still alive because I had added the weight of her trust in me to the neighbours’ touchingly beautiful lies, but there was no longer any need for them. I should now crown my achievement, soften the bad news with the good, and explain that what had been lost had taken a new form, that the old home and the new one were one and the same, and were waiting to receive her.
So he didn’t grasp my meaning either; or perhaps he couldn’t. We were dealing in such different currencies. Emerence’s dictionary featured filth, scene, scandal, laughing stock of the street and shame. His contained law, order, solutions, solidarity, effective measures. Both phrasebooks were accurate, it was just that they were in different languages. So, could he at least do this: would he explain to Emerence what really happened? I hadn’t been there, I’d gone off to the TV studio; she knew who’d stayed, and who hadn’t.
“I’m not afraid of doing that,” he replied. “Emerence is a wise woman. You underestimate her if you are scared to tell her that you saved he
r, not for a hopeless defeat, but for this strangely happy ending — because that’s what it is. I’ll tell her everything, this afternoon. Don’t say a word to Sutu, there’s no need even to greet her. I’ll tell Emerence about her betrayal, don’t you worry. That’ll get her going better than any medicine. Her anger might even get her back on her feet. What Sutu’s in for, if she dares show her face, will be something special. Anyway, I’ll see to all that, but I have to say I am disappointed in you. It’s just lucky you kept your nerve until this last and final phase.”
FINALE
I had of course endured hours similar to what I went through that afternoon. I was filled with the same tension I’d experienced when my husband underwent lung surgery, or the night before my parents were buried. I lay where my mother had slept, with a Viola who never once stirred. Somewhere around six o’clock Adélka called in to tell me, with a worried look on her face, that I wouldn’t believe it, but they wouldn’t let her in to see Emerence. She had no idea what had happened. There was a sign outside her door banning visitors, and when she spoke to the nurse about taking her soup in she was asked to take it away. Emerence didn’t want anything, and for the time being she was not to be visited. The handyman’s wife hadn’t been let in either, and she’d also come away with a bag full of things. So the axe has struck, I thought, now I can go. I dragged myself to my feet. On the street outside our door Sutu, obviously driven by some innate work ethic, was sweeping like someone in a dream. There was no suggestion of guilt in her face when she noticed me, rather a look of deep thought. Perhaps she had heard from Adélka about the new visiting restrictions and was wondering whether what had happened would help or hinder her cause, much as she’d done when she put her cards on the table on Emerence’s porch.
Along the road leading to the hospital I met two of the neighbours making their way back with their christening bowls. The women were worried that Emerence must have taken a turn for the worse. The sky was a dark steel-grey, a cold front had blown in and the wind was tearing at the branches in the avenue; perhaps she was sensitive to it and that was why the nurses had shut her away from everyone. They hadn’t guarded her so strictly even when the poor thing seemed to be dying. So I should go on up — perhaps they would tell me the truth.
I made my way up and removed the sign forbidding entry. The nurse saw me, and nodded. Clearly she had had instructions. As I went through the door I was thinking that the Lieutenant Colonel had been right. I had thrust myself into her life, and now that I had dared strike the fatal scissors from the hand of Atropos I ought to have the courage to look around the Fates’ workshop. Emerence was lying with her back to the door. She didn’t turn round, but she recognised my footsteps, just as the dog did. The one striking difference from the day before was that once again her face was veiled. But I knew she was aware of my presence.
We both stayed silent. Never had there been a more mysterious, more mute or inscrutable figure than hers that afternoon, with the dark descending and the branches beating on the windows. I sat down next to her, with the NO VISITORS sign in my hands.
“How many cats are left?” she finally asked, from behind her veil. Her voice was every bit as unreal as her invisible face.
At this stage it would make no difference.
“Not one, Emerence. Three of them we think we saw dead. The others are lost.”
“Keep looking. The ones that are still alive will be hiding in a garden.”
“Certainly. We’ll do that.”
Silence. Twigs rustled against the window panes.
“You told me a lie. You said you cleaned everything up.”
“There was nothing left to do, Emerence. The decontamination people had done it.”
“And you let them?”
“I can’t go against an order. Nor can the Lieutenant Colonel. A tragedy occurred, a disaster.”
“A tragedy! You could have gone to the Parliament later that day, or the next.”
“Even if I’d been at home, I would have got nowhere trying to pester people. I’m telling you, there’s a regulation covering such cases, a public health measure. I can’t overrule something like that.”
“You weren’t at home? Where did you go?”
“Athens, Emerence. There was a conference. You’d forgotten about it, but we did speak about it some time ago, at home. We were delegates. We had to go.”
“You went, when you didn’t even know if I would live?”
I had no answer to this. I watched the raindrops slide slowly down the window. That’s how it was. I had gone away.
Suddenly she pulled the scarf from her face and glared at me. She was pale as wax.
“So what sort of people are you? You and the Lieutenant Colonel? The master is the most honourable of you all. At least he never lied.”
Again no answer was possible. It was true that my husband had never lied. But then again, the Lieutenant Colonel was one of the most admirable men I had ever met. As for me, I am what I am. And this is what I am: I went off to Athens. I would have gone though my own father were in a life-threatening condition — because the Foreign Ministry of Greece would have put a certain construction on things if the official Hungarian delegate stayed away; because, after the prize, my being named a delegate was a gesture from the state which I couldn’t ignore; because I am a writer and have no personal life; and because things happen to me as they do to actors. I have to play a part, even if there are problems at home.
“Get out of here,” she said softly. “You never bought a house, though I asked you to — and I had planned so many treasures for you to have in it. You never had children, though I promised I would bring them up. Put the sign back on the door. I don’t want to see anyone who witnessed my shame. If you’d allowed me to die, as I made up my mind to when I realised I would never be capable of real work again, I would have watched over you from beyond the grave. But now I can’t stand having you near me. Just go.”
So she did believe in the next world, after all. She had simply been provoking the priest, and us as well.
“From now on you can do what you like. You don’t know what it is to love. And yet, I believed you might, one day. You would rescue me for this, for what’s left? And you’d even take me into your home and look after me? Idiot!”
“Emerence!”
“Get out. Go and make a speech on television. Write a novel, or run off back to Athens. If they send me home from here, don’t any of you try to come anywhere near me, Adélka has left her scissors here and I’ll use them on anyone who comes near me. Why are you so concerned about my fate? There are plenty of care homes. This is the most wonderful country in the world, and I’ve the legal right to be sick for two whole years. That’s what your friend said. Now go. I’ve things to do.”
“Emerence, with us . . .”
“With you! You as a housewife, you looking after me! And the master! Go to hell! There’s only one sane person in your flat — Viola.”
Her supper was beside her, untouched. In her exasperation she moved slightly and almost knocked the dish over, but I didn’t dare go near. I really believed she would stab me with the scissors. She was now lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. I could see very little of her as I went out. I didn’t say goodbye. I ran home in the rain, wondering all the time what else I should have said. But I could think of nothing.
An hour later I felt calmer. I believe I had been unconsciously prepared for even worse. But the illusion of peace didn’t last long before my husband brought my fears flooding back. He was pacing back and forth in the flat and saying he didn’t like this restraint, this calm. It wasn’t like Emerence. A major explosion would have been more in character. But my analysis of her mental state was cut short. Suddenly the dog went mad, quite literally. He howled, scratched, kicked the rugs into a tangled heap, and hurled himself on the floor, foaming at the mouth. He was in such a state I thought his last hour had come. I phoned the vet and asked him to come straight away, which he did, just as he had
on that first memorable Christmas Eve. Viola worshipped him; he would even show off his tricks to him after an injection. Now he lay there, not even standing up when called. The vet knelt down beside him, talking to him while his lean, sensitive fingers played piano sonatas all over his body. Then he dusted his knees and shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing physical. He must have had some sort of shock; something dreadful had upset the balance of his nervous system. He tried giving him various orders, but Viola made no effort to obey. He wouldn’t sit, he wouldn’t walk. If the vet stood him up he fell on his side, as if paralysed. We parted on the understanding that he’d have another look at him the next day. That night I was to give him some glucose and a child’s dose of tranquilliser. He had no idea what had happened to the dog, and if I nailed him on a cross he still wouldn’t know. With that, he left.
I was setting the table for supper. Viola hadn’t moved. I asked him to show me that he loved me, but he didn’t even glance up, he lay there like an old rag. Then suddenly he howled, in a voice so far beyond imagining it left me frozen with terror. The fully laden tray fell from my hands. I dared not go near him. I was convinced he’d gone mad and might savage me. I didn’t want to believe what that sound was telling me, even with my calm, rational husband at my side in the kitchen next to the burnt remains of the dinner. He glanced at his watch and said, very quietly, “quarter past eight.” “Quarter past eight,” I repeated after him, as if some mad person were speaking through me, announcing the hour. “Quarter past eight; quarter past eight.” When I’d declaimed it for the third time, my husband produced my raincoat and I fell silent. I suddenly felt that nothing that was happening around me was real. I’d been calling out the time like a parrot. What was wrong with me? Was I going insane? But I was lying to myself, as if my life depended on it, to avoid somehow putting into words what Viola had announced. But he knew, and my husband knew. The dog had been the first to understand and he had told us both. He was sobbing like a child.