by Ann Swinfen
István, the man, she preferred not to think about. The two of them had been thrown into an accidental intimacy, coming together at a time when each was feeling vulnerable. They had helped each other, perhaps. It was time to step back. To be friendly and courteous to Sofia’s brother, but no more.
I am a married woman, Kate told herself firmly, pulling on her clothes, which were warm from the sun. A middle-aged mother. What have I been thinking of?
She ate her lunch beside the lake, sharing the crusts from her sandwiches with the ducks and moorhens, then set off again for Virgon.
It was dusk when she returned to Szentmargit, tired with the healthy tiredness that comes from a long day of vigorous but not exhausting exercise in fresh air and sunshine. Over dinner she suggested to Sofia that they should spend a day shopping in Györ tomorrow.
‘I want to buy some presents for the family, and for Linda,’ she said. ‘And much as I love Szentmargit, it doesn’t have much to offer in the way of purchases beyond day-to-day necessities.’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Sofia agreed. ‘I should like to take something back for Chris, and you can help me choose a suitable present. I wonder...’
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t we invite Magdolna to go with us? I don’t think she often has an opportunity to visit Györ, and when she does she is encumbered by her husband and son.’
‘That’s a wonderful idea. We’ll have a strictly female day out.’
They walked down to the rose-coloured house after dinner to invite Magdolna, who said at first she would not be able to get away, but József and István both urged her to go.
‘For one day we can manage without you,’ said József. ‘András can let the hens out and feed them before he comes to the fields.’
‘And I will do the cooking,’ István said. ‘After all, I cook for myself in Sopron all the time. Off you go and enjoy yourselves. Don’t spend too much money, and I’ll have dinner prepared for all of us when you arrive home.’
Sofia demurred at this, insisting that she and Kate would dine at the Blue Heron, and she was so firm that it was agreed.
They had an enjoyable day in Györ. Magdolna and Sofia took Kate round some parts of the old city they had not seen on their first visit, and then they went for lunch at the Várkapu restaurant, in front of which stood a curious bronze statue of an elongated man holding what appeared to be a deer. In the afternoon Magdolna took them to the best shops. The modern shopping centre of the city had changed out of all recognition since Sofia’s girlhood. Kate told Magdolna of their terrible hotel in Györ, and the noise of the lorries hitting the pot-holes in the street all through the night.
Magdolna laughed. ‘It will be a long time before the streets in Hungarian cities are up to the standards of Western capitals. We say that is why east European cars are so badly made. There’s no point in building good cars, because they would fall apart just as quickly as the bad ones on our terrible roads, so why bother?’
They arrived back in Szentmargit at half-past eight, laden with embroidery and books – Kate could not believe how cheap the books were. They had boxes of Hungarian chocolates and crystallised fruit, and Kate had treated herself to a piece of Herend china – a delicate little vase in the Aponyí pattern.
‘A lovely, spendthrift, touristy day,’ said Kate as they dropped Magdolna off at her door. ‘Thank you for being such a wonderful guide.’
‘Thank you,’ said Magdolna. ‘I cannot remember when I enjoyed a visit to town so much.’
When she entered the kitchen she found that István had prepared dinner for the family as he had promised, and András had even tidied himself up from his work in the fields and was sitting with his hands washed and his hair slicked down with water. She sometimes forgot that István had brought up his own son by himself, and was a competent cook and a parent with high standards of tidiness.
While they were eating, István said, ‘I have to go to Sopron tomorrow.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Magdolna, dismayed. ‘So soon?’
‘Only for the day. Young Endre phoned the inn and left a message with Mihály. He’s had a report back on some tests we had done on one of the patients and he wants me to have a look at it before we decide what to do next. I don’t want to leave it till the end of my holiday. I can set out in the morning and be back by late afternoon.’
Magdolna looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Why don’t you take Kate with you? She gave us a lovely day today in Györ, but she hasn’t seen much of the country. Sofia is happy staying here, but perhaps it is a little dull for Kate. Sopron is so pretty, I know she would enjoy it.’
‘I’m not sure...’
‘You won’t have to spend too long at the surgery, will you?’
‘No more than an hour, I suppose.’
‘Well, then. You enjoy her company, don’t you?’
‘Magdolna,’ he said uncomfortably, ‘she is a married woman with three children. It is not suitable that I should spend so much time with her.’
‘I cannot think what you mean.’ Magdolna opened her eyes innocently. ‘I am simply suggesting that you should show her around the old walled city, and perhaps some of the woodland walks, and then have dinner before coming back. There is no harm in that, is there?’
István sighed. ‘No, there is no harm in that.’
Kate took some persuading, however, when Magdolna arrived at the inn during the evening with the suggestion of the trip to Sopron.
‘You mustn’t miss the chance,’ said Sofia. ‘Sopron is lovely.’
‘Then why don’t you come too?’
‘Because Magdolna says it has not changed much since I saw it last, and because two long trips by car in two days is too much for me. I will rest tomorrow.’
In the end Kate felt obliged to agree, and they set off early next morning for Sopron. She was glad, later, that she had come. István drove first to the Lövér hotel, where they had coffee. Then they set off for a long walk through woods which smelled of pine needles, and were high and cool, clothing the slopes of the mountains that led up to the border with Austria.
‘This is a very healthy place,’ István explained. ‘There are several sanatoriums here, and many people come to rest and recuperate as well as for holidays. I decided it would be a good place to bring my baby son to live.’
‘How old is he now, your son?’ Kate asked, as they came round the bend in the track and saw the hotel again below them.
‘He’s twenty-four. He lives in a village in the south, near Mohács.’
As he was unlocking the car, István paused and leaned on the roof, looking at her. ‘I want to go and see László, to tell him face to face about Sofia, and all we have learned about the family. I don’t want to telephone or write. I wondered whether you would both like to come with me? I thought I might drive down at the weekend and stay a couple of nights. Mohács is very interesting – I would like to take you there.’
‘We’ll ask Sofia when we get back, shall we?’
Kate liked István’s house with its cool, lime green walls and white shutters. She had not been inside a modern Hungarian house before. Miss Huszka looked at her with speculative interest as she handed István the report he had come to read.
‘I’ll show you up to the flat,’ he said, ‘and you can relax there while I deal with this. Then we’ll have some lunch and go and explore the old city.’
The big sitting room in the flat was dark, with the shutters closed against the sun, but István threw open the ones on the north side, overlooking the garden, letting in light but not too much heat.
‘There are plenty of books here, some of them in English, and a cassette player. Here are my music tapes. The bathroom is through here, along the corridor past the two bedrooms, and the kitchen is the other way, opening off the sitting room. There is everything you need to make yourself coffee or tea. I phoned Miss Huszka this morning and asked her to get in milk and bread and salad, so we can make ourselves something to eat before w
e go out again.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘Will you be all right for an hour or so?’
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll look at your books, or just relax and admire your garden.’ She smiled at him. ‘Go on. Go and sort out your patient.’
When he had gone she looked about curiously, with that slight sense of intrusion which always accompanies being left alone in someone else’s home. The books, she saw, were varied, from paperback thrillers to serious tomes on history and philosophy. She looked with pleasure through a big book of photographs of Hungary, and was sorry that she was not going to be able to visit the puszta, with its herds of horses and its horse-herdsmen in their baggy white trousers.
She visited the bathroom, noticing its spare, uncluttered look, unquestionably the bathroom of a man who lived alone, but who was neat in his habits. For a moment she plunged her face into a silk dressing-gown which hung on the back of the door. It smelled spicy and masculine, and unmistakably of István.
In the kitchen she found the coffee things and made herself a cup of instant, then, seeing by the kitchen clock that it was past twelve, she decided to make their lunch. She found the shopping the receptionist had bought, and laid out on the table bread and butter and three different kinds of cheese. She washed the lettuce and made a mixed salad, then prepared a French dressing. There was some fruit with the shopping, so she piled it up in a wooden bowl from one of the cupboards and was just wondering what István would want to drink when he walked in.
‘Oh, Kate, how kind! I didn’t mean you to have to do this. You are my guest.’
‘It was nothing – I’ve only put things out on the table.’
He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, as she had so often seen him do with Magdolna.
‘I wasn’t sure what you would want to drink.’
‘There should be wine and beer in the fridge.’
‘I’m quite happy with water. I’m afraid I’m not really a beer person.’
‘Then we will have wine.’ He lifted out the bottle and searched for a corkscrew in a drawer. ‘It is just a light Hungarian white wine. Not heavy to make us sleepy in the middle of the day so the sightseeing is too much trouble.’
They sat down to their simple meal, and Kate said, ‘Did you sort matters out with your partner?’
‘Yes. I think we will try physiotherapy for the patient first. There was a possibility of surgery, but I prefer to wait, and use it only as a last resort.’
After lunch they walked the short distant to the gates leading through into the old walled city. The houses here reminded Kate of the quiet roads she had explored with Sofia beyond the Mátyás Church in Budapest, but they were shabbier and looked more homely, more lived in. István pointed out the Tüztorony, the Firewatch Tower, which stood like a living monument of archaeological strata – its base a Roman watchtower, topped by a Renaissance arcaded storey, then capped by a baroque copper spire. Around the gilded Trinity column two little boys were riding races on their tricycles, and in the cobbled square opposite the museum three young mothers were sitting with pushchairs and shopping baskets full of vegetables. They looked up as Kate and István passed.
‘Jó napot, Dr Rudnay,’ they called.
‘Jó napot. Good afternoon.’ Kate had learned that much Hungarian.
István greeted them by name – clearly, from his gestures, asking after the children. She exchanged smiles with the women.
‘Patients?’ she asked as they walked away.
‘Some of the young women who come to my mother and baby clinic.’
After they had explored the old town they went out again through the stone archway, where renovation work was in progress, then sat under a row of trees on a bench while István told Kate as much as he could remember about the history of the town.
‘This area has always been half-Austrian, half-Hungarian. But when we were given a measure of independence from the Austrian empire by the Ausgleich of 1867, the people of this region chose to be part of Hungary, not Austria, and that’s the way it has stayed ever since.’
They sat for a while in comfortable silence, watching people on their way home from work and mothers rounding up their children.
‘You see what I mean about everything in Hungary being so pretty,’ said Kate. ‘Look at that.’
‘What?’ István asked, puzzled.
‘That kiosk.’
‘It’s just a kiosk.’
‘Yes, but look at it, István. You are probably so used to them you don’t even see them.’
The cruciform building was made of some dark wood, with many-paned leaded windows, and a roof which was all steep angles and gables of silvery shingles. The corner of each of the four gables was ornamented with carving. István narrowed his eyes and studied it.
‘Yes, I suppose you are right. I’ve never noticed before, but they are pretty.’
He turned to her and took her hand. ‘You open my eyes to things I have walked past without noticing all my life.’
She dropped her eyes, then drew her hand slowly away.
‘One of your patients might be passing.’
He laughed. ‘Indeed, they might. Come, it’s a little early, but I think we should go to the restaurant where I am going to give you dinner. We don’t want to be too late starting back.’
To reach the restaurant they had only to cross the main road and walk a short way along a wide pavement.
‘Look at the window!’ said Kate, then laughed at herself. ‘I’m sorry, I must stop this, but – look, a Venetian window, with all that fretwork like lace above it, and the curtains and lamps inside...’
He smiled and her, and took her hand again.
‘You are quite right. We Hungarians and all our works, we are very beautiful.’
* * *
Kate enjoyed her meal, although she could not have said afterwards what she had eaten. István had ordered in Hungarian, assuring her that she would like it. There had been tension between them when they had set out that morning, but the discomfort had ebbed away, leaving the familiarity of old friends who can talk or be silent as the mood takes them. Somehow they had passed through several intermediate
stages in acquaintanceship in quick succession. It was good to be away from Szentmargit with its intense feelings, good to be in this impersonal but charming restaurant, in a quiet corner behind oak railings, served by skilful waiters, lingering over a delicate Viennese pudding with a pink candle guttering on the table between them.
‘I am glad you came with me, Kate,’ said István, resting his chin on his clasped hands.
‘I’m glad I came. I nearly didn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I think you know why. Let’s not worry about that now.’
‘Will you come with me to Mohács?’
‘We’ll ask Sofia when we get back.’
‘And if Sofia does not want to make the long journey?’
‘Perhaps. We’ll see.’
As they walked back through the dark streets to collect István’s car from his driveway, Kate felt tired, but at ease with herself and with him. There was nothing to worry about here. Sofia’s brother was a charming man, someone she found she could talk to about anything, who laughed at the same things as she did.
The car purred smoothly out of Sopron on the main road to Györ, from which the road to Szentmargit turned off. Kate leaned back her head against the headrest and closed her eyes.
‘Tired?’
‘A bit. So many impressions. Hungary is like a piece of rich embroidery stitching itself up in my memory.’
‘Rest a little. Sleep if you can.’
‘Mmm.’
She had not thought she would, but the car was comfortable, the driver careful, not wanting to hurry this drive, hoping she would sleep so he could study her unobserved. He slowed down as she fell asleep, nursing the car gently round bends, easing it on to the minor road which led off the dual carriageway. Kate’s head slid sideways and rested on his shoulder. He smiled to himself, but sadly
. In just over a week, she would be gone.
Chapter 12
Sofia had spent the day studying the papers from the tin box Magdolna had found buried in the floor of the barn. She had brought some of the papers from Eva’s trunk with her to Hungary – not the photographs, but her father’s diaries and a few of the personal letters. His handwriting had changed over the years from the elegant, bold script of his youth in the letter written to Eva in Pécs shortly before their elopement, to the cramped scribble – sometimes in faded pencil – of the later notebooks which had superseded his early leather-bound diaries.
She had been puzzled and disturbed when she first read that entry which seemed to be the expression of some deep guilt. She turned it up again now.
Suppose, after all, we were to be called to account for our deeds in this world before some ultimate tribunal. The past made present, confronting us as it truly was – not as our flinching memories recall it – could prove appalling. But might there have been, even in our darkest acts, the seeds of redemption?
What if we could turn aside, walk through the unnoticed door into a hidden garden, and find there the past, ready to be lived again? Willing to be reshaped, fashioned from chaos into harmony and order? If the hurtling train of life could pause at the station, the hands of the clock stop.
If we could have another chance.
Looking back over what she knew now of his life as a whole, she thought she understood better what had troubled him. It was not a personal guilt, but guilt for his class, the guilt of having been born a semi-feudal landowner. From the time he had inherited the estate at the age of seventeen he had been trying to atone for that guilt. He had given away a large proportion of his lands to the peasants of Szentmargit, a gift which – after years of expropriation by the communist government – was benefiting them again. Had his marriage to Eva been in part a rejection of his class? It had been a profound love match, that she knew was true. But any of his ancestors would have taken Eva as a mistress, not married her, tainted – as she would have seemed to them – by her gypsy blood.