Csardas

by Pearson, Diane

“Mr. Klein is very important to the bank,” he stated tonelessly. “He is to be treated as an honoured and privileged guest.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Yes, Zsigmond.”

  He left the room.

  Mr. Klein was exactly as Eva remembered him, tall, dark, with a drooping moustache and sad, dreamy eyes. He didn’t look a bit like a financier, more like a professor or a writer of history books. His clothes were beautiful though; both Eva and Mama noticed that and remarked on it to each other. He had a quiet, drawling voice and an amazingly warm and friendly smile. He was enchanted with them.

  He arrived late in the afternoon, met at the station by Papa (Uncle Sandor, the coach, and the horse, all groomed to unprecedented splendour), and was escorted home for a brief introduction before retiring to his room to bathe and change.

  Glorious smells drifted through the house, soups, pike and mushrooms, goose, venison, stuffed cabbage, and cherry retes. Mama had graced the dining-room as only a Bogozy could: the table was covered with Bogozy lace, French porcelain, and Venetian glass, all bearing the crest of that flamboyant family, and an abundance of silver candlesticks, dishes, cutlery, vases, and an epergne which Mama had decorated with fresh spring flowers. She was pleased, not only because it was a party but also—humanly enough—because Gizi, who had just as many beautiful Racs-Rassay objects to use, would be reminded that she, Marta Bogozy, could present a glorious table when necessary.

  They came, Alfred and Gizi and poor Kati, flushed into ugly blotches by excitement; and the advocate, who was important; and the editor of the town’s paper, who was not important but Mama needed an extra man; and then the girls came into the drawing-room, and finally Mr. Klein. And Mr. Klein was enchanted.

  He was placed next to Eva and opposite Amalia. If he looked two places to Amalia’s left he could see Kati Racs-Rassay, and the comparison did everything for the Ferenc girls and nothing for Kati. In their new dresses, Amalia in pale green and Eva in yellow, they were again the enchanting Ferenc sisters. Amalia was pretty because Karoly, dear beloved Karoly, was still on the Russian front where it was safe, and Eva was happy (momentarily) because the hairdresser had wound a coronet of freesias into her dark hair and the freesias were exactly the same colour as the dress.

  Mr. Klein didn’t speak very much but he smiled a lot, and he paid compliments to the ladies, including Kati, and he listened to Mama, who, sitting at the end of the table, was his other neighbour.

  And suddenly everyone, even Gizi, could see why Papa had fallen in love with Marta Bogozy so many years ago. She was graceful and provocative and flattering and proud. Her table was exquisite, her food splendid, her daughters beautiful. She was a Bogozy, an aristocrat, and Mr. Klein was enchanted. After dinner Eva played the piano, rippling her way through Mozart and Strauss with dash and expertise. And Mr. Klein didn’t take his eyes from her once.

  The evening ended, and Mr. Klein was taken into Papa’s study for a last glass of brandy. Upstairs the girls removed the gowns and the flowers and gold lockets, wrapped kimono-type robes around them, and began to brush their hair.

  “Do you think Papa was pleased?” asked Amalia.

  “He was smiling when he took Mr. Klein into his study.”

  “I suppose Papa wants him to invest money, or whatever it is that financiers do.”

  “He didn’t stop staring at Mama, did you notice? All through dinner he was looking at her, staring into her eyes and looking at her hair and hands and dress.” Eva giggled rudely. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Mr. Klein fell in love with Mama, and instead of lending any money to the bank he ran away with Mama instead?”

  “‘Don’t be so unpleasant, Eva!” Amalia turned sharply away from the mirror, feeling suddenly sick at what was really only a vulgar joke.

  Eva looked at her in surprise. “Don’t be stuffy, Malie. I was only making fun.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  She didn’t like it, just the same. It was true that Mr. Klein had stared at Mama; he had also stared at Eva and at herself. The melancholy eyes with their heavy lids had studied them each very warmly, and although it was flattering, it had also sent a tiny disquieting ripple up Malie’s spine.

  There was a scuffle at the door and Leo’s face appeared. “Did you bring anything up for us?” the face asked.

  “Oh, Leo, darling! We didn’t!”

  The face crumpled. Four years ago it would have cried, but now the face was eight years old, and men of eight who were training to be sergeants of hussars did not cry.

  “Uncle Sandor had some of the banquet,” said the face reproachfully. “Ica gave him a big plateful in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll go down now,” said Malie, retying the sash of her kimono.

  “Oh, Malie! Don’t bother,” said Eva, yawning. “They can have the bits and pieces in the morning. Ica or Marie or someone will be sure to let them go through the dishes.”

  “It won’t be the same.” Leo glared balefully at her.

  Malie slipped past him and hurried down the stairs. In the kitchen Marie, the cook, and the hired maid were sitting at the table drinking wine. Between them lay the ravages of the feast and they were staring, satiated, at the remains of the venison.

  “It seems wicked, Miss Malie. All this food and in Vienna they’re starving.”

  “And at the front too,” said the cook.

  Malie filled two plates with a selection of bits. “It is only while Mr. Klein is here,” she explained. “He is very important to Papa. After, we shall return to normal.”

  They nodded solemnly at her. “Important to the master,” Marie murmured, and took another sip of wine.

  Upstairs the lights had been extinguished in the drawing-room, but from under the door of Papa’s study a strip of light played out onto the floor. Just before she got to the study the door opened and Mr. Klein came out. She was conscious of her unpinned hair and of the thin silk of the wrapover kimono. She was also conscious of the two plates in her hand.

  “For my brothers,” she explained defensively. “The little boys.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Klein softly. “The bedroom banquet at midnight, the very best kind of party there is.” He paused and then added, “It is never quite the same when one grows up.”

  “No.” She waited for a moment, then said shyly, “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  She went swiftly along the passage towards the boys’ room. And all the time she was aware of Mr. Klein staring at her back.

  Every night there were guests for dinner. The gowns worn for Kati’s party four years ago had to be utilized as well. One could hardly wear the same dress every evening. In the mornings Mr. Klein spent all his time with Papa, either in the study or at the bank. Some days they lunched out; Papa would take Mr. Klein to the Marie Thérèse and there they would meet some of the town’s important investors. On the remaining days they all ate “informally” at home. Informally meant only that the Bogozy silver and glass were not used; the food was just as splendid, and served by Marie and the hired maid. In the afternoons they took Mr. Klein for drives a little way out of the town, showing him all the rich farmland which was only a little neglected because of the war. Papa didn’t come on the drives. Now that he knew Mama was managing so beautifully, he was happy to leave the afternoons to her. And so Mr. Klein and Malie and Eva and Mama trotted out every day in the spring sunshine, and Mama sparkled and shone and enchanted, and Mr. Klein stared and smiled. They called once or twice on Uncle Alfred and Aunt Gizi and everything was just as beautiful as at home. Gizi and Alfred were playing their part in whatever schemes it had been found necessary to carry out.

  Once, when they were leaving Alfred’s splendid baroque mansion, Mr. Klein looked up at the window where Kati was standing. Kati waved and the girls waved back, and Mr. Klein smiled up at Kati and murmured softly, “What a pity!”

  Mama flicked him lightly on the hand with her glove and scolded him. “Now David”—when had Mama started calling Mr. Klein
David?—“you are not to be cruel about my little niece. She is a kind girl and we love her, do we not, Malie? Eva?”

  “Oh, yes, Mama!”

  “Kati is a dear.”

  Mr. Klein raised one of his dark eyebrows. “Is it necessary only to be kind for all the Ferenc ladies to love one?”

  Eva flushed and dimpled, Mama smiled and raised her white hand reprovingly, and Malie felt again that tremor—or something—that moved up and down her spine.

  Mr. Klein stayed for ten days, and at the end of that time they were all sick of rich food and evening entertainments. Mama was growing more beautiful, Papa more complacent, and Eva more flirtatious. They all went to see Mr. Klein on the train for Budapest. He shook hands with Papa and then in turn took the ladies’ hands in his and raised them to his mouth. Malie was surprised to find his hands were warm and, in spite of the manicured grooming, very hard and strong. The lazy brown eyes stared at each of the ladies—caressingly, flatteringly—and then Mr. Klein climbed up into the train behind his expensive-leather suitcases and was gone.

  Papa was extremely amiable on the return drive. “I think—yes, I am sure—we can say that Mr. Klein’s visit was a tremendous success. He was impressed. Everything impressed him: our standing in the town; the wealth of the county, which he could see was undergoing only temporary difficulties; our... solidarity; our accumulated wealth; Gizi and Alfred, not financially inconvenienced too much by the war as yet, and very close to us, united by land and marriage.”

  Mama did not answer. She had suddenly grown very quiet. The sparkle had left her and she was slumped a little, hands huddled in her muff, over to the side of the carriage. Papa paid one of his rare, uncomfortable compliments.

  “Mr. Klein was also impressed with my family,” he said awkwardly. “Gracious and enchanting, was the expression he used. Gracious and enchanting.”

  “Will he come again?” asked Mama.

  “Possibly. We shall meet later in Budapest. Maybe—perhaps it will be necessary to invite him again.”

  A sad, resigned smile drifted across Mama’s face. “It was such fun,” she murmured. “It was like it was before—when I was a girl.”

  Papa stared at her, and Malie said very quickly, “You mean the silver and glass and all the entertaining, Mama? The dinners, the splendid food, the guests every night?”

  Mama faltered a little and then blinked nervously. “Of course, that’s what I meant. We entertained the way we used to, when I was a girl.”

  They all sighed and settled. There was a relaxing—sad on Mama’s part—and a relief from the tension that had gripped them all over the last ten days.

  “It will be nice to return to normal,” Malie said softly to herself.

  When they arrived home the Racs-Rassay coach was outside. Mama was quite cross. “Oh, no! Can’t Alfred and Gizi give us a moment’s peace? We have only just said good-bye to Mr. Klein. Can they not let us collect ourselves before calling?”

  She flung out of the coach and led the way upstairs, unpinning her hat as she went and throwing it on the chiffonier in the hall. In the drawing-room sat Alfred, Gizi, Kati, and—Felix Kaldy!

  “Felix!”

  Eva was so pleased that she was wearing her new morning dress, the one that had been bought for Mr. Klein. She looked beautiful; she knew she did. The dress was violet and her dark eyes took reflection from the colour.

  “Felix! Dear, dear Felix! When did you arrive here?”

  “I came... ye—yesterday.”

  “Yesterday!” Eva frowned. “Why did you not call?”

  “I heard you—you had someone important staying. And—and I had a message for—”

  “He wanted to see us. It was important,” interrupted Gizi abruptly. “He came from the war office in Budapest to see us.”

  Uncle Alfred had been staring out of the window, his back to the room. Now he turned. His face was crumpled and distressed, blurred somehow as though he had been left out in the rain.

  “Is something wrong, Alfred?” asked Papa quickly. “Is the war news worse? Has something happened on the Italian front?”

  Alfred shook his head. He tried to speak but only odd noises came from his lips.

  “N-n-not Italy,” stuttered Felix. “Russia.” Felix was odd too; even for Felix he seemed strained and unnatural. The stutter was worse. It had started when he returned from Serbia and now it was continual.

  “What has happened in Russia?” asked Papa.

  No one answered. Felix’s mouth began to twitch. Alfred turned back to the window. Kati, who had been standing quietly in a corner of the room, began to cry.

  “What has happened?” asked Papa again, and then Gizi—how strange it should be Gizi—crossed over to Amalia and put her arms round the girl.

  “Malie, my dear, it is Karoly, He has been killed in Galitia.”

  The only thing she was conscious of was that Aunt Gizi’s arms were round her, and that was very odd. She could never remember, even when she was tiny, having Aunt Gizi’s arms around her. She felt vaguely sorry for Kati. Aunt Gizi was Kati’s own mother and yet she never put her arms round Kati.

  “Felix took the message at headquarters. It was forwarded to Karoly’s parents in Budapest, and then Felix came to tell us as we are—were—Karoly’s relatives. He—he was shot a week ago. Dear Karoly... dear Malie....” Aunt Gizi’s eyes were filling with tears, brimming over, running down her cheeks.

  “Oh, no, Aunt Gizi,” said Malie sweetly. “Karoly couldn’t possibly have been shot in Galicia. The war is over in Russia. They signed the treaty. At Brest-Litovsk. Haven’t you heard of Brest-Litovsk, Aunt Gizi? It was in the papers. The war is over. It must be a mistake. Why would the Russians shoot Karoly when the war is over?”

  “It wasn’t the Russians,” whispered Gizi. “It was our men: deserters, revolutionaries, Slavs, Croats, Czechs....”

  “Oh, no! No, Aunt Gizi! Please, no!” She wrenched away from Gizi’s arms and clenched her hands by her sides. A long keening wail broke from her. “Oh, no! Not Karoly! Not my Karoly! Not to see him any more, my Karoly, my love, my love!”

  Her hands tore at her hair; then she held her forehead as though trying to stop pain.

  “He can’t be dead! I love him. I was going to marry him; I was, I was! Papa said we could—you did, Papa—I’m going to marry him.” She was quieter then, tears choking in her throat, coursing down her face. “The first time he went I was prepared, I thought he might die, but he came back and we made him well again. Didn’t we, Aunt Gizi?”

  Gizi’s face was screwed into ugly lines of pain. Her mouth and chin were trembling. “Yes, child, we made him well again.”

  “The army thought he would die, so they sent him home... and we made him well.” She began to sob. “We nursed him and loved him and we made him well.’”

  “Yes, child.”

  “Now—he’s dead—”

  “Yes, Malie.”

  She stared round the room, eyes wide and uncomprehending. “What am I doing to do? Mama, Eva, what am I going to do?”

  Mama had closed her eyes and was quite white. So was Eva.

  “Mama, help me. Karoly is dead....”

  She felt someone’s arms round her. They weren’t Gizi’s, they were strong, warm, protective arms like Karoly’s had been. Like Karoly’s had been when they said good-bye at the station. Warm, strong arms that one could hide and die in.

  “Little one,” said Papa, “come with me. Come and be quiet with Papa.”

  He hugged her and she buried her face in the side of his coat. “Papa?”

  “Come with me, little one. Come with Papa.”

  “Karoly—”

  “Yes, little one.” She cried very quietly across the room, clutched against Papa’s side, holding tightly, whimpering a little.

  Gizi and Papa, how strange they should be the two who helped her....

  Later that night, she sat in the chair by the window, gazing out at the night sky, at an owl drifting across the moo
n, at the minaret-shaped spire of the church, and remembering, remembering—

  “‘Malie. Come to bed.”

  “Soon.”

  Remembering, because now she must learn everything by heart, every moment they had shared together. To remember was agony; each image evoked said, “No more, no more! That was the end!” But still she must go through them, step by step, train her mind to remember clearly so that later, years from now, when the sharpness had gone, when the sorrow did not corrode, she could be happy with the memories. “Lieutenant Karoly Vilaghy,” he had called out, running beside the coach, and later she had looked out of this same window at the young men and been disappointed because he was not there. The balcony was boarded off now. The iron balustrade had been taken away and planks had been nailed over the bottom of the window to prevent them from forgetting and carelessly walking out. Four years ago, and she had seen him so little: two summers. One summer of picnics at the meadow and another of Karoly spitting blood and lying exhausted in Aunt Gizi’s drawing-room. Two summers, two farewells at the station. The terror, remember the terror when you couldn’t find him in the crowds? And then he was there and he kissed you and rode away on the steps of the train with your white shawl held in his hand. Karoly, Karoly—

  “Come to bed, Malie.” Eva’s voice was trembling, and Malie could hear she had been crying. She had known Karoly too; he was her sister’s sweetheart and now he was dead.

  “Soon.”

  Since they had told her, since that one terrible outburst when they told her, she hadn’t cried, but there was a pain in her body, a tight, unnatural pain and she felt she would never be able to walk, or talk, or eat, or be natural ever again. They told her—Mama, Aunt Gizi, Papa—that she would be happy again one day, that the sense of tearing away a part of herself would go and she would be left with a warm, sad memory. But some strange age-old part of her senses, something timeless and out of herself, made her aware that whatever happened to her she would never heal, never be once more self-sufficient or complete. She would be happy, yes, probably she would, but something had gone. Her youth? hope? energy? She knew she would always carry a pocket of melancholy in her heart.