Csardas

by Pearson, Diane

  Under cover of conversation Felix finally worked his way round the room and sat beside Eva.

  “Such a long while since I saw you, Eva,” he said wistfully.

  Eva laughed.

  “I suppose you were... surprised... when you heard about Kati and me.”

  Eva laughed again.

  “Mama says it will be good for me to be married,” he said, resigned. And then, cheering a little, “And Eva, you should see the old manor. I am making it look quite beautiful. I am having bathrooms added, two bathrooms! And—you will hardly believe it, Eva—there was no modern lighting! We are having electricity installed, but in the most tasteful way. I cannot wait for you to see how beautiful it all is. I know you will love it.”

  “Yes,” said Eva, smiling. “I’m sure I shall.”

  “You will come, won’t you?” he asked eagerly. “You are such a dear, dear friend, I could not bear to think you wouldn’t come to see us often. Mama is so fond of you, I know you would be welcome to visit us.”

  Eva smiled, sweetly and dangerously. “Of course I shall come, Felix, if Kati, your wife, invites me.”

  “Kati?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Why, yes! Kati, the new mistress of the Kaldy house.”

  “Oh, yes.” His eyes rested on Kati across the room, then moved hurriedly away. “Mama intends to give parties and dances once everything is finished. You must promise me that you will come.”

  And Eva laughed again and said she supposed she would have to come as Kati was so fond of her.

  They climbed into Mr. Klein’s motor, Malie, Eva, and Mama in the back, and as they moved away Eva’s smile cracked and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Mr. Klein blew his horn and threw the car into a stylish whirl so that they left the house in a flurry of exciting noise and movement. Malie put her arm round Eva’s shoulder and reflected, as Eva’s control finally disintegrated altogether, that it was the second time Mr. Klein and his motor had saved them from a distressing situation.

  The harvesters arrived. One or two of the old people, the pre-war ones, were there, but mostly they were new people, some wearing their old army uniforms. The songs were the same though. All the tall grasses fell before the scythes, the choruses echoed over the fields. Leo and Jozsef, old enough now to understand the ribald verses, giggled with the reapers and then, when they came into supper at the end of the day, daringly hummed the tunes of the songs they dared not sing.

  Mr. Klein rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and his arms turned brown in the sun. His beautiful riding breeches and boots began to look worn and more familiar. He watched the hay being brought in, saw the apricots and peaches ripening on the trees, and spent much time with Papa walking over the farm and talking in the study.

  At the end of the harvest the gypsies arrived and Roza haggled with the leader over a price for the harvest music. The money was agreed upon, and the band—two violins and a cimbalom—set up on the veranda. A fire was built in the yard, the huge black pot suspended over it, and Roza began to heat goulash.

  Mama, looking extraordinarily pretty in a white cotton dress that was daringly short and showed five or six inches of ankle, set out loaves of bread on the wine press and pretended to help Roza. She was usually rather bored by the harvest festivities—she was expected to dance with the reapers and most of them, by the end of the afternoon, were drunk and ungainly—but this year the presence of Mr. Klein made it different. This year she was Madame Ferenc, showing how enchanting she could be at a pastoral festival.

  The head man of the harvesters, dressed in his best clothes, came formally up the steps to Papa. “Sir—God be praised—it is my happiness to report that a good crop has been gathered.”

  Papa nodded affably. The two men shook hands with great ceremony; then Papa turned to the gypsies, raised his eyebrows, bowed, and the music began.

  Smiling and pretty, Mama was led down the steps by the chief harvester. Gracefully, to the melody of an old waltz, they circled once on the baked soil of the yard as the onlookers, waiting for the free goulash and wine, murmured appreciatively.

  Most of the wives were dressed in formal black, but some of the young girls from the village were wearing the old festival garments of weddings and feast days. When Malie and Eva were younger they had worn them too. Roza had made the costumes for them, the embroidered bodices and caps sewn painstakingly during the winter months. Just before the party began Malie, seized by a sudden lightening of the spirits, a relief that she was, after all that had happened, still alive, had suggested that they get the old skirts and bodices out and wear them again.

  “It’s the first harvest party for so many years, Eva! And it would make us realize... make us realize that the war is over.” It would be the first time that she had felt any gladness, and joy, since Karoly had died. She was not happy, but a slow contentment was creeping round her heart—an acceptance, mingled with sadness, of all the things that had happened—and at last the grace to find peace and tenderness had returned.

  “Oh, no! No one wears those silly costumes any more.”

  “Some of the village girls might.”

  Eva shrugged. “It isn’t worth dressing up just for the harvesters. I would rather wear something fashionable.”

  And so they had worn pale cotton dresses, short like Mama’s, with lace collars and contrasting sashes. When Malie saw the occasional coloured skirt whirling among the dancers she felt sad about Eva’s lack of enthusiasm.

  Uncle Zoltan, propped on his crutches, stood by the wine cask. In the old days he had been the first to ask Mama to dance. Now his self-respect demanded some kind of authority, and so he said from time to time, “Fill your cups! As much as you like! Good farm wine for everyone!”

  As the wine flowed the reserve of the reapers melted a little. A young one—there seemed to be so few young ones now—took courage and asked Eva to dance. He was strong and brown, the column of his neck straight, his arms firm. He was only a peasant and was very respectful while dancing, but his brown eyes were like those of any other young man, warm, challenging, admiring. Eva began to revive. Her smile arched a little, her head went back, and she began to dance as though she were one of the enchanting Ferenc sisters.

  “It is many years since I have danced a csardas. I think I would like to try.”

  Malie, absorbed, had been watching the dancing couples, and now Mr. Klein was in front of her, smiling, sad, laughing at himself. Automatically she began to refuse, then remembered that it was Mr. Klein, so smiled and descended the steps. Her body instinctively withdrew from his as he placed his arm round her waist, but then, as they danced, the wildness of the music made her relax a little.

  “You should grip me a little firmer. Otherwise you will spin away.”

  She forced herself to tighten her arm around Mr. Klein. Through his silk shirt she could feel sweat on his body; did Mr. Klein sweat like other men? They spun, twisted, then balanced gracefully for the slow steps. People of Mr. Klein’s age usually only survived a few movements of the csardas, unless they were peasants who were capable of controlled stamina when dancing. To her surprise Mr. Klein didn’t even seem to be out of breath. He gripped her firmly when it was necessary, guided her when their dancing should be stately, and never once fell out of step with the violins and cimbalom. A pang, a foolish whim swept over her. How she wished she were wearing the old embroidered bodice and cotton skirt. Dancing here, on the soil of their own farm, with the harvest in and the war over, how she would have loved to be dressed in the colourful clothes of their childhood, their innocence!

  They were well matched, she could feel it; their height was balanced and they moved well. Suddenly she was able to see, as though from an onlooker’s angle, how pleasing they looked together, how handsome and graceful, even though he was so much older. She was gratified, and then the feeling vanished and she thought, What am I doing, dancing with this stranger? Oh, Karoly, Karoly! You are my partner, no one but you! And she knew a renewal of the old feeling, the old
voice that said, You will never dance with, or speak to, or see Karoly Vilaghy again.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t dance any more.”

  She pulled away, and her arm slid through his hand. She had enough sense of courtesy not to snatch her hand away too, and Mr. Klein held it, staring at her, puffing a little, with beads of perspiration standing out on his brow.

  “It is enough,” he agreed. “Come, we shall walk out a little, to see the harvest.”

  She was suddenly tired. She wanted to go back to the veranda and watch—observing others brought her peace and contentment—but obediently she followed Mr. Klein onto the track that led through the acacia woods.

  Mr. Klein was very quiet. He walked and hummed a soft little tune to himself. Shocked, she realized what the tune was, the bawdy verse sung by the reapers. Mr. Klein must have picked it up without appreciating what the words were! She gazed sideways at him and was disconcerted to see him wink very slowly and deliberately.

  “So,” he said at last. “What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

  “Do?”

  “Mmmm. You are... how old? Twenty-four. And your fiance has been killed and the world is no longer the same place that it once was.”

  “But it will be,” she said quickly. “Everything is returning to normal now. Horthy is bringing the old ways back.”

  “At what a cost, Amalia,” he said slowly. “At what a cost. Do you hear nothing of what has happened in the south, or even in Budapest?”

  Of course she had heard—a little, as much as she wanted to hear: stories of the dreadful revenge exacted by Horthy’s soldiers on the Communists who had been running the country a year ago, the Communists who had killed Uncle Sandor. But the stories came from the south, and who was to say how true they were?

  “They did no worse than the men who murdered Uncle Sandor. You don’t know about Uncle Sandor, our coachman, he—”

  “Oh, yes, I know about your coachman. He was murdered by frightened rebels. And now it is the turn of the soldiers, the old Austro-Hungarian officers who are executing Communists, socialists, liberals, intellectuals, Jews—”

  “All that is over,” she said loudly. “The war is over, and so are all the revolutions. I don’t believe any of the stories you tell me!”

  But she did believe him. She knew he was right; the red terror had been followed by the white. But she didn’t want to hear about it. They were safe, safe on their mountain farm with all the killing and punishment taking place in the south. She didn’t want any more. It was over. It must be over!

  “So.” He stared at her, considering, making her feel ashamed. “So,” he said again. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps the rumours are exaggerated. And, in any case, perhaps the killing is the price of peace. But you see, my little Amalia, the world will never be the same place again, because you are no longer the same person. Now you know of man’s evil and cruelty. You know that life is the briefest turn of a wheel and that happiness and the good things can be destroyed in a moment. Your sister, she has not learned this lesson yet. Perhaps she never will. But you—you understand how rare it is to capture contentment. You can never be as you once were: Amalia Ferenc, content to go to parties and visit with your mama. What are you going to do?”

  She felt panic gripping her. The question, buried deep in her heart, was one she had fought against asking herself. What was she going to do? Spend the rest of her life bickering with Eva, paying visits to relatives, watching Papa and Mama grow more estranged as they got older?

  “Something will happen,” she said defiantly, angry with him for spoiling her earlier happiness. “Something will happen to me, and then I will know what to do.”

  “Would you like to marry me?”

  All the uneasiness she had felt about Mr. Klein suddenly congealed into a knot of dread within her stomach. She longed to run, to shout, to vomit, to hit him. Instead she stood like a paralysed rabbit.

  “You will notice I did not say, Will you? I said, Would you like to?”

  “No.”

  Mr. Klein laughed, a low soft chuckle. “How fortunate it is you are not in business,” he mused. “It does not do at all to be so direct.”

  “I am sorry.” She was floundering, anxious not to be rude to Mr. Klein, who ran the bank, but also terrified that he come near her.

  “Sorry? No, you must never be sorry until the bargain is closed, one way or another. And now... now I think it would be pleasant to return to the festivities. I have not yet danced with your charming mama, and as I can see, she still has much grace and ability.”

  She was confused, angry and puzzled. Had she been proposed to or not? What kind of game was Mr. Klein playing? Why was he so serious one moment, trying to make her face up to unpleasant truths, and mocking and ironical the next? Her pleasure in the day, in the festival, was destroyed. She stood once more on the veranda and watched them all dancing, but now there was disturbance in her heart. Mr. Klein danced with Mama and then with Eva, and it was obvious that both her mother and her sister enjoyed his company completely. Mama was young again, laughing up into his face and tapping him reprovingly on the shoulder at some impertinent comment he had made. And as Malie watched Mr. Klein flattering and playing with Mama, her distaste renewed itself, and with it embarrassment that Mama could behave so badly. She finally looked away from them, vowing that she would only speak to Mr. Klein in a cool and detached manner from now on.

  But then, that same evening, she watched him walking alone and a curious sense of fellowship overcame her. She had gone into the orchard when the evening was still light, and she saw him strolling beneath the trees, a slow, solitary figure who suddenly appeared to be older, heavier than he normally was. He was staring out at the fields beyond the trees and once he put his hand up and ran his forefinger lightly along the underside of a branch. His shoulders were slightly stooped and there was an ageless and familiar quality about him that she recognized from somewhere a long, long time ago.

  She tried to remember, failed, tried again, and was rewarded by the memory of a visit to an old man when she had been small, an old man lying in a bed, a black hat on his head, an old man with a long beard and side whiskers. He had spoken to her in a language she did not understand and Papa—yes, Papa had taken her there—had answered in their own language that she did understand. The memory, dredged from her subconscious, had some curious significance. She remembered a feeling of identity with the old man. She felt it again now with Mr. Klein, and so she turned quickly away because the feeling was one she did not want to encourage. Neither did she want Mr. Klein to see her in the dusk and resume their bantering conversation of the afternoon. She hurried back into the house, confused and beset by emotions, puzzled by things she felt she ought to remember.

  A few days later, when she was alone with Papa, she asked him about the old man. She had begun to wonder if perhaps she had dreamt the meeting: the small room, the bed, the old man with the shawl over his shoulders and the black hat on his head. Papa said slowly, “How strange, you should remember. You were not even three years old. He wanted to see you, the old man. He was dying, and though he never forgave me for marrying your mother, he still wanted to see his grandchild.”

  “Ah, yes!”

  Of course, it had been Papa’s own father. One never thought of Papa’s parents. He and Aunt Gizi had somehow thrown aside their old roots and lowered new and aggressive ones into the ground. But she remembered her affinity with the old man and sometimes—oh, very, very occasionally—she sensed this same affinity with Papa.

  “Why did you ask, Amalia? What made you think of the old man?”

  “It was... Mr. Klein,” she said slowly. “A feeling that I had seen him before. And I remembered him—my grandfather—and that was whom Mr. Klein reminded me of.”

  Papa smiled. “No. Mr. Klein is no relative of ours, not even distantly.” He paused as though considering something and then continued, “Amalia, I have been intending to speak to you about Mr. Klei
n.”

  “Yes, Papa?” The old familiar pounding in her breast, a nervous excitement that anything to do with Mr. Klein always precipitated.

  “Mr. Klein—David—has indicated to me, most tactfully, that he finds you personable and admirable in every way.” Papa cleared his throat. “He asked what my reaction would be if he asked you to marry him.”

  “I see, Papa.” It hadn’t been a joke. That day at the harvest party he hadn’t been joking or teasing.

  “I explained,” said Papa haltingly, “about Karoly, that it was just over two years since—Mr. Klein said he knew about that.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Amalia, I do not want to force you to do anything against your will. I remember my sorrow when you and Karoly—But there, that is past and the war changed everything and had he lived I would have accepted your wishes. But no. I do not want to force you again. It is only that I ask you to think about this. Mr. Klein is a good man.”

  “I know, Papa.” She closed her eyes, swallowed, and opened them. “I know he is a good man. But I do not want to marry him.”

  “I see.” Papa picked up the inkwell and absent-mindedly smoothed the top of it with his thumb. “Could I ask why?”

  Why? How could she explain to Papa the mingled emotions Mr. Klein induced in her?

  “I do not wish to marry anyone, Papa. Karoly was to be my husband, and now he is dead I don’t want to marry anyone, ever.” She knew it sounded foolish, the kind of thing every young girl bereft by the war was saying, and so she added something that Papa would understand. “And, Papa, if I were ever to think of marriage again, it would not be with someone of Mr. Klein’s age. He is far too old.”

  “He is eighteen years older than you, Amalia,” said Papa, for some reason nettled. “And even if the disparity in age is rather pronounced, just remember that Mr. Klein’s age enables him to offer more in marriage than another, younger man. You would have a secure and assured place in society. You would be superbly maintained. You would travel, if you wished. You know him well, Amalia. He is a generous man, a responsible man. Many women would envy you.”