Csardas

by Pearson, Diane

  “Do you like it?”

  She stood in the middle of her creation, her brilliant, breathtaking creation, and just for a second the old Kati was visible, unsure of herself, vulnerable to hurt.

  Amalia felt as though the breath had been knocked from her lungs. Frightened of destroying Kati’s confidence, she said, “It—it’s incredible. I can hardly believe it!”

  “But do you like it?”

  “I don’t know, Kati. It’s beautiful. But it is so... different, so unlike you.”

  “You think it beautiful, though?”

  “Yes. Beautiful, and exotic, and... a little frightening.”

  The answer seemed to please her.

  “I worked with oils for this, Malie. I hate my water-colours now. I’m never going to use water-colour or pastel or crayon ever again. If I hadn’t come to Budapest I would never have done this. It was that man, the artist, he talked to me about painting—oh, not how to do it, the art master taught us that, but the feeling it should give you. And the fact that you should try to do more than you think you can. I showed him my flowers, Malie, and do you know what he did? He tore them up. Just ripped them out of my book and tore them in half.”

  Amalia stared speechless at her cousin. Kati’s face was animated and flushed, her hitherto colourless eyes were bright, her small, shapeless body taut and alive.

  “I was so upset. You remember the day I would not come to Margaret Island with you? It was the day after he tore them up, and I was so upset I didn’t want to go anywhere. And while you were out he came round again. Remember he was there when you came back? And he said that he had torn them up because anyone who could paint, even a little bit, should try to do better than that. And then he invited me to his studio—you remember we all went, David too—and he showed me his work. Some of it was bad, Malie, and I told him so. The first time in my life that I told someone what I thought of them. And he didn’t mind. He showed me how to try. Try to do something really hard, he said; some of it will be bad, but some of it will be wonderful. He made me promise to paint something different—not different but more honest. Oh, Malie, I do wish he could come and see this and tell me what he thinks. Will you speak to him when you go back to Budapest? Will you tell him what I’ve been doing?”

  Malie stared at Kati, stunned and confused. She had no idea which, of the many artists who visited them, had been responsible for Kati’s metamorphosis. The flood of words, the assumption that Malie knew of her friendship with the artist, was all so out of character for her faded, nondescript little cousin. And anxious not to destroy this new Kati, this positive and involved Kati, she was frightened to say anything at all.

  “I would really like your husband to see what I’ve painted.” Kati looked nervous again: shy, afraid, ashamed. “There’s only you and he who would be interested, who know about painting and who—who wouldn’t think of me as just Kati—who would look at my paintings and think about them instead of me.”

  Kati’s loneliness suddenly overwhelmed Malie. In a community of friends and relatives there was no one at all to whom she could talk about the most important discovery of her life.

  “Would he come, Malie?” she asked timidly. “If you asked him, would he come?”

  “Darling, he would love to see them. I’ll fetch him now.”

  “Don’t let the others know,” said Kati, alarmed. “I don’t want the others to see.”

  There was no one she trusted enough to let them see her exposed, undressed, all her hidden nakedness on view before the disinterested and the disdainful.

  “I’ll be careful.”

  She left the summer-house and began to walk back towards the lawns, glad of a period alone. She was aware that she, Kati’s “dearest friend,” had failed her cousin too. Kati had stayed in her home for three months, and during that time she hadn’t been at all aware of Kati’s interest, or distress, or excitement. She didn’t even know the name of the artist who had made such an impression, even though he apparently visited their home quite frequently and had invited them to his studio. She hastily ran through the names of the artists in their circle. It could have been any of them.

  Walking back with David she tried to explain what had happened, to warn him not to say anything that would hurt Kati, and to try and remember the name of the artist David raised one dark, humorous eyebrow.

  “I don’t have to remember. It was Dominic.”

  She paused, then continued towards the summer-house. “How can you be so sure?”

  Her husband shrugged. “They spent much time talking together, and your cousin ceased to be afraid when she was with him. And they were always showing each other books. He gave her a small canvas of his before she left.”

  “She didn’t tell me any of this.”

  “No. Well, I think she believed that you knew.”

  He wasn’t surprised inside the summer-house either. He examined, nodded, examined again, stood back by the door, and stared at the ceiling. “Good, Kati,” he said finally. “Very good. You have avoided the pitfall of many new artists; you have not abandoned your technical knowledge to create a new medium. It has all the perfection and detail of your old work—see, Amalia, how finely the stamens are drawn?—and the courage of a new venture.”

  Kati was unrecognizable. Her face was engrossed, intent, almost beautiful because for the first time in her life it was alive.

  “Of course”—David held up a reproving finger—“you have been blessed with an excellent canvas: no limitations on size, and this interesting six-sided room. Now, my little Kati, what are you going to do when you have to work on board and canvas like your good friend Dominic?”

  “I’m not sure what to do next,” said Kati happily. “I had an idea for painting on linen—making tapestries that would fold and hang, not oils, of course. I would have to experiment with dyes, I suppose....” Her voice and face faded back into the old Kati. “It might be difficult to do that here,” she whispered.

  “Walk before you run, my Kati! I think you now try to discipline yourself. Do some canvases, not too small but not too big either. When you come up to Budapest next you can bring them with you and—well, we shall see.”

  Malie watched them, listened to them talking of textures and colour and form. She had loved Kati and had tried to be kind to her, but she had never managed to bring her to the normal exchanges of human contact. She had never brought Kati to life the way David was doing now. I have never treated Kati as an adult, she thought suddenly. I have always treated her as a child, an unfortunate, under-privileged child. David—and Dominic too, I suppose—have accorded her the respect due another adult. They have praised, criticized, and been honest with her.

  They finally went back, all three of them, to the lawns in front of the house. Felix and Stefan Tilsky were still paying court to Eva, who was squealing with laughter under the jaundiced eyes of her mother-in-law and her aunt. Kati retreated behind a blank face and a blank silence, and David went to flirt a little with Mama, who had been sitting rather disconsolately away from the others. Malie stared round, sensing tensions, knowing secrets, and wondered again why this particular summer was not the same as all the others.

  In July Papa and the boys came up. Papa was taking a month’s vacation from the bank, and the boys had finished at school. Jozsef was preparing for his last year before going to Berlin University. He was seventeen, tall, and rather like Papa to look at, although he was softer and less energetic than Papa. He was supposed to be working for his Abiturium but had not received a very good report, and Papa was a little cross, believing that his elder son would have done better if only he had tried. There had been some considerable discussion about the choice of university. It was thought that the numerus clausus which restricted the number of Jewish students entering Hungarian universities would not apply to Jozsef (he was, after all, only Jewish in origin and not registered as a Jew), but nonetheless it was decided not to risk the possibility of refusal. Anti-Semitic organizations abounded, and one
was never sure when they might decide to “make a case” of some obscure Jewish question. Jozsef should go to study economics in Berlin, where the numerus clausus did not apply.

  Jozsef behaved reasonably well when Papa was about. Papa had made it quite plain that he disapproved of Jozsef’s idleness in the matter of examinations. There were a great many avowals that he was going to do better this last year before going to university and, when Papa was around, Jozsef was often to be seen sitting on the veranda frowning over a book. He was hoping for a generous allowance once he got to Berlin. When Papa was not around Jozsef spent a lot of time lying underneath David Klein’s car peering up, or standing over the engine peering down.

  Leo, at fifteen, had become incredibly tall and incredibly thin. The chubby little boy of infancy had entirely vanished into a willowy and rather frail-looking youth. He had shown an aptitude for languages but had missed his winter term at school and now was worried about catching up. Just after Christmas he had been ill: a cough, a temperature, pains in his chest. He had recovered but was left with the cough and a feeling of constant lassitude, and finally the doctor had recommended that he go into the mountains or the country for a couple of months.

  He had been dispatched immediately to Eva and Adam and had spent the rest of the winter staying at their farm. A tutor in French and English had been employed to spend time conversing with him, but when he went back to school he was three months behind with his work. Now he lay awake at night worrying about his studies. He spent the daytime alternately dreaming and studying, and as the days grew hotter and the air balmier, he dreamed more and studied less and then spent the night worrying again. He had decided that he was a failure, both mentally and physically. His body couldn’t stand a normal bout of influenza, and his brain was unable to come to a decision about work and then persevere with it. He realized he would fail in practically everything he did and, in addition, he had spots.

  He was too old to seek comfort from Malie, but nonetheless he felt happy when they were all together, the whole family, gossiping and drinking lemonade beneath the acacia trees. He felt safe but found he was unable to talk to any of them in case they realized what a disgusting mess he had made of his life. So he would listen, and roll and wrestle with little Karoly and Jacob on the ground, and feel miserable and happy all at the same time. That summer was a strange and disturbed one for him too. And it became even more disturbed.

  He had driven Malie and the little boys over to Adam’s farm in the trap. There had been no special invitation, but one of Adam’s cows had just calved and they had suddenly decided that young Karoly should see the calf. They arrived in the morning, were taken by Adam to see the calf, and then sat on the veranda trying to decide whether to have a picnic or eat at home. Just below the veranda Eva had slung a hammock between two smallish trees, and she swayed to and fro, waving flies away with her handkerchief and saying that it was really too hot to go anywhere.

  Leo, staring out at the distant fields, saw a ball of dust moving slowly towards the house. Idly he watched it grow bigger, then turn into two dust balls; a woman and a boy emerged. Suddenly, his body tense, he sat upright on his chair.

  “Someone coming.” Eva yawned and then she too sat up, nearly tilting herself out of the hammock. “How extraordinary! Why has the woman come here?”

  At the far end of the concrete path a peasant woman waited, by her side a boy, thin but fairly neatly dressed. Leo knew at once who the boy was.

  They continued to wait, humbly knowing that it was not their place to cross the boundary that separated the farm from Mr. Adam’s home. Eva finally beckoned them forward. The woman hesitated, put her face forward and covered it with her hand, then shuffled up to stand a few feet away from the veranda.

  “What do you want?”

  “His excellency—if I could speak to your noble husband, madame? I am Edina, wife of Marton who works on your husband’s land. Before my marriage I was sewing girl here, in this house.” She paused. Her nervousness was still apparent, but the mention of being sewing girl seemed to give her a little confidence. “I beg forgiveness, madame. If I could just speak to his excellency?”

  “Why do you not go to the yard with your husband? You know when it is possible to see the master.”

  The woman stared at the ground. “My husband would beat me if he knew I wanted to speak to his excellency. It—it is private, madame. It is private from my husband.”

  No one knew what to say or do. Never before had a peasant come to any of their houses begging requests for private audiences with their masters. It was unnerving and made them all feel uneasy. Through Eva’s mind flashed the absurd notion that Adam had been messing about with this woman. The thought made her giggle as soon as it came into her head; the woman was thin, old and unattractive. Brilliant blue eyes shone out of a face lined with work and leathered with too much sun and wind. The child also had blue eyes.

  “Do you want your sewing job again?”

  The woman raised her head, a spasm of hope crossed her features. “No, Madame Kaldy. I know you have a girl, a young girl. If you needed extra help I would work for you.” She bit her lip and looked down at the ground again. “I would like to speak to his excellency.”

  Eva, puzzled, interested, turned swiftly to Leo.

  “Go and fetch him, Leo. He’s still with the calf, I expect.”

  He stood up and tried to move quickly down the steps, but his ungainly legs got tangled in the chair and he stumbled and arrived at the bottom awkwardly. The boy was staring at him and he wanted to get away from the watching blue eyes. He hurried round the house to the farm buildings, already trying to decide whether he would return with Adam or whether he would stay out of sight until Janos Marton and his mother had retreated.

  During the winter months he had spent with Eva and Adam, he had seen the child twice. Every morning Adam had to fetch the post from the village and, once Leo had recovered a little, he had taken this task upon himself. Riding on one of the farm horses across the morning snow had become one of his greatest pleasures. He looked forward to it from his first waking moment: the crisp snow, the clean morning air with his breath blowing out in a cloud before him, above all the solitude, the delicious pure solitude when he was no longer aware of comparisons with other boys and his spots were temporarily forgotten.

  When the weather was bad the farm children didn’t go to school. It was three miles to the village, only a few of them had boots, and those who did were usually told not to waste them on travelling to school. But one morning—going to fetch the post earlier than usual—he had overtaken a figure trudging through the snow. As he grew near he saw that the boy had no boots, just pieces of old grain sack wrapped round his feet. He reined in his horse and was confronted by the blue eyes he remembered from Kati’s wedding.

  When he had stopped he had fully intended to offer the child a ride to the village school, but faced with that thin, passionate body, and with the confused memories—Uncle Sandor and the killer lying drunk on the ground, the boy defending the killer, sobbing, his feet, always the wretched child’s feet, covered in scabs and sores—his words had died in his throat. The boy stared at him—how could a child hate anyone that much?—and finally, too embarrassed to put his offer into words, he had ridden on, the morning ride spoilt by his own guilty conscience.

  A week later he had seen the boy again, but this time he was being carried on his mother’s back. His feet were still wrapped but there had been thick falls of snow in the night, too thick even for several layers of grain sack. He hesitated, wanting to help, hating to see the woman trudging three miles carrying her son. Without waiting to think what he would say, he galloped up to them. “I’ll take the child to school,” he shouted, but he saw that he had frightened them both. Perhaps the child didn’t hate him; perhaps it was fear? She had shrunk away, and he had a swift image of how it would look in her eyes—her son riding on the young master’s horse, accepting favours from one of the people who should be feare
d and respected. She shook her head violently, and the motion was reflected in the young face that looked over her shoulder. He had ridden away and after that he took the longer route to the village, a route which was never used by anyone in the winter.

  He told Adam that the woman was here to see him, then reluctantly stayed with him, impelled by curiosity and a kind of misery. When they arrived at the front of the house the woman was sitting on the bottom step talking to Amalia about little Jacob. She seemed easier talking to another woman about her baby, and Leo guessed at once that Malie had told the woman to sit and had found a subject that would put her at ease.

  “Mrs. Marton?”

  She rose instantly.

  “Why do you want to see me?”

  Misery crumpled her face as she stared at Eva, Amalia, Leo, and the baby boys. Malie stood up and handed Jacob to Eva. “Time to make the little ones rest, Eva. Come now, you can help me find a place inside that will comfort them.” She herded them indoors, as though it were her house, not Eva’s, and silenced them both when they began to speculate on the extraordinary behaviour of Mrs. Marton.

  “You will know soon enough. And in the meantime remember that everything we say can be heard outside.”

  They fidgeted and peered between the shutters. Adam was reading something given to him by Mrs. Marton. She was talking, explaining and drawing her son forward to face Adam. When she and the boy finally left, Adam was still holding the piece of paper in his hand.

  “I cannot believe it,” he murmured, after they had hurried out to join him. “She has asked me to speak to the director of the school in town. She wants him to allocate a free place to her son!”

  They were all so shocked they couldn’t speak. Then Eva began to laugh.

  “She brought letters for me to see, one from the priest, another from Feher in the village.”