Csardas

by Pearson, Diane

  “Thank you, David. I am sorry... sorry she’s come. She is my sister but I’m sorry. She disturbs your life I think.”

  “Mmm... Perhaps a little.” His dark brows raised in a mocking gesture. “And perhaps it is good for me. Certainly when your sister is here I appreciate anew the fact that I chose the more suitable of the Ferenc girls.”

  She wrote to Adam, assuring him that after a little holiday Eva was sure to have recovered and they would bring her back to Hungary with them. Then, after two dreadful days had passed, days when Eva stayed in her room, lying on her bed, she persuaded her to come out for a walk with the children. The first person they saw was Stefan Tilsky.

  “The ravishing Eva!” he exclaimed, staring perplexed but courteous. Eva smiled as though she didn’t believe a word of it. “You are ravishing, but I dislike your hat. Grey is not a colour you should wear.”

  To Malie’s horror Eva began to ooze tears again. Stefan Tilsky, who was kind if supercilious, was immediately contrite.

  “Eva! My darling girl. Forgive me. See, I crave your humble forgiveness.”

  He knelt on the path, right in the middle of the Stadtpark. Two old ladies stared and nearly fell over as they walked backwards watching him.

  “I shall remain here on my knees until you say I am forgiven.”

  “Oh, do get up,” said Eva, looking tired and embarrassed.

  “Say you forgive me.”

  “All right.”

  He stood, brushed dirt from his knees. Then he reached over and took Eva’s hat from her head. “You are much prettier without it,” he said, and threw the hat in the river. Eva was so surprised she forgot to be miserable.

  “That’s my hat! Get it back.”

  “You look better without it.”

  He reached forward and fluffed her hair out a little. When his hand touched her cheek her face suddenly burned and she pulled away. Stefan took no notice. He put his hand up again and continued to arrange her hair.

  “It was a perfectly horrible hat,” he said quietly. “And you are too beautiful to wear such a thing.”

  Eva flushed again but ignored him. She took her nephew by the hand and walked away from Malie and the Pole.

  “Something has happened to your little sister.”

  “I think so.”

  “Hmm. She was such a pretty woman—ravishing indeed.” He smiled at Malie, a charming, warm, open smile. “We must all do what we can to cheer her, must we not?”

  For days she couldn’t think about anything else but the nightmare scene in the Pannonia apartment. She tried to push it away but it leapt into her head with the clarity of a photograph at repeated moments—at meals, in bed, in the middle of conversation—and each time the humiliation grew, the shame, the degrading spectacle of herself, naked, and the disgust on his face. And when the sharpness of that memory had blunted itself slightly, she began to see the longer and wider humiliation, the years of adoration, of faithfulness, of believing he was a man like other men. Eleven years worshipping a hero who did not exist. Was she a mad, mindless creature? Had she no instincts as other women? Did they all know? Had they been watching her throwing herself at Felix all these years, knowing that the affair was moribund before it even started? His mother didn’t know, she was sure of that. Otherwise why the continual hints about a grandchild? But Adam? Is that why Adam had never minded them flirting, playing together? Her head ached as, hour after hour, every permutation and alternative presented itself. It was with her all the time; whatever she was doing she was conscious all the time of the terrible mistake she had made.

  Malie was there, that was nice. She and David (did they know?) were kind, and little Karoly and Jacob were useful to take on walks. And Stefan Tilsky (oh, God, did he know? had he known all last summer when they were making such exhibitions of themselves?) seemed to be there a lot, hovering around on the walks and coming with them to make up a fourth at the opera. She didn’t like him. He was handsome enough, but he was too like Felix with his flattering jokes and charming interest in female matters.

  She began, as she became a little calmer, to spend the mornings wandering about Vienna on her own. It wasn’t at all like the old Vienna; it was poor and scruffy and all the children seemed to have rickets or sores. Once she passed a charity kitchen where lines of sour-smelling women and small children waited for bread and a mug of some steaming liquid. It was dispensed by women who were apparently ladies, and she watched for a long, long time, then walked away, wondering if something like that could be her panacea for disappointment and humiliation. But the poor—oh, dear, one was sorry, of course, but since the war there were so many of them, so many children suffering from malnutrition and tuberculosis, so many men wandering about the streets with arms or legs or eyes missing, so many people lacking money and health and food and warmth—that it didn’t seem worthwhile to even try. And she was so miserable anyway that the first unhappy child she had to serve would be sure to make her start crying again.

  She walked up Mariahilferstrasse, smelling the rather nasty coffee they were still serving in some of the cafés. She came to Mariahilfer Kirche by Haydn’s statue and, moved by a sudden impulse, she went in.

  Mass was in progress, and she sat enjoying the peace and music. Her religious upbringing had been spasmodic. Papa had taken no hand at all in their spiritual tuition and had been content to let any necessary instructions in the Christian faith take place when they were on visits to their Bogozy grandparents. She had taken her first communion at the Bogozys’, but since then she had bothered only on rare occasions. But it was pleasant to listen and gaze up at the painted ceiling of the old church. The stillness, the formal movements of priests and acolytes, slowly cast a sense of peace over her, a temporary lulling of the pain that she felt would always be with her.

  Someone was staring at her and the peace was jarred a little. She did not turn to see who it was but, as the consciousness of eyes fixed upon her grew stronger, so the tranquillity vanished completely. She picked up her gloves and bag and turned to leave. Stefan Tilsky was standing at the end of the pew, his face turned towards her, smiling, brown eyes looking in admiration. The eyes, once they had observed that her attention was drawn, changed direction. With a flattery that verged on insolence, Stefan Tilsky studied the entire length of her body, slowly and with lustful concentration. Even she, lost and unsure of herself where men were concerned, could not fail to interpret the desire in his face. She slid quickly from her seat and left from the end of the pew farthest away from him, but when she got to the church door he was waiting for her.

  “Come and drink a glass of wine with me?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Or coffee?”

  She shook her head and began to walk across the cobbles back to Mariahilferstrasse.

  “Continue in that direction and you will come to the station, unless you are contemplating walking all the way to the Schönbrunn.”

  She was suddenly tired, not physically but spiritually weary. She wondered if she would ever be able to enjoy the company of a man again.

  “Please—” he said softly.

  She felt his hand beneath her elbow. Her body was being gently drawn towards the narrow street that ran down the side of the church.

  “There is a charming café nearby, very discreet and sheltered, and picturesque too.”

  Listlessly she let herself be led down the street. They turned right through a wooden doorway, and she found she was in a stone courtyard set with tables. In the middle of the grey cobbles a huge chestnut tree formed an umbrella of gold and crimson leaves.

  “It is warm enough to sit here, yes? And much pleasanter than inside.”

  He ordered wine and coffee and she sipped both. An old woman selling flowers came in and he beckoned her over and took a rose from the basket.

  “For you,” he said, smiling his warm and devastating smile.

  “Thank you.”

  “May I fasten it to your coat?” Without waiting for an answer
, he reached across and slid the flower into the top buttonhole of her jacket. His hand lingered, then his fingers touched her throat, ran up her cheek and down again. “You are very beautiful, Eva Kaldy. I remember you as a girl. You were pretty then, but now—”

  She smiled and tried not to remember Felix’s face as he looked at her naked body.

  “What is so fascinating about married women?” Stefan mused softly. “So much nonsense talked about young girls, virgins, about their appeal and sexuality when they really have no sexuality at all. Virgins are for very old men or for youths, similarly virgin, who are obsessed with a romantic image. I think I was in love with a virgin once, many years ago:” He twinkled at her, mocking himself. “Married women fascinate me. I cannot help it. It is their... mystery. One never knows, does one, with a married woman. Obviously she understands about men, but how much? And how many?”

  “Really, Stefan!” she protested, faintly shocked and also faintly embarrassed because she wondered if he knew of her own recent willingness to take a lover.

  “Now you, Eva, grow more beguiling every time we meet. In the summer—oh!” He drew his breath in suddenly and across his face spread an expression of greed. “In the summer you were tempting—oh, so tempting. Every time you moved or spoke or even looked at me I wanted you. I cursed your family and friends, all clustered around you like fat cats around a cheetah. And I came away, annoyed but resigned. And now I meet you again, and this time you are even better. This time the crispness has gone. Now you are a little sad, quieter, because you are thinking. Now it is possible to approach you and say, ‘Eva Kaldy, I want to make love to you. I desire you in every possible way a man can desire a woman.’”

  It was like a poultice, a soothing, healing balm on the agonized wound that Felix had left. Blatant, vulgar, impertinent—all those things too—but because of that very vulgarity it healed where a subtler, more sensitive flattery would not have done.

  “You have no right to speak like that,” she said unconvincingly, and Stefan reached over the table and took her hand in his.

  Felix had beautiful hands. She shuddered and then looked down at Stefan’s. Well-shaped but square. They were bigger than Felix’s. They were also very warm.

  “May I see you again?”

  “Of course. We are meeting this evening I believe.”

  “Aach!” He shrugged irritably. “You know very well what I mean. I want to see you alone, without your sister and her husband in attendance. Will you meet me here tomorrow? Tell your sister you are going out for lunch and eat here with me.”

  “I can’t,” she said feebly and he made the “aach” noise again and then swore softly in Polish.

  “Of course you can, and you will. I’m asking you to eat a meal with me. That is all I am asking, for the moment.”

  “Perhaps.... I’ll try.”

  “Good.” He stood up, held her chair back for her, and, as she rose, he pressed his hands, one each side of her waist “God!” she heard him say, and she turned round to see a film of sweat on his upper lip. The pressure of his hands, the sweat, triggered the hunger of the summer once more in her body. It was gone as swiftly as it had come but for the first time since the scene in the Pannonia bedroom she felt like a woman again. Outside the restaurant they separated, already acknowledging guilt although they had done nothing to be guilty of. She climbed into a cab and went down into the city, to Kärntnerstrasse, and there she spent the rest of the day buying a new dress to wear to the opera that evening.

  All through the performance she could feel him watching her. His eyes rested on the slashed silk of her neckline and on the places where the silk clung. She dropped her programme once and as he leaned forward to pick it up his hand brushed against her thigh. The game they were playing seemed sordid and coarse, but nonetheless it was exciting and for the first time she began to look at Stefan Tilsky, seeing what a magnificent body he had, huge-shouldered, strong-thighed, flat-bellied. He was big, very big. A pulse in her throat began to throb as she realized how very big he was.

  Felix. Felix was not a man, and he had nearly destroyed her. Why had he hurt her like that? Why had he been so cruel, to encourage her and then destroy her?

  When the opera ended Stefan wrapped her cloak around her and his hands bore down on her shoulders. For a brief second his body was pressed against her back and she could feel every muscle straining to keep control. Her own hunger leapt up again and she had a wild impulse to turn her body and thrust back against him. They fought against lust, won, and left the opera with the two gentle, happy people who had brought them. The rest of the evening was a delicious, agonizing torment of desire for both of them.

  A week later, oblivious of everything except Vienna, Stefan Tilsky, and Felix, she went to an apartment close to the Belvedere Gardens, a luxurious apartment with a marble bathroom and a bed covered in purple satin. Stefan had arranged everything with the smooth ease of an experienced philanderer, and this time she did not feel ashamed of her body.

  Malie was delighted to see Eva getting back to normal again. Her sister was never easy to live with, and as she got older she became less easy, but the quiet, subdued Eva who had arrived in Budapest had distressed Malie immeasurably and she was almost relieved when Eva borrowed her squirrel wrap without asking and snapped at the children for making a noise in the morning. Eva’s restoration to health was, Malie was forced to admit, largely due to Stefan Tilsky. He paid court, flattered, and was attentive in the way Eva loved. After a while Malie began to grow a little afraid that perhaps he was too attentive. After all, she had written to Adam assuring him that she and David would look after Eva and now—well, there was something disturbing in the way they looked at each other, the way Stefan kissed Eva’s hand and brought her flowers whenever they were all going out for the evening.

  She grew really alarmed when she saw Eva alighting from a cab that had come from the direction of Schwarzenbergplatz. Eva had said she was going to visit an old school friend who lived near Turkenschanz Park. How could she possibly have come from Turkenschanz via Schwarzenbergplatz? She was so uneasy that she was unable to bring herself to ask Eva. She sat and fretted all evening about it, watching the two lovers playing a game she didn’t understand but that she sensed was dangerous. Stefan Tilsky was a masculine and attractive animal. She herself had occasionally found his nearness disturbing, even though his arrogance annoyed her. He had the unquestionable charm that all Poles had, gaiety, sincerity, and an ability to make a woman, any woman, feel beautiful and desired. Her silly headstrong sister, who had spent her life rushing from one thoughtless deed to the next, was quite capable of falling out of love with Felix and in love with Stefan Tilsky in the space of one night.

  So it was with infinite relief that she granted Eva’s surprising request one morning for the loan of enough money to take her home to Hungary and the Kaldy farm.

  “Of course, my darling. You can have what you like. You would prefer to go now rather than return with us in November?”

  “I want to go this morning.” Eva stared down at the tablecloth. She was quiet, but it wasn’t the quiet of her arrival in Vienna. That Eva had been crushed, listless. This Eva was controlled and tense.

  “This morning! But we were all going to the theatre this evening! Surely you can wait for one day?”

  “No. I must leave this morning. Adam—” She paused and swallowed. “Adam hasn’t written to me and I don’t know if he’s going to be cross because I ran away. Do you think he’ll be cross?”

  “Possibly,” replied Malie dryly.

  “I’ll go now, if you don’t mind.”

  She was quiet, but Malie could sense the springs that were waiting to thrust her from the chair and precipitate her onto the Budapest train. Having spent the last few days worrying about Eva’s visit, she now began to worry about her erratic departure.

  “Is something wrong, darling?” she asked gently.

  “Nothing at all.” Eva was poised, wary. “Why? Does it seem as th
ough something is wrong?”

  “Well, no, but you were enjoying yourself so much here. It seems a little strange to leave so suddenly.”

  “I just think it’s time to go home to my husband.”

  Amalia asked no more. Whatever had prompted Eva’s arrival in Vienna had now been replaced by some equally urgent need to go home. She was a trifle concerned at the urgency and at the mystery, but overlying everything else was the relief of having peace descend once more on their household. She went into their bedroom and asked David for enough money to send her sister home. When she came out Eva was back in her room, already packing.

  They got her to the station just in time to catch the Budapest train and then they returned to an apartment in the total disorder of a frenzied and unplanned departure. Eva, amongst other things, had inadvertently packed the garnet chain and the squirrel wrap. She had also omitted to send Stefan Tilsky a note, and that evening Malie had the somewhat uncomfortable task of telling a startled and angry Polish nobleman that her sister had fled back to the country.

  It was almost impossible to reach the farm from Vienna in one day, but Eva knew she couldn’t bear to wait overnight, either in Budapest or with her parents up in the town. She just had to get back to Adam and the farm that night. She couldn’t stand the torment of going to sleep not knowing what her reception would be. She arrived in Budapest that afternoon and had to wait for two hours before she could catch a train out. She sat in the station restaurant, ignoring the interested and inviting glances of male passers-by and trying to look composed in spite of the turmoil raging in her head. What shall I do if he won’t forgive me? Supposing he turns me out. What shall I do? But he won’t turn me out, he loves me! But remember how stubborn he can be? Remember how he wouldn’t let you go away for longer than a week? He said you were irresponsible and undisciplined. Oh, what shall I do if he won’t forgive me!

  In the train going up to the town she shed a few tears, tears of anxiety and strain but also rehearsal tears. She couldn’t eat anything when food was brought round and, after a few sips of coffee, she threw the rest out of the window. It was dark when she arrived and she was tired and dirty. It would have been sensible to have gone to Mama and Papa’s for the night and travelled up to the hills next day. But a self-induced panic was driving her on. She had to know. She had to know if Adam would forgive her.