Abigail

by Magda Szabo

  “I ran away,” said Gina. Her voice was not as calm as she would have liked it to be. It was not that she was afraid, but she was now very tense, and she wanted this farce to end as quickly as possible. “Mr. Kőnig stopped me on the platform. I was trying to go home.”

  “Well, you know,” Kőnig began, “this girl is not at all well. As soon as we get back we must have her seen by a doctor. Trying to run away? The poor little thing was wandering about in the general direction of the station, but how could she possibly have known where to go? I hate to think where she might have ended up if she hadn’t chanced to bump into me.”

  Susanna’s mouth moved as if she were about to speak, but she stayed silent. She took Gina’s other hand, as if she were afraid she might free herself from Kőnig’s grip and disappear a second time.

  “My ticket is inside Mr. Kőnig’s pocket, and so is the money I was given in change for my hundred-pengő note. Have a look in his coat. That’s where it is. He took it from me.”

  Kőnig and Susanna spoke at almost the same time. Kőnig said: “The poor little thing must be feverish. So now I’ve stolen something from her! It’s ridiculous.” Susanna’s voice was icy with suppressed anger. “How dare you say such a thing about your teacher?”

  Gina looked at each of them in turn, feeling utterly helpless.

  “Yes, I suppose she must be ill,” the prefect agreed, as if thinking aloud. “She left the party several times, and I couldn’t find her after that. But what is this all about?”

  “As I said, it’s the fever talking,” Kőnig said mournfully. “She’s such a good-hearted girl she obviously didn’t want to upset Auntie Mitsi by admitting that she was ill, so she set off back to the school. Unfortunately she went in the wrong direction. How could she have known the way back?”

  “If only she hadn’t been so stubborn, so irresponsible, so headstrong,” Susanna went on—as if Gina were not right beside her and able to hear every word she said. “Properly speaking, I ought to punish her. She knows perfectly well that she had no right to go out on her own. But she showed real unselfishness in not wanting to spoil other people’s pleasure. Perhaps I can find a way to overlook her conduct.”

  Gina felt that in all her life she had never hated anyone as much as these two, the soft-hearted Kőnig who was telling all these lies and the saintly, simple-minded Susanna, who were taking her back, one of them holding her left hand and the other the right. This time it was Kőnig who rang the bell and the old lady who opened the door. As soon as she saw them, each dripping even more profusely than the last, she clapped her hands and wailed so loudly that Mitsi Horn left her guests and appeared in the hall. She took in the situation at a glance, calmed the domestic down with a few quiet words and sent her back to the kitchen. Kőnig apologized profusely for having turned up uninvited, but he had chanced to bump into little Vitay. She was not at all well, the poor thing. She was trying to make her way back to the school and had got lost in the rain. He had brought her here again with the help of Sister Susanna.

  Gina, her mouth clamped shut and her face devoid of expression, stared back at Mitsi Horn. She did not try to explain a second time that there was not a word of truth in the whole story and that she had simply been caught. She felt that Mitsi Horn would play it the same way as Kőnig and pretend to believe her innocent; she might even offer her some sort of reward for having been such a model of selfless consideration. There was no point in fighting against all these adults: she would speak to Susanna once they were back at the school. Even if Kőnig had hidden the train ticket to Dömölk and the money, she still had one piece of evidence that she had tried to escape. How lucky it was that, thanks to the hated Mari Kis, she hadn’t left without writing a farewell letter!

  The game of tombola came to an end. It would have had to anyway; the time permitted for the outing was almost over. As the fifth year lined up, Kalmár gently reprimanded Gina: she had not behaved very responsibly. She had broken the rules. There was no shame in having a stomach ache; in fact everyone would have sympathized with her. It was extremely foolish to venture out into a city she did not know, but they would soon have her well again in the infirmary. Throughout all this Gina had to be very careful not to weaken or to betray her sense of despair, as the whole class was watching. She now rather hoped that they would think she really had acted unselfishly: they must not have the pleasure of mocking her because she had tried to run away and Kőnig had stopped her.

  The umbrellas were produced. Susanna told Torma and Mari Kis to take her by an arm to warm her up, while Gina held one over their three heads. The old lady appeared once again and shared out the remaining pastries, which went into their bags. Kalmár led the chorus of farewells, and the door closed behind them. From somewhere far away came the call of an engine blowing steam. That was all. That, and the endless rain.

  Susanna had ordered them not to talk, but of course they whispered. Szabó, walking immediately behind Gina, kept saying how never in all her life had she enjoyed herself as much as she had that day, and how nice it was to be so cozy and warm after all that tea, and not to have to mind the damp. This was directed at Gina, of course: Szabó could not feel her arms shivering the way Mari Kis and Torma could, but she was perfectly aware that Gina must have been feeling utterly miserable in her sodden clothes. Her behavior was of no concern to Gina. She had more important things to think about than the petty pinpricks of her classmates.

  Their route took them back the way they had come. A policeman was now on duty beside the monument to the Sorrows of Hungary. As they passed by he flashed a blue light over them, recognized Kalmár and saluted him. The roses were still there at the feet of mutilated Hungaria, but the placard was nowhere to be seen. At this point the girls were saying that Kalmár must surely have spoken to the director about the autumn outing by now, and how nice it would be to know what the prefect thought about it, but, as always, you couldn’t tell a thing from her face. When out of school they always walked in step, it was quite difficult in the deeper puddles, and every so often Mari Kis would deliberately get her timing wrong, do a little sashay, and splash a bit of mud onto Gina’s shoes.

  When they got back they were sent to the day room. After one of Mitsi Horn’s teas the invitees did not usually go to supper—they would hardly have been able to eat anything. They were given permission instead to amuse themselves or to read, as they chose. Susanna called Gina aside. She told Mari Kis to go and fetch Vitay’s night things and toiletries from her bed and bring them to the sick bay. Torma was dispatched to find the doctor.

  At this point Kőnig disappeared, presumably to go and change his clothes or run a hot footbath. Kalmár also abandoned the class, though he was the least sodden of them all. In the sick bay the nurse stared in horror at Gina and Susanna, clearly unable to decide which of them should go in the bed. The prefect was every bit as soaked as the girl from Budapest and in just as much need of warmth and rest.

  Gina undressed. She had only just lain down when the doctor appeared. Susanna explained that she had put the girl to bed because she was having severe stomach pains. The doctor prodded her all over, examined her tongue and peered down her throat. Gina made no attempt to stop her. What would be the point of telling them all that there had been no stomach pains and that her repeated trips to the toilet had been for an altogether different reason? She would do that when she was alone with Susanna. All the same it was rather amusing that the doctor made her stick out her tongue three times, was puzzled every time because it wasn’t furred up, and placed her on a strict diet for twenty-four hours. And why all the fuss about the fact that she had got a bit wet? It was laughable. Was she now supposed to take her temperature five times a day? What would be the point? If she had a fever, wouldn’t they just bring her a cup of tea and an anti-inflammatory pill? But why would she have one anyway? She was given permission to read until nine if she wished. She said she didn’t want to read. She needed to talk to Sister Susanna.

  “Later,” the
doctor said. “But first the Sister should go to her room and change her clothes—everything, from top to toe, if she doesn’t want to get seriously ill herself.”

  Susanna promised to be back soon, and Gina was left alone. The Nursing Sister had thoughtfully placed a book next to the bed, another soul-uplifting work by the tedious Swiss priest who so delighted them over supper, but she snuggled down and closed her eyes. Now that she could finally give way to it she felt more tired than she had in her whole life. She lay and waited for the prefect to come back, thinking about and trying to decide what to tell her. Susanna was as stern as the Good Book itself. Once the evidence was in her hand, and she finally realized what Gina had intended, would she, if indeed she had ever liked her (Gina had never been able to work out if Susanna genuinely liked someone or if she was just following her Christian duty), would she set aside whatever pity or sympathy she had for her and immediately inform the director that, as surely as she was now lying in that bed, Georgina Vitay had tried to run away? Susanna wasn’t Kőnig. Susanna was hard. So perhaps everything would be resolved within the next few days. They could no longer persist in their game of not letting her talk openly to her father. Once he knew what her life in the class was like, after she had spoken candidly to him (it would only take fifteen minutes), he would surely take her away, even if the school allowed her to stay on out of charity. He would never leave his daughter to be tormented the way she was.

  She had to wait a long time for Susanna to return.

  She had indeed changed her clothes and was once again wearing her usual gray outfit, including the dull, rather shabby shoes she wore every day, but now, instead of the usual bonnet, she had a towel wrapped round her head, like a turban. Even in her current state of mind Gina could only stare in wonder at this strange beturbaned Susanna . . . But of course, her hair had been dripping wet, it was long, and she had not had time to dry it.

  “So, how are you feeling?” the prefect inquired. She pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. “You know, our dear Mitsi Horn has been incredibly kind. She was here not five minutes ago, so late at night, to find out how you are. You aren’t shivering with cold, Georgina? You don’t have a stomach ache? You don’t feel as if you are going to be sick?”

  On the contrary; she was starving. But that wasn’t important now. What was important was that they should understand each other. And that Mitsi Horn would just leave her alone.

  “So, what have you to tell me, then?” Susanna asked. “You can’t have anything to eat. That’s out of the question. It isn’t real hunger. You wouldn’t be able to eat on such an upset stomach.”

  “I don’t have a stomach ache,” Gina said. “I never did. I just wanted to go to the bathroom in Auntie Mitsi’s house to find a window I could climb out of, go to the station and get back home at last.”

  Susanna reached across from her chair and felt Gina’s forehead.

  “I don’t have a fever! I had almost got away when Mr. Kőnig caught me. You must know what sort of person he is. He can’t bear to see anyone in trouble. He hid my ticket in his pocket, and my money, and he lied to you that I had lost my way.”

  “What’s this you’re saying?” Susanna asked. “You still dare tell me that your teacher is a liar? What exactly is going on here? You aren’t still trying to say that you told me the truth—that a Matula girl could ever be so underhand as to climb out of a bathroom window like a thief and have to be brought back from the station? If that were the case, you would not be allowed to stay here another week. You would be out of the school immediately.”

  “Would you please go to the dormitory and look under my mattress,” Gina replied. “There you will find the farewell letter I wrote. I didn’t want to go without saying anything. That should make you believe me. It’s under the mattress, with my other things—my powder box and my photograph album and my diary. Please just read what I wrote to my classmates, and then telephone my father to come and take me away.”

  The look on Susanna’s face reflected her inner struggle: should she go, or should she not? Should she give sufficient credence to this impossible story to run down to the fifth-year dormitory to see if there was any truth in what the child was saying? Her face became so sad that, even in that unreal moment of drama and tension, Gina thought she must be genuinely distressed. Was she really so upset to discover that Gina was such a wicked person, someone who fully deserved the punishment she had mentioned? If so, then Susanna must love her indeed.

  The Deaconess left the room. Now she’s at the end of the corridor, Gina reckoned. Now she’s turning into the main one . . . now she’s almost at the dormitory . . . and now she must be there. What will the others say when she rummages through my bed and finds the letter? I don’t care what they say. The important thing is that they know I tried to run away. Let’s just hope I can get out of here, in a few days at the most.

  She found herself trembling all over and covered herself with the quilt. But this time it wasn’t her nerves. She must have caught a cold after all.

  Susanna was back very quickly, and she was not alone. The Nursing Sister came in behind her. This surprised Gina. She had thought the two of them would be talking in private and that no third person was needed. Moreover, Susanna was empty-handed. Where had she put the letter. In her pocket?

  “This child is not well,” she told the nurse. “She is delirious. She keeps accusing herself of the most extraordinary things. Can we give her an aspirin and half a sedative to help her sleep through to the morning?”

  The nurse held out the medicine and Gina pushed it away. Susanna took hold of her hand and gripped it firmly.

  “Calm yourself down, Georgina. What sort of behavior is this? Drink your medicine, please! Of course there was nothing in your bed. Not a letter, or anything else. And how could there have been? Or perhaps you have already forgotten what you were rambling about just now?”

  Gina tore her hand out of Susanna’s. She jumped out of the bed and started to scream, and the two women had a struggle to subdue her. She kept shouting that the letter had been stolen either by Mari Kis, when she brought her night things to the infirmary, or that she, Susanna, had taken it, because she was in league with Mr. Kőnig, and she had deprived her of her last chance to escape; she hated them all so much she could kill them.

  “Oh, my word,” the Nursing Sister groaned. “Now she’s been robbed—by Mari Kis, who’s been with us since she was ten, and by Sister Susanna too. Dear, oh dear! The poor little thing, what a state she’s in! Kill us all! What a thing to say! Now take this medicine, my child. You are very ill.”

  She held both of Gina’s arms. Gina relaxed and opened her mouth. If there was no letter and her hidden treasures had vanished, then she no longer had any proof. She was simply a thoughtful, unselfish person, a sick little girl shouting out in delirium with no hope of ever escaping. Wiser just to take the sleeping pill and let the world disappear from sight. She gulped the sedative down, lay back, closed her eyes and said not a word more, not even to answer questions. She was aware of a thermometer being slipped under her arm and taken out again, and she heard the nurse telling Susanna, “Not good: it’s very high.” The door opened, closed, opened, and closed a second time, but she kept her eyes shut. She had no idea who was now standing beside the bed, but at one point she had the impression that Susanna was leaning over her and her face was very close . . . Then the anger and disappointment she felt towards the Deaconess started to give way under the effect of the sleeping pill. She tried to huddle into the corner of the bed, but as she did so the drug completed its work, and she fell asleep.

  The next morning she woke feeling thick-headed with an unpleasant taste in her mouth. The Nursing Sister read the thermometer and again shook her head. There was now a raging fever. Susanna did not come to see her, but the doctor called in, examined her again, and told her she had a serious inflammation of the throat, but luckily not of the tonsils. She would not be having any visitors. She had a bad cold and was coug
hing and sneezing.

  It was true: she could barely swallow and was having to blow her nose continually. She felt very unwell, she had no desire to eat anything or to read, and all the time the fever was on her she had difficulty gathering her thoughts. She simply lay there in a leaden drowsiness, without hope, like a captive who has just discovered that he has dug his tunnel in vain: a large rock bars his route and there is no way for him out of his prison.

  In the afternoon Susanna looked in on her. She brought flowers, she said, from the other girls. I can imagine, Gina thought to herself, with what pleasure and affection they gathered them, and what good wishes they sent. The doctor visited her on three consecutive days, but from then on she saw no one apart from her, the Nursing Sister and Susanna. By the fifth day the temperature was still there but she was able to get up; by the sixth it had gone. Susanna told her she would be going back to the dormitory that same evening: the doctor had given permission. Gina listened to these words as if they were not addressed to her and referred to someone else. Susanna took a long look at her face—it was now much thinner—and told the nurse she would advise the kitchen staff that for the next few days Vitay was to be placed on a special regime.

  The final afternoon was spent entirely alone. She was still in the infirmary, away from the other girls, but she was now much better and the time dragged on, devoid of interest and totally boring. She was waiting for someone to come and take her to the director’s office: it was a Saturday, when her father usually telephoned. She was also wondering when and how Susanna would punish her, or whether she might decide that everything she had said and done had been due to the illness and punishment was no longer appropriate. She made no attempt to think about what her situation in the class would be now. If Mari Kis, going to collect her nightgown, had poked around under her mattress and stolen the letter and the other things she had hidden, what might she have done with her booty? She pondered all this while standing at the sick bay window. She found to her amazement that the weather, which had been so gloomy on the day of Mitsi Horn’s tea party, was again bright and sunny, lending an unusually rich redness to the leaves that still hung in such numbers on the trees. In past years they had seemed to shed them almost all at once, towards the end of October, as if in obedience to some unspoken word of command.