When Jopal had finished he descended slowly to the centre of the hall, laid his memorandum on the presidential table and went back to join his companions.
Later, when Jopal once again got to his feet to answer some questions put to him by the Minister’s representative, Balint was wondering what would have happened to him if he had not refused to allow himself to be helped. Would he now be in London, Paris or New York, the chairman of some great international company, a leader of industry and a power to be reckoned with in the world of science and big business? And just as Balint was thinking of these things Jopal sat down once again in the centre of the little band of stern dignified smoke-grimed men and immediately became just one among sixteen other men, indistinguishable and unremarkable.
A banquet was held in the evening with much wine and drinking of toasts, gypsy music and speeches praising the great patriotic civic virtues of everyone present. No one was left out, no one left without a word of praise or some flattering adjective. The government emissary and the man who wanted the Baris pig above all others were awarded the same laurel leaves of praise.
Only the charcoal-burners and Balint Abady were absent. While the forest men had rumbled off to the Hargita on their small carts, Balint had hired a vehicle and drove away, hoping to get as far as Segesvar where he knew there was a good inn. He minded bitterly that he had made all that effort for nothing. He realized that his speech had been inept and ill-thought-out, and it had perhaps been naïve of him to imagine that his unfamiliar ideas could have been understood by such an audience who had not the faintest notion what he had been talking about. He would have been better advised, he thought, to have written a pamphlet several months in advance and seen that it was properly distributed; and then followed it up by some articles in the newspapers rather than jumping in and throwing such a revolutionary proposal at people totally unprepared for such things. Perhaps if he had given the matter more thought someone would have appreciated what he was trying to achieve – but would they? As it was he could only blame himself for the fiasco of his speech. How stupid it had been of him to recite all those boring figures, to quote at random from abstruse legal precedents. Of course it served him right. But he was still very hurt, especially by the cheap mockery of Barra, to whose effrontery he had been too ashamed even to attempt a reply. To think that in Hungary such people passed for honest men!
Balint’s carriage drove slowly through the country villages, which were now silent and seemingly deserted in the growing darkness with only the occasional gleam of light from behind shuttered windows. Now everyone was safe at home and mostly fast asleep. No doubt they would all wake up again when some great man was to be cheered on his way home, perhaps even the famous Barra?
Half dozing as he lay back against the cushions of the carriage certain images floated into Balint’s mind. They were fleeting impressions of incidents only half taken in on his way to the congress. For instance, at Balazsfalva there had been the Romanian theology student, his glance full of hatred for the travelling Hungarian delegates, who had clearly been waiting on the platform for the arrival of the carriage full of Romanian priests. He had obviously known that they would be on that train; and it was equally obvious that they had known too that they would receive some sort of message, for as the young man handed up his little paper a hand had reached out and taken it without a word even of greeting being passed from carriage to platform. The popas had travelled discreetly in their third-class carriage, grey, modest and unobtrusive as they went on their way to Brasso where only a little mountain ridge separated them from Romania. To cross the frontier was a matter only of a few hours’ trudge across deserted rocky tracks. After that a few more hours’ walk through gently sloping woods led to Sinaia … just a few hours’ walk, that was all. Balint was wondering if he was just imagining things, that it was all nonsense. After all, had not old Timisan said, ‘We have a little meeting there on parish matters!’
On reaching Udvarhely Balint dined early, as it was still some way to Segesvar, but when he had finished his meal he found that the last train had already left and that he would have to find another hired carriage. This was not easy as the best were still at Homorod but eventually the innkeeper rounded up a rickety old fiacre with two tired-looking nags in the traces. Despite Balint’s misgivings the young driver confidently swore that he would soon get the gentleman to wherever he wished to go.
The carriage passed through country quite unknown to Abady, for he had come to Udvarhely by train and what one could see from the train windows seemed quite different when looked at from a slow carriage.
They had been travelling for about an hour and a half, and it was already quite dark, when one of the horses which had been limping for some time now became too lame to go on. By a lucky chance they appeared to be close to a village so Balint walked ahead until he found a post to which was nailed a rough signpost with the village name. After lighting several matches he found it was Kis-Keresztur, where, he recalled there lived his distant cousin, old Sandor Kendy, known to everyone as Crookface, and whose white-columned manor-house he had glimpsed through the now leafless lime trees as he had passed by in the train. The house must be at the other end of the village, he thought, so he went back to the coachman who was vainly prodding the lame horse’s hoof and shaking his head hopelessly.
‘Well,’ said Balint. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘The Devil knows,’ said the young Szekler driver.
Abady took a look himself; the whole underside of the hoof was inflamed, the frog untrimmed and badly overgrown. ‘We won’t get anywhere with this one,’ he said, and when the driver continued to shake his head, he went on, ‘You’ll have to get the shoe removed at the nearest smithy and put a compress on it as soon as possible.’ Balint knew about such matters as he had been well taught by his mother and the grooms at Denestornya.
‘I have nowhere to tie him up,’ said the youth sulkily. Balint had quickly to make up his mind. The obvious thing was somehow to reach the Kendy house, yet for some reason he was reluctant to try this. It was well-known that the gruff old man was not inclined to be hospitable and never asked anyone to come to his house in the country. Also to arrive at this late hour would be awkward, especially as Balint had never met Crookface’s wife.
Some ten years before, when Sandor Kendy was already well advanced in age, he had suddenly and unexpectedly found a wife in Sepsis-Szentgyorgy. She had been a stenographer, or something of the sort, the daughter of an employee in the tax office and was called Alice Folbert. Crookface had never taken her anywhere with him, never introduced her even to his closest relations, but had brought her home at once to Kis-Keresztur and kept her there ever since. All this was strange enough, especially as rumour had it that Alice Folbert had been quite deaf when Crookface had married her. Apart from this the gossips had been unable to find out anything more about her and soon, as no one ever saw her since she never left her husband’s country house and as he led the life of a bachelor in town, she was soon as forgotten as if she had never existed.
The coachman walked the carriage slowly through the village and then down a road on one side of which was a wooden paling set between stone pillars. Eventually they reached an open gate – open because in those days life in the country was so secure that a closed gate signified either unfriendliness or else that the owners were away from home. A short avenue of lime trees led to the stone-columned portico of the house.
Balint got down and stepped into the dimly-lit entrance hall. From above he could hear the sound of a piano. Someone was playing a nocturne by Chopin, accentuated perhaps with rather too much emotion but brilliantly executed all the same. How amazing, thought Balint, that the deaf lady should be a musician. It did not occur to him that anyone else in the house could be playing.
A footman appeared now from somewhere. Abady explained who he was and was at once led through the large entrance-hall that divided the house in two halves and up a wide staircase at the far end.
Balint caught his breath, so taken by surprise was he that it should be the coarse-spoken, rough-mannered, hard-eyed old roué who was playing Chopin with such delicacy. Balint felt that he had been vouchsafed a glimpse of some forbidden secret, for he was sure that no one else could know that the much-feared old man would pass his evenings in playing sentimental ballades and nocturnes.
And yet there he was, his powerful torso motionless, his bald head a faint gleam in the semi-darkness, his hooked eagle’s nose barely visible. He was looking straight ahead, into nothingness, the notes singing under the light touch of his fingers, and it was as if he himself were a thousand miles away. He must have played these melancholy tunes a hundred times; and he played only for himself, for his wife was stone-deaf and could hear nothing. Just for himself; this sweet old-fashioned music, the music of his youth, played by memory at the dark end of a vast but sparsely-furnished room.
Balint touched the footman’s arm. ‘We’ll wait until Count Sandor finishes,’ he murmured.
When Crookface had played a couple of preludes he got up and walked with a heavy tread towards where his wife was sitting.
Balint and the footman now came in as if they had just arrived. Kendy turned towards them in welcome.
‘Where the Devil have you sprung from at this time of night?’ he cried, and gave a big good-humoured laugh with his lop-sided mouth. Then he turned to his wife, smoothed his moustaches upwards, and, making no sound but merely mouthing the words, said, ‘This is my cousin, Balint Abady!’
Countess Kendy rose dutifully and shook hands with the visitor. There was something essentially humble in her manner. It was as if she were not in her own house, indeed as if she were not even the wife of the noble Count Kendy but was still no more than a little typist. Very softly, in the hardly perceptible whisper of the deaf who have no means of judging how loudly they speak, she murmured, ‘Welcome, I’m sure. So pleased!’ Her face was lit by a serene smile.
It was a beautiful face, interesting and pale-complexioned, with full red lips and grey eyes that were fringed with thick dark lashes. Her black eyebrows nearly met over the bridge of her nose and this gave her glance an unusual and mysterious look, as if she were peering at one from a great distance. Her hair was light-brown in colour, wavy and very thick, with two great tresses wreathing her head in the same manner as one saw in portraits of the beautiful Queen-Empress Elisabeth.
She looked at her husband with the unspoken question as to whether she was doing right and then, with a slow, solemn, almost lazy movement, gestured Balint towards an armchair beside her.
He sat down. He told how it was that he came to be there, how he had been making for Segesvar so as to catch the express train home and how the carriage-horse had fallen lame just as they reached the outskirts of the village. Crookface interrupted him once or twice with brief questions: Where was the carriage now? Was the horse being cared for? Had Balint dined on the road? Then he rang for the footman and gave orders for Balint’s coachman and his horses to be properly looked after. When this was done he turned once more towards his wife, again brushed back his moustaches and mouthed something silently to her. Immediately she rose and started to leave the room. Balint involuntarily watched her as she went. She had a beautiful walk, like that of oriental dancers, whose hips and shoulders swayed to an individual rhythm, a rhythm that ought to be accompanied by slow syncopated music. Like a mirage she disappeared silently through the doorway.
She did not return, but in a few moments servants brought in two more lamps, a small table and a cold supper. Balint ate ravenously, for his dinner at Udvarhely seemed a long time ago.
Crookface asked about the meeting at Homorod and Balint told him what he could, but the conversation dragged as the host was a silent man by nature who normally only let drop the occasional four-letter obscenity from the corner of his mouth and the rest of the time merely sat puffing at his cigar.
As he was eating Abady looked up at the large picture on the wall in front of him. Only now did he begin to notice it and realize that it must be a portrait of his host’s young wife. It had the same figure, not tall but well-proportioned, and the same face. There were the mysterious grey eyes in their frame of black lashes, the same eyebrows, the same lustrous hair wound round the head in the double crown made famous by the wayward Empress. Only one thing was different, startlingly different. The dress in which she had been depicted was nothing like that of today, or even of the recent past, but was in the style of the seventies, with long narrow sleeves, plunging décolleté and a bell-shaped skirt decorated all over with different coloured little ruffles and bunches of artificial flowers in the rich confusion of the fashion of those days. It was beautiful and harmonious, but strange.
‘What a wonderful portrait!’ cried Balint enthusiastically. ‘And what a superb likeness!’
Crookface did not answer, but merely puffed more smoke from his cigar.
‘Who is it by? I never saw such exquisite work,’ he went on, looking at his host.
‘Oh, some Frenchman or other,’ he murmured.
‘But what an interesting dress! I suppose the Countess had it for some costume ball?’
The old man sat back, but he said nothing. Balint got up to look at the picture more closely. Standing slightly to one side he noticed that the lamplight revealed a long scar across the picture all the way from the right shoulder down to the left hip where the carefully concealed blemish was hidden in a cluster of little painted nosegays. There had obviously been a most skilful repair, probably from behind the canvas, but the long rip was still just visible. Balint was about to ask his host about this, but something held him back. He knew that Crookface would not take kindly to cross-questioning – indeed no one ever dared ask him anything – and so he held his tongue, sat down again and just went on staring at the picture.
There was something else mysterious about that painted face, Balint thought, noticing now what a sensuous mouth the lady had, something he had not really remarked when she had been in the room.
For some time neither of them spoke: both were looking at the picture on the wall in front of them. Then suddenly old Crookface said, ‘How is Laszlo Gyeroffy?’
Abady was amazed. Whatever could be the connection, he wondered? Why, out of the blue, should the old man suddenly mention Laszlo?
Of course there was a connection, and a most intimate one, though Balint could hardly be expected to know what it was. The portrait was not of Crookface’s wife, but of Julie Ladossa, Laszlo’s mother. Her portrait had been painted in Paris by the celebrated Cabanel, then the most fashionable of contemporary portraitists. For barely a year it had hung in the hastily arranged temporary drawing-room, upstairs at Szamos-Kozard, where cobwebs and a rusty nail still showed where it had been placed. It was the picture at which Laszlo’s father had struck and then thrown away in his rage and grief at his wife’s desertion … and that was why it had that terrible tear from shoulder to hip.
How it had found its way to Sandor Kendy’s was never revealed. It was a mystery to which nobody but he knew the answer. Was it mere chance, or was there a history of secret searches and even more secret deals? Was the torn masterpiece rescued by the local store-owner, onl
y to be sold, discreetly, later? No one knew.
There were many other secrets tied to this picture too; old passions, yearning desires, misunderstandings, the conflicts of pride and disappointment, and, above all, the gnawing regret for what ought to have been but never was.
Many years after the scandal of Countess Gyeroffy’s flight and her husband’s death in the woods Sandor Kendy had had some business with a lawyer at Haromszek. There he met the lawyer’s niece, Alice Folbert, who was the living double of Julie Ladossa. When Crookface saw the young Alice it was as if he met again the woman he had loved twenty years before. He did not mind that the girl was already extremely deaf and was likely to become even more so; indeed, it was rather an encouragement for him, for it made the girl seem all the more impersonal. She did not need, or want, to be spoken to. Indeed it was neither necessary or possible. All he had to do was to watch her, to gaze and wonder, and observe how she held herself, how she walked, how she moved her shoulders, how she bent over her needlework, how she looked and how she smiled, always without a word. She was there, and yet she wasn’t. She was a symbol, a dream, a ghost; and yet she was flesh and blood and real and he could play for her the old tunes which he never could for the other one and never, never, could she destroy the illusion by some unfortunate remark which would shatter the spell.
As for that other one, the proud, faithless, uncompromising one, to whom he had so longed to play Chopin during those long winter evenings, had she ever seen, or glimpsed, the delicate mimosa soul behind the rough armour of his reserve?
For the rest of the world Sandor Kendy was a hard, hard man who might have been hewn from rock.
‘Laszlo Gyeroffy?’ answered Balint at last. ‘The poor fellow is in a bad way. It seems that he’s granted a lease on his properties in return for ten years’ rent in advance, though maybe he still gets some paltry little sum each month. But I’ve heard that many of his old debts have never been settled and so he’s gradually being sold up and now, apparently, what he’s still got is to be auctioned. The trouble is that he’s drinking and doesn’t care a damn what happens to him.’
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 17