He never consciously thought about that cruel jibe and whenever the words swam into his mind he chased them away by thinking of other things. Still, they were never far away and he was tortured by the thought that they might be true. To himself he explained this urge to avoid old friends merely as a desire to break entirely with his former life. Of course it was a lie and deep down he knew it, though he did all he could to delude himself.
Earlier he had been pressed by the pork butcher to drink a toast and very soon he had had another and then another until before long he had drunk at least five good measures of strong brandy. Then the time came to return to the hotel where the carriage was waiting. One the way he stopped at a bar and downed a few more, for once he had started it never seemed possible for him to stop. Tipsy, and swaying from side to side, he left the bar to walk to the hotel; and by now his first humble, obliging, indeed almost obsequious manner had been submerged by swagger and arrogance.
He had been in that state when he saw Crookface coming towards him not fifty steps away. As it was now lunch-time there was no one else on the street.
If Laszlo had not been drunk he would have turned into the nearest shop or, if there had been no possible way of escape, he would have greeted the older man with humble respect and hurried away. This is what he had done each time he had seen Kendy since that day a year before when he had spoken to him so kindly. But now he was drunk, and not only drunk but also proud and grateful; and it suddenly occurred to him that he must, at once, do something to express that gratitude. So he stopped in his tracks and standing sharply to attention swept off his hat with the same grandiloquent gesture with which actors playing Spanish grandees salute their king.
Laszlo’s was just starting this majestic formal greeting, when old Crookface made a half-turn and crossed to the other side of the street. He was only about thirty paces away. Then he disappeared into a shop.
Had he recognized the young man coming towards him, and had he deliberately turned away because he had seen that Laszlo was drunk, or perhaps because he had heard that he was now being kept by a woman? Was it pure chance, and did he really have some business in that shop? Laszlo was never to know; but the mere fact that it had happened at all had a terrible effect on him.
Laszlo found himself left standing there, with his arm extended in an incomplete and meaningless gesture. He was filled with consternation, and his face contorted with horror. In the few moments that it had taken old Sandor Kendy to cross the street, Laszlo had sobered up completely from the shock at what had just happened.
Then he put on his hat and walked slowly back to his hotel.
As soon as he reached Mrs Lazar’s carriage he told the coachman to go home and himself entered the hotel and booked a room. An hour later he rang and, when the servant came, told him to send someone at once to the Abady house, find out where the lawyer was, and ask him to call on Count Gyeroffy at the hotel. A quarter of an hour later they reported that Mr Azbej was out of town, at Denestornya. Laszlo sent off a telegram: ‘PLEASE COME AT ONCE!’
Laszlo stayed alone in the hotel. He did not go out because he might have met someone he knew and that he did not want, indeed he was afraid of it. No one should see him! No one! Surely they would all act like Crookface who had refused to accept his salute, and turn away at his coming. He asked himself over and over again: how could that kind old man have done it, he who had been like a father to him, who had tried to set his life in order and who had offered his help with so much friendliness and warmth? If Count Sandor Kendy cut him then he must have been right to do so, completely right: for did they not both know that Laszlo was a man without honour!
It had not been at all the same when, three years before, he had been thrown out of the Casino Club in Budapest because he could not pay his gambling debts. Then he had been let off lightly and allowed quietly to resign. Even though a public scandal had been avoided it was still a black mark against him, an invisible mark of shame; and yet he had not himself felt it as such. Even if no one but he knew it, he himself was proudly aware that he had obeyed an even higher rule of honour. Then he could have paid up and, in the eyes of the world, remained a gentleman, one who settled his card debts. He had preferred then to incur the obloquy of everyone who knew him rather than default on redeeming Countess Beredy’s pearls, which she had pawned to save him the last time he had lost more than he could afford to pay. That would have been a private dishonour, a burden he was not prepared to carry, and so he had chosen, cold-bloodedly, to commit social suicide, an act of self-destruction in which the suicide himself lived on to experience damnation in this world rather than in the next. For Laszlo this had always been a heroic decision, a grandiose act which, though it did little to compensate for the social ostracism it entailed, at least left his self-esteem untouched. It was different now; whichever way he turned, he could not avoid knowing that his dishonour was real and could not be argued away.
He could not deny that now he was being kept by a woman and that Uncle Ambrus’s cruel jibe was all too justified. The words rang in his ears – ‘Free room and board! Bed … and breakfast!’ – and they were true. Did she not cook him delicious meals, and have his linen washed and ironed, and sleep with him and buy him horses to ride? He knew that she had only bought the animal for his sake and then had invented errands in town to keep him occupied. He had long known that he was not really useful and that she only did it to obscure the real truth, which was, quite simply, that she was keeping him just as streetwalkers supported their pimps. Why, it was a miracle that she hadn’t offered him money; but then this was probably only so that he shouldn’t spend it on other women. But if he’d asked, then to be sure she would have given him even that. It was a mercy that somehow he hadn’t yet fallen so low! But if it went on, wouldn’t it soon come to that too?
What little cash Laszlo had needed on his drinking bouts in town had been found by selling pieces of furniture and little knick-knacks found in drawers and cupboards in his own home. These he had either disposed of to the shopkeeper at Kozard or else brought in his little travelling-bag to Kolozsvar. The house was now almost bare; the household linen had all gone and so had the copper pans from the kitchen. There was nothing left to sell, nothing from which he could raise a sou. All that was left to him now was to get money from Sara, and at this he balked. It would be an abomination – he’d rather die!
Even that, however, was denied him for he was not so far gone that he could bear the idea of killing himself while he thought himself indebted to his mistress. Every last sou must somehow be paid back – so that no one could say he’d died owing such a dishonourable debt. And so he sent for Azbej.
As he hardly expected the little man to get to him before the next day he spent the evening trying to quench with brandy the self-reproaches which so tortured him.
Azbej appeared about ten o’clock the next morning. He appeared to find nothing unusual in the fact that Laszlo was still in bed, and did not even enquire if he was unwell. Instead he pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat down on its edge, as he always did, either as a mark of respect or else because he had no choice since his legs were so short. When he was comfortably settled he turned his face to Laszlo, that face which, with its bristly short-cut beard, so resembled a hedgehog when curled up in a ball.
‘Here I am,’ he said, pursing his little red lips. ‘How can I serve your Lordship?’
His voice was humble and his manner so servile. All the same his bulging prune-like eyes gave the lie to this impression. They had observed Laszlo keenly, noted that he had no luggage and had slept in his shirt, and seen that there was an empty brandy-bottle on the bedside table, along with a dirty collar and a used glass. There was a glint of triumph in his eyes as if he knew now that what he had worked for for years was at last within his grasp.
Gyeroffy sat up. He crossed his arms on his drawn-up knees and for a moment stared straight ahead without saying anything. Then, in a stern voice, he said, ‘I need money. Quite a
large sum. Immediately! At least 15,000 crowns,’
Azbej spread out his arms in a gesture of helpless dismay.
‘But, your Lordship, where from? We’ve already sold the forestlands, as your Lordship knows, and we got our price even though the timber was still standing. All that we had to pay out at once so as to prevent Samos-Kozard being auctioned over your head. The interest on your Lordship’s loans was very high – usury would be a better word – but it all had to be paid since your Lordship acknowledged the debt. And then there were the legal charges. The farm implements have been my property, I mean my wife’s, for many years; and your Lordship will remember that I paid ten years’ rent in advance, not to mention that supplementary payment which I gave your Lordship from pure goodness of heart. And what’s more I’ve written off that enormous sum out of my own money, as I have already reported to your Lordship, and shown you the receipts. Your Lordship found everything in order, I know; and now I have no more money, not a penny!’
Laszlo looked sombrely at the fat little man and a deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows. ‘All the same I need this money, no matter how! I must have it, do you understand?’
The lawyer said nothing. A slight gesture indicated that he was powerless.
For a few moments both remained stubbornly silent. Finally Gyeroffy leaned forwards and said, ‘You take Kozard, everything included. I’ll hand it over … but I must have the money. Do you understand? I must!’ and then seeing that Azbej was pretending to be surprised, he shouted, ‘Don’t look so astonished! Isn’t that what you’ve been planning all these years? You can cut the play-acting!’
This clear-sightedness was something new for Laszlo, but then he had been settling accounts with himself ever since the previous afternoon. He had reviewed all his actions and stupidities and coldly assessed everything that he had neglected and left undone. He had judged himself severely and as he did so he had judged others too, looking hard at everything he had done and allowed to be done; and now it was quite clear to him how doggedly the little lawyer had led him into this final trap.
‘If your Lordship pleases, I have only tried to be of use to your Lordship. Nothing else, ever! It never occurred to …’ protested Azbej, but Laszlo cut him short, shouting, ‘Stop play-acting! Answer me!’
Azbej was far too intelligent to take offence. After all, the moment had arrived when that beautiful little country house, with its valuable land, would at last be his. This was not to be missed and had better be quickly grabbed before Gyeroffy thought better of what he was doing and started looking elsewhere, perhaps to his relations and maybe even to Balint Abady, who was one of the few people the lawyer feared. Therefore he quickly denied himself the luxury of being offended, and restricting any expression of resentment to the simplest of gestures, he replied, ‘I must work out some figures. Of course I’ll agree if that is what your Lordship desires.’ He got up and backed towards the door, bowing obsequiously as he went. Then he promised to return in the afternoon with a definite answer, and left the room.
Soon after lunch he was back, carrying a huge stack of papers, and at once proceeded to quote facts and figures and statistics. At long length he explained that the Kozard property was saddled with ancient debts and with all those advances that he, Azbej, had been from time to time obliged to pay. Even if one valued everything at the very highest figure – and one must not forget that the roof was leaking, the cellars flooded and the stable-roof in a state of collapse – it still did not amount to anything like what Count Laszlo now owed to Mr Azbej. And what’s more there was no security for that debt which was never likely to be repaid. Azbej went into all this in great detail, showing as he did so all kinds of confusing documents, statements of account and receipts, all of which proved categorically that nothing remained of the smallest value, nothing. In fact less than nothing!
While this was going on Laszlo walked up and down the room, stopping from time to time to pour himself a glass of brandy or perhaps to glance at his own signature when Azbej held it up as proof of what he was saying. He was so angry that he could not keep still, for he detested the charade which the lawyer was now acting, mainly so as not to abandon the role he had played for so long. When Azbej finally came to an end and fell silent, Laszlo stopped in front of him and said, ‘Well?’ Nothing else.’
‘If your Lordship pleases I can offer him 15,000 crowns. Of course it’ll mean a loss to me, but I’ll give it all the same …’ the lawyer answered quickly, not daring any longer to prolong the matter. Then he rapidly turned down-to-earth and businesslike, saying that he would have the contract drawn up and send for the notary to legalize the papers when they were ready for signing.
‘Would your Lordship wish to go to his office or should the notary come here?’
‘Here!’ said Laszlo. Then he thought for a moment and went on, ‘One other thing! That empty estate cottage by the village shop, the one at the corner of the main road! That’s not included in the bargain, I want to give it to our old agent Marton Balogh. The old man worked for us in my father’s time and I don’t want him to be homeless.’
‘As your Lordship wishes!’ said Azbej, and backed out hurriedly before Laszlo could think of anything else he wanted to keep for himself.
Sara’s carriage rumbled across the level crossing beside the station at Apahida, drove up the hill on the right and stopped in front of her house. Now the sleet had turned to snow and the storm was so gusty that they were almost swept off the steps that led to the front door; it was the same storm that had prevented Abady catching the night express.
Still in their overcoats Sara and Laszlo ran straight into the dining-room beyond the hall. Here they took them off, Gyeroffy still by the door, Sara just the other side of the big table. Then, although it was only five o’clock, she lit the hanging lamp, for it was already dark and the windows covered with snow.
When she had finished she looked at Laszlo.
He stood near the table where the lamp cast a harsh glow on his face. His chin was covered with stubble and there was an unusually deep vertical furrow on his brow. To Sara this seemed inexpressibly sinister. Laszlo’s hair fell in a dishevelled mass over his forehead and with his dirty collar and wrinkled suit he looked far more depraved than he had seven months before when she had rescued him from the inn at Szamos-Ujvar and brought him home.
Then he had been drunk; now he was sober, menacingly sober, and standing stiffly upright as if hewn out of granite.
An icy hand seemed to clutch at Sara’s heart, for in his face she saw a cruel determination. His eyes were shining with hatred. She could hardly believe it, but hatred it certainly was, hatred which Laszlo had conjured up for himself. He had now convinced himself that it was this woman who was the root cause of his moral degradation. It was she who had picked him up, who knowingly had kept him by her, lulling his conscience with the dark beauty of her body and confusing his judgement by loving, lascivious kisses and his soul by enchanting drafts from her soft mouth, so that she could keep him by her in shameful servitude just as Circe had kept Ulysses’s crew in a pigsty, so drugged that they did not notice their degradation. And so it was with him. Everything she had done, she had done so that he too should remain unaware of the baseness of his life, the life of a parasite kept by her as drones are kept by worker bees. How could she have done it? How could she have taken advantage of his weakness, his poverty and his restless, homeless life and then have surrounded him with such luxury that he should not notice what she had made of him? How could she have done it?
For some moments they stood looking at each other across the table, she hurt and frightened and he with unrelenting malice. Sara wanted to say something, but though her lips moved no sound came from them.
Gyeroffy reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out two envelopes. He threw one to her.
‘Here! Take it! It’s the money for your beloved pigs, 16,000 crowns of it. You were afraid I’d steal it, weren’t you? Well, you were wrong. It
’s all there, to the last penny. Count it!’
‘Laszlo!’ the poor woman cried. ‘What do you mean? The idea …!’ She felt she was living a nightmare.
‘Count it! Now, in front of me! I don’t ever want it said that I took your money. Go on, count it!’
Sara was so upset and frightened that she did not dare disobey. As quickly as she could she went through the motions of counting and then replaced the notes in the envelope. Now Gyeroffy spoke again, and this time his voice was even colder than before and had an ironic ring to it.
‘We might as well settle all our accounts at the same time. Here is what I owe you! Count it!’ he repeated and he threw the other envelope on the table in front of her. A few thousand-crown notes fell out as it hit the table in front of Sara. Totally bewildered she asked, ‘What’s this? What’s it for? I don’t understand.’
‘It’s 15,000 crowns. I have stayed here since September. That’s 210 days at 50 crowns a day. Fifty crowns for bed and board – quite generous, don’t you think, but then I wanted to pay for everything – everything, do you understand? – every single thing you have done for me.’
At first Sara did not grasp what he meant but when the full implications became clear to her she drew herself up and in her anger herself became a figure of menace, tall, with broad shoulders, her black eyes burning with anger between those thick lashes and her mouth curved back like one of the Furies. For an instant she remained quite still. Then her arm shot out and she pointed to the door.
‘Out! Get out! At once! Out! Out!’
Laszlo crumpled as if some spring inside him had suddenly broken. He turned away and ran to the door not even noticing that the money was thrown after him. He grabbed his coat and ran out into the snow.
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 49