Next it was clear that he would no longer receive the allowance that his mother had made him since he first joined the diplomatic service. It was only too probable that Countess Roza would stop it at once. His salary as a Member of Parliament was negligible, not that he was really in need of it for he was entitled to receive that part of the Abady inheritance that came from his grandfather, Count Peter, his father’s father. Until now this had never been administered separately, for the entire estate income had been paid directly to his mother and Balint had had no reason to want anything different. The twin properties of Denestornya had been thought of as one ever since they had been reunited by his parents’ marriage, while the forestlands in the mountains, of which Balint had inherited a quarter share from his father, had never been divided either.
Even if it did not amount to a great deal, he still had an income on which he would be able to live. Since Balint had reorganized the husbandry of the forests some years before, at which time he had made some profitable contracts with an Austrian timber merchant from Vienna, they had begun to bring in more money, and Balint knew that he could count on some 20,000 crowns annually.
It was possible that there might be something else too, for he remembered that his grandfather had also possessed some property in the lower Jara valley. This was now let, but as it belonged legally only to him he would be able to claim the annual rental, whatever it was.
Then there was the question of his grandfather’s furniture, which had all been stored in some unused rooms at Denestornya, ever since Countess Roza had allowed Azbej to move into the old manor-house where his grandfather had lived. He remembered well the huge desk made of root-wood, but of the rest he only had the haziest memories. Of course lists had been made before the house had been emptied for Azbej, and his mother had often referred to an inventory having been taken; but where was it?
Balint searched the library and when he did not find it he realized that it must be in Azbej’s office in the old manor-house below the church. He would have to go there and ask him for it.
These thoughts were occupying Balint’s mind as he sat on the covered veranda drinking tea with his mother. He tried hard to give her the impression that he was absorbed only by the newspapers, from which he kept reading aloud passages he thought might interest her; but in reality he was thinking only of his own problems.
Countess Roza, too, nodded approval or surprise at whatever her son read out, but she wasn’t paying any attention either. All she noticed was the remote, closed expression on her son’s face; and the more she saw how worried he looked, the more she was convinced that the day of that accursed wedding was approaching and that soon she would lose the only and the last person she loved.
Balint unhooked the key of the cemetery from the nail on which it hung at the bottom of the staircase, and hurried down the path on the west side of the hill on which the castle had been built. He passed swiftly the now sizeable fir-trees that grew beside the worn stone steps on the path until he arrived at the gate below. As he went he recalled that day a year before when he had gone with his mother to Communion on the Day of the New Bread. Then he had been buoyed up with hope and confident that he would be able to arrange amicably the matter of his marriage.
It was then that he had vowed to bring order into his life.
The disappointment when he discovered his mother’s determined opposition now overwhelmed him again and almost dispelled the distaste with which he revisited the house where his beloved grandfather had lived.
He had not been there since the old man’s death. By the time that Balint, then a fifteen-year-old schoolboy at the Theresianum, had got home from Vienna, Count Peter was already lying on his bier in the main aisle of the little family church. After that his rooms had been locked and when, years later, Countess Roza had emptied them to make room for Azbej, Balint had always managed to avoid going to see the garden, the wide porticoed veranda and the rooms where, in his imagination, the old man lived still.
Today, however, he had to go there; he had no choice.
The door out of the cemetery opened with difficulty and the rusted lock screeched. Inside the manor-house garden the once immaculate path was almost submerged with weeds. This was the way he had come with his mother, every Sunday after church, to lunch with Count Peter. The lilac bushes on each side were now so neglected and overgrown that there was hardly room to pass between them. Balint began to hate it all; and it was worse when he reached the garden itself. All his grandfather’s once lovingly-tended roses had disappeared and only here and there was to be seen a fallen stem surrounded by suckers. On the house itself only one undernourished climbing rose was still there, the rest obviously having died.
Balint’s worst disappointment was the sight of the house itself. The four Greek columns of the portico, which had once been bright with clean whitewash, had been gaudily covered in shiny green paint to resemble marble. On the ceiling had been daubed some crude butterflies, birds and clouds, and on both sides of the main door were coarse murals, one of Fiume and the other of Naples with Vesuvius belching smoke.
In front of this motley background, lying on a straw bed covered with fireman’s-red coloured cushions, was a fat slatternly little woman wearing a half-open dressing-gown covered in velvet peonies. With her were two children asleep, one at the breast and the other lying on her knees, while a third was sitting on the floor trying to eat a pear from a basket that had been left there.
For a moment all was peaceful. Then a storm broke out. The child with the pear let out a fearful scream when it saw Abady, the woman woke up and struggled to her feet, dropping the other two; and then they all ran howling indoors, the heels of the woman’s slippers going slap-slap on the wooden floor, and the children howling as if they had seen a Bogey-man. And then, just as suddenly, there was silence again as they vanished into the house.
Despite his distaste, Balint could not help noticing how absurd the scene was, particularly as the woman and the children had been so exactly like Azbej himself, brown and hairy and so round that they seemed to roll rather than run. Alone with the spilt basket of pears, Balint realized that it must be Azbej’s wife and that now, no doubt, she was calling her husband.
He turned back towards the garden, all appreciation of the comicality of the scene having vanished as he looked in growing horror at the sight of that once so elegant snow-white veranda disfigured and desecrated; for it was here that he had best remembered his grandfather sitting in a tall wicker chair, meerschaum pipe in mouth, with wavy silver hair and a smile of infinite kindness and wisdom. Balint preferred to look at the garden, for though it was neglected and allowed to run riot, at least the deterioration was the work of nature and not inflicted by the barbaric taste of man.
He did not have to wait long. In a few moments the fat little lawyer came out at a run, bowing as he did so. ‘What an honour! I am indeed fortunate,’ said Azbej, and he repeated the words several times, always bowing again as he did so. ‘I am always at your Lordship’s command … your Lordship should have sent for me … I am always at your Lordship’s command,’
‘I need some information,’ replied Abady. ‘Perhaps we should go up to the office in the castle.’ And when Azbej enquired what he needed, he explained that he wanted to look at the inventory of his grandfather’s furniture and belongings.
‘But that is here in my study, if your Lordship pleases. I keep all the old documents here. I beg your Lordship to come in.’
And so, though he was loath to do it, Balint found himself obliged to enter the house.
The first room they went through was the former dining-room, once painted pale green and hung with family portraits. Now it was used as a sitting-room and was furnished with red-plush sofas and a lot of little occasional tables in some sort of oriental style, hung with tassels made of tiny little wooden balls stuck together. The walls also were red, painted to resemble brocade up to the height of the doors, and from then up the frieze and ceiling had been done in
imitation wood-panelling.
Next they went into Count Peter’s study. This had not suffered the same transformation. Where the Empire bookcases had stood there were now open wooden shelves in the American manner, and Azbej’s modern desk stood in just the same place as had Count Peter’s. But at least there were no such horrors as Balint had seen elsewhere; probably, he thought, because Azbej perhaps only perpetrated his ‘improvements’ to please his wife.
However it was clear that the estate papers were kept in good order and that Azbej knew where everything was to be found. In a few moments he was able to hand the inventory to the younger man.
Balint looked at it carefully, and as he did so Countess Roza’s trusted agent stood beside him, a questioning glint in his prune-shaped eyes.
Balint read through the papers and said, ‘I am finding it rather expensive staying in a hotel whenever I’m in Budapest; so I’m thinking of taking a flat. Also it is tiresome always having to lug my files and other papers about with me; and I really don’t know what to do with all my books. So I think I’ll start making use of some of these pieces again. Please be so good as to have the inventory copied. I don’t yet know what I want but when I do I’ll mark it and let you have it back.’
Azbej’s cherry-red little mouth, which seemed so gentle and small in that forest of bristly black beard, now formed itself into a deferential smile.
‘This is the file concerning all the properties of his late Excellency Count Peter,’ he said, as if he knew exactly what Balint had in mind in coming to see him. ‘Perhaps your Lordship might like to look over that too since I am so honoured to have your Lordship here today,’ and he handed him the papers. ‘I have waited a long time to have an opportunity to account for my stewardship.’
Balint leafed through the papers, among which he soon found the title-deeds to the Jara valley property. ‘Is this let? How much does it bring in?’ he asked, as if it were a casual enquiry made by chance.
The fat little lawyer was not deceived, though his face gave nothing away. ‘Four thousand five hundred crowns a year, your Lordship,’ he said, still speaking with great deference. ‘However the lease falls in very soon, at Michaelmas, and if your Lordship wishes it, the rent could then be considerably increased. Oh yes, considerably increased!’
As Abady got up to go, it was clear that the lawyer still wanted to say something. Somewhat hesitantly Azbej suggested that Balint might like to take away the file of his grandfather’s estate, adding that he did not need the originals as there were copies of everything in the office. ‘All this is your Lordship’s own property,’ he said, and repeated, ‘your Lordship’s personal property,’ with just perceptible emphasis.
Balint took the file, put it under his arm and turned towards the door. Azbej accompanied him as far as the door into the cemetery and stood there bowing, three times in all, until the lock clicked behind his visitor. Then he straightened up and rubbed his little hands together, his eyes glinting with malicious joy as he thought of the use to which he could put Balint’s visit.
As Azbej walked slowly back to the frog-green columns of the former Abady manor-house, he was turning over in his mind how best he could let the Countess Roza know that her son was planning to reclaim what he had inherited from his grandfather.
The first move was made the very next day, when, as usual, he told his two allies, the housekeepers Mrs Tothy and Mrs Baczo.
They, in their turn and in their usual way, gossiped away in front of their mistress about the wickedness of the world in general and, in particular, though in veiled terms, about what was going on under their very noses; and when one of them had said ‘Master Balint had actually demanded and then taken away the documents’, just that, no more, Countess Roza had been given a good idea of what they had wanted her to know.
The old lady at once sent for Azbej who confirmed the news she had heard, and added that it appeared that the young master was planning to go to live in Budapest. He went on to say, more than once, how surprised he had been by Count Balint’s manner, how he had given his orders in unusually forceful terms and how he had given the agent no opportunity of asking his mistress for instructions. He told his tale with much skill and as always with great deference and never failing to be careful of what he said, for he knew that Countess Abady would never allow anyone to criticize her son in her presence, no matter how angry she might be.
For the poor old lady the news was like a knife-thrust. That her beloved son should start gathering up family papers without a word to her – papers that he was, no doubt, going to use against her – was enough to make her fancy that her whole world was crumbling around her.
She said nothing to him, for there was nothing she could say and nothing she wanted to say. But she hardened her heart, preparing herself for the awful battle she knew was soon to be waged between them.
And so the relations between mother and son became even colder and more distant as the days went by.
A few days later a letter from Adrienne arrived at Denestornya. It gave a brief account of the Saxon doctor’s visit to Almasko and merely said that nothing could be decided at once and that they would still have to wait some weeks, perhaps a month, and then, maybe then, she would be able to tell her husband of her intention to sue for divorce. At present it was still impossible and so they would still have to wait. Wait!
Though she did not say so in so many words, it was clear that Adrienne was deeply depressed. She did not go into any details beyond saying that Dr Kisch had made a good impression at Almasko.
Dr Kisch had planned his arrival carefully and he had furthermore been helped by what appeared to be a happy chance, though it is true that some clever people seem to be able to create their own chances.
One day Pal Uzdy was practising target and clay pigeon shooting on the hollowed-out hillside near the edge of the Almasko park that he had had specially laid out for that purpose. The stands were at the foot of the hill and there stood the rifle-racks and a telescope on a tripod with which to check the accuracy of the shooting. In front was a small meadow and at its farther end a trench had been dug from which the lad who had been trained for the purpose fed the five mechanical disc-throwers. On the other side, in front of the hillside, rows of targets had been set up at exactly 50, 100, 200 and 250 metres’ distance from the rifle stand. The whole area was fenced in by a thick wire mesh above and on both sides of the target. At the right-hand side of the range were the first trees of the surrounding forest.
At one time Uzdy had practised every day, but recently, since he had become interested in his new theory of numbers, he had come less often. Lack of practice, however, had not affected his skill as a marksman and, no matter what calibre of bullet he used, he rarely missed the centre of the target.
On that morning he had been down at the range for some time, firstly shooting at the clay discs and, when they ran out, at the 250-metre target.
This was placed near the top of the hillside. Beside Uzdy, the girl Clemmie’s English nanny watched the target through the telescope and announced the results. This had been her job since the girl had been given a French governess. Uzdy, though he never spoke to her and had never seemed to notice her existence, had suddenly developed a liking for the elderly spinster and now always gave her this task.
At one moment the butler Maier came to ask if his master wanted to come back to the house for tea or if he wished it brought down to the range. Though normally he sent a footman on this errand, on this day he came down himself. When his master gave no answer but went on shooting, Maier just stood patiently waiting. As he did so he kept his eyes on the hillside.
Although it was quite late in the afternoon the sun was still shining brightly and where the blackthorn and beech seedlings had been planted on the steep hillside every branch was clearly etched against the yellow clay soil. Here and there some outcrops of chalk rock gleamed white and the grass seemed even greener than usual, even through the mesh of the wire fence.
A
figure came out of the forest above the range, a tall man wearing a plus-four suit of green linen and hobnailed boots. He was wearing thick glasses, carried a butterfly net in one hand, with a rucksack on his back and a tin box slung over one shoulder. He was walking along a rarely used path which, before this hillside had been fenced in, had formerly been a cattle-track that came through the woods and then diagonally down the hill where the shooting range now stood.
The stranger moved forward with slow deliberate steps until one foot hit the wire mesh. Then he stooped and, being obviously very short-sighted, bent down to see what it was that stood in his way. Then, having exceptionally long legs, he stepped over the fence and calmly continued on his way … in the direction of the targets.
The old English nanny saw him first. So, perhaps, did Maier, but he did not say anything.
‘Look out! There’s a man up there!’ called out the nanny in English and then everyone, Uzdy, Maier, the nanny and even the boy in the ditch, all shouted to the traveller who, heedless of the uproar, walked straight on into the path of the bullets. He took no notice of the noise, presumably not thinking he might be the cause of it, but merely walked calmly onwards.
At this Uzdy lost his temper. In quick succession he fired three bullets which hit the rocks a few inches in front of the stranger’s feet. Pakk! Pakk! Pakk! Three sharp metallic clangs. Little fragments of rock shot about.
Only now did it seem that the traveller realized he had perhaps strayed into a dangerous spot. He turned in the direction from which the bullets had come and then, still quite slowly, descended the steep slope of the hill.
Pal Uzdy was chuckling triumphantly.
‘Please forgive me for trespassing on private land,’ said the stranger when he had jumped the ditch and reached the rifle stands. He then lifted his hat and introduced himself. ‘Wolf Hermann Kisch, from Szasz-Regen.’
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 54