Iza's Ballad

by Magda Szabo

  Iza was worried and tried to make Teréz understand that things couldn’t change from one day to the next, and it was no use expecting miracles from an old country woman who was used to living in an old house and couldn’t imagine toasting a piece of bread without a fork. Teréz would not be calmed. Teréz had had enough of the old woman and told her something she had been reluctant to reveal, that the old woman would look suspiciously through her shopping basket when she was about to leave, and would suddenly sweep into the kitchen after her as if on a raid and raise the tin lid of the sugar bowl and the box of tea to check she wasn’t stealing anything. She was not used to this kind of treatment.

  Teréz had been working six months for Iza, was wonderfully quick, completely trustworthy and highly intelligent. Iza had tried various cleaners over several months before she found her. Teréz could follow instructions on the phone and worked because she liked to, not because she had to. Teréz had been widowed relatively young and her pension was sufficient to cover her needs, but thought it ridiculous that she should work only for herself until the day she died. She liked Iza and had known her for years, Iza having cured her of infection of the joints.

  In the evening when she got home – she could tell the old woman had been cooking beans because of the heavy sweet smell – she went into her mother’s room and asked her to have respect for Teréz’s wishes.

  The old woman sat in the armchair, her face in shadow with the light to the left of her catching her left hand on which she wore two gold rings, a larger and a smaller, the larger not fitting her: they were Vince’s and her own wedding rings.

  ‘Teréz must do the cooking, mama,’ said Iza. ‘It’s part of her contract. Teréz will cook you lunch, then supper for both of us. She’ll do the shopping, bring up the milk and boil it. That’s what I agreed with her. Teréz is in charge of the housekeeping, she and no one else. Do you think I brought you to Pest to work?’

  The old woman listened. She felt silly and unable to mount an argument; she was so cowed by the accusation that she got on Teréz’s nerves that she dared not say a word. Should she say that she’d like to be the one who looked after her, and that she’d enjoy taking care of things and finding out what she liked? Or that she had worked all her life, that she liked working and would like to find a way of showing how grateful she was for not being left alone? She kept quiet.

  ‘You’re old now, darling. You don’t have to keep working. You should rest.’

  ‘What am I to do the whole day?’ asked the old woman.

  ‘Take walks,’ said Iza. ‘It’s spring. Go down to the ring road, find a park, look around, watch the children playing. It would be good for you to find a green space somewhere not too far before you get to know the area. There is the City Park and Hűvösvölgy, but the air is excellent in Krisztina Square and the Vérmező Green too, and none of these is hard to get to. It would be nice for you to look around and take the sun. You could spend the afternoon at home reading, doing some handiwork, playing patience,’ she said, ‘and there is a cinema three doors down you could go to if you like.’

  The old woman stared at her dress. She couldn’t possibly think of the cinema before the year of mourning was done. She would have liked to tell Iza that her eyesight was not what it once was and that in Dorozs she imagined Iza might read old books or the papers to her, as Vince used to do after supper. A week in the new place was enough to persuade her that it was no use asking for such things. Iza was never free; she would come home tired, have a bath, listen to music, eat something, then lie down or rush off again. Iza probably had a boyfriend too because there was a man constantly wanting to speak to her on the phone and it wasn’t likely that she’d go out by herself at night.

  ‘As for the leftovers, my dear,’ said Iza, ‘just throw them away. If something is particularly nice and it hasn’t gone off, put it in the fridge but, as for the rest, get rid of it and don’t leave it on the balcony.’

  She was patient and loving about her request.

  ‘I’d like you to be able to save,’ said the old woman.

  Iza laughed. ‘We don’t need to save, dear. I earn enough. And anyway, I hate eating yesterday’s leftovers.’

  ‘That’s another thing I can’t explain,’ thought the old woman. She didn’t have the words to tell Iza how much she respected her, how much she wanted to try to be a good housekeeper to her, how she would take care of their home, how she was trying to supplement Iza’s hard-earned income.

  ‘There’s no dog here, mama, nor a pig. Why save the leftovers?’

  ‘Do you get beggars round here?’ the old woman asked. Her gaze was innocent, eager to learn, a most gentle blue. It was with those beautiful, clear, honest eyes that Vince fell in love at that county ball.

  Iza laughed again. ‘No,’ she said, ‘and if you take a look around the town you’ll see there isn’t one anywhere. You surely don’t think there are people going from block to block begging for soup in 1960?’

  From that day on the old woman threw away the leftovers, tried to avoid Teréz and let her do the cooking. Teréz, to her great credit, did not go around with a triumphant look; in fact, she was sweeter to her than she was to Iza. Now that the old woman knew her place it was possible to love her; Teréz did her all kinds of favours, tried to please her and would have spoiled her like a child. But the old woman couldn’t stand her, couldn’t even bear to look at her when she said goodbye and would always air the room a long time after she had gone. Teréz was a thief – she had stolen her work.

  Back home she used to dry the clothes in the attic. She had never seen retractable washing lines before but once she learned to operate the wall-mounted system she was modestly delighted to see how easy it made washing the linen. She continued boiling water on the electric stove as before, being too frightened to turn on the hot tap of the boiler because it hissed and might explode. She rinsed everything for herself once Teréz was out of the house. She found the laundry basket with Iza’s things hidden in the bathroom wall, grabbed the fine blouses and nighties and carefully, lovingly, washed those too. Drying was more difficult as she couldn’t reach the washing lines. Iza really shouldn’t have sold the stool; if she still had it she would have something to stand on without wobbling about on this ridiculous kitchen chair with its steel legs. Normally Teréz would take the washing away in a suitcase because she preferred to wash and iron at home, then bring the fresh things back a week later in the same suitcase. She was paid extra for this. It was another thing they wouldn’t have to spend on, thought the old woman.

  When Iza arrived home that day she was really annoyed. The clothes had been wrung out but her mother’s hands were clearly too weak to do it properly and everything was dripping on the floor. The hopeful look on her mother’s face, clearly expecting to be praised, immediately vanished.

  ‘You mustn’t do this with your blood pressure, darling!’ said Iza. ‘In any case, I hate water dripping down my neck. There is a dryer downstairs next to the shelter but as far as I’m concerned it’s much simpler if Teréz takes the clothes away. I don’t even like hand-washing at home – why should we walk across pools of water on the bathroom floor?’

  She kissed her mother’s hand and face, and let her finger flutter over her pulse a moment. The pulse was strong and regular. Luckily washing hadn’t been too much of a strain. Iza went into the kitchen to heat up supper while the old woman took down the washing line, quickly removing her own things, the warm trousers and the flannel shirts so that they, at least, wouldn’t drip on Iza’s head. She spread them out to dry on the radiator in her room and turned them over now and then so they wouldn’t overheat. Clothes dried surprisingly fast, as if some invisible mouth were breathing hot air on them from below. She smoothed the washing out and put it away in the cupboard, then just stood and stared out on to the ring road. There was a blue glow out there like a blinding electric light, where men in steel masks and huge gloves were bending between the tram rails with sparks raining down beside
them. It was like fire, but it wasn’t fire. It was something else. A big city fire, a Pest fire, thought the old woman. She felt lost, scared and sad.

  She tried one more experiment.

  Whether alone or with visitors, Iza drank gallons of coffee. As soon as people arrived she would plug in the coffee machine. How inconvenient, thought the old woman, and how tiring always to be jumping up and checking that the coffee didn’t boil over. It was a stupid way of making coffee, another of those machines. They used to drink Turkish coffee at home when they were young and Vince loved it.

  The man who rang Iza almost every day had just come up for the third time since she had arrived when she surprised them with coffee. She waited a quarter of an hour after his arrival, remembering from her own time as a maid that it wasn’t done to offer things to guests immediately because people like to have a smoke and a chat first. In the morning she had gone down to the ring road and, having slowly familiarised herself with the neighbouring shops, was delighted to find a copper flask and a fast-boiling spirit stove in the second-hand shop next door. If Iza hadn’t left their old one behind she wouldn’t have had to buy another because the one they had was really good. It was what she used to heat the goffering iron on when flouncing was in fashion, to heat the milk when Iza was a baby and to make camomile tea when one of them had a toothache. This new purchase could do all those clever things, so she bought some paraffin in the household store and was really pleased by the time she got home.

  As soon as she heard the guest ring the bell she measured out two spoonfuls of Turkish coffee, careful not to stint, humming to herself, red-faced and hot as she brewed it. She had never actually met any of Iza’s guests yet, because people in Pest tended to call at such impossible times, as late as nine or ten at night, and she was awake only when they arrived, not when they left. She carried on humming happily, pleased to have overcome her sleepiness and to have brewed the coffee instead of Iza. She would stay awake every time now. Old people did not need as much sleep as that. This much at least she could do for Iza. And if there were no guests, just Iza herself, she could still make the coffee from now on.

  She knew her way around the kitchen cupboard by now and put two funny-shaped small cups on the tray. (But what was wrong with her own china set with its gilded rim and clover pattern? She failed to see that these thick, purple cups were any more beautiful.) She used her elbow to open the door to Iza’s room. The coffee was steaming in the middle of the tray. The sugar cubes were on a small plate as there was no sugar bowl.

  Iza stood up when she entered. The man too stood up. The old woman stood beaming on the threshold.

  ‘This is Domokos,’ said Iza.

  She was delighted that the man kissed her hand. It was nice to think that Iza’s visitors knew their manners. Iza glanced at the electric socket. Her own coffee-maker wasn’t plugged in yet.

  ‘I’ve brought you a little coffee.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Thank you.’

  The old woman sat down, folded her hands and waited. No one said anything. That was fine, she understood they wanted to be alone, she was only waiting for them to taste the coffee and for Iza’s expression to show that she was grateful and pleased to have something made for her.

  Iza poured out the coffee, took some sugar, the man drinking it as it was. They quickly gulped it down, then Iza suddenly grabbed everything and dashed into the kitchen with the tray. ‘Why doesn’t he say anything,’ thought the old woman. ‘So silent. Not handsome but not ugly either. I wonder what he does for a living?’ She was a little disappointed not to get much praise. Iza said nothing at all. The man just glanced at her and said the coffee was very nice.

  She said goodnight to them, feeling very satisfied with herself. Back in her room she ground a little more coffee and prepared everything ready for brewing tomorrow. She refilled the paraffin too, then went to bed. The guest didn’t stay long since she was still awake when she heard him leaving. As soon as the door in the hall closed, Iza came in to see her.

  She’d be coming to thank her. She was always a most grateful child.

  Iza didn’t sit down for long, just a few minutes, and turned out the light as she left, encouraging her to sleep. But the old woman didn’t sleep; she lay in the dark, tearing at the edges of the pillow. The coffee smelled of paraffin. Everything smelled of paraffin and Iza asked her not to bother with it next time. It was nothing brewing coffee, the old woman said, she was pleased to do it. All day long she was trying to move her rheumatic limbs and it was good to be doing little things like this. ‘It was a lovely idea and thank you very much,’ said Iza, but she really didn’t want it. Not any more. ‘And please pour the paraffin out,’ she added, ‘because it’s impossible to live with that smell.’

  The night was full of flashing lights as it always was on the ring road, the neon advertising signs flickering on and off, the trams rumbling past. She gazed ahead.

  Tomorrow she’d pour away the paraffin though it had such a lovely proper flame, like a tiny iron stove. There was no real fire in the flat, it was all electric. Well of course paraffin was smelly. Her own sense of smell might have deteriorated in the past years, because she hadn’t noticed it.

  There were no experiments after this.

  3

  SHE HAD NEVER had so much time in her life.

  Ever since she could remember they had gone through the list of things to do for the day so there would be no worrying about it in the evening. When she was young it was pointless having someone to help her; she’d be out in the kitchen hurrying things up or doing the cooking and cleaning herself. In the old days Aunt Emma was always chivvying her so it was wonderful – she was deliriously happy – when she finally had her own house and she could decide when to do the cleaning and any other number of useful tasks. When Vince lost his job and their own maid was gone, she suddenly bore the responsibility for everything including the troubles of child rearing. By the time she was old she had got used to doing things by herself and even after Vince’s rehabilitation she only engaged help for the really heavy work; she no longer carried wood or washed the bedding and tended to oversee spring cleaning rather than do it. While Vince was well he helped her and never made a distinction between man’s work and woman’s work, and Antal helped too, though he was a doctor, not a pensioner like Vince. Antal said housework relaxed him and he’d even go up to the attic to hang out the washing, his lines tidier, drier and much more evenly spread than Mála, the home help’s.

  The old woman also enjoyed the daily struggle with housework: a month with some really good meals and a thorough clean always felt like a triumph. It was as though the house were surrounded by invisible demons, wicked little demons that had to be defeated each time because they were always scheming, always looking to burn the food and soak the winter fuel. Whenever something succeeded particularly well she could practically see the demons slinking around the house, their heads hung in shame, retreating to a cave where they could moan to each other. In the meantime everything was going well: Vince had been rehabilitated and the circuit judge had ordered a pension for him; Iza had qualified as a doctor; they had more money than they needed and there was no longer any need to struggle with the demons. But the old woman had got used to living on a shoestring and lived as frugally as before, still watching the pennies as if each penny of housekeeping might make or break their lives. Vince always praised her for this, understanding that he should still congratulate her on her bloodless victory over the demons every month when the old woman closed the squared-up accounts book, her face shining, and slipped a few notes of paper money into the childhood commonplace book she hid under the sheets in the cupboard.

  Now there was no housework, no routine, no cares, no chats with old acquaintances, no need to go round the market looking for bargains or to calculate whether she could afford the perfect apple or accept the second-rate one. There was no need to scour the shops for cheap clothes, no need to wrest the bargain item from someone else’
s grasp and wonder in a careless moment, when she hadn’t paid sufficient attention to the condition of her puchase, whether she could stitch a new collar on to an old shirt.

  Everything stopped, in fact.

  She didn’t see Iza from morning through to the late afternoon, and when she did come home it was only to ask her how she was, then to sigh and say how good it was not to be among strange faces but be home at last; then she’d go to her room to read a book, to prepare for guests, to go out, to rush to a theatre, to listen to music, or to sit at her writing desk and consult a textbook in order to write a note or to compose an article.

  Iza needed silence to function: she needed it for both work and rest. The old woman had never been a great fan of the radio but, since the six weeks of mourning with its ban on music had passed and she was always alone with nothing to do, she resigned herself to it. She felt a bitter yet consoling satisfaction at not switching on the radio in the evening when the programmes were most interesting, refusing to be entertained so that her daughter should not be disturbed. At least in this respect she could do something for her.

  She would have given anything to be able to help her, it was just that there was never any opportunity.