by Magda Szabo
The room was hot and stuffy. She swept the pastries from the plate, put them away in an old shoebox lined with a napkin and stuffed the board game away in the bottom of the wardrobe where she had found it. She covered the birdcage as she had learned to do at Aunt Emma’s where it was her job to clean the cages, folded away her birthday dress and lay down. She had completed her seventy-sixth year. Suddenly it felt shocking to have lived so long. She thought of Vince, of Vince’s grave and the headstone on which she had arranged to have her own name engraved under his. Gica had been so precise in her descriptions of it. The bird was a little restive in its strange new environment and made soft nestling noises the old woman didn’t like.
She put up with it for a fortnight but every time it made a noise it reminded her of the humiliation of packing the pastries away into the shoebox, of that incomprehensible Beethoven piece and the cancelled board game. One beautiful summer day she decided to let the bird fly away. It didn’t want to go and she had to frighten it through the open window with a towel. She was a little uncertain and felt a stab of guilt seeing the bird roosting on the boughs of a dry tree, looking depressed. It was like someone who had lost not only his home but all hope, who had given himself over to fate. She leaned out of the window, worried that she hadn’t thought the matter through. Condemning anyone, even such a soulless pariah, to homelessness was a terrible thing to do. She called the bird and tried to tempt it back, while down below trams clattered on in the busy traffic. She kept sight of it for a while, the simple colours of its plumage glimmering through the boughs, but then Teréz arrived, saw the open window and made a gesture of hopelessness, muttering something about how that didn’t last too long, then closed the door and advised her not to lean out too far in case she got dizzy and fell out. In any case, said Teréz, the doctor would no doubt bring her mother another bird.
But Iza didn’t bring any more birds and Domokos felt a little hurt. ‘I really wish they were speaking a foreign language in my presence, the way I did with her father when she was just a little girl. It’s not worth bringing me presents, I am so clumsy,’ thought the old woman. The empty cage vanished. Domokos threw it on to the tip. It was just another thing weighing on her heart after that. Sometimes she woke in the night and saw the bird, whose name she never wanted to use while he was still with her. ‘People shouldn’t call birds such extraordinary human names,’ she thought, while imagining Elemér in hiding, sticking his small beak under his wing, a creature with fewer possession than even she had, with not a roof over his head and nothing to eat, all because she didn’t like him being there, near to her.
The old woman lost weight. She spoke less and less.
That frightened Iza, and Domokos, who had, surprisingly, been annoyed by the old woman’s thoughtlessness, felt less angry. Iza said she had expected that Vince’s death, leaving her old house and moving from the country into the capital would be something of an ordeal for the old woman, but she didn’t think she’d find it so hard to adapt. After all, she didn’t have to worry about anything and there was no way of ensuring that she could fill the day with the same things she used to in the old house. In any case her mother was no longer as capable and young as she imagined, and the managing of a Budapest household was quite a different matter, simpler in some ways but also more complicated, and in the end it was a hundred times easier having Teréz run the flat. She could work better and rest better too with Teréz at her side. She didn’t need to ask her gerontologist friends for advice in order to know that the old woman needed something to do in order to exercise her remaining energy, that work was the strand that connected the old to life. But she really couldn’t leave the housekeeping to her: she wasn’t up to doing perfectly ordinary things. One day she bought a lot of wool and gave it to her mother suggesting she might knit a cardigan for her. The wool was a nice lavender-blue colour. She and Domokos spent an evening making balls of it for her. The old woman thanked them, turned and turned the clever little nylon pack with a hole in it for the yarn so it shouldn’t get unravelled, but didn’t go on to take Iza’s measurements. ‘Mama knows I am just giving her something to do,’ said Iza, ‘She knows I’d never wear it because I could buy a nicer one in the shop. What to do?’
‘Why not get her to apply for a job,’ Domokos suggested. Iza was shocked at first, then gave it serious thought. There was no chance they could just turn up somewhere and ask for retirement employment for her. She couldn’t take on proper work and even if they did employ her, she thought, her mother tended to be careless at times. She could perhaps look after children but you couldn’t know what kind of family would employ her, and she might get into an argument when they asked her not to tell the children stories about angels, because all mama’s stories involved angels with long blonde curls who looked to see what the little boy or girl was doing and either rewarded or punished them. You also had to consider what people might think if they heard that she was making her mother work when she herself was earning good money and her mother was in receipt of a bigger than usual pension. Domokos was lying on the sofa eating a cantaloupe, practically assaulting it, tearing it from its rind. Normally he was a most refined eater with delicate manners, but occasionally he liked to behave as if he hadn’t yet grown up. ‘Well, if there’s nothing suitable,’ he said, the mouth smiling but the voice serious, ‘then just try to see more of her.’
‘Idiot,’ said Iza, ‘I have no life of my own as it is.’ She threw down the newspaper she was leafing through and went over to the window, clearly angry.
The next day she called at the Women’s Association.
They knew her there and held her in great respect, inviting her to all their receptions, even asking her to give advice and the occasional talk. Iza got straight to the point and told them what the problem was. The official gave her a big affectionate smile. ‘What a splendid woman she is,’ thought the official, ‘she spares absolutely no effort.’ She took out her files and leafed through the possibilities. She couldn’t work as a voluntary nurse because not every block has a lift and she was no longer young, neither her heart nor her legs were up to it, and besides there was her effect on sick people to consider. Children were too unruly, too exhausting, and if her eyesight was poor she might lose them in the playground. She was simply not strong enough for housework. On the other hand there was assembly-line work in a factory that produced plastic goods. It was positively relaxing, light and pleasant piece work, more like playing really. It wasn’t something you even had to look at to do, eyesight was not an issue, it was relaxing. Does the old lady have a sewing machine? Yes, said Iza, she used to but it was an old thing they had brought up from the country so she would buy her one. Mama could work at the factory, or at the association itself, where there were many people aged seventy or so, but if that was too tiring she could work from home and keep herself busy there.
Iza rushed home. The old woman listened patiently and thanked her for going to so much trouble. She said she’d go to the association, take a look around, but it wouldn’t be worth it yet – not yet – because Vince’s headstone would soon be ready and she had to travel down on the day it was to be installed. Iza would come, of course, and Domokos too once everything was prepared. She didn’t seem to be too worried about sewing. Her hands were still nimble, she said, and when they were very poor she had stitched a good many toys for Iza.
Iza relaxed – it was at least a gleam of hope.Why not let her pay a visit home, let the old woman go and pray for the departed according to her faith. Domokos said he wouldn’t go. He said he never went to cemeteries of his own free will and would have to be carried to his own, but if Iza wanted company he could go down with her, not to the cemetery itself, but to the town at least. It was bound to be refreshing for her to see the changes in the area, as well as old familiar faces.
Iza spoke to her mother about it. ‘I won’t go to see dad with you,’ said Iza and her voice quavered a little so she sounded almost childlike. ‘I loved him very much and it�
�s very hard for me to think of him as no more than a grave.’
‘Then don’t bother with the train,’ said the old woman immediately. There were no changes involved and she’d find her way home. Gica would look after her. She could stay with Gica. It would be perfectly natural to do so. She hated the hotel. She wouldn’t stay with Antal because the house no longer belonged to them but to Antal.
Iza bought the sewing machine and brought it home. The old woman took a long, careful look at it. Her old one stood there. It wasn’t the sort with a cover, one you could fold away; compared with the new one it was clumsy and ugly. She didn’t know how to open the new one or how to use it. She put it in front of the window, covered it with a small embroidered tablecloth and never gave it another look. When Iza looked in to give her a kiss, she found her in the armchair again just gazing out of the window. She was looking with intense fascination at the transport workers moving the tram tracks, the way the machines raised the old asphalt surface and the workers picked up the cobbles, under which for a moment she glimpsed the earth that was as brown and gentle as anywhere out in the country where the roads were not surfaced. ‘It’s not easy,’ thought Iza, then kissed her again. ‘Not easy for her, nor for me. But maybe it’s just a little easier for her. She can give shape to her loss in headstones and wreaths. It would do no harm to give her another examination before she leaves, though. She is dreadfully thin.’
5
THE STONEMASON HAD promised it for August, but the headstone wasn’t ready until the very end of October.
The old woman was clearly happy thinking of the journey; she was brighter and more talkative. Iza arranged her baggage, removing from the suitcase a range of useless items her mother wanted to take. The way Mrs Szőcs packed you’d have thought she was going for weeks in the country, not for three days. Iza removed two changes of shoes, an enormous bath towel and put the washing powder firmly back in the cupboard. Gica could lend her a bath towel and one pair of shoes on top of what she was wearing would be enough, what was the point of taking so many for such a short time? If she really needed washing powder she could call in at Kolman’s and buy some. On the other hand she should take her shawl because it would be just like Gica not to put on the heating even when there were visitors.
There were gifts in the suitcase too. After considerable thought the old woman had decided to give Gica a lead-crystal ashtray that weighed a ton, which annoyed Iza though she didn’t want to be carping all the time. It was not just that Gica didn’t smoke but that she frowned at anyone who did. The old woman had bought the ashtray because she liked its colour, it was such a dignified object, so heavy and priestly looking, with its black-and-white stripes. Maybe Gica had a customer who smoked and if she did it might be nice for them to drop their ash in such a gentle, pious-looking vessel, not in some light, brightly coloured and frivolous piece of pottery.
Iza didn’t say anything. She could have picked up something very like this once she got there, but there was no arguing with her when she was determined not to understand that she might not find a porter on her arrival. Her luggage was rather heavy to carry down to the tram stop as it was. Furthermore, the journey from the capital to the local station being about four hours, the old woman tentatively suggested that she’d like to take some food. Iza bought her a packet of biscuits.
The old woman was unusually agitated on the afternoon before the trip. She kept running out into the hall and opening and shutting the kitchen window, before retreating to a corner in a bad mood and watching everything from there. She fell silent after supper, as if in mourning, finally reconciled to her fate. Iza blushed with embarrassment when the conductor’s wife called at ten o’clock with some red roast chicken and a few pastries. ‘Sorry to be so late, ma’am,’ she said, ‘but I couldn’t come earlier because the little girl had a tooth coming and was so grouchy it was hard to know what to do with her.’ Iza brought in the food to her mother and put it on the table. The unusually old face with its unusually youthful blue eyes took a quick look at it, then turned away. She looked very pale. The alarm clock set for dawn was ticking quietly beside her. Iza had arranged for a telephone wake-up call but the old woman didn’t trust it to wake her in case something happened at the exchange.
‘The whole block will be laughing at us,’ said Iza, ‘and, what is more, you are hiding things from me. That’s not very nice of you, dear. Do you imagine you’ll be travelling by mail coach? It’s only a four-hour journey! One roast chicken and a kilo of sweet pastry! Where will you put it? Will you eat it now? Because you might as well eat it. Why didn’t you ask Teréz to make you a little something if you thought the biscuits might not be enough? Why ask Mrs Botka, whom I hardly know? Did you pay her for baking?’
The old woman didn’t answer but drew the eiderdown up to her mouth, which made her look so strange Iza just stared at her.
‘I’m off tomorrow anyway,’ said the old woman without any show of emotion. ‘Leave me alone.’
Iza was almost in tears when she closed the door. She rang Domokos who, of course, was not at home though it was gone ten. Leave her alone! What had she ever done to deserve this? She was just making sure her mother would not be too exhausted with all that silly weight she felt obliged to carry. It was the first time she had been so hurt and offended. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing if her mother went away for a few days. Mrs Botka would tell Teréz what happened tomorrow. She wouldn’t keep quiet about it, of course, they had had a disagreement before, something to do with shaking out carpets, and she’d be all too happy to annoy her.
The old woman was just waiting for her to leave so she could get out of bed. A less than perfect napkin would have served the purpose but she couldn’t find one, so she wrapped the chicken, which was already in greaseproof paper, in a linen headscarf. She went to the cupboard and took out an old beer bottle filled with tea that she had managed to brew using the quick boiler she still possessed without either Iza or Teréz noticing. The smell quickly dispersed in the air that had turned unusually chill in the last few days.
She didn’t sleep a wink because she didn’t trust the alarm clock either and she didn’t want to be late for the train. Iza’s phone rang a little earlier than hers did, but then the alarm clock went off too. She felt proud to hear it. It was at least forty years old and what good service it had done! She slipped it into her string bag next to the food. Maybe Gica had no alarm clock. How would she wake up in time for the homeward journey then?
Iza had calmed down by the morning but she decided not to show it. Let her mother know what she thought of the roast chicken affair! When Domokos arrived with a taxi for them and she opened the old woman’s door to get the suitcase, she stopped on the threshold. She thought it was only a suitcase her mother was taking, now there was a string bag too. How would she be able to get up into the tram at the other end? She asked her but the old woman looked at her coldly as if she were an interfering stranger. The look in her eyes scared Iza.
‘I’ll get a taxi,’ said the old woman. ‘When I arrive I’ll get a taxi.’
Iza shrugged. She didn’t believe her mother would call a taxi and pay ten forint for the very short journey to Gica’s. No, she’d rather tell a lie so she could take her roast chicken and get her way. Once they got to the station and her temper had cooled, as it usually did with a little time, she pulled herself together again. Surely she couldn’t let her mother set off on a journey like this with that miserable string bag?
‘Mama,’ she said and took hold of her arm. ‘Leave the food behind. There’s a dining car on the train and you can eat all the way if you want. Don’t be so difficult.’
‘No,’ said the old woman. She pushed away Domokos’s helping arm and clambered up into the carriage by herself. They didn’t say anything, but got on the train with her, put the suitcase into the rack and the string bag into the baggage holder above her head. The old woman took the seat facing forward. Domokos gave her some magazines to read. She thanked him, then she
linked her gloved fingers to signal that she no longer required their company. She wore a blank expression. It was barely polite.
They stayed with her until the train was about to start, Domokos even succeeding in making her laugh once. Iza opened her handbag and slipped her another three hundred forints just in case she suddenly needed something at the other end. The old woman stiffened again, her face filled with suspicion. She glanced at the fat woman opposite who was reading a women’s magazine and didn’t even look up. ‘She is worried she might be robbed,’ thought Iza, shaking with nerves.
Two minutes before departure they kissed her and were obliged to get off.
Domokos pulled down the window for her so that she might be able to wave and she did in fact rest her elbows on the open window to wave her black, lace-edged, scrupulously clean handkerchief. Iza’s eyes glistened and Domokos knew why: the face looking at them was polite, indifferent, without any expression, nothing suggesting either that she was leaving with a heavy heart, or that she was pleased to be on her way. The old woman was waving without any feeling at all, the way she had been taught in childhood. Iza burst into tears and covered her face with her handkerchief. There was a great deal behind her frustration: roast chickens, alarm clocks, even the woman on the train, chewing nuts and reading the magazine. The train set off and disappeared. Domokos drew Iza to him and kissed her. He had never kissed her in such a public place, nor would Iza normally have allowed it. This time she did. It felt good. The station seemed a neutral place.