Iza's Ballad

by Magda Szabo

  She thought of Iza, of how right she was not to want to see this, and she bent her head and covered her mouth with her handkerchief. Gica linked arms with her, thinking she was unwell, and could see that she was almost incapable of taking a step. The stonemason’s wounded pride was somewhat mollified because he saw the stone had made a great impression.

  It was cold at Gica’s, much colder than in the morning when she was still warmed through by excitement and expectation, as well as by the weight of baggage she had been carrying. A weak fire was licking at damp bits of wood and the old woman opened and immediately closed her suitcase as she remembered that she hadn’t packed the shawl after all last night – she didn’t want to hurt Gica’s pride by suggesting that she didn’t trust her hospitality in preparing a warm house. One of Gica’s cloaks lay unfinished on the sofa. She pretended she wanted to examine it more closely so she pulled it over her, drawing the plush silk up to her chin. She gazed at the fire: not even its colour seemed quite real and it didn’t warm her. Gica was quiet, she too must be tired. They didn’t talk.

  Antal arrived shortly after six.

  As Gica ushered him in she was muttering something about what a pleasant surprise it was, how she wouldn’t have believed it and what honour he was doing them by calling, and of course she told him dear Etel would be visiting. Gica was watching the old woman’s reaction as she was saying this and saw how tears sprang to her eyes the moment she saw Antal. There was no Iza here to restrain her so she hugged and kissed Antal as she would her own child. Antal of course looked at her in two ways as he always did. ‘Just watch their eyes,’ Vince would say. ‘Both Antal and Iza look at you in two different ways: they see you as their mother but also as your doctor. You can never be sure which pair of eyes they are using at any one time and what they see there.’

  Antal was shocked by what he saw though he didn’t show it, having learned over the years to keep his diagnoses to himself and to keep the conversation down to polite enquiry in case he worried his patient. The old woman was half what she had been. She was still beautiful, the constantly laughing eyes were still there behind the tears, but they weren’t entirely trusting. She was like a child that had been hurt. The hat and coat that Gica had left on the bed were brand-new and quite fashionable, as was her dress, but her cheerful babbling, that used to remain bright even when she was troubled, was slower now, more guarded. The old woman had no stories to tell, her answers were vague and noncommittal as though she had got used to the idea of never answering yes or no to anything. As she was speaking Antal was suddenly overwhelmed by sadness. He stood up, bent over her, hugged her and gave her a kiss. The old blue eyes, wrinkled and already shining, went misty for a moment, then she was Mrs Szőcs again. He could see her withdrawing.

  It was dreadfully cold in the room, quite unpleasant.

  The doctor lifted the cloak off the old woman and gave her his coat instead. He picked up her suitcase and string bag. ‘Come on, mama, it’s very cold here. I’m worried in case you get chilled down. You could roast an ox in my place. I heat every room and you know how much I like to be warm. You can spend the night there. I’m sure Gica won’t mind.’

  The old woman didn’t budge. The wrinkles around Gica’s neck multiplied as she dug her chin in. ‘The wretch,’ she thought, ‘look how he takes charge! He earns a fortune, it’s no big deal for him to throw his money around and indulge himself. He really upset the Szőcses that time. Etel won’t go with him. That’s obvious.’

  Antal himself wasn’t confident that he could persuade her. But he took one more look at the familiar face and saw the eyes weren’t set on anything particular, that they were empty and indifferent.

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked the old woman uncertainly.

  ‘Of course. Say bye-bye, mama.’

  ‘Do I want to?’ the old woman asked herself as if she were a stranger. She felt Antal putting his scarf round her neck. Gica was pulling a face. ‘I don’t know whether I want to or not. But I mustn’t resist, I must never resist anyone. I am always being told what to do. Antal is young and knows better than I do.’

  She kissed Gica, muttered something about the chicken, then set off obediently to follow the doctor. The key – Vince’s old key to which they had tied a piece of national tricolour for identification – turned in the gate. A light went on above and she blinked at the unexpected brightness. They never used to have a light bulb there and always had to feel their way along on dark winter afternoons.

  From the garden she could hear the patter of small feet, the kind of small steps one might hear in a half-dream. Captain appeared just as he used to, sniffing at Antal and grunting. The old woman waited. Captain looked at her, unsure who she was, and drew back when she leaned down to him. He didn’t recognise her. That didn’t hurt. It was as if a part of her had been frozen – she didn’t feel it.

  The old items were still there under the arch of the gate, but they had been tidied up and the broken wickerwork on the chairs had been mended. There was a light for the yard too now, a strong bright light so you could see Vince’s old rose bushes in a semicircle waiting for the snow. There was straw and newsprint to cover them, they were wisely keeping their heads down. This was as she remembered it, precisely so in fact, it was the sight that used to greet her at this time of year, not that this had any particular effect on her now. She followed Antal up the stairs that Gica had scrubbed to a brilliant shine.

  There was light everywhere. The hall was white as snow with some strange green hangers on it much like at Iza’s. All the doors had had a fresh coat of gloss. The two small rooms had fitted furniture and the same natural-coloured suites as in Pest with a lot of lamps and many clusters of flowers, the flowers still the flowers she used to tend. The carpets were purple and green, and there were the same low tables along with small nesting tables as at Iza’s. The windows were covered in canvas curtains with mysterious abstract patterns. It really was warm here, wonderfully warm. Wherever she looked it was all so utterly changed from what she remembered that it made no impression and had no effect on her.

  Antal opened the door of the big room, the door behind which Iza used to live with them. Here was Iza’s old room when she was a girl, the one that got the most sunshine, the nicest room, the one with the view of the roses, that glittered each summer like a glass bowl in a rose bower. Antal put on a light, deposited the string bag and suitcase, and allowed the old woman to enter before him. He watched and waited.

  Her face did not move, nor did the expression in her eyes change for a moment as she gazed around her. The doctor in Antal expected a reaction and was horrified when there was none. He wanted to get hold of her and shake her but he dared not touch her.

  Her steady blue gaze took another look, a very slow look around the room. The curtains she had made back in the days of Aunt Emma, curtains woven of dreams and plans for the future, were still hanging in the window, and Vince’s old bed stood in the corner, its belly much swollen with cushions piled high. The plush red footstool stood before it and the dog with the mother-of-pearl eyes. Practically every piece of furniture that remained was here, as well as the smaller objects she was once fond of, the chipped blue vase with its decorative birds, the little glazed sideboard within which Vince’s Meissen mouse sat with its broken tail. The rugs too were the old ones, as was the fire screen and the lacquered fruit basket on top that used to be packed with slices of melon that mysteriously warmed to a pleasant temperature whenever they made a fire. Scarlet watermelons warmed through . . .

  ‘I love this room, mama,’ said Antal. ‘You can stay here. Would you like a bath?’

  He didn’t wait for her to answer, but left her there. The old woman heard him moving around in the kitchen; she heard the clatter of cutlery and the old student song he was singing that was hauntingly familiar. It was as if it were Vince singing out there. He too was a man about the kitchen while he was healthy, always humming while working.

  She unbuttoned her coat and sat down
on a chair. Her first thought was that she had been right to bring the bath towel after all. She stretched her legs and looked at her shoes; they needed a brush. In recent years they had considered the hall too cold and had sneaked the cleaning materials into the bedroom, stuffing them into a cardboard box inside one of the bedside tables. She automatically opened the door of Vince’s without any hope of finding anything there. She was simply following some old blind instinct. The box inside was new, a lacquered red box, rather jolly, but the old brushes, creams and cloths were there in it.

  She squatted down and examined the brush. Slowly, very slowly, as if someone in a forest were calling her by name, she raised her head. She had to answer the call. That was how Antal found her, listening like an animal distracted by a distant shuffling.

  The towels – not her old much-patched damask ones but fresh flannel ones with cheerful patterns, just like at Iza’s – were hanging on the old hook and the bathroom was pleasantly warm. She was surprised how dirty her hands were despite washing at Gica’s house, but of course that was in cold water. Antal was running to and fro, whistling, and served her dinner in the kitchen. Antal’s was exactly like their one in Budapest, her old oven was gone, the food was warming on an electric cooker and here too the sideboard was part of the same unit as the sink. She tapped at the synthetic material that served as cover. ‘It’s my old cupboard under that,’ she thought and imagined the wood could feel her fingers even through the plastic. Antal served the meal; Gica used to cook his dinners, not every time, just now and then, and this happened to be one of those times. The marrow stew was tasty, as was the rissole, much nicer than the roast chicken they had for lunch. Antal was still eating a lot of bread with his meals. They didn’t speak but ate quietly.

  ‘Mama,’ said Antal after they had finished. ‘Are you very tired tonight?’

  She was almost dizzy with exhaustion but she didn’t dare admit it. She said no.

  ‘I was chopping wood today and grazed my hand. I hate leaving the washing up for Gica. I’d love you to do it, that is if you don’t mind.’

  She stood up without saying a word and collected the dishes. Antal noted how she looked at the taps as if startled by them, how she hesitated before turning on the hot water and then the sad attention with which she rinsed, raising the plates every so often, which were the remaining relatively whole parts of her old dinner set.

  ‘Gica is very clever but she could never do a job as thorough as you, mama.’

  The words came at her slowly as from an infinite distance, their meaning taking time to reach her ears. Yes, Gica was a good girl, but she was never quite clean enough, not ever.

  ‘When mama does the washing up it’s as light as bubbles.’

  ‘Light as bubbles,’ she heard and something echoed inside her, repeating, ‘Light as bubbles.’

  ‘I hear Iza is getting married.’

  She didn’t reply to this. He too was remarrying, said Gica, there was no point in complaining about each other.

  ‘I hope mama will spend some time here.’

  ‘Some time,’ said the echo inside her. ‘Some time.’ People were pleased to see her. For some time. Again she made no answer. It had been a pleasure working with those threadbare old tea towels, they soaked up the water so thoroughly the backs of the plates were like mirrors: you could see your face in them.

  ‘I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you. You can decide whether you like it or not. The fact is I’d very much like you to stay.’

  Decide something? Her?

  She spread out the tea towels and closed the cupboard drawer. Antal kissed her hand, the way he always used to by way of thanks for a button mended, for fresh socks, anything. But the Antal standing beside her was not a jot more real than any dream might be. Only one thing was real and true, it was the plates, the clean glittering plates. The work that somebody genuinely needed her to do.

  ‘You know how to use a boiler, don’t you? I have to go out somewhere now but I’ll try to get back early. Till then why not have a bath and lie down, then when I get back we can move on to more serious matters. Your arrival has been a blessing, mama. You have no idea how much I was hoping you would come.’

  He turned and came back with his coat, but as usual without a hat. The words with which he had left were still rolling around the old woman like smoke.

  In Pest it was always Iza who prepared the bath for her, fearing that she’d feel dizzy in the steam, or scald herself when using the boiler. She wanted to tell Antal that she was longing for hot water but that she was not allowed to take a bath alone – but she didn’t dare say anything. Antal kissed her and told her to shut the door and the gate, and that it was perfectly all right to lie down since no one would call now and Gica never came at this time. He hurried off, whistling exactly as he used to. Captain was snuffling outside and had started scratching at the door, so the old woman let him in. Now that they were alone the animal came closer, sniffed at her ankles, then stood on his hind legs and looked into her face.

  The words spoken by Antal were echoing ever louder around her; it was like hearing bells. The old woman knelt down without touching the dog, just staring at him, the great wheels of past and present spinning around her. She no longer felt tired. Everything was becoming clearer to her: she recognised the house, the old furniture and could feel the old walls beneath the fresh plaster. The house greeted her and spoke to her. She left Captain who, half in fear and half out of sheer instinct, started following her, hardly believing his eyes and senses, then sniffed right round her and began leaping about in the happy way dogs do. The old woman worked her way through the old rooms which, behind their green and purple curtains, were their old selves, then stopped on the threshold of the third room where Antal had put her baggage and leaned against the doorpost. The experience of coming home, that the idea of home still existed, that the house was still here and that the past, like some kind of living being, could turn round, face her and call her by name was almost too much for her. She who had been practically dumb for several months answered the call within her, her mouth still closed.

  *

  Antal was rushing down the street. Running did his muscles good. That was how he left the house that morning too, the morning when he knew he had to leave Iza and run for his life. The sky seemed to be trembling that day. The streets felt different now, the air was damper. It thickened around him, felt oddly stiff, had become rather milk-like and at the same time darker. The lamps were withdrawing into themselves, all light was turning inward.

  ‘She will kill her,’ thought Antal, ‘the way she almost killed me.’ The old woman’s life was hanging by a thread. Iza had let go of her for a day or two but once she returned the old woman would die within two or three months. ‘If I can find that thread and haul her back by it, she might yet survive.’

  It was good to know that he’d soon be seeing Lidia, holding her hand, touching her, feeling the coolness of her skin. It was good to know she existed, that soon they’d be living together and that if he woke at night out of a bad dream it would be Lidia’s voice that awakened him, Lidia who would listen to his dream. There was hardly room on the tram and he had to travel on the step, tense but in good spirits, anxious as usual when he hadn’t seen her for a few hours, but also because he was full of urgent plans he wanted to discuss with her. How good that he could discuss even Iza with her. With her and no one else!

  When he got off at the clinic he was cursing and could hardly see the trees. The windows of the building had disappeared, everything was lost in the sudden fog and had to be guessed at. He found Lidia in the canteen, just coming to the end of her supper. She glanced up at him when he entered, then snatched her eyes away from him again and stared at her fork instead. ‘She doesn’t even dare look at me,’ thought Antal. ‘It’s all in our eyes.’ He sat down beside her and waited for her to finish.

  He’d never forget that journey home, the way they made their way back in the dense blankness along the ancient
path through the woods, the memory of which was now entirely filled with Lidia and no one else. Iza’s breath had drifted away and was long gone. They walked through the fog clinging to each other, skirting round benches and trees, Lidia’s face at one point coming very close to his so he could hear her rapid light breathing and know the girl was happy and excited. Lidia was glad to hear what he had to say and thought his suggestion was a wonderful solution. She told him about Vince and how they first started a conversation about Gyüd and the mill and the old woman. He could feel Lidia’s thin arm through her coat. They guessed what Mrs Szőcs might think when she saw Lidia, whether she would remember her and, if she did, what it was she might remember. ‘It is as if she were asleep,’ said Antal. ‘Don’t mind anything she says. Think of her as being in a dream, but she will wake. She will have had a bath and is probably in bed, sitting there, propped on pillows with the glasses she only wears for reading, because she is vain, at the end of her nose, leafing through magazines. I hope she has found them on the windowsill. She will be willing now, you’ll see, though she wasn’t at the time of his funeral. But things have happened since then.’

  In the street they brushed up against strangers, asked their pardon and laughed – it was simply impossible to see. The fog was no longer white but yellow. They tapped around the gate until they found the lock. Their skin was damp too. It was as if everything had been dabbed with wet cotton wool.

  Inside, the lights were on in every room. The bathroom door was open, the tub wiped clean, the steam of the hot bath still hanging in the air, an unfamiliar bar of soap was on the basin and the drying rack was out with an enormous flannel sheet on it. Antal turned the lights off one by one. They found Captain behind the flower stand in the hall, ill-tempered and restless.