His lip quirked. “I heard you,” he said simply.
Of course. I remembered the grim, uncanny silence, broken only by the occasional exchanges between Lajos and the Count, and by my desperate plea to Avenheim. I had been in far too great a panic to care about anything so trivial as the loudness of my voice, but it had never entered my head that anyone else — let alone Lajos himself — would hear me. The Count had not, but then he was old and angry.
My gaze fell. “I didn’t know if you had seen the gun,” I said, low-voiced.
“I saw it.”
I looked at him again, with considerable indignation now. “Then why on Earth didn’t you just disband the people?” I demanded.
“I couldn’t. That is, I wouldn’t. I had to trust that the Colonel was bluffing.”
“I don’t think he was. He is normally a kind man, but that sort of defiance is anathema to him. Why do you take such risks, Lajos?”
“I only take calculated risks.”
“Did you calculate on an Austrian officer trying to shoot you, or on my being present — and willing! — to stop him?” I asked sarcastically.
He smiled faintly, but said only, “Something of the sort.”
Frustrated, I tugged a handful of grass out by the roots and hurled it from me, watching the blades float and fall in the breeze. “I wish I knew exactly what you were trying to prove.”
He shrugged again. “Just what I said at the time. We made our presence felt quite successfully, I thought!” For a moment he looked away into the distance, before confessing, “And I suppose I was testing the water.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you don’t need violence to make a revolution.” He met my gaze, an almost triumphant smile in his dark eyes as he added softly, “Only the threat of it.”
Shaken by such astoundingly deliberate premeditation, it took me a moment to understand. He hadn’t just been making a stand for Szelényi last night. He had been rehearsing the revolution.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
On Tuesday evening, Zsuzsa, looking particularly pretty in her colourful new dress, dragged me with her to the village festivities which, in a moment of weakness or inattention I had apparently agreed to attend.
Weirdly, things were almost back to normal at the castle. Katalin, partially restored by a letter from Alex, had risen in time for dinner on Sunday which had made me dread a blazing row with the Count. However, by tacit agreement neither of them had referred to Zarescu, each treating the other with chilly but faultless civility. István had looked at her askance once or twice, but took his lead from his father.
I felt so grateful for the fragile peace that I declined to break it just yet by revealing my own secret.
I could hear the music long before we came to the village. The musicians were gypsies — the price of this being the presence of their noisy, dirty children, who hung around the fringes of the village looking for trouble — “or purses”, Zsuzsa said cynically. The hub of events was the village square which echoed to the sound of laughter and gypsy music and the sloshing of local wine out of a barrel. The moon shone brilliantly down upon the villagers, aided by the torches placed strategically round the square.
As we arrived there, I saw a group of people dancing — including Károly Lázár — while others stood around clapping and calling out encouraging or ribald remarks. It was a delightfully colourful scene, happy, rustic, yet, to me, exotic enough to be fascinating.
Zsuzsa introduced me to her mother, a jolly, wrinkled little woman with tired eyes who babbled away delightedly while she found me a cup of wine. I took it gratefully, watching with amusement as Zsuzsa went off on the arm of a dewy-eyed young peasant lad. Her mother shrugged resignedly, and laughed when I toasted her before moving around to get a better taste of the festivities.
In the centre of a rapt circle, a middle-aged couple were singing a duet which was obviously their party-piece. Everyone watching seemed to know the words, but it was performed with such exaggerated gestures and eyelash flutterings that the audience still laughed uproariously with each verse. I paused to listen, watching with amusement as the man twirled his moustaches, declaring:
“I love you, my dove,
As well as new bread,
I sigh for you
A hundred thousand times a day.”
And his beloved, simpering to the delight of her audience, confessed:
“I love you, I love you,
But tell it to none,
Till on the church stones
We are sworn to be one.”
I smiled at their antics, but then I got distracted from the rest of the intriguing song by Lajos’s parents, who were both flatteringly pleased to see me.
“More wine!” came a cry from the other side of the square.
“Here it comes!” someone answered, and when I followed the direction of the general attention, I saw three men running up the street towards us, each rolling a barrel in front of him. I recognized two of the men as Lajos and his brother Zoltán. It seemed to be a race, and a somewhat hilarious one at that, for several of the villagers had spread out down the street to call encouragement to one or other of the men, who did not disdain such foul play as aiming wild kicks or shoving at each other as they came on.
In the end it was Zoltán who won. I saw Lajos laughingly clap his brother on the back and stand aside for the winner to be presented with the first cup from the new barrel. Eszter was shaking her head, smiling.
“What boys we have, Lázár,” she said, taking her husband’s arm affectionately. “What boys we have.” And Lázár only nodded, without a word of criticism.
I watched Károly, still with his pretty partner, join his brothers by the wine barrels; and then Lajos threw his arm round Károly’s girl and ran with her to join the next group of dancers. Like the others, he was in festive dress tonight, his shirt brightly embroidered, a red kerchief knotted around his throat. Where now was the lawyer, the intellectual of the Pilvax...?
I lost sight of him after that because of the crowd, and instead accepted a piece of deliciously warm bread from a small, serious child with an overloaded plate. Wandering among the colourful company, I felt dull in my workaday dress; I had contemplated changing it for my one more festive garment, but the prospect of explaining myself to any castle people I might have encountered had eventually decided me against it. And now I even felt somehow constrained in my dashing bonnet, no longer so new or so dear to me.
I think it had something to do with the wild, insidious music the gypsies played. I had never heard anything quite like it before; the very tones and combinations of notes, the weird, hypnotic, ever-changing rhythms — it was all new, exciting and strange to me.
And then I saw Lajos and his partner emerge laughing through a wall of gaily dressed people in front of me.
“Katie!” he said at once. “Meet Maria.” We exchanged smiles, hers a little wary, and then she excused herself and ran off.
“I hope I didn’t frighten her away,” I said wryly, as we began to stroll among the throng.
“Oh, she’s off in search of more fun! Or Károly, which amounts to the same thing in her eyes. I’m glad you’ve come.”
We were passing the wine barrels by then, so he refilled my cup for me and took one for himself, toasting me briefly, smilingly, before drinking. I had never seen him so relaxed. It struck me that for the first time in my acquaintance with him, he was set only on enjoyment, with no part of him involved in plans, work, duty or his wretched cause. The thought was somehow intoxicating, his attitude catching.
“I had a letter from Petöfi,” he said once.
“Oh yes? How is the revolution?” I asked cynically.
Lajos’s lip twitched. “He doesn’t know. For once he’s more full of love than politics — he just got married.”
I smiled, genuinely pleased. “You must congratulate him for me!”
“Do it yourself. He’ll be back in Pest soon enough.”
“I
won’t be.”
He looked at me. “You haven’t told them yet.”
“Tomorrow,” I said quickly.
“You said that on Sunday.”
“I know, but everyone’s still a bit on edge,” I excused myself. He took my hand.
“Worry about it later,” he advised. “Let’s watch the dance.”
One or two couples were already waiting for the dance to begin, encouraging their friends to join them while the gypsies amused everyone by making their fiddles laugh and talk to each other. Lajos called something to them in a language I did not know, and one of them answered briefly with a grin on his dark, saturnine face. Lajos turned to me.
“In this sort of company I don’t need evening dress,” he observed. I looked at him warily.
“In this sort of company,” I said lightly, “it is I who am not dressed to dance.”
“Would you like to?”
I laughed. “How could I? I don’t know the steps!”
“Look, there’s Zsuzsa with another victim. Follow her, and I’ll help you with the rest.”
“No, really,” I protested. “I have two left feet!”
“It’s only fun,” he said, reaching up suddenly and pulling the strings of my bonnet.
“Lajos...” I began in panic, but then Eszter was there, and Lajos had taken off my hat and handed it to her.
“Good! You’re going to dance!” she said delightedly.
“I can’t!”
“It’s easy to learn — just enjoy it!” Eszter laughed, and her mirth was somehow infectious. I found myself smiling, submitting to having a pretty, colourful sash tied around my waist — which brightened up my drab dress beyond belief — and being led on to the “floor” by Lajos. I remember his mocking, flourishing bow, and my equally exaggerated reply — I think the strong village wine had already gone to my head, as well as the laughing cheers of the villagers.
Zsuzsa squeezed my arm in delight. The fiddlers struck up and I took the same stance as Zsuzsa opposite Lajos. I felt somehow free and exhilarated, ready to enjoy this new experience. Half-laughing, I followed Zsuzsa’s example. It began slowly, the steps simple, the gestures modest. Zsuzsa grinned encouragingly and I smiled back, dividing my attention between her and Lajos. As the men danced towards us, we retreated, and gradually
the music grew faster, the steps harder to follow. The men circled us, advanced; we retired again. The tempo increased, and I found I was enjoying it, not only the feel of it, but also the pleasure of watching Lajos, his slight, lithe body naturally graceful as he danced.
I don’t know when it dawned on me that it was a courtship dance — perhaps when Lajos next advanced, and instead of allowing me to retreat, seized me round the waist. Smiling at him with surprise and sheer high spirits, I felt not the remotest embarrassment as he whirled me round in his arms and let me go again.
Dizzily following Zsuzsa, I danced even faster, revelling in the music, the freedom of movement, in a way I never had before, and this time when Lajos caught and held me, I welcomed him, laughing as we span round and round together, enjoying the hard, sinewy strength of his body against mine, the feel of his arms so tight and secure around me. The dance parted us again, leaving me suddenly bereft, almost aching to be back in his arms, while the music grew ever louder and faster.
His dark, oddly beautiful eyes were holding mine now. I had forgotten Zsuzsa completely; there was only Lajos and me and the wonderful music. Breathless as I was, I gasped when he reached for me again, emitting a tiny, almost moaning sound as my body fitted perfectly against his.
Round and round we span while the music climbed wildly towards its crescendo. I could see the smile on Lajos’s lips, feel his quickened heart beat against my body, and starting somewhere near my stomach I felt a strange, wonderful, tingling ache begin to spread through me like wildfire. I had never in my life before been this close to a man. Moulded together, our bodies had no secrets from each other, and if it was shocking me, I loved it even more.
I clung to him desperately, glorying in his every movement against me as we span, until I thought I would die of exhaustion or joy or both, and then the music came to its final, shattering close and I was left gasping and exultantly happy.
But the experience was not over yet, for as I smiled up at him trustfully, his own smile began to die on his lips; and then his mouth came down on mine and it was the most natural thing in the world to receive his kiss. The ache in my body caught fire, and I was lost.
Yet soon, much too soon, he raised his head again, and I stared up at him mutely with, I’m sure, my wild new desire plain in my eyes for him to read. I could see it in his too, a warm, misty glow that was almost as exciting as the dance. His arms tightened for a moment, then relaxed, and his lips curved upwards again.
“More wine, I think,” he said, and his voice was not quite steady. I felt confused, disorientated as we moved away with the other dancers. One couple was still locked together in a passionate embrace. I looked away, normal sense slowly returning to me. I was breathless and trembling slightly, shocked yet still happy with Lajos’s arm supporting me. I was vaguely aware of Zsuzsa laughing beside me, of someone giving me more wine. I drank it, meeting Lajos’s gaze over the rim of the cup. He began to speak, and then his attention was seized by the old woman and the girl beside him.
Yet I couldn’t stop watching him. It was as if I was seeing him for the first time, and slowly, invincibly, a new, terrifying idea was forming in my mind and taking hold, a simple, obvious, blinding idea of such importance that I couldn’t take it in all at once.
I drank some more wine, wonderingly, letting the idea take shape. Lajos turned back to me and smiled, and then I knew without doubt, with such certainty that my breath caught in my throat. I smiled back into his eyes, for I knew now what I should always have known. I loved him.
* * * *
Lajos moved, and with my newfound awareness, I felt the touch of his hand burning into my arm.
“Lajos! Lajos!” someone called from across the square. I thought at first he would ignore it, but a man beside us nudged him to direct his attention. He sighed with the merest hint if impatience. His fingers slid down my arm to my hand, making me shiver involuntarily.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said softly. “Don’t go away...” And he strode off across the square. I looked a little blindly into my cup, absently touching my lips with my fingertips. Never had I experienced so devastating a kiss...
The music, the people, the dancing, all of which I had found so fascinating only moments ago, were an irritant to me now. Inside me was a fierce, new joy which I needed to be alone to savour. Quietly, I laid down my cup and slipped away.
As I reached the end of the village, I began to run, as if I could bear the intensity of my feelings more easily by using up all my physical energy, and when I finally slowed down, the revelry was no more than a faint, happy echo. I moved off the path and sat down on the grass to think and to draw breath where no stray passer-by could see me. I was smiling. “I love him,” I whispered to the full, harvest moon, and felt awed by my own daring. “I love him.”
It seemed now that I had always loved him, ever since he had caught and held my attention in Vienna months ago now. That was why I had manipulated Katalin into going to the Pilvax, why I had tried so desperately to prevent the Colonel from shooting him, why I was jealous of the love he gave Teréz.
Of course, I had long recognized my unusual feeling for him, but being me, I had thought myself now too hard, too cynical to fall in love again. I had called it infatuation, as if it was a silly, half-formed schoolgirl crush which I could talk myself out of quite easily when I grew tired of it. Yet what I felt now made my previous, youthful taste of love pale into nothing.
I lay back in the grass and gazed up at the moon. Somewhere in the distance a dog was howling, a weird, pitiful sound that I barely noticed. It’s the wine, I told myself; it’s that mad dance. Between them they have stirred up feelings
that simply won’t be there in the sober light of morning.
I smiled at the moon, for I didn’t believe my sane, sensible voice any more. I was in love with Lajos Lázár, and what in the world was remotely sane or sensible about that?
“Nothing,” I whispered aloud. “Nothing at all.” I sat up again, feeling the unfamiliar sash around my waist. Slowly, I untied it. In my mind, I looked at myself: Katie Kettles, twenty-seven years old, staid, dowdy spinster whose only saving graces were humour and a certain quickness of wit. I knew from experience that men thought little of such traits in women, less in prospective wives. If Lajos liked me, and I thought he did, it was not love. I was a friend, like Alex or Petöfi. He was kind to me, looked after me, but I knew as surely as I now knew my own heart that he did not, could not, love me.
But he kissed me, wailed a voice in my mind. Yes, and every girl in the dance was kissed by her partner. I thought longingly of the desire I had clearly read in his eyes as the dance ended. But desire in such a situation was no more love than friendship was. It was the movement, the closeness of the dance that had affected him; it was my femininity, not me, which he had desired.
I felt the tears prickle under my eyelids. I was alone; there was no need to keep them back, so I let them flow. I wept for what I could not have, but also for joy because behind it all there was still a poignant happiness in loving him. After a time, I dried my eyes on my skirt, and put my spectacles back on. In the dance, I had forgotten I was wearing them. I folded the sash carefully as I stood up and made my way slowly back to the path.
I had left my bonnet in the village. I thought of going back for it, but I was afraid to see Lajos again tonight. With growing unease, I wondered how much of my feelings I had given away during and after the dance, how much he had noticed, for dragging myself back to the real world, I knew I could only live with this new knowledge if no one, least of all Lajos himself, shared it.
I love you, I love you
But tell it to none...
It was just something else to hide. I was good at that.
* * * *
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