Train to Budapest

by Dacia Maraini

  He puts his hand up to his head, pulling his few remaining grey hairs with a horrible grimace as if to help him draw breath before continuing.

  ‘My hair grew back to some extent when I came out and started eating again, but I had become bald inside, stripped of thought and feeling … everything seemed to have changed with the end of the war: I was alive, you see, how could anything else matter compared to that? I thought I could distance myself for ever from that thieving whoring child who had performed disgusting acrobatics in order to survive, but how could I escape myself now that I was putting on weight and my hair was growing again, and I was even once more becoming a conscious being? I changed my name and way of life and went into a monastery but didn’t take vows, everything I tried soon disgusted me … I got married and had a son, and I thought that had solved the problem. But no, when my son was a year old I started kicking him, he horrified me … my wife ran away with the child, even if she understood, she did understand me, but she could not leave the child exposed to my frenzy.’

  Amara watches him with her eyes full of tears, and sees him run, staggering and bumping against the furniture, towards the bedroom. He returns immediately, holding a small piece of greasy paper.

  He offers it to her with an awkward gesture.

  ‘Here’s the proof, Signora Maria Amara Doubting-Thomas … You’re incapable of believing in anything unless you can touch it, so here you are … take this paper … do you recognise it?’

  Amara grasps with trembling hands the ragged scrap the man is holding. The crumpled remains of a letter she wrote in 1940, when she was writing to him at the Schulerstrasse address in Vienna.

  ‘No more doubts, little sister?’

  He plants his legs wide apart in front of her. Raises an arm and reaches her an open-handed smack. Not a violent slap. He is too drunk for his hand to have any more force than a wet rag. His red eyes bulging, he spits at her.

  Amara gazes sadly at him with blood beginning to run from her nose. She cannot move. Tears pour down her cheeks uncontrollably. Hans and Horvath come back into the room and immobilise the man by pinning his hands behind his back.

  ‘Let go, imbeciles! Let go or I’ll kill you!’

  Like a furious child, he fastens his teeth into the hand of Hans, who cries out in pain.

  ‘Get out of here, you scoundrels, villains, out, out, out!’ he screams at the top of his voice. The veins in his neck bulge and his eyes are bloodshot even if he is unsteady on his feet after all the alcohol he has swallowed.

  ‘Please let him go!’ says Amara, rising to her feet.

  But at that moment Brunhilde enters the room. Strong, solicitous, competent, very young and beautiful, she grasps him passionately by his shoulders, and almost hoisting him onto her back, bears him away murmuring words of love in his ear.

  60

  Is it possible to die without dying? To lose oneself without losing one’s body? Lying on her bed at the Pension Blumental, Amara asks herself how she will ever again be able to move her legs since each seems to weigh a ton, and reconciles herself to never being able to get out of bed again. Her head is somewhere else, watching her from a corner of the ceiling. Though the eyes so thoughtfully observing her are not her own. Dry tears are lacerating the skin of her cheekbones. She wants to vomit but cannot. She would like the window open but opening it is beyond her. Why are those cold, distant eyes fixed on her from above? Where are her arms? Her throat is trying to swallow something sticky that isn’t saliva. Perhaps the blood that filtered from her nose when Emanuele slapped her.

  What have they made of you? asks a voice she doesn’t recognise as her own. She has no more tears, no more saliva, and her breath rises like a sob from her dry throat. Someone has placed an icebag on her head. There’s a smell of onions.

  They’ve stuck a needle into her arm. So perhaps she’s not in Frau Morgan’s pension, but somewhere else. A hospital? Her eyes are blind yet she is aware of a thick fog penetrated by other eyes which she could swear are her own. But how can she be up there fixed to the ceiling when she is at the same time down here nailed to this bed? What have they done to you? What have they done to you, Emanuele? she can feel her lips moving but no voice comes out. Blood is still oozing in her throat. And the eyes are bothering her because they are burning too brightly, as intrusive as lamps.

  What has happened inside her head? Why can’t she remember? Her temples are throbbing with pain. A pain she cannot chase away, but she has no idea what is causing it.

  Then she gradually becomes aware of a boy slipping away between ruined barrack buildings. It’s him, it must be him. She wants to tell him she understands him. She calls: Emanuele! He turns and limps slowly towards her and when he is really near her an enormous, cold, dirty open hand, heavy as a rock, strikes her mouth. Emanuele! she cries, but he moves quickly away. She sees him withdraw into a corner with an officer in a glittering uniform.

  But the bicycle is still there, in the storeroom of the little house in Via Alderotti. And here he comes. He has just opened the gate of Villa Lorenzi and is running towards her steering his own bicycle with one hand. He raises the other in greeting. Smiles. And says something she can’t understand. But here he is. He waits for her to step on the pedal and they’re off! But where are they going? I’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been before. They pedal on and on, sweating and laughing, up a steep slope. Then he stops, leans his bicycle against a tree and signs to her to follow. They set off bent double through brambles that obstruct an almost invisible path between fields and vineyards. The path narrows and it is almost impossible to go on. But he is not discouraged, ignoring the thorns scratching his legs. And she follows, also ignoring the vegetation grabbing at her ankles and tearing her skin.

  Finally they arrive. But where? Emanuele pushes some branches aside revealing a sort of heavy iron lid blackened by time. He lifts it and signs to her to follow. Facing them is a narrow black well. He goes forward, carefully placing his feet on the iron steps. Suddenly it feels cold. The light gradually fades then disappears altogether. They are descending in darkness into what seems a bottomless well. Where are we going, Emanuele? she wants to ask but becomes aware that his throat is closed and he can’t produce a single word. She can only follow him.

  Now at last the steps end. He puts a foot on the ground and helps her down the last one. Where are we? She tries to speak but it is as if her mouth is walled up. Emanuele embraces her fiercely. For a moment they are again one single body, both lover and beloved. Two kids hugging tenderly. But something disturbs her. Animals are moving on the ground. Snakes? Mice? Something slimy and clammy touches her ankle. She jumps. Emanuele’s mouth is against her ear and she can hear his voice saying softly: now we shall live together for ever, in here, safe from wars and the horror of wars. But I want to go back out, protests Amara silently, I want the open air! She extricates herself from his possessive arms. Reaches a hand towards the stairs but feels the dark clammy wall slither under ther fingers. The stairs have vanished. Then she realises the body hugging her has no warmth, it consists of bones and darkness. She tries to shout. Wakes bathed in sweat. Frau Morgan is sitting on a chair, asleep with her mouth open and a book upside down on her lap.

  The icebag slips on Amara’s cheek and her tears begin falling again, no longer in her throat but onto the stuffed pillow that is squashing her hair.

  61

  Her luggage is on the floor. Too heavy to lift up to the netting rack. The carriage is empty. Six in the morning and the countryside coming awake under a luminous white carpet.

  Amara’s gloved hands are gripped tightly between her legs. She raises her coat collar. She has the carriage to herself but it is unheated. When she opens her mouth, vapour disperses in the cold air. The windows are encrusted with ice. The world all round is alien and frozen.

  Too many things have happened in these last few days. The disastrous encounter with Peter or rather Emanuele Orenstein. Her illness, or rather her absence and delirium that we
nt on for three days and nights, according to the worried Frau Morgan. The arrival of a letter informing her of the death of her husband Luca Spiga who, explains her sister-in-law Suzy, has left her two million lire in his bank account. Her decision to return to Florence. Her dinner with Hans who asked her formally to marry him. Her inability to give him any answer. Her visit to Horvath at the library. He promises to come to Florence as soon as he has a visa in his passport.

  The newspaper has written to tell her they no longer need her: she has been away too long and contributed no more than a dozen articles. Not good value for money. She missed her scoop on the uprising in Budapest, her reports all arriving later than the dispatches of the international agencies. Appalling! The editor, after many hypocritical expressions of gratitude for her collaboration ‘which I do understand to have been passionately committed if unfortunately at the same time extremely meagre’ informs her that they have already replaced her with a ‘quick and able’ correspondent who will write from Eastern Europe and cost them less than she did.

  This too is a new circumstance she will have to face. How long can one survive on two million lire? A year, two at most, then she will have to find another job.

  She can’t get the wrinkled, wicked, desperate face of Peter out of her mind and can’t bring herself to call him Emanuele, even though she knows that’s who he is. She found him, which is what she had wanted to do. But in looking for one person she discovered another. As if she had entered by mistake a place ‘of cruel and absurd mysteries,’ as Marlow describes it, ‘not fit for a human being to behold.’ She had been looking for an innocent little boy, persecuted and wounded. And she found a fury. Had the experiments damaged his brain, as he claimed? Or had the cost of survival been too high for him to be able to afford it? He could not trust her, or anyone else. What had been the point of searching everywhere for him? A boy who never had any opportunity to grow, who had married and then separated. Who had assaulted his own infant son. What did they have in common now? How could she ever have believed she could rediscover the Emanuele she had known?

  The thoughts go round and round in her head. She must think of something else. Getting up, she opens a suitcase and pulls out a book. Conrad, as usual. ‘He seemed to stare at me […] with that wide and immense stare embracing, condemning, loathing all the universe. I seemed to hear the whispered cry, “The horror The horror!”’ There is something lugubriously comic about the madness going round in her head. She would like to go on reading but cannot. Her eyes lift from the pages to rest on the windows and the frozen panorama unfolding behind them. Firs heavy with snow shake themselves as the train passes and drop white heaps on the already snowed-up countryside. Every so often roofs and a church tower like a proud plume rise above the mass of whiteness. Then a football field just cleared, with young men running about in shorts. One slips and tumbles and the others laugh. For a while a road runs beside the railway with women cycling, their heads in coloured scarfs, skirts lifted free of legs protected by thick woollen stockings. A farm-worker is leading an ox with gigantic half-moon horns.

  It’s like being on one of her father’s model trains. In a perfect miniature reproduction of a carriage, travelling round and round on perfect imitation railway lines. But there is no one on board and the engine is pulling its coaches on tiny rails that come and go inside a single room. No stations of arrival or departure. Only a perverse racing towards something unknown, make-believe and unreal.

  The absence of Hans, the man with the gazelles, torments her. Why could she not respond to his plea for love? Why did she not tell him to come with her? That was what had been expected. A generous, patient, good-hearted man. I’ll write to him as soon as I arrive, she tells herself, and for a moment her heart shouts for joy. But something has been broken, has been spoilt. After the companionship of Budapest and their journeys together, the discovery of Emanuele hit her like an explosion. Causing another explosion inside herself. She can think of nothing else.

  The future opens before her like a precocious flower touched by the first ray of the sun but still frozen on the branch. Because the spring is not yet here and the sun has deceived her.

  About the Author

  One of Italy’s foremost women writers, DACIA MARAINI is the author of more than fifty books, including novels, plays, collections of poetry and critical essays. Her second novel, The Age of Discontent, won the international Prix Formentor, and she has been the recipient of two of Italy’s highest literary honours, the Premio Campiello and the Premio Strega. Her novel The Silent Duchess, an international bestseller, was shortlisted for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.

  SILVESTER MAZZARELLA has been translating Italian and Swedish prose, poetry and drama professionally since 1997. He learned English from his mother, Italian from his father and his love of Italian opera, and Swedish in Finland, where he taught English for many years at Helsinki University.

  Copyright

  First published in the United Kingdon in 2010

  by Arcadia Books Books,

  15-16 Nassau Street,

  London, W1W 7AB

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  All rights reserved

  Originally published by RCS Libri SpA, Milano

  Copyright Dacia Maraini © 2008

  English language translation copyright © Silvester Mazzarella 2010

  The right of Dacia Maraini to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–1–90812–908–6