‘They said yesterday evening, the men from Szamos-Ujvar, that they’d bring in the coffin at midday. He ought to be ready by then.’
Balint offered to help her.
They slit each piece of clothing down the back so that it would be easier to put on. As Regina was cutting the waistcoat a small blue card fell from the pocket. It was a tote ticket from some long-forgotten race meeting. Abady picked it up and saw that on it was printed the letter nine. It must have been a losing ticket for if it had won then surely Laszlo would have handed it in, despite the fact that it was only for quite a small sum, just ten crowns, no more. Balint wondered what to do about it. His first thought was to throw it away, but then it occurred to him that it might have had some special memory for Laszlo and that that was why he had kept it.
It was true that that ticket had meant something special to Laszlo, though it was doubtful whether he ever realized he still had it in the pocket of the suit he had never worn again after that day at the King’s Cup race in Budapest when he had promised Klara Kollonich never again to gamble. In the grandstand he had said to her ‘I promise!’ and they had shaken hands on it. So as to mislead anyone who was standing near and might have heard these solemn words and seen the mysterious handshake and wondered what they signified, she had given him ten crowns and asked him to put them on a horse for her, just as if they had only been discussing a bet. He had put the money on Number Nine.
The bet had been lost … and the girl too. Laszlo had broken his word to her and had gone on gambling. To him that ticket had been the symbol of the day the Fates had turned against him.
Abady knew nothing of this, but his instinct told him to put the blue ticket back in the pocket from which it had fallen.
Outside the house Bischitz saw the car and asked the chauffeur about his master. When he learned that it was Count Abady, who was rich and important and a close relation of the dead man, he at once began to wonder if he might be able to get him to pay for all the soap, paraffin and brandy that Regina had stolen from the shop. He knew he could not send in an account for these to Dr Simay, who was hard and severe and would only say that he was not responsible for what the shopkeeper’s daughter might have pinched on the sly. Bischitz was not even sure that it had been Regina, for all he knew for certain was that he had missed some stock that he thought ought to have been there, and he could not even say how much had been taken. Still, he now thought, such a distinguished gentleman as Count Abady was certain to have a softer heart than the stern lawyer, for wasn’t he even now inside the house and, as he had seen through the window, talking kindly to his daughter?
Accordingly he hastened back to the shop and started to make out a bill. Being an honest shopkeeper he was careful not to add anything extra – though he did round off the total – but added it all up more or less to what he thought had disappeared.
When Abady came out of the house just before midday Bischitz had already been waiting for him for some time. Hat in hand he introduced himself and, after a lengthy explanation, offered Balint his account. He never mentioned how many times he had slapped Regina when he fancied she had taken something, but spoke warmly of her as if she had done it all with his approval. He even managed to give the impression that he had encouraged her.
Balint was about to take the bill, which amounted to a few thousand crowns, when a carriage with jangling harness drove up from the north and stopped beside them. A short, stout man with greying hair stepped out. He was aged about sixty and wore a short imperial and thick glasses. Peering at Abady with the slightly squinting gaze of the short-sighted, he spoke directly to the shopkeeper.
‘What sort of a bill is that?’
Bischitz started and then, rushing his words, he began to explain that there had been certain expenses which, merely out of discretion of course, he had not mentioned before for, still out of discretion of course, there had been some old debts of Count Laszlo’s … and some new ones … and he hadn’t wanted to trouble anyone with them.
There was nothing soft about the lawyer, for it was Dr Simay who had arrived, and he at once called the shopkeeper to order.
‘I gave strict instructions that you were to give no credit. Further I forbade you to turn to anyone else in anything that concerned Count Gyeroffy’s needs. Give that to me,’ he ordered, ‘and I will look it over.’ He then went up to Abady and introduced himself, ‘Dr Geza Simay, at your service.’
They shook hands and Balint then explained that he had come at once to provide whatever was necessary for Laszlo’s funeral, and added that he had brought the necessary funds with him.
‘That won’t be necessary, my Lord,’ replied Simay. ‘I have already made all the arrangements. The announcements have been sent out from my office. The coffin will be here in half an hour and the service and interment will take place tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. The local pastor has already agreed to conduct the service.’
‘But the costs? My cousin had no money, and the small annuity that he has been receiving from Azbej ceases with his death. I would never agree that the man who deprived Laszlo of everything should now wish to appear generous and pay for his funeral’
Simay smiled.
‘Azbej is paying for nothing, my Lord. There has been no annuity or anything else from him. Up until now it is I who have provided everything for Count Laszlo, and I shall settle these costs as well.’
‘What? No annuity from Azbej? But I thought…? Well then, where did the money come from?’
Simay paused for a moment, as if he had just realized that perhaps he had said more than he should. Then, unperturbed and unhurried, he went on to tell something, if not all, of the truth.
‘I used to look after all the late Mihaly Gyeroffy’s affairs; so it was quite natural that I should see to his son’s interests too.’
‘So it was you who provided for Laszlo?’
‘Not I myself. I merely arranged what had to be done,’ said Simay hesitantly. ‘I had my orders. It is the same with the funeral.’
‘You had your orders?’
‘Exactly. I am a lawyer, you know, and this had been part of my legal work.’ Simay spoke somewhat dryly, and then, to cut short any further enquiry, he turned to Bischitz and said, ‘The coffin will arrive at any moment. Please have a few strong men ready to carry it into the house!’ To Abady he said: ‘I hope your Lordship will now excuse me. I have to go up to the family vault,’ and after a brief farewell hurried off up the hill towards the manor house.
Balint was surprised by what he had just heard and asked himself who then could it have been who had kept Laszlo from starvation. Could it have been his aunts? Surely not Agnes Gyeroffy, Princess Kollonich? Or her sister Countess Szent-Gyorgyi, the gentle Elise? That was more likely; and yet how could she have organized all this so quickly when she lived so far away at Jablanka, in the Slovakian province of Nyitra? It was possible, he supposed, that she had given her instructions in advance; and yet it seemed unlikely. It was all very mysterious.
There was nothing more for Balint to do at Kozard that morning so he got into his car and was driven back to Kolozsvar where he found a telegram waiting for him. It was from Julie Ladossa, saying that she would arrive by that evening express from Budapest.
So she really was coming!
Balint at once wondered if her arrival would make for any problems with the others who would be coming for the funeral. How would they behave towards the notorious former Countess Gyeroffy? Would they greet her correctly … or cut her dead? That would be dreadful, no matter how justified. Balint now realized that it had been thoughtless of him to have sent off that telegram; but as he had he would now have to suffer the consequences. As to himself he decided at once that he would behave towards Julie Ladossa as if he knew nothing at all about her past. He would give her all the respect that was due to her as Laszlo’s mother, just as if she had never abandoned the position to which she had been born. That, he decided, was the right thing to do.
He went
to meet her at the station. The train was on time.
Holding herself as erect as the last time he had seen her she got down from the carriage with head held high. She was wearing the same black dress as she had that night in Vienna and Balint wondered if it was the only good dress she possessed. She held out her hand, explaining that she would have been there in the morning but that as they were staying at the Royal Hotel and not at the Hungaria she had not received the news at once.
She spoke calmly, in even natural tones. She showed no signs of sorrow or tearfulness. In fact there was no change in her manner, though Balint felt that if anything her face was even more expressionless than when they had last met. Was the vertical furrow on her forehead a shade more pronounced and her lips even more compressed, as if she was consciously clenching her jaws? It was so uncertain that Balint was not sure if it was really there or whether he had imagined it.
He took her to the Central Hotel and saw her to her room, saying that he would fetch her in his car at eight-thirty the following morning.
‘Are you taking anyone else?’ she asked.
‘No. Only you, Aunt Julie.’
At that last word she turned her head away abruptly. Then, very quickly, she muttered, ‘Goodnight!’ and disappeared into her room.
Balint returned home on foot. As he went he was assailed by many memories of childhood and of his years at school when he and Laszlo had lodged together at the Theresianum in Vienna. His heart contracted with sorrow and he was so overcome that tears filled his eyes. He longed for Adrienne’s comforting presence, but she had had to leave again for Lausanne some five days before as they had wired her that her daughter was ill again and that she should come to be with her. If Adrienne had been at home he could have gone straight to her and told her of his sadness, and she would have listened and understood and comforted him; but she was not there and he had no one to whom he could pour out what was in his heart.
He walked on until he reached the Abady town house, but when he reached the entrance he stopped, knowing that he would not sleep. Perhaps a long walk would help calm him, he thought, and so, even though a slight rain had started, he turned away and quite involuntarily headed for the Monostor road, towards the Uzdy villa. For a long time he stood there, by the bridge that led to the park, and then, after wandering for a while down the tree-lined alleys, he made his way back to the centre of the town. He had been walking for more than an hour and a half.
As he entered the market square he stopped, startled. A tall dark woman was standing on the sidewalk in front of the church. She just stood there without moving, apparently staring at the main entrance, lit up by one of the streetlights.
Balint had recognized her at once: it was Julie Ladossa.
Holding her voluminous coat tightly around her, she stood there like a figure of stone; and Balint wondered how long she had been there and if, like himself, she had been wandering about in the dark night ever since they had parted earlier that evening.
He turned swiftly away in case she should catch a glimpse of him and think that he was spying on her. Balint now took a turn through the streets of the old town and when he finally found himself in the passage beside the Town Hall which gave onto the market square, he looked again towards the church.
The dark shape was still there, just as before, motionless in the slight drizzle. Was she going to stay there all night?
The street in front of the little house at Kozard had been deserted when Balint had arrived the previous day: now it was thronged with people. All the village folk were standing there waiting.
The road was muddy, but the rain had stopped and so everyone could wait without getting wet.
The Bischitz husband and wife were there, dressed in all their finery as if for the Sabbath; and Fabian was strutting about giving orders in a stentorian voice. Old Marton was hovering disconsolate near the house. Only Regina was nowhere to be seen.
The entire Azbej family had turned up – Mrs Azbej, short, fat, full-bosomed, with several double chins; the Azbej children, short and dark, with eyes like tiny black plums, the image of their father; and the dishonest little lawyer himself, all self-importance, strutting about playing the host and receiving the eminent mourners as they arrived.
He had already welcomed the chief judge of the district and the doctor from Iklod and led them towards the ramshackle barn that stood in a corner of the manor house grounds.
That morning the coffin had been brought there and set up on a bier, according to Dr Simay’s instructions. He had ordered it so because there would not have been enough room for the mourners to pay their last respects in Laszlo’s little cottage. The inside of the barn had been decorated, again on Simay’s orders, with branches of pine cut from the woods that Mihaly Gyeroffy had planted but which now belonged to Azbej, as the little lawyer did not fail to point out so as to show everyone what a generous fellow he was.
When Abady arrived with Julie Ladossa, Azbej hurried forward on his short legs to greet them, bowing obsequiously, the image of grief-stricken sorrow, even though he had no idea who the lady was that Balint had brought with him. ‘Such a blow! Such a terrible blow!’ he whispered with his tiny mouth, holding his hat in one hand and with the other repeatedly wiping his eyes with a huge handkerchief. Backing before them with more bows and protestations of devotion to the deceased noble Count, he led them to the barn. They could see little more of him than the top of his round bristling pate of black hair.
At the door two gendarmes in full-dress uniform stood at attention. They were there not only for good form but because the coffin had not yet been closed. Its lid was leaning against the barn wall. The Chief Judge and the doctor stood together by the hedge smoking and nearby were the dark-clad employees of the funeral director.
Only Dr Simay was inside the barn. He had had the chairs from Laszlo’s house brought there and placed in a line in front of the open coffin. He was sitting on one of them.
When Balint and Julie Ladossa came in he stood up and went to greet them. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks and with both hands touched his glasses as if he could not believe what he saw. Julie Ladossa stopped too. For a few moments they stared at each other, then Simay bowed coldly. She nodded in acknowledgement.
Now they stepped forward to the bier, Abady and the unknown lady to one side and Dr Simay to the other. He stood there for a moment at the head of the coffin and then, with a hard glance at Julie Ladossa, suddenly grabbed the shroud and disclosed the body.
There was something vengeful in the quick movement as if to say ‘See, this is your doing! This is what became of the son you abandoned!’
Julie Ladossa did not move. She looked for a long time at the prematurely aged man with the thin wasted face and parchment-like skin and grey hair at his temples. It was the face of an Egyptian mummy, but who was he? Could it be the same being she had remembered through so many long self-accusing nights, only as a baby, as a three-year-old, a growing boy who still kept the round rosy features of babyhood? She had had to imagine him as a youth, counting the years so as to guess what the growing man had looked like … but this, this skeletal corpse, with a razor-sharp aquiline nose and long moustaches, dressed in a morning coat and starched collar and patent-leather shoes? There were no memories which tied him to her. In his petrified calm he was as strange to her as some unknown inanimate object.
She tried to force herself to kiss his face, but she couldn’t do it; so she made the sign of the cross with her finger on the dead man’s forehead and then stepped back beside Balint who had previously placed his wreath at the foot of the bier.
From outside came the sound of a powerful car. It was Dodo Gyalakuthy. She was followed by Mrs Bogdan Lazar from Dezsmer. Both of them brought wreaths which they placed beside Balint’s, and both of them said a short prayer beside the coffin. And to them too the dead man was a stranger, seeming to bear no resemblance to the Laszlo with whom they had both been in love. Then they took their seats beside Julie Ladossa and wait
ed.
Someone came forward and covered up the body with the shroud which was made of silk with a wide border of lace.
The Provost of the county arrived, with two deacons, an altar-boy and six singers. The officiating priest wore a black and silver cope, and the others similar funeral vestments. The service began.
Dies iræ, dies ilia. The traditional requiem hymn sounded as beautiful as ever. Then the Provost circled the coffin twice, sprinkling it with holy water, followed by the incense, wafted from a thurible of massive gilt metal.
‘How thoughtful of you to have arranged such a worthy service!’ whispered Julie Ladossa to Balint.
‘It wasn’t me,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps it was our good aunt Szent-Gyorgyi. I really don’t know who did it. Geza Simay took care of everything. He had his orders but he wouldn’t say who from.’
Hearing this Julie Ladossa sat up even straighter, and it seemed to Balint that something of a secret joy flashed briefly in her eyes … why, he wondered?
The wreaths were taken up and the coffin placed on a wooden stretcher which was lifted onto the shoulders of eight men who then carried it outside, where the priest and the deacons were waiting, crosses held high, to lead the procession to the Gyeroffy vault.
Balint offered his arm to Laszlo’s mother, but she shrank back.
‘Up there? To the vault? No! No! I won’t go there …!’ she whispered. Balint could hardly catch what she said, but her face was set and there was terror in her eyes. Balint answered, also in a whisper, ‘Wait for me in Laszlo’s house then. I’ll be back soon.’
The procession formed up and started on its way, the people from the village crowding round behind. Julie Ladossa waited until they had all gone, and then turned and walked away.
At Laszlo’s little house the door at the left of the porch was half open, so she went straight in. In the corner by the stove, hunched up like some wounded animal and crouching on the floor, a young girl was sobbing. It was Regina.
They Were Divided Page 39