‘Katica,’ he repeated. ‘They’ve lost. The Reds have lost.’
The maid stared back at him, wondering what she had done to deserve her master’s confidence.
‘The scoundrels,’ he added, his nostrils flaring, intoxicated with the sweet scent of revenge. No sooner had he said it than he heard a loud knocking at the door of the flat. He went quite pale. He stared at the air before him, as if searching for the word he had just uttered, so that he might wipe away all trace of it. He waved his hand vaguely, trying to clear some imperceptible fug of smoke.
‘I’ll answer it.’ He strode with sudden decision into the hall, steeled for the worst. They might be looking for hostages, it might be a house search or state of emergency! He mentally prepared his defence: twenty years in public service, a social conscience, a general sympathy with Marxism though he deplored its excesses.
He was already a new man, no longer a martyr to Bolshevism but a victim of the old order which on innumerable occasions had ungratefully passed him over. He felt in his pocket for the trade-union card which only just that afternoon he had wanted to tear up. Fortunately it was there.
A little man stood before him in the corridor. He wore a scarlet-lapelled jacket like a postman, but his collar was uncomfortably undone.
‘Good day, your excellency,’ he bellowed, loud enough for the whole house to hear. ‘May I have a word with your excellency?’
‘Oh it’s you, Comrade,’ responded Vizy.
‘Your humble servant, your excellency.’
‘Do come in, Comrade Ficsor.’
The exchange was conducted with remarkable politeness in the historical circumstances. Both men were uncertain of their status, both anxious to give the other the advantage.
Kornél Vizy had been a ministerial councillor and it was the first time in four months that he had been addressed as your excellency. He felt some pleasure in hearing the title again, but was also a little disappointed that he had prepared himself needlessly. As for Ficsor, the caretaker of 238 Attila utca, he was crestfallen at still being addressed as comrade by the owner of the block.
The caretaker entered the flat and extended a hand to his excellency. Vizy took it. It was Vizy who had initiated the practice of shaking hands during the dictatorship of the proletariat, but ever since then it had been Ficsor who, out of courtesy proffered his hand first.
‘They’ve gone!’ enthused Ficsor, still at the top of his voice. ‘The rascals are done for. They’re packing up and leaving.’
‘Really,’ murmured Vizy, as if surprised at the news.
‘Yes, your excellency. The national flag has already been raised over the Vár. My brother-in-law raised it with his own hands.’
‘The important thing,’ pronounced Vizy, avoiding the subject, ‘is that there should be peace and security.’
‘The dear old red-white-and-green,’ gushed Ficsor in a fit of patriotic reverie, keeping a careful eye on Vizy’s immobile face. ‘Now there’ll be some scores to settle, your excellency. Yes, now they’ll have to dance to a new tune.’
Vizy noted the caretaker’s air of desperation and maintained his own inscrutability. Ficsor was struggling for words.
‘What I actually came about,’ he stuttered, ‘was the bell. The bell, your excellency. I thought, as I had a little time, I could fix it now.’
‘The batteries are there.’ Vizy pointed in the direction of the kitchen.
‘I know, your excellency,’ smiled Ficsor, who was deeply wounded by the idea that he, the caretaker, should not know where the landlord kept the batteries. ‘If I may just borrow a stepladder?’
Katica, in her best dress, resentfully produced the dirty ladder. They had some trouble in positioning it correctly since the kitchen was tiny and unaccommodating, and was lit only by a tiny light-well so that even by day it was dark. Ficsor wanted to switch on the light but the bulb had long gone. He asked for a candle.
Holding the candle he climbed the steps to the batteries. From the top he explained the cause of the fault. He went into great detail, stressing the difficulty and necessity of repairing it, but in a highly respectful manner since he was only too aware that he was physically having to look down on the person he addressed as Your Excellency.
While Katica held the steps for him he fervently set about compensating for his deliberate neglect of recent times. He fumbled with the batteries, took each one down individually and placed it on the kitchen table. With his penknife he scraped at rusty wires. He put kitchen salt into the jars and topped them up with water.
At that point someone else knocked at the door. A tall, slim, hatless, distinguished-looking woman in a lilac frock entered the flat.
‘Your servant, ma’am’ Ficsor bowed and scraped from the kitchen. Receiving no answer, he repeated, ‘Your servant.’
The woman continued to ignore him and walked into the dining room. Vizy followed her and embraced her. He could no longer hide his great happiness. He was grinning all over his face.
‘You’ve heard?’
‘Everything. They say that by tonight we will be occupied. By the Romanian army.’
‘Nonsense. The great powers would never allow it. It will be an allied army of occupation: Italians, French and English. Gábor Tatár told me so.’
The woman smoothed her beautiful ash-blonde hair and sank into the rocking chair. She gazed into space in her usual absent way, looking through everything, objects and people, as though they were not there, as if something beyond them engaged her attention.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried about you.’
‘I’ve been chasing about for something. This,’ said Mrs Vizy, rocking gently, and she opened her white-gloved hand to reveal a small parcel wrapped in newspaper. She threw it on to the table.
‘What is it?’
‘Butter,’ she answered with a wry smile. ‘It cost me three handkerchiefs.’
Ficsor was rattling about in the kitchen. He climbed the steps to replace the batteries. Mrs Vizy listened out for him, then turned away. ‘What’s that man doing here?’
‘He is fixing the bell.’
‘Now he bothers. We have been nagging him to mend it for months.’
‘He himself offered to do it.’
‘Why didn’t you throw him out?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Certainly not. You have to kick his sort out. Bolsheviks.’
‘Keep your voice down, he might hear you.’
‘So what? You think he isn’t a Bolshevik? Filthy swine. He’s a Bolshevik all right. I’ll show him . . .’
Vizy thought the time was not yet right for such things.
With unexpected ferocity the woman leapt to her feet and strode into the hall prepared to send the caretaker on his way.
But just at that moment the sound of the electric bell rang through the long neglected flat. It sang out in victory, in celebration, its harsh clatter bringing new hope and zest for life. Its fresh, gay, metallic trill refreshed the soul of the apartment, vibrated through its walls and woke it to new consciousness.
In the dining room Vizy marvelled at the sound. His wife looked for Katica, but discovered that the maid had once again sneaked off without permission.
‘It’s mended,’ announced Ficsor with a bow, seizing Mrs Vizy’s hand and administering a respectful kiss before she could remove it. He returned the ladder and, realizing that neither the kiss nor the mended bell were quite enough he took his courage in both hands and with a desperate confidence, as if imparting a great secret, practically whispered into the woman’s ear.
‘Your ladyship,’ he began, his eyes downcast, ‘I have a girl for you.’
‘What?’
‘A maid.’
Mrs Vizy could hardly believe her ears. She thought they were still ringing, that she must have misunderstood him. She looked at the caretaker with deep and undisguised interest. Her eyes sparkled. She would have felt no happier if someone had offered her a diamond.
&nb
sp; ‘She’s not a Pest girl, is she?’
‘Not at all. She’s a relative of mine, a peasant from the Balaton.’
The woman was positively excited. She had long dreamed of finding a maid privately, but a peasant girl! No one had come up with anything as good as this. She was certainly not going to negotiate the matter carelessly, and so, quite forgetting about her husband, she beckoned the caretaker into the kitchen, motioned him to sit down and, by flickering candlelight, she slowly went through all the relevant details with him.
When it was all finished she personally saw Ficsor out and returned to the kitchen. She picked up the handkerchief that Katica had left on the kitchen table and holding it between two fingers, she sniffed it and threw it to the floor in disgust. She pushed aside her hand mirror, closed the courtyard window and began to prepare a supper of tea and toasted bread.
3
A Sour Meal
Seeing that no one was at the outer door, Mrs Vizy went into the dining room.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Just trying it,’ answered Vizy. ‘It works.’
‘I noticed.’
‘You think he made a good job?’
‘You can hear for yourself.’
‘I hope you didn’t say anything to him.’
‘No. Leave off now!’ she yelled at him as he tried the bell once more. ‘What are you playing at? You’re like a child.’
‘I’m hungry. I’d like some supper.’
‘But who are you ringing for?’
‘For Katica.’
‘Her highness has been gone for hours.’
‘Where?’
‘Where? Where she usually goes. Strolling.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now.’
‘But nobody is allowed out on the streets today.’
‘Fat lot she cares for that. Lajos is back.’
‘Lajos Hack?’
‘Him. He arrived on the barge.’
‘And when will she get home?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Mrs Vizy burst out. ‘At midnight. For all I know,’ she continued to agitate herself, ‘it might be dawn before she’s back!’
‘Has she taken the key?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Very nice, I must say,’ rumbled Vizy. ‘Terribly nice of her. We have to sleep with open doors. She might bring anyone in.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised. You can’t pretend it’s the first time it has happened. You make me laugh!’ She turned indignantly and slammed the door behind her, just as Katica used to.
In the kitchen she made a great fuss of clashing plates and rattling cutlery. At such times she needed an outlet for her emotions. When she tired of debating the endless and enormous cares of life with her lord and master round the table, her fury took the form of clattering, so that for a few seconds it might seem – at least to her – that it was all his fault.
She brought in the supper on a wooden tray. A cup of tea, a couple of slices of toast and the butter she had bought that afternoon.
Vizy, who had only had a bit of liver and some vegetable marrow for dinner, glanced down at the weak grass-green tea, the suspicious-looking slices of black and yellow maize-bread which looked unappetizing even after toasting, and enquired sourly if there was anything else.
‘What else do you expect?’
‘Won’t you even lay the table?’
‘We never used to in the evening.’
‘Never mind,’ sighed Vizy. ‘It will do.’
He put his head in his hands as he often did when something went wrong with the housekeeping. He remained in this position for some time. He was dreaming of the white tablecloth, the rose-patterned porcelain of the plates and the wine in the cut glass which used to glimmer on the table whenever they dined here with his friends from the ministry.
‘Are you not eating?’ he nagged his wife.
Mrs Vizy rarely bothered with supper having suffered from nervous indigestion for some years. The recent excitements under the Bolshevik regime had only made her condition worse. She felt the acid in her stomach. She took out a cardboard box, extended her pale tongue and swallowed three dark-green pills with a shudder.
Her husband devoured the food all the more readily. Being healthy and male he greedily chewed and ground the dry slices of bitter-sweet maize bread on which he had expended every last smear of butter. Already it was gone. Still suffering pangs of hunger he added some saccharine to his tea and stirred it. At least it sweetened things a little.
Slurping his tea, he recounted the story of his meeting in Úri utca with Gábor Tatár who told him it was over, finished and done with. They had finished with Social Methods of Production, they could forget Revolutionary Self-consciousness, and there would be no more harrying of honest and industrious citizens.
Vizy had good reason for his boundless hatred of the Reds. He had starved under Bolshevism. When the commune took over he was demoted and put on half-pay. As it turned out they were so disorganised that he continued to be paid as before, but what could he buy for it? He had been ruined by the war, having from the outbreak sunk all his money – some two hundred and fifty thousand crowns in gold – in war-bonds and securities. He had had complete confidence in German arms. Only this three-storey house remained, and it produced no income. They lived in the four rooms on the first floor and the floor above was divided into two flats which were occupied by the local practitioner, Miklós Moviszter, and a young solicitor called Szilárd Druma. The house being situated in the immediate vicinity of Mozdony utca, it quickly caught the eye of the young Leninists. They took Druma hostage and kept him imprisoned for two months, and constantly harassed the clerically minded old doctor. On their first visit to Vizy they arrested his wife. She had been shaking out a tablecloth at the window and they charged her with secretly signalling to counter-revolutionary forces. They had dragged her off to parliament and only allowed her home at midnight, by which time she had been broken body and spirit. The next morning a young functionary called, who produced a cane from his leather leggings, and proceeded, while insolently strutting about, to requisition two of their rooms, the dining room in which they presently sat and the adjoining drawing room. It was lucky that the system had collapsed before any lodgers had been foisted on them.
But worse than anything was the fact that Vizy had been condemned to political oblivion. He was infinitely ambitious and with no prospect of advancement he was like a mill without grain, the wheels ground on within him uselessly. These were months of desperate frustration for him.
He used to be a reserved, somewhat sullen man who never discussed the office with his wife. Now he began to talk. On long walks in the Buda hills or sitting at home, waiting for the dreaded visit, he lectured her about his personal political creed and those young louts who were busy crippling the ministry.
Now it was proving difficult to resume the old domestic routine. When he had drunk his tea he stalked about and discussed the events of the counter-revolution, which had already assumed a comfortable historic distance in his mind.
‘Do you remember?’ he kept asking. ‘Do you remember?’
He mentioned acquaintances who had been hanged, the colleague who had been executed before the parliament building for distributing handbills in churches, and the Ludovicans, those boys from the Military Academy, who had been denounced as ‘counter-revolutionary brats’.
‘And then there were the boats, the monitors. Do you remember when they stormed up the Danube under those great bouquets of smoke? I was just shaving. We thought it was the Communists who were doing the shooting. We hurried over to the Tatárs to watch it from the attic. People were swarming like ants on the embankment. That’s when they murdered poor Berend, the famous paediatrician.’
He hesitated before continuing.
‘Then, of course, the Corpus Christi procession. That was quite a different sort of affair. Some commissar character in glasses wheeled up on his bicycle and swore at the Holy Altar. Spat at i
t too, according to some witnesses. They had him on the ground before he could move, carried him to the gate and beat him to death. Apparently it was a waiter who delivered the final blow.’
But the most exciting things, the thing that started it all, was the Krisztina rising. They had both followed its progress from close quarters.
‘By the time you arrived those dark curly-headed terrorists had roared up on a lorry and started firing at the church. And the crowd ran screaming into the school where they were enlisting men for the Red Army. But you weren’t there at the beginning. I was. It started with the crowd waving handkerchiefs. Krisztina tér was a mass of white. Trams stopped, people removed their hats and everyone sang the national anthem. I’ll never forget the scene. They tore down the red flag and burned it. It was some blonde actress who lit the flame, just in front of the chemists. And when the volleys rang out we all rushed home. It was a windy day, rather grey for summer. A little girl was running in front of us with an ivory-covered Bible in her hands. The poor thing collapsed right in front of our house. The excitement was too much for her. She lay there on the pavement like a piece of wood. She couldn’t tell us anything about herself. You brought her a glass of water. Do you remember?’
This too was a miracle, that they could speak about this now, so openly, so loudly. There was no response from Mrs Vizy. Her grey eyes were wide open, staring at some remote object of interest. After a long silence she spoke. ‘Tomorrow she’ll be sleepy again.’
‘Who?’
‘Katica. She’ll be dead to the world till nine o’clock, as usual.’
‘Oh, her.’ Vizy was still lost in the crowd, where history was being made, where fate was mercilessly dealing out her cards. ‘Why did you let her go out? You should be firmer with her.’
‘I intend to be. I’ll give her notice,’ she leapt at the opportunity. ‘You should have seen the black look she gave me when I suggested that she should occasionally stay in at night.’ She suddenly leapt up and mimicked Katica’s loud wail. ‘ “I won’t come back at all if you like.” The impertinence of it! Then she swans out, like this,’ She proceeded to demonstrate, even imitating the maid’s walk.
Anna Edes Page 2
