Vizy was an outstanding bureaucrat, hard working and conscientious. This was a fact recognized by both his inferiors and superiors. Nor did he lack a social conscience: if someone in trouble turned to him he would immediately write the necessary memo to the relevant organization. He was capable – in his own fashion – of disinterested charity, as, for example, in the case of the establishment of an orphanage or sanatorium. On the other hand he did not like being harassed on an individual basis. What were organizations for, after all? You couldn’t even accuse him of minor abuses of his office: not a penny was left unaccounted for. But he believed religiously in doing favours for anyone who might be able to repay in kind, merchants and manufacturers who happened to be old friends of his, who, when he went to shop at their establishments, refused to allow him to pick up the bill. Of course he protested each time and did not consider it ethical, but he would have been hurt if such expected ‘unexpected gestures’ had not been made. On his name day he was showered with gifts of various sorts from stores and factories. They sent meat, cakes and liqueur in quantities sufficient to supply the festive spread. Occasionally he might receive a ring or a silver watch which his puritan conscience would not allow him to wear; instead he locked it in the display cabinet and only brought it out when he felt low. These presents were by no means commensurate with the scale of favours granted, but they were welcome tokens which increased his self-esteem and lent a certain poetry to his life.
Now he took care to cultivate these friendships: at the Municipal Assembly Hall, at committee meetings, at party suppers, night and day he wove his web. He looked, in these uncertain days, to leave behind the past ten years of stagnation in his career and skip a rung.
One evening he was invited to supper by the secretary of state. At such times Vizy became a regular lounge lizard. He chatted light-heartedly, even to his wife, and on this occasion she used the opportunity to bring up the topic of the maid. On their way out she enticed him into the caretaker’s flat.
His approach to the negotiations was considerably different from hers. Not being acquainted with all the fine details of the matter he could be as high-handed as when someone at the ministry passed him a hasty ill-prepared file. His wife regarded him with pride. There was, after all, something rather effective in this straightforward masculine style.
‘Well, what about the servant?’
‘She promised to come, your excellency.’
‘If she promised then she must come and fulfil her obligations.’
‘Well, she would come, but her employer won’t allow her.’
‘What do you mean? Hasn’t the servant handed in her notice? And has he not accepted it? If so, he cannot legally obstruct her. The law is perfectly clear concerning the contract between servants and their employers. He has no alternative but, de jure, to comply.’
‘Yes, sir,’ bowed Ficsor, mesmerized by the Latin words.
‘Very well then, let’s have no more fooling about. If she doesn’t keep her word I’ll have the police bring her over. You can tell her that from me. Either she comes or it’s the police.’
This did for both Ficsor and his wife. They stared at each other, dumbstruck. They were aware of the shades of the prison house creeping across their lives. They raised their hands in a gesture of protest against the charge of carelessness or perhaps to ward off the blows of fate.
Vizy had finished. He was ashamed that he had brought his prestige to bear on a trifle such as this. His eye roved around the basement flat. The damp had crept at least four feet up the wall, decorating it with black flowers as big as a man’s hand. There was an insidious smell of mould in the air which mingled with the smell of onions roasting on the hearth. The windows were so low you could only see up to the knees of the passers-by. This was where he watched and waited for Ficsor for hours on end that time his wife was taken off to parliament; there he had sat on that small chair which they now hastened to dust and offer him, so that he might sit down for a moment and so delay the inevitable. But he refused the seat. It was dirty. He was afraid of soiling his dinner jacket.
In any case it seemed to him that the kitchen used to be a more attractive place. Then he was grateful for its silence, its biblical simplicity. There was a settee somewhere he had very much wanted to lie down on. Could it have been that battered and worn sofa leaking great wads of seaweed stuffing? A china mug lay in a corner beside a shopping basket improvised out of the mauve-coloured velvet which used to cover railway-seats in first-class compartments and which, following the revolution, could frequently be found in working-class households adapted to various uses, including hastily patched children’s trousers. He was shocked by the poverty of the room. He held a handkerchief to his nose and shot a nervous glance at his wife urging her to hurry, but she was still wrapped up in her negotiations, aimless and circuitous as only a woman can be.
‘So you’ll speak to her, won’t you Mr Ficsor, and you’ll be sure to tell her that she should make up her mind? Perhaps you could promise her increased wages.’
‘That won’t be much use. She’s not bothered about money.’
‘Indeed?’ Mrs Vizy’s eyes lit up. ‘What is she bothered about then? Does she keep lovers?’
‘Her?’ Ficsor quite forgot about courtesies and dug his fat wife in the ribs. ‘Hear that? Anna keeping lovers!’
Mrs Ficsor revealed her yellow buck teeth and roared with laughter at the idea that Anna, of all people, should keep lovers.
Mrs Vizy grew curious.
‘Does she have a large appetite?’
‘She eats no more than a sparrow does.’
‘What does she like doing then?’
‘Working, your ladyship,’ answered Ficsor. ‘She likes work.’
‘She’s the sort of girl whose hands should be cast in gold,’ added Mrs Ficsor, and smiled beatifically at the vision.
Mrs Vizy was at a loss to know which impressed her more: the caretaker’s blunt assurance, or his wife’s simple, almost poetic turn of phrase. Both were commonplaces, but sometimes these are all the more impressive since they leave the imagination free to roam at will.
Katica was still with them but only just. She did more or less as she pleased now and they didn’t even ask her to tidy the flat. Mrs Vizy took a perverse joy in watching the dust and dirt gather. While Katica continued in her bovine way, yawning and waddling in the kitchen, she saw the other maid beside her, behind her, moving with the delicacy of a pixie and putting everything right. For work was what she liked, and only work. And much as we save our special gifts for those closest to our hearts, as a mark of distinction, so Mrs Vizy was already reserving certain particularly difficult jobs for her. She expected miracles from her. When she closed her eyes she saw her image with those hands that should be cast in gold, the maid with those golden hands which, being gold, sparkled in the half-light and led her on to ever new horizons.
Then something else happened. The Romanians moved into their immediate vicinity. Those at whom she had stared in astonishment in the first few weeks of the occupation now strolled before her house as if they had been born round the corner. She got so used to them she hardly noticed them. On Sundays, reeking of scent, the slim dark corseted officers promenaded up and down the Vár with their entourage of chorus girls, or took excursions into the hills, or picnicked on the grass with their latest sweethearts and took photographs to commemorate the occasion. They were serenaded by gypsy bands at the Philadelphia, who played them old Hungarian tunes such as they might once have heard and passionately sung as students back in the Transylvanian hills.
The common troops were encamped on the Vérmező. At night they prepared supper in a cauldron, lit their fires, and were attended by the local servant girls who had not seen real soldiers for some time, apart from a few wretched deserters or the flushed faces of the Red Army. Lajos, Katica’s boyfriend, had a long record as a burglar and had been arrested, so the girl found herself a Romanian, a shepherd boy from the ‘old kingdom’ barely out
of his teens. The tin-helmeted warrior had never seen such a beautiful woman. His arm wound around her waist, taking her hand in his, he walked her round and round the Vérmező, admiring her rouged lips and her tinted blonde hair. He communicated to her by signs that he would marry her if only she would return to Romania with him. Every day he would wait for her with a bouquet of flowers and would often enter the house itself, which outraged everyone. Etel refused to talk to Katica and considered her nothing less than a traitor; Steffi, on her behalf, declared Katica to be a Romanian spy.
Mrs Vizy wrung her hands. Such a scandal! Such shame on the house! but she dared not interfere, since she feared the vengeance of the troops. Neither was there an answer forthcoming to Druma’s letter.
The situation was becoming unbearable. She took her parasol in her hand and prepared for action. It was grey and dusty outside, a midsummer dusk more like autumn when the evenings begin to close in and the wind hums in the chimney. She stumbled along the uneven slopes of the Tabán quarter. The sentries on patrol gave the familiar streets the air of some strange colonial outpost.
She knew approximately where the house should be for the caretaker had often described it to her. She knew there was a practising midwife called Erzsébet Karvaly in the block, and that her sign, showing a baby being bathed in a tub, hung outside; that the gate to the house had iron palings, and that the glazed door of the Bartos residence opened on to the courtyard by a mural depicting St Florian which had a red night-light below it.
Árok utca was a row of dilapidated hovels in a state of subsidence, each indistinguishable from the other. She lost her way among them. She asked directions from a feeble-minded old woman sitting before a ruined shanty, but she had difficulty in making herself understood. Eventually she learned that she had missed the house and that she must go back the way she had come. She scampered down furtively as if she were a criminal. People eyed her suspiciously. She began to feel afraid. Eventually from a small grassy eminence she spotted the sign with the baby, made out Erzsébet Karvaly’s name, and crept through the gate. The picture of St Florian and the flickering red light invited her on.
Her plan was to ask the maid out for a word or two and then to entice her away, there and then if possible, but in any case to see her for herself. She fumbled in her bag for some money so that she could tip someone to pass the message to the girl. But there wasn’t a soul to be seen in the street. As for the dirty narrow yard with its patch of livid sky above, it was quite deserted.
She stood irresolutely, listening to the voices of women and children from within the house. A window slammed shut in the draught. She flattened herself against the wall and waited.
Suddenly the glazed door opened and a little barefooted boy ran out into the yard. This was Bandi. Her heart skipped a beat as a woman emerged.
The woman was roughly the same height as she was, but muscular and sturdy, her face a golden brown, her great head of hair tousled and her thick eyebrows black as coal. A faded mauve dress hung gracelessly on her. She chased after the boy who ducked and weaved around the yard till she finally caught hold of his hand, admonished him, then took him lovingly in her arms, smothered him with kisses and carried him into the flat.
After a minute or so she came out with a tin basin. She filled it with water from the pump and, as she started in again, looked round. Their eyes met for the first time.
Mrs Vizy beckoned her over with her parasol. Then with her spare hand. The woman seemed not to notice or understand and went in.
She did not come out again. It was getting dark. Soon a man entered the gate, obviously the master of the house. He stared at her, wondering what a respectable woman might be doing here. She thought it best to hasten away.
It hadn’t quite turned out as she had imagined, but she didn’t regret her adventure because at least she had now seen for herself what a strong, hardworking creature the girl was. What she liked most about her was her gentleness with the child. Her fantasies now had a basis of fact. At home she boasted to Ficsor that she had seen her.
‘How did the honourable lady like her?’
‘She’s quite a handsome girl.’
‘She has a wonderful nature. Your ladyship will be convinced of that.’
‘Yes, but when?’
‘Any day now. We’ve found someone to take her place there. They told us today they are letting her go, you needn’t worry anymore.’
Etel and Stefi were on the second floor beating eggs for a cake-mix.
‘She’s called Anna.’
‘Really?’
Mrs Druma, who had a keen nose for gossip, wasted no time in spreading the news. This bland and conspicuously uncultivated woman had been an ordinary nurse during the war and had hooked her distinguished-looking husband while he lay wounded in a provincial hospital. She sneaked and prowled about the inner staircase like a little mouse. Even her voice had a squeaking mousy quality. Once she crept up on Mrs Vizy and assaulted her in her usual tactless, confidential manner. ‘We know all about it. Yes, we do. What will you pay her?’
From her the details were conveyed to Mrs Moviszter. The doctor’s attractive wife was wearing a flowery hat and, having received a complimentary ticket from a theatrical acquaintance, was on her way to a dress-rehearsal. As usual she was accompanied by the latest literary discovery. She spotted Mrs Vizy in the fashionable Kigyó tér, and, having stopped her, brought the conversation round to the subject.
‘Surely not, darling! You mean she hasn’t started yet? Everyone thought she began yesterday.’
Mrs Vizy shook her head. And meantime the days passed by. The generous form of Anna hung before her ever more mistily, ever more distant. She began to think the whole thing was a figment of her imagination, that perhaps the maid did not exist at all.
6
Anna
It was 14 August, hot and bright, a beautiful summer’s day. Vizy had popped down to the Municipal Assembly Hall for coffee. His wife was contemplating what was left of her rice pudding. A few stray grains of rice revealed themselves as she pushed the plate aside. She counted them, there were seven.
How did they get there? She didn’t know. She was sure she hadn’t spilled them, since she had not moved her plate once during the entire meal. She thought about the number. Why precisely seven? It must portend something. After all even the most insignificant things may be used by the world beyond to convey an important message. Having quite clearly witnessed the appearance of her daughter at frequent seances and heard her voice, she did not doubt this.
She placed three pills on her tongue, swallowed them with a glass of thin wine, and was pondering what good news the seven grains of rice might portend when someone softly knocked at the door, and before she could answer Ficsor’s head appeared.
‘Should we wait, your ladyship?’
‘Who’s that with you?’
‘Anna. May we come in?’
‘Yes, do. No. Wait!’
The head disappeared and the door closed. Mrs Vizy clutched the edge of the table. This sudden unexpected turn of events left her dizzy. Her legs were bare but for slippers, and she was wearing the old lilac frock which she used to put on in the days of the commune when she hoped to be taken for a working woman.
She made for the wardrobe and changed into a white frock, champagne-coloured stockings and brown shoes. She selected these quickly like an actress before her entrance. She consulted the mirror. Her face was tired and careworn. She tried a smile but it looked forced. Then she experimented with a more serious expression but finally settled on a middle course. She lightly powdered her face, and slipped a gold bracelet on as an afterthought.
On tiptoe she hurried into the dining room. Her husband’s housecoat lay on the divan with the sleeves turned inside out. She folded it, but some things still worried her. The tablecloth did not fully cover the table, the greasy plates still sat by the remaining rice pudding and flies had settled on the sugar bowl. She would have preferred to tidy up a bit but there wa
s no time now. She was afraid that if she kept the girl waiting Katica would put her off.
All she could do was to straighten the tablecloth and replace the aluminium-tipped cork in the bottle. She resumed her place by the table and leaned on her elbow as if to suggest that she had been sitting there for some time thinking such thoughts as ladies of her station were wont to think. ‘Come in,’ she called in a low voice.
Ficsor entered. No one else. Not for three, four or even five seconds.
‘Well?’ she said. It looked as if they had cheated her again.
‘She’s here,’ the caretaker assured her. ‘Here she is.’
And then the girl came in. She came straight over to her, and curtseyed and kissed her hand so naturally and effortlessly, it seemed she had known her for years. Mrs Vizy did not withdraw her hand at once: she liked to have her hand kissed, enjoying the damp touch of lips. Ficsor told the girl to do something but Mrs Vizy did not – could not – hear it since the blood was pounding in her ears and her whole attention was directed to the girl who had retreated to the door and was holding her employment book in a clean handkerchief, her eyes fixed on the ground.
Mrs Vizy adjusted her lorgnette: her face was a mixture of shock, disappointment and wonder. ‘Is this her?’ she asked, indicating the girl.
‘Yes, your ladyship,’ Ficsor confirmed, incomprehendingly. ‘This is Anna. Anna,’ he repeated. ‘Is she not what you wanted?’ He inclined his head and squinted at the honourable lady.
‘Yes,’ answered Mrs Vizy, still doubtful, still a little hazy. ‘So this is her . . .’
But it wasn’t. At least it wasn’t the person she saw that evening in Árok Street. The woman who ran after the boy had been taller, much taller, much more muscular; her face golden-brown, her hair and her eyebrows both black, black as coal. She remembered this quite clearly. It must be a simple misunderstanding. She must have taken her for someone else, perhaps for that relative of Bartos of whom Ficsor had spoken once or twice.
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