‘Welcome, your Lordship, welcome!’ he cried, taking the meerschaum from his lips and shaking hands heartily. ‘I must say I never thought you’d really come in the winter! Come in and have a little something to warm the heart after such a long cold ride. And something to eat too! I’m afraid lunch won’t be until two; we never thought you’d get here so soon!’
‘I shall not be staying to lunch. I want to arrive before dark so as to set up camp,’ replied Balint coldly.
Old Nyiresy was stunned. ‘You won’t stay? You won’t honour my house? But I have invited guests to meet your Lordship; two of my best friends, the notary Gaszton Simo from Gyurkuca and the manager of the State forests. They’re fine men both of them, especially Simo who’s of a very good family from Bud-Szent-Katolnay. Why his uncle … If your Lordship’s really set on going up there you could start tomorrow morning.’
Balint made a gesture to indicate that none of that would be possible, and they moved into the combined living and diningroom of the forest manager’s house. In the middle of the room stood a large square oak table of the style known in the eighties as Altdeutsch, and in one corner was a sofa and two armchairs.
They sat down, and in came two young Romanian servant-girls dressed in fine starched linen skirts and cotton blouses, one carrying a tray with glasses and the brandy bottle, the other a plate of biscuits. These they placed on the table, then they made a curtsy to Balint, and said in Romanian: ‘Poftyic Mariassa – at your Lordship’s command!’ and left the room winking at Balint as they went.
Without thinking Balint looked up at them.
‘Tasty morsels, eh? Look! If your Lordship will stay I’ll send one of them to your bed tonight … or both if you think you can handle them!’ The old man chuckled and then added, with a leer: ‘I sample ‘em myself from time to time!’ and he twisted his moustache with a swagger.
Abady replied coldly: ‘No, I’ll not be staying. I’ll be off just as soon as the horses are ready.’
‘Pity! Pity! It’s my loss!’ The old man gave a great puff of smoke between each exclamation. He was deeply offended that the oriental welcome he had planned to soften up the unwelcome guest had been spurned.
They sat for a few minutes in hostile silence. Then Balint said stiffly: ‘Be so good as to give me the estate maps. I want to compare them with the military surveys.’
‘No idea where they are!’ said the old man gruffly. ‘I put them away years ago. I’ve got no need of such things, it’s all in here!’ He tapped his head and continued to pull on his pipe in proud, offended immobility.
Outside the house the dogs began barking and firm steps could be heard crossing the wooden veranda. The door was flung open and a tall, rawboned man walked in. He was dressed in a short jacket and corduroy riding breeches cut in the fashion that country tailors thought to be English, box-calf boots, and carried a hunting crop. He did not remove his hat, into which were stuck three large boar bristles, but stood in the doorway with extended hand.
‘I’m Gaszton Simo!’ He spoke proudly as if everyone should tremble at the sound of his name.
Balint disliked him at once. He appeared not to notice the outstretched hand, and spoke condescendingly: ‘Please be seated, Mr … er … Notary.’
Old Nyiresy was deeply hurt. Although he knew that the house and most things in it belonged to the estate, and that he himself was no more than an employee, his pride had suffered a severe blow from the young count’s refusal to accept him on equal terms and the disdain shown for their efforts to entertain him. He boiled inwardly that this aristocratic brat should lord it over him in his own house, even to playing the host when Nyiresy’s friends appeared. It was too much!
To make up for Balint’s coldness he greeted the newcomer with extra warmth. ‘How are you, my boy? Come in! Come in! Have a little brandy!’ he went on, as he helped the newcomer off with his coat, put hat and whip on the table, and ushered him to an armchair.
‘His Lordship won’t be staying for lunch,’ he complained. ‘He’s starting at once for the mountains!’
Simo turned towards Balint enquiringly. What a bandit, thought Balint, now that he could see his face properly. Why, he looks like a medieval mercenary who would go anywhere, serve no matter who, kill anyone, so long sas he was properly paid. Gaszton Simo had a hard, resolute face under short hair which grew so low on his forehead that it almost touched his thick black brows. He had small shrewd button-like eyes, and thick black moustaches which joined equally thick black whiskers. He looked both forceful and cunning.
‘Madness, going up there in the winter!’ growled old Nyiresy. However Simo did not back him up as he had hoped.
‘Why not? The weather’s beautiful now, even if the nights are cold. This time last year I went shooting with my uncle, the Chamberlain. We went to the foot of the Humpleu and camped on the Prislop. Wonderful weather we had!’ He turned to Balint. ‘Have you got everything you need, sleeping bags, fur rugs, watertight tent, kettles …? If you need anything I’d be glad to lend it. If you like I could go with you and take care of everything.’
This did not fit in with Balint’s plans.
‘Thank you, I have all I need. The horses are being loaded up now.’
‘When do you return? I’ll have a roe-buck for you.’
‘A roe-buck? In February?’
‘There’re no restrictions in the mountains,’ laughed Simo scornfully. ‘It’s better if I order it shot than let it be taken by some common poacher. I just have to say the word!’
Balint was too outraged to reply at once and just as he was about to speak Andras Zutor came in. He clicked his heels to Abady and announced that the horses were ready whenever his Lordship wished to leave.
Balint got up at once and went out. He shook hands on the veranda with Nyiresy, and this time also with Gaszton Simo. Then he ordered Janos Rigo, who was waiting at the foot of the steps, to have the sleigh ready for him in three days’ time at Szkrind in the Retyicel Valley as he would not return to Hunyad the way he came but planned to return by way of Mereggyo.
The old forest manager muttered something into his beard but said nothing more to retain the young man who had made so light of the welcome he had planned for him.
In front of the house, standing about in the snow, were eight horses of which three were saddled: two, for Balint and Andras Zutor, with wooden Hungarian saddles covered with sheepskins, while the third, a much more impressive animal, had a military saddle and well-oiled bridle and reins. This was the notary’s horse, a fine dapple-grey, sleek and well cared-for. All the others were skinny mountain ponies with shaggy winter coats.
In the centre of the group stood Honey, who had discarded the old hat he had been wearing and replaced it with a splendid affair of sheepskin which he wore only on special occasions. Slung round his shoulders was a Werndl sporting gun and at his side he carried a bulging knapsack on which was displayed a brass plaque engraved with the Abady arms, the symbol of his official status as a Foleskudt man, someone who had taken the oath of loyalty and was therefore respected as an officer of the State. With his reddish beard trimmed like the monarch’s, erect stance and commanding glance, he had the air and presence of a sergeant-major, and was accorded the same respect.
Around him stood the five gornyiks – forest guards – who had been summoned by Andras Zutor. These were Todor Paven, a tall Albanian who had charge of the Intreape forest; Krisan Gyorgye, a big man with a black moustache and huge hands from Toszerat; the overweight Juanye Vomului, who, with new clothes, a vast sheepskin hat and a copper-studded belt with copious pockets, and who was not an Abady employee but was an independent smallholder from Gyurkuca and liked to underline his special status by the elegance of his appearance; Vaszi Lung from Valea Corbului, known as Zsukuczo or ‘Tipstaff’ because as a young man he had been the bailiff’s runner. He was a small elderly man, blond and chubby with inflamed red eyes who, from having once been a noted poacher was now such an efficient keeper that no one dared s
et traps or wander with a gun in his part of the forest. Lastly, there was Stefan Lung from Vale Szaka, the youngest of the band, tall and slim, who had inherited his job from his father. Young Stefan was no relation to Vaszi; they bore the same name simply because nearly all the families of the Retyicel district were descended from two brothers who had settled there a hundred and fifty years before. All five guards carried a long-handled axe and knapsacks bearing brass plaques with the Abady arms as symbols of their authority in their respective districts.
Abady mounted swiftly and, as Zutor was adjusting his stirrups, Gaszton Simo, who had been whispering something to old Nyiresy, came up and asked if he could ride some of the way with him.
‘I thought that you were going to have lunch with Nyiresy?’ said Balint, who was not at all eager for the notary’s company.
‘I’ll be back in time. I would like to ask the Count’s opinion on something … something political, nothing to do with the estate.’ As Balint hesitated, he jumped on his horse and was soon riding beside him.
The little caravan got underway with Andras Zutor in the lead, sitting sideways as if kneeling in the saddle but still in full control of his mount. In the rear came the gornyiks in single file with the pack animals; and in between rode Balint and the notary.
When they had ridden only about a hundred paces Simo began to talk about the recent elections. Who would have thought that things would have turned out like this with the old ruling party now in the minority? How could it have happened? What would happen next? How would it affect the 1867 Compromise? What did the monarch think? Who would be the next prime minister? With all these questions he was trying to show this little aristocrat who played at politics that he too, Gaszton Simo, was no simple ink-licking notary from the backwoods but an informed man-of-the-world who deserved proper consideration. With each query he looked at Balint, hoping for an answer. The latter was silent for some time, and finally said: ‘It’s really too early to say definitely, but maybe the only constitutional solution will be a coalition.’
‘Hm!’ said Simo. ‘A coalition? Could that possibly work?’ He did not speak for a few moments and seemed worried. Then he went on talking in roundabout terms about how those loyal to the King had had to stand up to the machinations of revolutionary demagogues and finally arrived at what Balint realized was the purpose of this whole conversation. Perhaps, hinted Simo, the new party in power might now seek vengeance on those who had been loyal to the previous government? Did his Lordship believe that those who had given good service to the State in recent years might now find themselves in trouble? It was clear to Balint that the notary was scared that his own skin might be in danger. Reassuringly he said:
‘You have nothing to fear, Mr Notary. State legal officers are elected by the community and can only be displaced as a result of disciplinary action.’
‘Yes, yes, of course I know that, but …’ He looked around him as if to be sure that no one would overhear, then: ‘Look, sir, between men of the world, between gentlemen, I don’t need to hide the truth. The fact is I fixed the last elections in Hunyad. The government candidate won by nine votes, and that was only because I myself had brought in all the voters from here, all thirty-seven of them. Well, now I hear that some people are saying that the election was rigged and that twenty of those I brought were never on the electoral roll. The rascals! Someone’s already been up to spy around. Of course I threw him out.’
‘What really did happen?’
The notary, thinking his explanation had been convincing enough, began to bluster: ‘Well, the district judge is a good friend of mine. It was he who asked me to bring everyone. There are many bad people here; they hate me because I keep strict order, don’t let them get away with anything! Also I’m the only real Hungarian here, in this little outpost. Let them grumble, I’m not afraid! But if we had a new county prefect, named by the government, then perhaps they’d think they could testify against me. False witness, of course, false witness!’ He struck the pommel of his saddle to emphasize his point.
There was no need for Balint to reply at once as the road just then descended to a small river and the riders were obliged to go in single file, the sure-footed little ponies wading through the swift running water carefully testing each step for sharp or dangerous stones. When they had made the crossing successfully Simo again advanced to Balint’s side.
‘I have something else to request of your Lordship. The church at Gyurkuca is very small and ought to be enlarged. Only a small quantity of timber would do the job and it would create an excellent impression if it were to be donated by your Lordship. May I send them word?’
Balint said that he would look into the matter.
‘I can vouch for the district popa, a most trustworthy man. His son is actively pro-Romanian, but it doesn’t matter as he is dying of tuberculosis. But the priest is a good man, reliable; he always lets me know what is going on up there! I help him, of course, and try to keep the son out of trouble with the authorities. So can I tell them they can have the wood?’
‘I can’t decide now. I’ll look into it when I get there.’
‘But I’m vouching for him. I, Gaszton Simo!’ The notary was incensed not to have his word accepted at once.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Abady. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I would like you to return to Beles. I have things to discuss with the rangers. Good-day to you, Mr Notary!’ Balint raised his hat and spurred his horse on ahead to catch up with Zutor.
Simo looked after him, his expression full of hate. ‘Damned stuck-up aristocrat!’ he said to himself and turning his horse abruptly he started to gallop back the way they had come. Blind with rage he nearly ran down the foresters leading the packhorses.
Now they started to leave the valley and climb up to the high mountains. Here and there they passed log cabins surrounded by wooden fences. Dogs ran out and barked, but kept their distance as there were too many people for them to attack with safety. Krisan Gyorgye, in his self-appointed role as the young master’s bodyguard, ran towards them cursing, while the other porters and the men and women of the settlement giggled with amusement.
The valley they rode through was filled with a light mist, a bluish vapour that softened the outlines of everything around them while nevertheless holding a sparkling quality which hinted that the sun above was shining brightly. Almost before Balint was aware, the mist was blown away by the mountain breezes and the little party emerged on to a high ridge from which they could see an endless panorama of mountains and forests stretching into the far distance.
They stopped. There was not a cloud in the sky which arched above them like an ice-blue celestial dome. The mountain ranges in front receded in ever paler shades of cobalt, darkening only in the intervening valleys. On their left the bright sunlight etched the outlines of ridge after ridge of dense forest. As Balint took out his maps, Andras showed him the landmarks in front of them.
‘There, on the right, is the Gyalu Boulini! The Szamos river curves round the base of the mountain. That sandy hill there marks the start of the foothills of the Humpleu, but we can’t see the summit from here, it’s too far away. Our boundary lies on the top of that mountain ridge – there! – and then descends to the river. Beyond lie the Church lands, there, on the fourth ridge, is the Intreapa. The boundary follows that bend, rises to the left and then rises again to the summit. That’s the third side. His Lordship’s Valko forest meets the State lands at the Pietra Talharalui, those high cliffs there.’ He pointed at three rocks rising like giants’ tombstones on the horizon.
Far in the distance, about four or five miles away beyond the deep valley of the Szamos river which was shrouded in wisps of low cloud, Balint could just make out some faint black specks on the snow-covered mountainside and, behind them, a patch of grey that seemed to have a toothpick planted upright beside it.
‘Is that the church of Gyurkuca? Perhaps we could pass that way tomorrow? I’d like to see it.’
‘As y
our Lordship wishes.’
The road was extremely steep and also, because it was used by the peasants for hauling down the cut tree trunks, very slippery. To Balint it seemed a miracle that the little ponies could manage to climb it at all. As they went on their way they met a few Romanian peasants on the way down, their ox-carts dragging huge trunks after them. Each time a cart appeared, Krisan Gyorgye would run forward ordering them out of the way shouting and waving his arms about to show the Mariassa – the exalted one – that he was loyal, efficient, and always strict and severe in his master’s service. His zeal was such that Balint had occasionally to intervene to prevent him boxing the ears of the poor sandal-shod peasants. Andras Zutor’s behaviour was quite different. Always soft-spoken, he opened his mouth only if it were necessary to ask for a receipt or check that no more than the quota had been taken. Then he would ride on without a word.
The little party finally arrived at the highest point of the track which marked the boundary of the Abady forest holdings. Here they rested for a while and Balint dismounted to sit on a rock and enjoy the view before they plunged once more into the darkness of the woods.
Four of the gornyiks went ahead so as to prepare the night’s camp before their master arrived. With long even strides, they soon crossed the open meadow and disappeared into the dense fir plantations.
Abady decided to follow, but this time he went on foot for, not being used to the high wooden saddle and the steepness of the climb, his legs were beginning to feel cramped. Going was slow on the icy path. The forest was beautiful and mysterious, silent and seemingly full of secrets. The sun’s rays, unable to penetrate the dense overhead foliage, cast no shadows and, on each side of the track, dark fir trees stood, majestic in their perfect immobility. As the little party moved slowly onwards the deep silence was broken by the faint sound of knocking in the distance and, as they turned a bend in the track, in a clearing fifty yards below, two men could be seen cutting a great fir with their axes. Wood thieves, obviously, for as soon as they realized that they had been spotted they ran swiftly off downhill, with Krisan Gyorgye after them, using his axe-handle as a rudder as he skidded down the slope on his heels as if they were skis. Fast though he moved the men had long disappeared into the depths of the forest by the time he reached the tree stump. For a moment, until Abady told him to return, Krisan stood there shouting curses after the thieves, and he continued to growl and curse under his breath long after the march had been resumed, thereby still showing the Mariassa how faithfully he was served.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 25
