Even now, though he was merely chatting with a group of his admirers, when he opened his mouth everything he said could be heard as far away as if he were talking into a megaphone. Around him sat his supporters in a tightly knit group. On his right was Ordung, the suspended prefect who was doing his best to play the martyr’s part; his deputy, Bela Varju, who was a member of parliament; the older Bartokfay, who loved to recount how much better things had been in the ‘Great Days of Yore’; and chubby, baby-faced Isti Kamuthy. The last two had both been unsuccessful candidates at the last elections and were now all the more fired with public zeal as they hoped to be elected next time round, always providing, of course, that there should be a change of government. Their leader at this moment was saying little, merely replying to the soft-spoken arguments of the lawyer, Zsigmond Boros, who could easily and elegantly explain, in persuasive, flowery speeches, the most complicated legal problems. It was he who was taking the lead in their talk and he did so as by right, being one of the members for Vasarhely who was now in the heart of his own constituency. Also present was Joska Kendy, his pipe clenched between his teeth, and Uncle Ambrus, both of whom remained silent. Though this was expected of Joska, who hardly ever opened his mouth, it was unusual for Uncle Ambrus. Ambrus was normally louder and more vociferous than most, but today he was keeping quiet only occasionally belching out a rude word or two with a grin of good humour and doing his best to maintain his role as an uncouth but well-meaning and ultimately guileless good fellow. He had put on an innocent face, like a new-born babe, and every now and then whispered something to the two younger Alvinczys, Zoltan and Akos, who were seated on each side of him. These two disappeared alternately every fifteen minutes or so. All around the supporters of the local leaders sat and talked and walked about and were pleased that all these great and important people had turned up for the assembly. Near to the edge of the pavement sat two so-called neutrals, Jeno Laczok and Soma Weissfeld, who were doing their best to look like patriots and thereby atone for having previously sat on the fence.
Abady remained at Barra’s table for nearly an hour. The talk was of general matters, nobody mentioning the next day’s assembly. The party leaders were careful to avoid the subject, even though everyone already knew what their plan was. It was an excellent plan, and, as everyone already knew it, was a well-kept secret. As soon as the notary acting as president opened the assembly, Bela Varju was to stand up and, before the notary was able even to start making his official statement, propose the suspension of the notary. If this were accepted – as it certainly would be – then the notary would automatically have to give place to the President of the Chancery Court, who was Bartokfay’s younger brother, and he in turn (as had already been plotted) would at once announce that the Assembly did not recognize or accept the government nominee as prefect. This would mean that the president of the chancery court would at once be suspended: but then would be automatically succeeded by Gakffy, the Chief Justice, thereby ensuring that for many months to come, the provincial government would be headed by someone opposed to the government in the capital.
It was well thought out; and it was perfectly legal. The only worry was that, as everywhere else, there were dissensions in the province; and no one was quite sure how long it would be before they rose again to the surface. Though it was more than fifty years since the counties of Torda and Marosszek had been united in one administrative unit, the people of the former stronghold of the Szeklers in the Maros valley never wanted the same things as those of the northern part of the district. It was certain, therefore, that the Szekler party would want something different from what was being generally planned, if only to underline their independence, and that they too were plotting some ‘secret’ move. Being another ‘secret’, everyone knew it too. The Szekler move was almost identical to the majority plan, except that their refusal to recognize the government-appointed prefect, even though he had been nominated by the king, was to be based on the fact that he was a ‘foreigner’. Though both sides wanted, to all intents and purposes, exactly the same thing, they wanted it in different ways, and each was prepared to stab the other in the back if thereby they could get their own way. The two parties even adopted different names: the Suspension Party and the Decree Party. Everyone was well aware of what was going on, but no one was prepared to talk about it. At his table on the sidewalk in front of the café Dr Boros was discoursing elegantly on various non-controversial legal matters and everyone was paying attention to him. At last there was an interruption.
An unusual four-horse carriage drove up; unusual because instead of the conventional carriage horses it was driven by four stocky little mountain ponies with short strong legs, long tails and thick shaggy manes.
The coachman, and the man on the box, were dressed in long linen dust-coats and wore the high cylindrical hats of the Upper Maros. A tall man got up heavily from the rear seat of the low-slung carriage: it was Miklos Absolon, political leader of the Upper Maros region. The crowd around the coffee-house did not notice his arrival until he tried to make his way towards where everyone was sitting. Then they all jumped up and made way for him, though they knew that he was a trouble-maker and had only come in order to laugh at them and stir up what mischief he could.
Absolon immediately made for the table where the party leaders were sitting. He had a severe limp as a result of a twisted left leg that ended in a stump. He walked always with a short crutch held tightly to his thigh and now he made his way swiftly and noisily to the table where Barra was seated.
His progress was as relentless and unstoppable as that of an express train and on arrival they all rose and asked him to sit with them. ‘Good evening to you all!’ he said, and sat down, though without going so far as to shake anyone’s hand.
‘Give me a chair for my leg!’ he demanded of his neighbour, the Chief Justice Galffy, who immediately surrendered his own. When Absolon was settled he put his crutch on the table and turned to Barra. ‘Well, Samu, so you’ve come to see the fun!’ he said in a rasping voice.
Barra, instead of replying with one of the well-turned phrases of which he was such a master, merely replied, in a careful, noncommittal manner: ‘Yes, here I am!’
Balint could see old Absolon well, for his face was lit up by the lamps of the coffee-house in front of him. He looked remarkably like his nephew Pali Uzdy, with the same stylized Tartar head, slanting back eyes and wide cheekbones. His hair, too grew from a widow’s peak which was now visible as he had pushed back from his forehead the little fur-trimmed cap he always wore. This cap was from Asia, a Kirgiz cap as worn by the Gobi tribesmen in the Altai mountains, and its fur lining stood up in twin triangles on each side of his head. He was tall, though not so thin and spindly as his nephew, and he had wide muscular shoulders.
Abady was fascinated to see him. He had heard that twenty years before, during the ’80s, Miklos Absolon had travelled widely in the more remote parts of Central Asia. He had had many adventures and seen many strange things, and would talk endlessly and wittily about them; though he had never written down his experiences or made any effort to publish them. As a result many people assumed that he had made it all up and that he was an habitual mythomaniac whose tales were all lies and so, though they would egg him on to recount his ‘adventures’, it was all nothing more than a tease and they would mock him behind his back. Balint had always thought it was probable that Absolon was telling the truth, and this feeling had been reinforced when he had met an old Russian in Stockholm who had travelled with Prsevalskij and who had asked Balint how Absolon was and if he had ever published the story of his time in Tibet. The old man had said that what Absolon had to tell would have been of world interest, and he told Balint how Absolon, when trying to escape from Lhasa, which he had entered disguised as a pilgrim, had been caught at the Tibetan frontier and had his leg broken, and how his eventual escape had been a miracle of cunning and endurance.
In Transylvania, however, no one believed a word of these old
stories and so, as soon as the old traveller had seated himself at Barra’s table on the Vasarhely sidewalk, someone asked, with an innocent face: ‘Is your leg hurting you?’
‘Naturally. Hasn’t the political weather changed?’ replied the Absolon with a short rasping laugh.
‘Thinth when are you wounded?’ lisped young Kamuthy.
The older man looked up sharply: he knew well he was being mocked but, in his turn, he laughed at those who tried to make fun of him, knowing, as they did not, that everything he said was true.
‘When visiting the Dalai Lama!’ he replied. This was just the sort of answer for which they had hoped. Some of his listeners laughed and others nudged each other in satisfied appreciation.
The old traveller looked around and saw Abady whom he did not immediately recognize. ‘Who are you?’ he called out. Someone explained: ‘Ah, Tamas’s son! He was a good friend of mine. I’m pleased to see you!’ Then he turned to the lawyer and said:
‘I interrupted your discourse. Please go on. I should like to learn something new!’ Boros then went back to his dissertation on common law. Absolon listened quietly for a long time as the lawyer spoke carefully and mellifluously. From time to time he nodded as if in agreement. Then he took out a short black cigar, bit it firmly with his white teeth and spat out the end.
‘That’s very interesting, very good!’ he said. ‘We need laws. Everyone needs laws, even in the desert! There, if someone steals a woman he can redeem himself with two sheep, though, of course, if he steals something valuable, a camel for instance, then he’s hanged without mercy!’
Zsigmond Boros went pale with anger. Icily, from behind his carefully trimmed spade-shaped beard, he said: ‘I don’t see the connection.’
‘Perhaps there is none!’ replied Absolon, laughing heartily.
‘But, since we were speaking about the law …’
There was some whispering in the background and someone sniggered sensing that Absolon’s apparently innocent remark might be more mischievous than it sounded, for most people had heard some rumours that Boros was in difficulties concerning a legacy from some deceased female client. However, the lawyer merely looked coldly at Absolon for a moment or two before resuming his legal discourse.
While this was happening at the coffee-house a private closed carriage, with its glass windows tightly shut, entered the square from the road that came from the mountains. It was driven by an elderly coachman and was pulled by two horses who were obviously tired after a long drive.
As soon as the carriage stopped one of its windows was let down just a crack and a young man went up to it and spoke to whoever was inside. In a moment he was replaced by another, both presumably making their reports to the person, still invisible, who was seated within. Then the Chief Justice was called to the carriage window. A minute or two later, he came back to the café table and spoke to Abady.
‘Countess Sarmasaghy would like a word with you,’ whispered Galffy,. ‘She’s in the carriage over there.’ Balint found this very tiresome, but there was nothing to be done but obey.
From the darkness of the carriage a little shrivelled hand reached out to him. ‘Get in!’ said a thin, piping voice; and talon-like fingers drew him into the carriage. As soon as he was seated she ordered the coachman to drive on.
‘I need to have you with me, nephew Balint, my young friend, because I have to go to a public restaurant and a lady of my age and standing could not possibly go there unaccompanied!’
The tired horses were now trotting very slowly. Old Lizinka complained: ‘It’s terrible how much I’ve got to do. I’m quite exhausted. I’ve spoken to dozens of people. I have to if I’m going to prevent that old no-good Absolon having his way!’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Balint.
‘Just to the edge of the town. There is some sort of an inn where it seems I shall find that good-for-nothing nephew of mine, Tamas Laczok. I’ve got to speak to him. Why? Because of this ridiculous assembly, of course. They tell me he’s on good terms with the chief engineer of the railways and I want him to help me persuade the man to vote with us – for Suspension.’
The old woman sighed deeply as she explained to her nephew how much work you had to do if you took up a cause. It was almost more than she could do, but no one would ever say that she, Lizinka Sarmasaghy, had given up easily!
Finally they arrived at a small restaurant in a garden on the outskirts of the town. Little tables covered with red cloth were placed in the shade of acacia trees. In the middle there was a long table at which sat a group of young men, students and agriculturists from the University of Kolozsvar, arguing in loud voices. Nearby, alone, sat Tamas Laczok the railway builder.
Balint recognized him at once for he looked exactly like his brother, Jeno, the Lord of Var-Siklod, though not quite so fat. He had the same short body, bald head and inscrutable oriental face. Aunt Lizinka went swiftly over to him, saying: ‘Good evening, dear Tamas! How are you, my dear boy? It is an age since I’ve seen you and you haven’t changed a bit, not a bit! I am lucky to have found you.’ and she ran on, tapping his cheeks and pressing a wet kiss on his forehead. Then she introduced Balint, sat down, and started talking politics. She talked so much, and so swiftly – producing a seemingly endless stream of political argument backed by quotations of common law – that no one, should they have wanted to, could possibly have stopped the flow. As it was, Tamas Laczok just sat back calmly with the bland expression on his face of one who understands nothing of what is being said to him, taking sips from his tankard of beer and rolling one cigarette after another, licking them as the Spaniards do, and smoking quietly. He just let Lizinka talk without himself saying a word. Finally she begged him to use his influence with the chief engineer so as to be sure he voted in the right way. When at length she paused, hoping for a reply he looked up and replied, in French: ‘Ma chère tante, vous avez eu la bonté de tant radoter sur mon compte – as you have been so kind as to spread evil gossip about me – I can see no reason why I should do you the smallest favour.’
Lizinka protested but to no avail. Tamas merely shook his head and repeated: Mais oui, ma chère tante, c’est ainsi, c’est ainsi – that’s how it is!’
Lizinka at last realized that she would get nowhere with him and jumped up screeching: ‘Tu es un cochon’! Tu as été un cochon! Tu sera toujours un cochon – You’re a pig, always have been and always will be!’ and ran out of the garden faster than anyone would have thought possible for such a frail old lady. In her rage she completely forgot Abady, who only recovered from his surprise after she had jumped back into her carriage and been driven away.
‘Believe me, I have nothing to do with all this,’ he said to Laczok apologetically. ‘When she asked me to bring her here I had no idea …’
‘I’m very glad she did!’ said Tamas, laughing. ‘At least it gave me the chance to tell the old witch what I thought of her! Stay and have a drink! Then I’ll be able to exchange a few words with at least one of my cousins. Since I came back all the others have been avoiding me like the plague!’
Balint stayed on and was pleased to discover how agreeable and interesting this strange character really was. Tamas was obviously delighted to have someone to talk to and to whom he could relate some of his varied experiences. He talked of his time in Paris where, at the age of forty, he had finally qualified as an engineer; of Algiers, where he had had a contract to build a railway, and build it he did despite having his superior killed by wild Arab tribes before his very eyes; how they had begged him to stay on there, at an unimaginably high salary. ‘But who in hell wants to stay there,’ he said, ‘who in hell?’
While Balint was listening to Tamas’s tales he noticed that the two younger Alvinczys had joined the group of students at the long table. They seemed to be issuing some sort of orders, though Balint could catch only an occasional phrase: ‘Be quiet to begin with. Don’t start until I raise my hand! Understand, only when I raise my hand!’ They leaned forward and co
ntinued to whisper among themselves. Tamas Laczok was still in full swing. Now he was saying: ‘… no matter what anyone says, home is best, if only so as to annoy my beloved brother!’ He then explained how Jeno Laczok had formed a company with Soma Weissfeld, the banker, to exploit the Laczok forests in Gyergyo. These forests belonged equally to the two brothers, and Tamas was convinced that the others had done this so as to deprive him of his rightful income. It didn’t matter much, he said, as at least now he could earn his own living; but from time to time he would write to them demanding statements; and then they had to set to and scribble away preparing accounts, balance-sheets, statements of profit and loss and goodness knows what else as well. ‘Of course I never look at them!’ he said. ‘But just think how cross they must be! It’s great fun!’
The students all now got up from their table and started to leave. Balint was almost sure he heard Akos Alvinczy saying to one of the other young men: ‘The eggs will be handed out in the morning, at least ten each …’
Ten eggs each? thought Abady. Some breakfast that’ll be! But Laczok was still telling his tales and Balint soon forgot all that he had overheard at the next table.
The town hall of Vasarhely was already packed to overflowing long before ten o’clock when the Assembly was due to be officially opened. This was because a rumour had spread among the members of the Suspension Party that that wicked fellow, the notary-in-chief, had planned to shut the doors at nine-thirty and install the government’s prefect while the hall was still half empty. A rumour had also reached the Decree Party that their opponents were plotting to barricade the entrances so that they alone would be in place when any decision was reached. All the official delegates therefore came early, well before the appointed time, and they were joined by a band of thirty or forty university students who, bear-led by the two young Alvinczys, forced their way up the stairs and into the hall before the policeman on duty could do anything to stop them. Some took their seats in the public gallery where Aunt Lizinka presided like some wicked fairy – though she thought of herself rather as some Guardian Angel of the Resistance – while the majority crowded together at the back of the hall facing the platform where the president would sit surrounded by his officers-of-state.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 60
