They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy)

by Bánffy, Miklós

  Laszlo did not concern himself with such matters. One morning as he was walking to the academy, he encountered the workers’ march on its way to the Parliament building – thousands upon thousands of silent men in dark shabby clothes, moving relentlessly in rows of eight which took up the entire street. It was quiet and peaceful and inexpressibly sinister, but, impressive though this unheard-of demonstration was, to Laszlo it meant nothing. He lived in a world of his own, clothed, indeed insulated by his music and his own internal bitterness from everything that went on about him. He ignored the political discussions in the Casino, and barely noticed when people came up to him and told him (‘just between us, of course’) of some new political menace, or when he overhead others sounding off with treasonable intent about the need to rebel against the Emperor.

  Laszlo frequently lunched or dined with the politicians, listening with disdain to their discussions and arguments. His silence was taken by them merely as aristocratic indifference to such mundane matters and as a result his social reputation remained untarnished. The truth was that his indifference sprang only from the strange mindless lassitude with which he was now imbued. It was as if he had donned the cap of forgetfulness which weighed him down like a leaden cloak.

  Even his afternoons of passion with the beautiful Fanny gave him no relief. Often, when leaving their little apartment her kisses still wet upon his lips, he would pause at dusk on the embankment of the Danube. In front of him thousands of saffron-coloured strips illuminated the dark water, reflections of the lamps which lit the riverside boulevards; while above, the great dome of the Parliament building hung in the evening sky, veiled in smoke and silence, the silence of a city about to come alive when dusk fell. Laszlo would lean against the iron railings of the Margit Rakpart gazing sightlessly over the surface of the wide slowly-moving river on which gulls and other waterbirds would float, serene and calm.

  Laszlo never gave a thought to the love-making he had just left behind him, never conjured up the image of the woman who had just kissed him goodbye, never tried to recall the look in her beautiful cat-like eyes or the lines of her mouth so wise in the ways of love; nor did he think of that smooth flesh clothed only in the five long strings of pearls that she never removed even at their most intimate moments. Knowing how much the glowing whiteness of those pea-sized pearls enhanced the beauty of her body and of her pink skin, Fanny would tie these long strings round her waist or neck, in festoons over her generous breasts, and even like fetters between her thighs where they glowed like an iridescent frame around the golden moss that covered the mound of Venus, underlining her nakedness by this most ephemeral of coverings. But she would never take them off. The Beredy pearls were worth a fortune and Fanny had worn them from the day her husband had offered them to her as a wedding present, and it was perhaps because of this constant contact with her skin that they remained so magically alive and glowing. But for Laszlo all these things were as if they had never been. Nothing penetrated his solitariness, nothing drove away that forlorn sense of having been abandoned in a meaningless, hopeless world. Many times he thought it would be far better just to die.

  He would stand looking over the Danube for a long time before slowly making his way back to the Casino where he would take a bath, change, read the newspapers, dine and pass the rest of the evening at cards, playing always until there was no one left to play with. He was always among the last to leave the club, usually out of pocket, for the game hardly interested him any more than did that beautiful loving woman with the lithe body of a panther, who that afternoon had been driven wild with pleasure by his embraces.

  Several weeks went by, weeks which for Laszlo were utterly without significance except for those unexpected moments when he would suddenly be wounded by some minor incident that provoked a sharp flash of pain. For example, one day he had gone to the upholsterer’s to order some more cushions for their modest little meeting-place and suddenly found himself being shown with pride a set of new furniture which had been ordered by Imre Warday. The worst moment was when he received a beautifully engraved wedding invitation: ‘Louis Kollonich, Prince of Kraguvac and Knin, and his consort Agnes, of the Counts Gyeroffy of Kis-Kapu, have pleasure in announcing that the marriage of their daughter and stepdaughter, the Duchess Klara Kollonich, will take place on October 14th …’ and when, the same day, he overheard Wuelffenstein and Niki Kollonich planning to go together to Simonvasar for the wedding. Then a pang went through him disturbing, for an instant but only for an instant, that thick shell of indifference in which he had so carefully encased himself.

  And still the days went by, each the same as the last.

  One morning towards the end of October Countess Beredy woke early. Though the windows of her room were hung with thick silken curtains, here and there a ray of early morning sun would find its way into the room and gleam softly on the gilded curves of one of the bed legs or on one of the rose-pink flowers of the brocade bed-cover.

  Fanny woke with a strange feeling of unease. She felt restless and her throat was constricted by some unknown anguish. There was no reason, no cause.

  How odd, she thought; it must be unusually early! She raised herself from the silken pillows until, supported on one elbow, she could see her tiny jewelled clock: it was only half-past six. Fanny decided to go back to sleep but, though she snuggled down among the warm silken bedclothes, sleep would not come: she could only think of Laszlo. Poor dear Laszlo, how unhappy he was! Even though she did everything in her power to cheer him up, to make him forget Klara, nothing could remove the gloom in which he was enveloped. Recently, reflected Fanny, she had been doing more than was wise or prudent.

  Ten days before, on the day of Klara’s wedding she had risked doing something that would have previously been unthinkable for her: she had spent the whole day with him so as to be sure that he wouldn’t be alone. They had gone on an expedition to the shrine of Maria-Besnyo, leaving early in the morning on the local train as if they were making a pilgrimage. Fanny had told Laszlo that they must go early because the forests were so beautiful at that time of year and Laszlo had docilely agreed to everything she suggested. On arrival they had dutifully said a prayer at the miraculous image of the Virgin and then they had gone to an inn for luncheon, where she made sure he had plenty of wine to drink.

  Afterwards they had walked in the forest, Fanny chattering away about how beautiful were the red leaves of the beeches and how the branches of hornbeam seemed to her to be the colour of lemon-peel. Deep in the woods they rested, Fanny sitting at the foot of a tree and Laszlo lying with his head in her lap. Here she made him sleep, stroking his luxuriant wavy hair as if he were a weary child to be calmed and comforted. When the day ended they returned to the inn, where Fanny ordered a good strong red wine and a flask of brandy and, though she had never liked it when Laszlo drank too much and she could smell the liquor on his breath, on this day she had made him drunk with a purpose, and it was successful.

  Slowly the tense, sorrowful expression on his face relaxed and the hard line where his eyebrows met was smoothed away. It was true that Laszlo’s eyes had become somewhat dull with a glassy, sightless look; but at least he had relaxed and was calm, even if he was indifferent to where he was and what he was doing. In the end he had even laughed and joked with her. Though nearly everything he said had been, perhaps, a trifle silly, and from time to time a little drop of saliva had formed at the corner of his mouth – something that would have revolted the normally fastidious Fanny at other times or in other men – she had rejoiced and been happy that she had made her lover forget, even if only for a brief moment, the sorrows that beset him. It had not mattered that it was not she herself, nor her beauty, her love, nor her solicitude that had wrought this miracle, but merely the quantity of strongly laced red wine that she had poured into him. No, that did not matter in the least, for what really was important was that somehow she had managed to make him forget that at Simonvasar it was the day of Klara’s wedding … and of her wedd
ing night; and when Laszlo had nearly reached a state of insensibility she could take him home to his flat in Museum Street, quietly, by hired carriage, and leave him there to sleep. After Fanny had dropped him she had had herself put down at the Gisella Square, where she had changed carriages and then been driven back to her house near the Palace.

  It had been unbelievably reckless, but she felt that she had to do it because on that day she had been deadly afraid of what would happen if Laszlo had been left on his own. It had been especially daring, for if her husband, by some unlucky chance, had come to hear that she had spent the whole day alone with another man he would have been certain to take it as proof of her infidelity and he would have used such information without mercy. It was always possible that he used a private detective to follow her.

  Fanny tried to recall every detail of that foolhardy excursion. Every precaution she could think of had been taken. She herself had boarded the train at the Eastern Station, Laszlo at the next stop. When they arrived at the last little station on the line they had got out and walked to the shrine across the meadows. In the forest they had been alone and in the inn she had seen no one from the city who might have recognized them. In the evening they had dined at the other inn in the village, and again there had been no one there who knew them. Afterwards they had returned to the station in the carriage that the innkeeper kept for the use of his guests. Surely she had made no mistake, for everything had been done with the utmost prudence and care? So why this anxiety, why this nagging worry?

  The more Fanny thought about it and the more she tried to reassure herself that nothing could possibly have gone wrong, the more agitated she became. From time to time she glanced at the telephone by the bed, which was on a private line whose number was known only to her intimate friends and to Count Beredy. At any moment she expected it to ring, and it would be her husband, gloatingly telling her that she had at last made a fatal mistake. She knew it was madness, but she could not get the thought out of her head.

  The telephone rang. For a moment Fanny stared at it in deep alarm. Then, gathering up all her courage, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘It’s me, Laszlo. I’m sorry to wake you, but I’m in terrible trouble. I’ve lost a great deal of money, a tremendous amount. I must see you, perhaps for the last time …’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In our flat. I’ve been here about two hours. I have to talk to someone, I can’t stand it any more.’

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, my darling! Wait! I’ll be there!’ said Fanny and jumped out of bed to dress.

  Fanny found Laszlo lying on the big divan in complete darkness. He was fully dressed, except for his collar which had torn off, and was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. Fanny sat down beside the couch and lit the discreetly shaded lamp beside the bed which had illuminated so many hours of their passionate love-making. On the table by the lamp she saw a folded sheet of writing paper which was wrinkled as if it had been crushed in someone’s hand.

  ‘My darling, what has happened? What is the matter?’

  ‘I’m down a huge amount, eighty-six thousand crowns! Imagine! Like a fool I plunged and lost everything. Of course I don’t have it, I can’t raise such a sum at all, let alone straight away. This is the end. If I don’t pay up by the day after tomorrow I’ll be thrown out of the club, and I couldn’t bear that. I won’t! So I had to see you before – before I disappear for good!’

  Fanny felt her heart constrict, but outwardly she remained calm. She bent down and kissed his eyes as she had done so often, like a mother with her child.

  ‘Your skin is burning! Wait! I’ll get a sponge,’ She ran into the bathroom, returning almost at once with a sponge and a bowl of cold water. Then she bathed his face, which was already wet with perspiration, his eyes and his forehead.

  ‘Is this better? Does it feel good? Are you calmer now, my darling!’

  In a little while Laszlo was indeed calmer.

  ‘Let’s take all this off, she said. ‘Leave it to me, you know how I love to undress you!’ She laughed softly, peeling off his crumpled clothes with practised hands until he lay naked on the bed. Then she gently sponged his chest and arms and legs, dried him and wrapped him in one of his many silk dressing-gowns. All this movement, the fuss she made of him and the caresses with which she interspersed her taking off his clothes, so quietened the desperate young man that when she finished her work and lay down beside him, he was able at last to tell her what had happened the night before.

  It had started with a poker session after dinner at which he had lost some three thousand crowns. This was not a huge sum but the loss annoyed him, especially as the game had come to an end at one o’clock. Then he heard that chemmy was being played in the baccarat-room upstairs, though without any of the big players. Laszlo had gone up and sat down at the table. At once he lost and soon, though he had at first only made a small bet of a hundred crowns or so he was more than four thousand down. Recalling that he had one or two hits while holding the bank, he decided to recoup his losses by calling a bank for a sum much higher than those present were accustomed to. Then a surprising thing happened. Gedeon Pray, who for once had joined the game and seemed to be on a winning streak, looked hard at Laszlo as if singling him out as his special prey and called ‘Banco!’ and won the coup. Again he did the same thing; and again he won. Towards morning the game had turned into a duel between the two of them. Laszlo’s credit had long been exceeded and he found himself signing IOUs without reckoning the cost. He ran after his money even though he knew that it was impossible that he could win back everything that he had lost. It did not matter whether he held the bank or Pray, for the latter always held fantastic cards. When Pray suggested halving the stakes or offered to accept only something agreed between the two of them, Laszlo fell into the trap, hoping thereby to win something back. And still Pray won. As dawn was breaking there were only four men left at the table. At six o’clock the Club Steward came in and the game broke up.

  Everyone rose and Pray headed swiftly for the stairs. Laszlo followed him and asked: ‘Gould I settle in a week or two? It’s a bit difficult to find such a large sum all at once …’

  Gedeon looked at him coldly. Now, as he told the story to Fanny, Laszlo could well recall how his mouth had looked like that of a shark set in a bloodless, puffy face.

  ‘I’m very sorry, but no, I can’t do it! As a member of the card-room committee I have to obey the rules. No irregularities for me!’

  ‘I see,’ said Gyeroffy. ‘In forty-eight hours?’

  ‘In forty-eight hours, starting at noon today …’ Pray hurried on down the stairs.

  All this Laszlo related, using as few words as possible. Then he added: ‘I came here straight from the Casino. I didn’t dare go home; my guns are there!’

  Fanny had listened attentively. Then, thoughtfully, she said: ‘So we have two days to pay?’

  ‘But how? Where will the money come from?’ Reaching out for the crumpled note on the table, he read out his list of debts, how much he owed and to whom. ‘I could settle the Casino account, but that of Gida Pray, never. My credit at the moneylenders is exhausted: those sharks are already at my heels and recently they’ve been pestering me daily. There is no way, none! Now I really am finished!’

  Laszlo now gave way to despair; unable any longer to control himself he sat on the bed racked with sobs. Then he buried his head on Fanny’s shoulder. Fanny stroked him gently and then pressed her body to his so that their bodies touched from her breasts to her toes, her long legs entwined with his. ‘My darling,’ she whispered, ‘my very dear darling!’

  She kissed his mouth while her hands, knowing and practised, caressed his limbs until his sobbing ceased and he was overcome by desire, searching for solace in her arms. Afterwards he fell into a deep sleep. Fanny got up from the bed and sitting quietly beside him gazed down at her sleeping lover. Her eyes again narrowed to thin slits as she fingered the magnificent pearls around her nec
k. For a long time she sat there quite motionless, except for the little movement of her hands as she touched the five long ropes of pearls. Finally she srood up, combed her hair and dressed. Then she took note of the losses listed on the paper beside the bed. Just before leaving she went over to the writing table, found a sheet of paper and hurriedly scribbled a few words:

  I’ve thought of something I can try. Stay here until I return. I expect to be back by three – maybe four at the latest. In any case, wait for me!

  Returning to the bed, she placed the note beside the lamp where Laszlo was sure to see it when he woke up.

  Silently she glided from the room.

  Within twenty minutes Fanny entered the Dorottya Street shop of the well-known jeweller Bacherach, who was famous all over Europe for the beauty of his stones and the marvellous settings created in his workshops.

  ‘I would like to see the director!’ said Countess Beredy as she entered the showroom, which was lined by showcases of sparkling crystal filled with masterpieces of goldsmith’s handiwork and with trays of shining silverware. Through a side-door discreetly concealed by a velvet curtain from the showroom there entered a chubby little old man wearing enormous horn-rimmed spectacles on his fleshy nose. It was old Bacherach himself.

  ‘How can I serve your Ladyship?’ he asked, bowing obsequiously, for though he owned three apartment houses and possessed a fortune far larger than did many of his fashionable clients, it was his pride to appear before them as simply as if he were still a humble apprentice.