Kula explained that he had come himself to tell the Mariassa all this so that he would understand what had happened and would not be angry at the village people. After the notary, said Kula, the popa Timbus had come – but he did not tell Balint that the priest had scolded them for turning to a hated Hungarian lord for help against their own flesh and blood, saying that they had betrayed their priest and his good friend Rusz and that this he would never forgive or forget. Let them only come to him when they were in need, he had said, and then they would discover what it was to defy him! But young Kula told none of this to Balint, merely repeating a couple of times: ‘The priest was here also! He too came to see us …’
Balint thanked him and gave the young man a two-crown piece.
‘No! No! I didn’t do this for money! Please believe me, not for a reward!’ But Balint insisted and the boy finally accepted the coin before vanishing once more into the thicket of hazel bushes beside the road.
A few days later Balint went to see the chief notary for the district, for it was he who remained in charge after the sheriff had been suspended. He related what had happened up on the mountain, what Timisan had told him (without revealing his source) and, giving details of Simo’s involvement, laid the whole blame on the district notary, explaining how abominably he treated the people under his jurisdiction.
The county notary listened with a cold expression on his face.
‘I am unable to take any action at present, my Lord,’ he said at last. ‘Everything has now become a matter of politics – or at least it is treated as such either by the government or else by the people in the districts. Besides, Simo is one of the best notaries in the service. He’s completely trustworthy!’
‘Do you know that from your own experience?’
‘From the reports of his immediate superior, the chief sheriff, who always …’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Balint angrily. ‘He does not check on such things because he’s in on all the deals himself!’
The chief notary stiffened in his seat, offended.
‘It is quite natural that they should be socially acquainted. Simo comes from a very good family. His uncle is a Chamberlain and he himself only became a notary because, for private reasons he was unable to finish school. I understand that he does an excellent job and up there in the mountains, he is, shall we say, our Hungarian sentinel.’
‘Hungarian sentinel?’
‘Yes indeed; sentinel!’
Balint laughed in disbelief:
‘Hungarian sentinel? The man who aids the bank that provides the money because he makes a profit himself? The man who sides with the money-lenders?’
‘These are very grave accusations of which I would require further proof before any action could be taken. If your Lordship insists I can initiate an inquiry, but your Lordship must realize that this puts me in a most awkward situation. In the present circumstances … well, it could mean that I was risking my job because both the government and the opposition will assume I’m interfering in politics. Anything I do …’ and he trailed off weakly.
This is just a waste of time, thought Balint, as the notary accompanied him to the stairs all the while explaining effusively what a difficult situation he was in. Balint left the building depressed by the fact that party politics could so impede the most disinterested and humane efforts to help those in trouble. One aspect of the affair, however, gave him a little cheer. At least it had been the villagers themselves who had refused his help so no one could accuse him of leaving them in the lurch: it was the only good point in the whole unfortunate affair.
Until the middle of November Balint would pass his days in the hunting field and his evenings, after his Romanian lessons, dining with friends and going out in society. At the weekends he went back to Denestornya.
On the Saturday after St Katherine’s Day he found his mother in bed with a bad cold. The doctor said that she had bronchitis and for some days Countess Roza had a high temperature. When the fever subsided she was left with a persistent cough and a chest specialist announced that Countess Roza must spend the winter in a warmer climate. He always suggested natural cures and this time he proposed the Riviera. For a long time she would hear nothing of it, but Balint finally was able to persuade his mother to do what she was told. The old lady agreed, but only on her conditions, which were that Balint should go with her and that some little-known and simple resort on the Italian coast east of Genoa be chosen rather than the mondaine Côte d’Azur.
Balint guessed that this was because she had travelled there on her honeymoon with his father and had a hankering to return to a place where she had been so happy. He wrote to one of the friends he had made during his diplomatic days, an Italian now en poste in Vienna, and in a few days received an answer recommending Portofino, where there was an excellent little hotel with a good reputation. Soon Denestornya was in a flurry of packing and all the preparations for a long absence.
This was a cruel blow to Balint. The thought of having to go so far away from Adrienne – and for so many months – just when he had at last become so close to her, was unbearable. He knew that it was his duty to go with his mother but he could not go without seeing Adrienne once more. There was always the possibility that maybe this time, in the emotion of their imminent separation, she might, just might, yield to his entreaties. Balint dismissed the thought as soon as it came to him, for he knew in his heart that there was little hope of that unless he forced himself on her. He wrote a letter to Adrienne explaining that he had to go away on a prolonged journey and that before going he must see her, not at Almasko but somewhere where they could be alone, perhaps in Kolozsvar. It might – who knows? – be the last time they ever met. He wrote truthfully that he could not go unless he could see her first, not merely for a brief leave-taking but for several hours, just the two of them. It was a good letter, ardent and humble at the same time.
In a few days he had an answer.
Adrienne wrote that she could not go away at this time for ‘they’ would see through any excuse she might make. She told him that she too longed to see him before he went away and said that she could think of only one way: Balint should make his way to where the Abady forests joined the Almasko property; just in front of the clearing where he had shot the roebuck and he should be there punctually at 10 o’clock: ‘I will be there, at 10 exactly and you too, no matter what the weather. This is the only solution I can think of. Next Wednesday, at 10 o’clock sharp …’
This was not quite what Balint was hoping for, but it would have to do.
He prayed that the weather would be fine and not a day of mist and November drizzle – though, for what he was hoping, there was little to choose between the four walls of a room and the heather in the forest …
Balint was already at the appointed place long before he heard the distant sound of the Nagy-Almas town clock ring out the hour of nine o’clock. He walked down from the boundary of the Abady forest, which was on the crest that divided the valleys of Sebes-Koros and the Almas, and stood by the trunk of a huge beech tree. From there he had a clear view over the clearing at the edge of the Uzdy woods, as well as far beyond to where the path followed the line of the hills.
He was lucky. It was one of those deceptive autumn days when no one would believe that winter was so close at hand. It seemed more like a day in late summer, for many of the trees had not yet lost their leaves. Where Balint stood he was surrounded by luxuriant foliage of all colours, from pale lemon-yellows through every shade of gold to the darkest red-bronze. Balint looked at none of this but kept his eyes fixed upon the track beyond. Once some men passed along the road on their way to Banffy-Hunyad, but after them no one was to be seen. At last, in the distance, he saw Adrienne emerging from the distant trees and walking fast with long strides, her head held high.
Diana the huntress! thought Balint as the memory of his first image of her came strongly back to him. He moved forward to meet her and they kissed, his arms holding her tightly to him.
He felt her lips on his, opening obediently as he had taught her, her body yielding to the pressure of his arms, though as they kissed Balint knew that her embrace was still that of an unawakened girl, virginal, ignorant, innocent of any passion or feeling other than the joy of meeting.
‘Let’s go deeper into the woods,’ he said. ‘People pass by here on the road.’
They walked back to the edge of the clearing. Abady spread his coat on the ground and they sat down.
‘So you are going away?’ said Addy. ‘For some time?’
Though she spoke sadly Balint could see that her eyes were still sparkling with pleasure at seeing him again.
Leaning back against the slope of the hill, Balint took her in his arms. Her head sank back against his shoulder, sweetly confident, and the curls of her loose hair gently tickled his face, his ears, his moustaches, until he felt that they had a life of their own as independent as starfish in the sea. Adrienne did not speak as Balint started to tell her all that had happened.
He began in the most matter-of-fact way, recounting the details of his mother’s illness and present condition, the doctor’s orders and the preparations for their departure. As he spoke so his hands began to caress her, firstly at the waist and then slowly down to her knees and back. Later his fingers reached the hem of her skirt and below, to the softness of her silken stockings and, as the movement of his hands took up a slow rhythm of their own so his words became more impassioned, colourful, warmer, themselves a caress. He talked of his deep love for her, the captivity of his soul, how whenever he saw something beautiful the picture of Adrienne’s face would rise up in front of him until he could see nothing but her golden eyes, raven hair and her generously curving, half-opened lips. As he spoke he would from time to time bend down and kiss those lips, fleetingly and without interrupting the flow of his words, beautiful words that sprang like sparks from the furnace of his desire, words that were transformed into a hymn of homage; and as he talked his hands, as if directed by a spirit independent of his own, found their own way, gently and carefully and ever more daringly, over Adrienne’s body. As they lay together on the slope of the hillside Adrienne’s skirt slid back from her knees and Balint’s rhythmically caressing hands reached ever higher on the thin silk of her stockings.
Adrienne did not move but leaned back against Balint’s shoulder. She seemed oblivious to everything but the gentle murmur of his voice, and the soft caresses of his hands over her body. It gave her a new and soothing feeling, something that she, who had never been fondled as a child or cherished as a woman, had not known before. Lulled, almost stunned, by Balint’s melodious words and the smooth regular strokes of his caresses, Adrienne did not notice that his hands, from moving softly over her dress and stockings, had now reached the naked flesh of her thighs.
The Balint who talked in such innocent, poetic phrases was miles away from the primitive male intent only on gaining his desires. Yet as he talked, stringing together such beautiful words, Adrienne became aware of his awakening desire. All at once she got up, her back stiff, her whole body rigid. She noticed that her skirt had slid up and, swiftly pulling it down, she stared at Balint with hatred in her eyes, her whole being poised for flight. It was exactly as she had been that time on the carpet in front of the fire in her drawing-room at Kolozsvar and when they were sitting on the bench her father’s garden.
Balint knew instantly that if he could not now regain her confidence then she would be for ever lost to him. Humbly, he acted as if he were offended and astonished by her sudden reaction and slowly, oh, so slowly, he coaxed her back into his arms stroking her always with quiet gentle hands, as one calms a frightened child, and telling her that if she allowed him to kiss her lips and neck, her shoulders, hands and arms, then she had nothing to fear if he touched her knees and even caressed her higher up and let him kiss her flesh there too. She must remember that he had promised that he would never demand more of her than she was ready to give and so, as a pledge of peace, he let his mouth slide up from her knee until, for a brief instant, he kissed a tiny spot of flower-petal skin above the top of her stocking. For an instant only, for Adrienne pushed him swiftly away and drew down the hem of her skirt; but as she did so she blushed like a young girl. Once more they leaned back against the soft earth and, though Balint felt his heart beating so strongly he thought it would burst, he continued his murmured litany of love until the creed of beauty with which he was always inspired whenever he found himself alone with Adrienne filled his soul with the blinding revelation that he must write down all his feelings and put them into a book. Even the title now came to him, Beauty in Action, and he decided there and then, that, while exiled on the shores of the Mediterranean, he would sit down and write it, pouring into his work all these feelings of love and ecstasy. After a few months he would return and lay his work at Adrienne’s feet as the proof that always, even though far away, her beauty haunted every hour and every minute of his day. His sentences would march to the rhythm of her own goddess-like stride and would be alive with the sheen of her alabaster skin, the curves of her lips and the wild flutter of her hair.
Over the trees, from the valley of the Almas, the faint sound of the faraway town clock told them that it was already midday. It was time for them to part and never before had they felt so close as now when they had to take leave of each other. Standing closely together at the edge of the forest they clung to each other for a long time. Then Balint fell to his knees and kissed her slowly from the waist, down her skirt and legs to her feet. Adrienne made no movement to stop him but stood there, with her knees slightly bent like the ancient statues of Greek gods, in marble immobility. To Balint her whole attitude seemed like the gift of an unspoken promise.
Eight days later Countess Abady and her son left Denestornya. When they boarded their sleeper at Kolozsvar the station was enveloped in rain and sleet. During the first part of their journey it started to snow heavily and at Banffy-Hunyad the train waited for some time while the snow-plough was fitted. During this stop Balint, who up until then had sat in his mother’s compartment chatting, got up and went into the corridor. He leaned out of the window to look at the snow and also to say a mute farewell to the station that was always associated with his visits to Adrienne. Thick snow flakes were falling, covering everything with a soft carpet of white. At Almasko it must be snowing too, thought Balint as he closed the window and went back to his own compartment to get ready for bed.
Up in the mountains it had been snowing hard for two days. Almasko was already blanketed in snow, as was the whole Kalotaszeg district. The wolves started to appear.
As soon as this was known to Honey, he cut up some goat meat and poisoned it with strychnine, threaded the pieces on lengths of wire and going to the edge of the forests, tied them to low boughs of pine and juniper. He covered the whole region, making sure the poison was placed wherever the presence of wolves had been reported, in the woods beside the waterfall in the district of Szentyisora and in the country around Pejkoja; everywhere that the wolves were known to gather. That night, his work finished, Honey returned to his forester’s hut in Scrind.
That night, too, a band of silent men left their houses in Pejkoja. They were all dressed alike, in felt jackets, rough peasant’s boots and black sheepskin hats. Each man, as always, carried an axe and a long wooden staff. One of them also carried something else, something that hung on long wires, red and chunky, like an outsize bouquet held upside down. Without making a sound they moved quickly through the heavily falling snow with sure movements of men used to the ways of the forest.
Although it was pitch dark and the paths were covered they found their way unerringly. For a long time they walked down to the valley of the Szaka and then up to the crest of the mountain on the far side. Finally they left the forests and emerged by the peak below which Balint’s caravan had formed up on leaving Rusz Pantyilimon’s house. Now they had only a hundred yards or so to go.
The leader of the band, Turturika, called
back: ‘Moy Kula!’ he said softly. ‘Go ahead with the meat and throw it in. If the dogs make no noise, rattle the door so that they can hear you. Mind you chuck the meat about so that they all get some!’
Young Kula, for it was he who had carried the poisoned bouquet, went ahead. He had agreed to do that for the others, but only that, and only because he knew that he must. When he had gone a few steps he was swallowed up in the falling snow. The rest of them remained where they were, leaning on their long sticks like shepherds on watch. Soon, though slightly muffled by the curtain of snow, they could hear the dogs barking.
The first sounds seemed to come from farther away down the hill, but then the barking came from nearer at hand, probably from the upper corner of the fortress-like compound: it was the sound of dogs fighting over something. Kula came back and joined the men who had been waiting. Soon the barking stopped, but the men from Pejkoja did not move. They waited for a long time, for the people of the mountain are patient. They had to wait, so time did not matter. After an hour had gone by, Turturika gave a few brief orders and they started off downhill. Two men with axes went to the door while the others went to that part of the wall nearest the mountain, threw a felt jacket over the jagged broken glass that was fixed along the top, and climbed over.
The next day the enquiries started. Gaszton Simo came to the village and, instead of bringing the usual two gendarmes, he came accompanied by four of them, all heavily armed. This was unheard-of and caused much comment in the village.
The great oaken doors were still intact, locked and barred. The house too seemed untouched, until one saw that smoke was seeping out of the windows darkening the walls above with dark smears of soot, and that part of the roof had caved in where the flames in the living-room had caught the beams above. The falling snow had nearly extinguished the fire, but it still smouldered inside where Rusz Pantyilimon lay dead upon the floor of his room. Here everything had been smashed into small pieces, and everything that could burn had been set alight. Obviously petrol had been poured everywhere and there remained intact only one corner of the letter tray among the ashes of burnt papers and the icon on the wall in front of which the little oil lamp still glowed, protected, no doubt, by the gusts of snow that had blown in through the broken windows. All this was quickly ascertained by the notary’s inspection, along with the fact that the dogs – two of whom still had pieces of wire in their mouths – had been poisoned by strychnine. That was all: nothing else. The pretty little servant boy, Rusz’s slave, who had run down the hill to the village and hidden in the mill as soon as the men had entered the house could tell them nothing. He had heard a noise. He had looked out and seen some men. It was dark and the men were dark too. He saw that there were some more outside the gate so he had climbed the wall and fled. His hands had been badly cut by the glass and he had run bleeding profusely, as fast as he could and as far as he could.
They Were Counted (The Writing on the Wall: the Transylvanian Trilogy) Page 69
