by Magda Szabo
Viola whimpered in response to each clap of thunder.
“Anyway, I found another cat. There are always more than enough round here. People throw them out and chase them away. At first they’re kept as playthings for the child, then when they start to grow up they’re taken a little way off and chucked into someone else’s garden. So, as I told you, I got another to replace the one that was hanged, and then that one was poisoned, obviously by the same person who strung up the first. This time I kept quiet. I’d realised that a pet doesn’t have to go outside. It could stay indoors, the way Dobermann pinschers do, with the aristocracy. I could only keep them alive inside these four walls. I didn’t have all these at the start — I’m not mad. I only wanted the first one, the old cat. I had him doctored straight away to calm him down. The second one was sick and moped around, and by the time I’d got him better I didn’t have the heart to chase him away. They were dear little things, very gentle, and so happy when I came in. If there’s no-one to show pleasure when you come home, then it’s better not to live. I couldn’t for the life of me tell you how there came to be nine. I found one screaming at the bottom of Devil’s Ditch. He was trying to claw his way out, but he kept falling back in. The rubbish bin presented me with another two. As you know, the usual thing is to put the poor things in among the rubbish, inside nylon stockings. I didn’t think they’d live, but they grew up to be the prettiest of all. The grey one was abandoned when the stove-fitter left. The three black-and-white ones were sired by the Devil’s Ditch cat; they’re like circus clowns, very odd. I destroy every new litter, what else can I do? But I couldn’t bear to do it to these little clowns. They have stars on their chests. You couldn’t push ones like that into the ground.”
I stood there, stock still. The storm was receding, the thunder was much less and the lightning had almost stopped. The only blaze was from Emerence’s huge light bulb.
“They know that they have to lie low, because they all remember that moment of danger. They can also sense death. Don’t think that when you come with the injection they won’t already know what’s going to happen. But you needn’t feel sorry for a single one. Being put down is more merciful than being cast out and going stray, with all its perils. Feed them full of meat before you finish them off. None of them are used to meat, and if you add a little sedative, you won’t even have to chase them. Now, hold your tongue about all this, because nobody knows about them. You’re the only one. They were all snatched from the jaws of death, and they are closer to me than my little brother Józsi’s boy. If people in the building found out how many there were, they’d force me to get rid of seven, because we’re only allowed two, and the Health Department would be let loose on me. I can’t give you anything more than to entrust them to you, and let you see my home. Have a good look at them, but don’t move. They’re very timid. They don’t know anyone but me, and Viola. Viola, where are you? Stop fooling around, the storm’s over. To your place!”
Viola crawled out and jumped up on to the lovers’ seat. I noticed the dip in the middle he’d made for himself over time.
“Supper time!” she called. At first nothing happened, so she spoke again, this time very quietly. The room filled with movement, and once again I heard those peculiar noises, and saw Emerence’s family, all nine cats, emerging from their hiding places behind the armchair and under the cupboard. They didn’t even glance at me. The only sound was the thumping of Viola’s tail. They stood next to the empty bowls and turned their jewelled gaze on Emerence, who was at the stove, ladling out a sort of pepper and tomato stew from a large dish. She gave some to each in turn, the smile never leaving her face as she bent over them. The improbable vision didn’t seem at all improbable, but rather like a circus act — this was real training. Viola, greedy as he was, didn’t move a muscle, though he must have been ravenous. He just signalled with his tail that he was there too. The cats showed no fear of him. It was a long time since they had last thought of him as a dog. Last of all, he got his. He had a huge dish. It stood on the window sill, and — something he would never do at home — he wolfed down the stew, licked the bowl clean, and then looked at me defiantly, as if to say, see what a good boy I am here? “To your place,” said Emerence. He jumped back up on to the lovers’ seat, and the cats leapt up beside him and surrounded him. Those who didn’t find a place either next to him, or on him, attached their graceful forms to the back of the sofa, clinging to the wood in charming, classical poses. Two even perched on the shoulders of the dressmaker’s dummy, above the photographs, my own among them.
Suddenly she announced that she didn’t have another minute. The basement had apparently flooded and she had to go and sweep up some water. She kept Viola back, saying he should be allowed to talk with the others, but she packed me off home. We stepped outside and walked a little way together. The only perceptible fragrance was that of the rain. Once again, it was like Book Six of the Aeneid, as we made our way through the shadows, swathed in mist. Above us the moon hid itself only to deceive; soon it would pour down its rays. When I opened the door to our apartment, the tears began to flow. For the first time in my life I could not and would not explain to my husband why I was weeping. It was the only occasion in all our years of marriage that I refused to give him an answer.
CHRISTMAS SURPRISE
Viola is long dead, but I retain many images of him. Often, at dusk, I am tricked by the play of light and shadow in the street, and seem to discern a tiny, rhythmical pattering in the deep silence. I imagine I can hear him running along behind me, his claws clattering, and his quick, hot panting. But his image also comes to me on certain Sundays in summer, when the aroma of a meaty soup or pastry baking wafts out from behind the jars of pickled cucumber on the sill of the open window. No-one could gaze at the kitchen with such utter devotion, watching what was taking shape from the raw ingredients, as he. It was impossible to keep him away from the cooking area, though in fact no-one ever wanted to, because at such times he became a devotee, perfectly disciplined, but always waiting for some special morsel. His longing had its own peculiar sound, as if he were sighing, and always, in response to this doleful note, the person standing at the stove would throw him something. These sighs too are often brought back to me by the stream of memory.
More often than not, the face of Emerence that looks out at me from the past is the one she wore as she asked me, in a voice empty of all emotion, whether I wasn’t bored with forever offering to help her and then gazing dreamily at her, as if she had asked for my hand in marriage. What did I want from her? Friendship, or to be fondled like a close relation? “Your ideas about everything are very different from mine. You were taught how to do a thousand things, but not to be aware of what really matters. Can’t you see that there’s no point in trying to dazzle me? I don’t want anyone unless they are completely mine. You like to put everyone in a box, and then produce them whenever they’re needed: this is my girlfriend, this my cousin, and this my elderly godmother. This is my love, this is my doctor, and this pressed flower is from the island of Rhodes. Just let me be. Once I’m no longer here, visit my grave now and then, that’s quite enough. I rejected that man as a friend because I wanted him as a husband, but don’t pretend you’re the child I never had. I offered you something, and you accepted it. You’ve a right to a few of my things, because we got on well even if we had our little tiffs. You’ll get something when I’m gone, and it won’t be just anything. That should be enough. And don’t you forget that I let you in where I never allowed anyone else. Beyond that, I’ve nothing else to offer you, because I’ve nothing else in me. What more do you want? I cook, I wash, I clean and tidy. I brought Viola up for you. I’m not your dead mother, or your nursemaid, or your little chum. Leave me in peace.”
She was right of course, but that was little comfort. The one favour she had asked, that after her death I dispose of her little zoo, I would have done for anyone, though in my heart of hearts I hoped that when the time came the whole menagerie wou
ld have dwindled away, or been got rid of, and that she wouldn’t be mad enough to take in any more. The existing nine were terrifying enough. It certainly wasn’t an easy task, but there was nothing else for it. I had to accept that she had set the terms of our relationship, and the thermostat she had installed was an economical, rational one. We kept in touch with various diplomatic couples in the same polite way. Before each encounter, we would repeat the unwritten paragraph of the foreign service code: feelings are to be kept under control; every three years diplomats are sent elsewhere; they cannot allow themselves to form lifelong relationships with the natives; we too must ration out our fellow feeling in this measured way, but we should enjoy their presence while they are here as it’s so good to be in their company, and enjoy the mutual exchange of sympathies.
To this diplomatic convention only the three of us subscribed. The fourth member of the family, Viola, did not. Once, in a rage, he bit the old woman, and received such a beating with the shovel that it broke a rib. Despite his howling he submitted to the attentions of the vet. The old woman held him while he was being treated, explaining all the while, “You asked for that, you village bull. Don’t tell me it’s the mating season. And don’t you sulk. You’re a disgrace, you got exactly what you deserved. Now, open your ugly mug.” His reward, a piece of pastry, instantly disappeared between his brave, gleaming teeth. Emerence made it a condition that if you loved her, she should be the leading figure in your life. Of all those around her whom she considered really important, only the dog took that as natural and accepted it — even as he bit her.
As a rule, relations with her were at their most harmonious when one of us was in some sort of difficulty. There was no shortage of such times. Both my husband and I were in generally poor health during those years and were often ill. Either our bodies failed to fight off an attack, or our nervous systems told us the game wasn’t being played fairly against us. In times of crisis, Emerence stood by us in ways that could really be felt. Her gnarled fingers brought relief and healing. There was nothing more blissfully restorative after a serious illness than when she washed us all over, gave us a thorough massage, and dusted us down with some fragrant talcum powder sent by little Éva Grossman. My husband once suggested that we should live with one foot permanently in the grave, or sink into some bottomless pool from which she could pull us out — then she would be thoroughly content and satisfied. If we ever achieved lasting success or relative security in our lives, she would lose interest. The moment she could no longer help, she would see no justification for her existence.
One thing we never got used to was that, although she never read anything, all the bad news on the literary front that was turning our lives upside down seemed nonetheless to reach her. She always made us aware that she knew about it, and assured us that she was making it her business to inform everyone in the street who mattered — if they hadn’t discovered it for themselves — that the conspirators were on the move again. From the members of her private circle she required declarations of solidarity and denunciations of our enemies.
Thus, as the years flew by, our relationship continued to strengthen. Emerence was one of us, as far as she would allow. She continued to receive me outside on her porch, like any other visitor, and she never again allowed me into her flat. Otherwise there was no change in her habits. She continued to carry out all the various jobs she had undertaken, though it was clear she no longer did so with the same fresh energy. She didn’t even stop clearing the snow. I tried occasionally to establish just how much her fortune was worth. I had my suspicions that, as well as the crypt, Józsi’s boy might well be able to build an owner-occupied building for his entire family. Emerence made precise distinctions in the way she rewarded each of us. The Lieutenant Colonel was given high respect, Viola had her heart, my husband her impeccable work (and he also greatly appreciated her keeping my rustic amiability within acceptable bounds through her own restrained behaviour); to me she entrusted her instructions on the approaching, and critical, final moments of her life. She also demanded of me that, in my art, it should be real passion and not machinery that moved the branches. That was a major gift, the greatest of her bequests.
But I still felt it wasn’t enough, that I wanted something more. For example I would have loved to give her the sort of hug I had shared with my mother, and to tell her things I would tell no-one else, things my mother understood not with her intellect or as the result of her education, but through the subtler antennae of love. But Emerence didn’t want me in that complete way. At least that was what I thought; that I wasn’t essential to her. Long after all trace of Emerence and her home had disappeared, the handyman’s wife, seeing the cut flowers from the garden in my arms and realising I was on my way to the cemetery, threw her arms around my neck. “You were the light of her life,” she said, “her daughter. Ask anyone who lives round here how she described you. ‘My little girl.’ What do you think? Who did she talk about non-stop — when the poor thing actually sat down for a rest? She talked about you. But all you ever saw was how she lured the dog away and kept him from you. What you never noticed was that she’d become to you what Viola was to her.”
Emerence accompanied our lives for something like twenty years. During that time we spent countless weeks, even months, abroad, while she looked after the apartment, dealt with the mail and the phone, and took delivery of what money came in. Though he squealed loudly, she never took Viola to her flat, not even for an hour, so that our home would never be empty in our absence. Once, on our return from a Book Week in Frankfurt, we brought her a portable TV. We knew of old that she didn’t accept gifts, but we thought it might bring the wider world into the Forbidden City. At the time, such things weren’t available in Hungary — it was almost the only one in the whole country — and, since she seemed to aim for exclusivity in her emotional life, we thought this time she might react differently. She would be the only one in the street to have one of these small-screen sets.
We got back in time for the holiday. It was Christmas again, just as when we had found Viola. In those years, there were far fewer religious programmes on TV. Instead they showed folk dramas, with children in fur coats and boots, singing and chanting. But after dinner there was to be a sweetly sentimental film, set during the Second World War. We imagined that Emerence, who was serving our meal, would be delighted. But she gave no sign of pleasure; she looked at me with her mysterious, solemn eyes, as if she could tell us something if she chose, but wasn’t going to. I was in a state of total euphoria, since she had actually accepted the present. She thanked us, wished us a merry Christmas and left. That year Christmas was particularly good, like those in the lacquered cards of my childhood. Outside, huge, soft, feathery snowflakes circled down. All my life winter has been my favourite season. I stood at the window, looking out. I was enchanted, full of the spirit of Christmas and home, and my seasonal thoughts mingled with thoughts of Emerence, the proud owner of a television, sitting in her room celebrating.
I think that everything that happened later followed from what took place that evening. It was as if Heaven itself had thrown the present back in our faces, or as if Emerence’s God — whom she had always scorned and denied, but who was there watching every step she took — stirred, and gave me one last chance to see, rather than look. We were standing at the window, above the streetlight, whose rays flooded in even in the wildest snowstorms, gazing in wonder at the winter and the feathery flakes dancing, when suddenly the image of Emerence swam into our picture of the street. She was sweeping. Her headscarf, her shoulders and her back were turning white under a thick veil of snow. She was sweeping, on Christmas Eve, because the pavement couldn’t be left uncleared.
The blood rushed into my face. From above, she looked like the straw man in The Wizard of Oz. Sweet, kind Jesus, newly born, what sort of gift had I brought this old woman? How often would she be able to sit at home in peace, with her chores tugging at her from one breakfast time to the next? That was why she
had given us that special, wounded look. If the fabric of her emotional life hadn’t been woven with a finer thread, and more sensitive strands, than mine, she might have refused the set; or asked us if we’d sweep the snow off the streets for her, or do her duty in the laundry, since by the time she’d be able to sit herself down on the lovers’ seat, Budapest would have stopped transmitting.
We didn’t dare say a word to each other. My husband had come to the same realisation. We were too ashamed to continue looking, and turned our backs on Emerence and her broom. Viola scratched at the door to the balcony, wanting to go out, but I didn’t let him. Neither of us spoke, and why should we? The need was for action, not words. But we went back to our own television. Even now I cannot forgive myself when I am reminded of what I ought to have done, but went no further than the thought.
I’ve always been good at philosophising, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit that I had done wrong. But what didn’t occur to me was that, compared to her, I was still young and strong. And yet I didn’t go out and sweep the snow. I didn’t send her home to watch the film, though I could have handled the broom perfectly well. As a girl in the country I had danced with one often enough. I was the one who kept the front of the house clear in those days. But I didn’t go down. I stayed right where I was. It was Christmas, and I too exchanged my usual taste for savoury and bitter things for something sweet — for that sweet, sad, lovely film, after all those grotesque, existentialist productions.
ACTION
Yes, I’m sure that’s when it all started to unravel. At some point towards the end of February Emerence caught the flu virus that had been on the rampage since the autumn. Of course she took it in her stride and ignored it. That year the winter brought exceptional snow, and she turned all her attention to keeping the street in order, though her cough was almost choking her, as everyone could hear. Sutu and Adélka rushed around, bringing her hot tea laced with spiced wine. Emerence would throw the sugary alcohol down her throat, and stop from time to time to lean on her broom for protracted fits of coughing. Adélka fussed over her until she too collapsed and was so ill she was hospitalised. Emerence was visibly relieved when she no longer saw her constantly popping up. Sutu was more discreet in her support, but Adélka’s big mouth didn’t stop working for a moment. Emerence found it highly distasteful to have the whole street echoing with: that old woman doesn’t go to bed for days on end; the godforsaken snow keeps coming; sick as she is, she skates around from one house to the next — there are so many — and then has to start all over again. The former classmate who first told me about Emerence suggested one day that I should speak to the old woman and tell her to go to a doctor, and above all, to take a break from clearing the snow and lie down or she’d be in real trouble. She had heard her coughing, and in her opinion it was no longer flu that was plaguing her, it was pneumonia. When I took Emerence’s arm to make her stand still and pay attention, she was gasping for breath. She shouted at me to leave her alone. If I was so eager to help I should see to myself and my husband, and do the cleaning and cooking. As long as the cursed snow kept falling she couldn’t move from the street, and she certainly didn’t want a rest — what a stupid idea, that she should go to bed when I knew perfectly well she didn’t even have one, and anyway how could she possibly lie down when absolutely anyone could ring for her at any time? — the tenants had their own keys but the authorities might pitch up, some official she didn’t know and wasn’t expecting — and it was better for her to sit up at night, it was less painful for her back; so would I please stop worrying about her, she’d had quite enough, it wasn’t anyone else’s business whether she lay down or not; she’d never asked me why an old woman like me had so many cosmetics in her bathroom; my classmate and the doctor could take to their beds, and any other troublemaker who wanted to order her about should stay in theirs.
