His drinking companions noticed at once what was happening and so, as soon as Laszlo began to hold his head high and look haughtily down his nose at them, they would start quite consciously to tease him, which is, and always has been, the favourite pastime of the men of Transylvania.
Today‚ it was Baron Gazsi who went up to him and said, apparently quite seriously‚ ‘You did very well to tell off Pityu. He needs a lesson in good manners!’ And Pityu took him up by saying‚ ‘Indeed I’m most grateful for your telling me how to behave. You, who have always moved in the most exalted circles!’ Whereupon Adam Alvinczy said, extremely solemnly, ‘We should all follow your commands, naturally!’ and his brother Akos chimed his agreement.
Then it was the turn of Uncle Ambrus who, taking Gyeroffy by the arm, bellowed out, ‘All these young fellows here are as raw as bear-cubs. Of course they’ve not had your advantages. They’ve never been anywhere or seen anything, unlike you who was used to hob-nobbing with all the big-wigs in Budapest!’
And they all crowded round Laszlo, bowing obsequiously and winking all the time at each other. Then someone said, ‘It must have been marvellous, that court ball you told us of – the one for the King of Serbia!’
It never occurred to Laszlo that his friend had mentioned the wrong king on purpose.
‘It was the King of Spain, not Serbia,’ said Laszlo. ‘Alfonso XIII, who is nephew to the Archduke Friedrich. You really should know these things and get them right …’ and he launched into one of his favourite subjects, waving his arms with the unsteady but self-important gestures of the very drunk.
Dawn was beginning to break as they approached the main square. They had almost reached the Town Hall when Gyeroffy stopped the whole group with a peremptory wave of his hand.
‘Now we’re here, it’s my turn to give a serenade!’ he said, and called to the gypsies to get ready and have the table and chairs put on the sidewalk.
Ever since they had left the Uzdy villa Laszlo had been thinking of ordering a serenade himself, regardless of the fact, which never even occurred to him, that he only had some twenty crowns in his pocket. Now he felt himself to be a grand seigneur, high above everyone else, and this was his chance to set them an example and show them all how these things should be done. The problem was to decide where, and to whom. It was not as if he were paying court to anyone in the town, either to a young marriageable girl or to a married woman. On the days that he happened to come to town from his home at Szamos-Kozard, with a few coins in his pocket from the sale of some cucumbers or lettuce, he would put in an appearance at whatever festivity was going on, dance if it were a ball or pay calls and drink coffee and whipped cream at a house where there were young girls on the market, play the piano if anyone asked him; but he would do all this mechanically, hardly noticing where he was or what he was doing. Although he was still so good-looking that more than one girl would try to make eyes at him, he took no notice and indeed was barely aware that he had made a conquest and had an opportunity for flirtation. It was all the same to him whether he sat next to one girl or another. When invited to sit down and talk he would do so partly because good manners demanded it but mainly out of torpor. Now he had no idea to whom he should offer a serenade.
As they happened to be in front of the small town palais of the Gyalakuthys, which stood just across from the road from the Laczok house where they had been earlier, he decided on impulse that this must be the place.
Dodo Gyalakuthy was a nice little thing, a good girl who loved music and who, when he called at the house, always asked him to play. Now, as he tried to collect his thoughts and concentrate, he remembered that she always talked to him very nicely, asking him all sorts of questions about many things, about music, for instance, and his life in the country. Why not Dodo? Yes, he would play his serenade for her!
It was about five o’clock when Dodo was awakened for the second time that night. How odd! she thought. The Laczok girls are getting two serenades on the same night. They are lucky!
Dodo never thought the music might be for her, for the simple reason that it never was. None of the young men would dare to be thought to be courting her as she was known to be so rich that no one wanted to be branded as a fortune hunter by paying the slightest attention to her. In Transylvania such a thing – God preserve us! – would have been thought very bad form, indeed dishonourable.
Knowing this, she automatically thought it was for one of the Laczoks that the gypsies were tuning up again.
Dodo turned over, trying to get back to sleep. There would be no reason to get up again, as she had before, tiptoeing to the window and peering down from behind the curtains. She was sure it must be the same band, the two Alvinczys, Pityu Kendy, Gazsi and Uncle Ambrus … and Laszlo Gyeroffy.
Yes, he had been with them. Well, in a sense with them, though he never seemed to be much with anybody. He just tagged along. Poor Gyeroffy! How hurt and bitter he had been when he came back from Budapest! Of course it was all the fault of that cousin of his, Klara Kollonich. What pain she must have inflicted to poison the heart of such a sweet dear boy! How could she have done such a thing? How could she? Oh! thought Dodo, I could kill her for it! And she tried to get to sleep.
Somehow the music seemed to get louder … and nearer? She listened hard, sitting up in bed. Indeed the music came from under her window; it was not on the other side of the street at all! And the music? Why, it was that fast csardas that Laszlo had played to her the last time he had come to tea. It was that music, his music.
Dodo jumped out of bed and ran bare-foot to the window. Through the closed shutters she could see that it was already light outside. A table stood on the broad pavement outside the house with the men sitting round it. On the table stood champagne and glasses, and on each side there was a policeman who shooed away any early passers-by. And under her window the band of Laji Pongracz played, and by the side of the band-leader stood Gyeroffy! The serenade really was for her, for the girl whom no one came to court.
And it was him, Laszlo!
Dodo stood quite still beside the window, too mesmerized to move. She pressed her hands to her round little breasts as if by so doing she could still the excited beating of her heart and control the joy which throbbed in her throat. Then she remembered that she had forgotten to light a candle and that if he didn’t see an answering light he might think his offering was not accepted. She had to be quick as the second song was already coming to an end.
Quickly she ran to the bed and returned with a lighted candle to the double windows. Opening the inner panes as hurriedly as she could she placed the candle behind the curtains. Then she realized how foolish this was, for as it was daylight outside such a tiny flame would hardly be seen. Pulling the outer lace curtains aside she put the candlestick on the sill between the inner linen drapes and the outer window. There it was sure to be seen, and what did it matter if someone had had a glimpse of her round bare arm? Anyhow, what else could she have done? And it wasn’t as if everyone outside had not seen her naked arms when they danced with her at a ball. Surely no one would find fault with that and think her immodest? Feeling chilly, she went to find her feather-trimmed wrap which would keep her warm, as by now she certainly did not feel like going back to bed. What she really wanted to do was to go to the other window and there peep discreetly out to gaze and gaze upon the young man who serenaded her, that young man who at long last had noticed her, who had, perhaps, seen how interested she was in him … and who, maybe, even returned her love. Oh, even a little, little bit of it would be enough! How wonderful that would be!
Around her waist Dodo tied the sash of her silken wrap which fitted closely to her slightly chubby but well-formed body and, leaning against the inside of the window, let her dreams float with the memories the music conjured for her. Some of these memories were quite old, going back to the day, a year and a half ago, when she saw Laszlo at the Laczoks’ ball. That had been the first time they had exchanged more than a few polite phrases. The
following two seasons had been filled with vain longings, for she had only seen him occasionally and by chance. Still she had always had news of him: the news that he was courting Klara Kollonich and that he had become a tremendous gambler and then, almost a year ago, that he had resigned his membership of the Casino Club. ‘And it was only because of his grand relations that he escaped being thrown out!’ Dodo was told, with mocking laughter, by several people who never knew how much they hurt her. But it was not only hurt, because this last news also gave her a tiny secret joy as she realized that it would mean that Laszlo would be forced to leave that cursed Budapest and come home to Transylvania … and when that happened, when he was near at hand, she would somehow contrive to see him, be near him, perhaps even console him, and then … maybe then?
There were also newer memories, souvenirs of this last season when Laszlo occasionally was to be seen in Kolozsvar. When Dodo had heard that he was in town she had got her mother to ask him to tea and to dinner, always of course when other young people were present. She had thus been able to see a little more of him, even though Laszlo never stayed in town for more than a few days at a time.
Always they had talked of music and, with the instinct of a woman in love, she had found just that form of expression and manner that echoed the young man’s artistic yearnings.
During their talks she had also come to learn many other things about him. From a word dropped here and there – which she carefully pieced together afterwards – she had gradually learned all about Laszlo’s financial problems. She discovered that he had leased his property to Azbej, who acted as agent for Countess Abady’s estates, and that ten years’ rent had been paid in advance. ‘It was really very good of Azbej,’ Laszlo had said. ‘I owe him a great debt of gratitude’, and Dodo realized that this meant that he had to live on what his gardener could raise from the sale of apples or vegetables from the garden. Of course he no longer had any credit, only debts, and for this he was grateful to that trusted steward! Naturally Laszlo did not tell her these things all at once. He did not even notice that he had told her anything. Dodo knew because she had listened assiduously to what he would say – a fact here, a fact there, some little hint – and later she would carefully put it all together until these little fragments of information, as in a jigsaw puzzle, formed a complete picture. Already she had thought that somehow she must come to his aid and now, as he stood under her window and serenaded her, now that at last he showed some signs of being interested in her, what had only been a vague intention crystallized into a firm resolve.
Looking down from the other window, through a discreet gap between the curtain and the window-frame, Dodo had a clear view of the group on the pavement below. Ambrus, Pityu, Kadacsay and the two Alvinczys sat sleepily around the table while a waiter who could hardly suppress his yawns continued to fill their glasses with champagne. The cymbal-player leaned dozily against a rubbish bin. It was now full daylight, an hour when all carousers are overcome by sleepiness. The two policemen were still making passers-by cross to the other side of the road. These were mostly peasants from the village at Monostor bringing their produce to the market – a few chickens, onion-chains or other vegetables. Some of them stopped for a moment to listen to the music and then went on their way.
But Laszlo played on. A little while before he had taken over Laji’s violin and started to play himself. From his bow flowed a rich stream of impassioned melody. He seemed to have forgotten everything, time, place and occasion, and was conscious only of the music he created. He stood very tall and straight, his hat tilted on the back of his head. His eyes were shut even when, as now, he turned to the musicians and started a new song – ‘They put new tiles on the soldiers’ barracks …’
Dodo could not take her eyes off him.
In the middle of the song everyone round the table suddenly jumped up. Uncle Ambrus shouted something, the music stopped, and everybody, even the passers-by on the other side of the road, stared up at the window where Dodo had placed her candle just inside the outer glass and in front of the fine linen curtains. The material had caught alight and long flames were curling up to the eaves. Smoke was already filling the room. There was a sharp crack as one of the window-panes split in two and fragments of glass fell tinkling to the street below.
Dodo swiftly pulled the bell-cord and then, regardless of herself, grabbed both sides of the burning curtains and tore them down. Then she ran to the washstand and seized the water jug.
By the time the frightened maidservant rushed into the room, Dodo was already pouring water over the smoking remains of the curtains on the floor and in her light slippers was stamping out the little flames that still occasionally burst forth.
It was lucky that she had acted so swiftly for if the fire had reached the voluminous lace curtains that hung inside the room it might have been much more serious. As it was the only signs of the near-disaster were some black marks on the parquet floor. That was all; and the soles of her slippers were almost burned through. There was no other material damage.
While her maid, and two others who had run to help, were swabbing up the water from the floor and removing the charred remains of the curtains, Dodo took another look at what was happening outside.
Only the two policemen were still there and she called down to them that the damage was only slight and that they could go home. For a while she stood silently by the broken window.
Now Dodo felt sad and heavy-hearted, feeling it to be an evil omen that, just when she was feeling so happy, the serenade should end in disaster. Then she shook her head vigorously as if thereby to dispel such foolish thoughts and turned back to the room.
You silly! she said to herself. There are no such things as evil omens. Sheer foolishness!
And she jumped back into bed, noticing only now how cold the room had suddenly become.
Chapter Three
IT WAS COUNTESS Roza Abady’s birthday, a day she liked to celebrate and when nothing pleased her more than for a succession of callers to visit her little palais in Farkas Street.
Only one thing was forbidden – nobody was supposed to mention which birthday it was.
No one ever did, of course, although they all knew that she had been born on April 12th, 1854. One there was who was bold enough to break the rule, and he had lately taken to annoying the countess by sending her a card on which he wrote ‘My congratulations to the Gracious Countess on her fiftieth birthday’ (or whichever it happened to be).
This bold fellow was Boldizsar Kozma, the son of her father’s former estate manager.
The elder Kozma had five sons; Dezso and Aron were the oldest, Geza and Jeno came last and the middle son, Boldizsar, was the same age as Countess Roza. When she was a little girl all five boys had been her playmates until they left Denestornya when old Kozma decided to set up on his own as a farmer, left Count Abady’s service, and rented a substantial property near Teke. Since then the Kozma family had prospered and become rich. They had bought up estate after estate until today they were the owners of the entire districts of Ormenyes and Teke in the Kolozs county. These they had acquired from the former landowners who could not compete with five such hard-working, knowledgeable and unpretentious young farmers.
Countess Roza had not seen any of them since her thirteenth birthday. She would hear, for example, that one of them had been to Denestornya to buy the yearling colts, or the lambs or fatted pigs; but though it was always one of the sons who made their purchases and never the father, not one of her former playmates ever came up to the castle but remained instead below in the farm buildings with the estate manager. Only Boldizsar used to write to her every year on her birthday from somewhere in the meadow country. Since she had celebrated her fiftieth anniversary he had sent cards never failing to mention which birthday it was.
Why he did this Countess Roza never discovered. She was sure that it was done to tease her, perhaps as a belated revenge for some forgotten offence, and it caused her great annoyance. This was
now the third birthday on which the arrival of Kozma’s card had put her in a bad mood.
In the morning her son Balint had arrived from Budapest and until after lunch she was happy and gay. In the afternoon, however, the fateful card arrived and for Countess Roza the brightness faded from the day. As a result she, who was usually too good-natured to permit malicious gossip in her presence, said nothing when her two housekeepers, Mrs Tothy and Mrs Baczo, who always took their lunch with her, started to spice the coffee with ill-natured tales about the Abadys’ friends and neighbours.
Never stopping their knitting the two elderly women sat at each end of a long table, perched on chairs disproportionately small for their short fat bodies, and kept up an unending stream of malevolent calumny. Although they were in the countess’s presence they knitted away and chatted rapidly as if they were talking only to each other. And when they related some exceptionally shocking tale they would stab their needles into their half-finished work as if despatching the culprit in self-righteous virtue. This went on for a long time. Balint listened in silence.
At last it was half-past three and the first callers arrived to offer their congratulations. The two housekeepers rose and discreetly disappeared.
As the afternoon progressed more and more visitors were announced until both the large and small drawing-rooms were filled with people. In the larger room the hostess sat in the usual place in the centre of the sofa. In front of her, grouped around the tea-table, sat the older ladies; the mothers, countesses Gyalakuthy, Kamuthy and Laczok, and with them was the ancient Countess Sarmasaghy, Aunt Lizinka to almost everybody in Transylvania, tiny, shrivelled, amusing and malicious, who talked unceasingly both of politics and of the failings of all her friends and relations, and who was never afraid to use a coarse word, though in a most refined way, if she felt her stories needed emphasis.
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 4
