The little room echoed with the sound of his anger. His long beard waved in the air as he jumped about in his wrath – but, of course, he was not really outraged by what had been written about Boros; he was angry because his death meant that he could no longer discredit his brother by telling the Court of Honour the truth about the lawyer!
‘It’s up to us to show the world what that fellow really was, and that he deliberately killed himself. I hear that the word’s going around here now and I know that they were on his tracks back at home. A writ of seizure has been issued. That’s why he did it, the coward!’
Bogacsy and Alvinczy demurred politely but Absolon only found the angry little man a source of amusement.
‘I for one don’t think he was a coward,’ he said, principally to annoy Laczok. ‘He certainly did it in style. I’m really quite sorry about it.’
‘Sorry? You?’ shouted Laczok.
‘Of course,’ the other answered. ‘Only once in my life have I seen a more beautiful act of self-destruction, in Japan – a hara-kiri. Now I know that he was worthy of having my bullet in his gut!’
‘You can’t mean it? Fight with a bandit like him? C’est absurde!’
‘Don’t be unkind about bandits! In China it’s a highly respected profession and qualifies its members for decapitation by the sword – a noble and beautiful death!’
At this point Balint intervened. ‘Have they really started proceedings against him?’ he asked, because he remembered that Dinora had had Maros-Szilvas and her new flat put in Boros’s name.
‘Certainly!’ Laczok was delighted that at last he had a chance of showing what he brought with him. ‘Voila! Here it is! I brought the telegram to show you. It happened five days ago.’
The next day, quite early, Balint walked slowly to Szemelynok Street, wondering as he went what he could do for poor Dinora and feeling rather guilty that he had only now realized how much she might be suffering because of all this. He was afraid too that Dinora might believe that he had broken his word to her even though he had really meant to act as she wished. Needless to say it was fairly clear now that what had driven Boros to suicide was the knowledge that proceedings were starting in Transylvania: this, and the establishment of the Court of Honour.
In the entrance hall there was no sign that anything untoward had happened there; everything was in perfect order. All Balint could see was that there had been a recent repair to the top part of the wire mesh surrounding the lift shaft. He supposed that this had been where the heavy trunk had torn a hole.
He rang for the hall porter.
‘Take me up to Countess Malhuysen, if you please,’ said Balint. ‘I believe it’s the fifth floor?’
‘The Countess left three days ago,’ the man said; so Balint explained who he was and, hoping to induce the porter to talk, slipped a crown into his hand. Eagerly the man told the whole story to Balint, every detail of the ‘sad accident’, everything which he himself had thought and done (which didn’t interest Balint in the least), and then what had happened since, which was what Balint had come to find out. The day after Boros’s death his family arrived, first the widow and the two sons and then later they were joined by another gentleman. After an hour in the lawyer’s flat the widow and sons went to the cemetery while the other gentleman stayed behind. When they had gone, he went down to call on Countess Malhuysen. What happened in her flat he did not know. Only that late that night they had to bring down her luggage and the Countess left, accompanied only by her elderly maid.
‘Did her Ladyship leave a forwarding address?’
‘No, your Lordship, she didn’t leave anything.’
Balint found all this very upsetting. He imagined that the unknown man had presented himself because of the writ against Boros and wanted to make sure of what Boros owned in the capital. Obviously he had scared little Dinora so that she left in a hurry. Now it would surely turn out that the property she had put in his name would be seized with any other assets he might possess and then be sold to pay his innumerable creditors. And so it turned out. Nothing remained either for Dinora or for his family; everything had to go to pay Boros’s debts and his family was left in poverty.
But what had happened to Dinora? For a long time Balint was haunted by the thought of her fate and he pitied her from his heart. How could such a bird-brained, helpless little creature survive in this hard, hard world? For weeks she was often in his thoughts.
One day something happened to cheer him up.
He had gone to Vienna to attend an international congress and in the evening joined a party of friends at Ronacher’s Variety Theatre. He saw her at once, sitting in a box on the other side of the theatre with a rich young Viennese banker. She seemed happy and gay … and ablaze with diamonds so huge that their sparkle could be seen right across the theatre.
Chapter Four
AT THE TIME OF BOROS’S SUICIDE another tragedy was following its appointed course, that of Laszlo Gyeroffy.
The causes could be traced back several months, to St Hubert’s Day when that poisonous innuendo ‘free bed … and breakfast!’ was so maliciously thrown at him by Uncle Ambrus.
The words were like a poison slowly eroding his emotional balance. Outwardly he seemed to go on as before. In the evening he would play the piano or violin for Sara and in the daytime he would perform whatever little tasks she gave him.
Perhaps it was no longer with the same enthusiasm as before, but at least he still did whatever she asked. Perhaps he was quieter, less talkative, but then he never had had much to say. If there was a change it was nothing you could put your finger on – yet Sara’s female intuition told her that something was worrying him, and so she tried to swaddle him with even more kindness and protection.
It was for Laszlo’s sake that she made a sacrifice which cost her dearly. Christmas was approaching and she made careful arrangements to be sure that her schoolboy son should not come home this year but stay on with the family of the schoolteacher with whom he lived. It was a great treat for the boy, who had written some weeks before asking permission to go on a skiing tour with some friends in the Hetbirak forests. He did not know, of course, that his mother had planned this herself, writing to the teacher who had charge of him and suggesting this arrangement as she knew how fond the boy was of all sports. All the same his absence was a great sadness for Sara, especially as her conscience was troubling her.
It could hardly have been otherwise, unless she had sent Laszlo away instead, for it was unthinkable that she should have celebrated Christmas as one of a threesome consisting of herself, her son and her lover. And she could not bear the thought of Laszlo, who had no one, being forced to go home alone.
Even so their Christmas Eve festivities were sad enough and Sara sat by her little tree in the darkened sitting-room, silently thinking of her son. She had long realized that Christmas would not be the same when he had grown up and gone his own way – but this time she had chased him away herself.
Laszlo too was thinking of all those past Christmases spent with the families of his aunts, where giant trees reached the ceiling even in those palatial houses, with presents heaped round them on the floor, and with the merry laughter of his cousins, especially with Klara … Klara, who was so good to him, who always took his side, and who had been his friend, his pal, his love … Klara, whom he had lost through his own folly.
So this Christmas he reached even more often than usual for the brandy bottle, and Sara did not even try to stop him as she had in the past weeks. Before that it had not been necessary, and for two happy months Laszlo had kept off the bottle. Recently, however, it seemed that he could not get enough brandy inside him, so much so that Sara had had to lock up all the liquor in the house.
Then Laszlo started going more and more often to his dilapidated property at Kozard, and when he returned he always smelled of brandy. Sara did not say anything, she didn’t dare. Instinctively she realized that he was labouring under some stress, some emotion, which she c
ould not recognize but which threatened their life together. The more convinced of this she became the more she relaxed her precautions.
At the same time she tried hard to keep him occupied. She asked the neighbours to invite him to shoot, and she bought a horse as she hoped it would be a distraction if he could ride around the countryside. Then, each day, she would suggest he canter over to check on whether the wood-cutters or some other labourers were doing what they should.
Sara soon saw that her remedy seemed to be working. At the very least it was an occupation for him and Laszlo himself was nothing if not co-operative. He was always in a good mood and eager to oblige; for he had enough to do and it made him feel he was of some use.
That his services were practically worthless Sara kept to herself. Further, seeing that it made Laszlo happy, she entrusted him with more and more things to do for her. Instead of going to the Kolozsvar market herself, she would ask him to go for her; and though she never failed to send with him the farm overseer or some other experienced employee, who had his own detailed orders from her, she would tell Gyeroffy that he alone was the one she trusted to take money for the livestock they sold and to decide what was an acceptable price.
Despite these precautions Mrs Lazar sometimes found herself faced by the fact that he had foolishly sold something at a loss. Then she swallowed her disappointment and said nothing, hoping that sooner or later he would learn, and not wanting, at this stage, to undermine his self-confidence.
However, things did not turn out as she hoped. One day in January Laszlo did not come home until the morning after the market-day. A little later he went to Kolozsvar by way of his own home at Kozard, taking with him a small overnight bag for he had left no clothes there. It was three days before he came back by carriage, with an unusually cold and hard expression in his eyes, and it was several days later before he seemed completely sober. Sara could not imagine where he had got hold of anything to drink.
This time Sara was frightened. She had given her heart to the young man and she clung to the illusion that she had rescued him from depravity. At first she did not say anything and pretended that she had noticed nothing. But when it happened more than once, she searched his room.
There she found three bottles of brandy, two empty and one with some dregs still in it; obviously he had smuggled them in.
This was too much to pass unremarked. Very gently Sara spoke to Laszlo, full of kindness and understanding and forgiveness. Shamefaced he admitted everything, humbly begged her pardon, swore it would never, never happen again; and for ten days he was on his best behaviour. Then, quite suddenly, on some transparently untrue excuse, he went again to Kozard and from there on to Kolozsvar. This time he stayed away for four days.
When he finally returned she managed to search through his travelling valise, but she found nothing. Why, she asked herself, did he look so guilty? Was it only that he had been drinking? Surely there must be something more because he had always done that while away and until now had never worn that humble, apologetic, hang-dog expression. Was it because he felt guilty about breaking his promise? She was touched to think that that might be the reason, and a great warmth flowed towards him from her loving woman’s heart. So, for her own solace and to show him that she forgave him, directly after luncheon, which they had eaten in silence, she leaned towards him and offered her mouth in a kiss of peace.
For a moment he hesitated and then he put his arms round her and bent down until his lips brushed her cheek.
Only for a brief moment – for Sara stepped back abruptly, looking up into his face with wide-open eyes: from Laszlo’s collar, clothes and hair there came a strange unpleasant smell – the reek of cheap scent.
And as soon as she caught the first whiffs, she knew what it meant: he had betrayed her with some common whore. For a few seconds she looked the traitor full in the eyes. Then he dropped his gaze, turned away and slowly left the room.
Sara cried for a long time that afternoon. Laszlo was not to know this, any more than that for the last four days her eyes had been full of tears. All the same, when evening came she forgave him.
The next few weeks were painful for both of them. Every time that Laszlo went into the town her heart was torn with the thought that he would get drunk and find himself in bed with a prostitute. Still she sent him more often than before, realizing that this was the price of their reconciliation. If she had not done so it might appear that she was nursing a grudge and keeping him at home as a punishment; and that would have been dangerous too. This she had found out one day when, in Laszlo’s presence, she had given her orders directly to the farm overseer and sent him to market on his own. Gyeroffy’s eyes had hardened and he had sulked at once, not speaking to her for the whole day. In fact he had such a sinister expression that Sara had become quite frightened, thinking that he was planning to leave her. She never tried it again; far better, she reasoned, to suffer a hell of anxiety than lose him altogether. Not that, she prayed, not that!
Now she left the liquor decanters out, for if he really needed a drink it was best that he should find it at home. When he got drunk she pretended not to notice; and she did all she could to conceal it from the servants. This system too had its bad side, for when Laszlo drank more than a certain quantity he developed that strange arrogance which in the past had made his friends laugh at him. He became overbearingly conceited and rude to anyone who came near him. This stage, however, never lasted long. All of a sudden he would become deflated and beg her forgiveness in floods of tears and self-abasing confessions of guilt and remorse.
After such scenes they would make love passionately as if that would wipe out all that had happened.
Those were stormy days for them both … and stormy nights.
At the end of March Gyeroffy went again to Kolozsvar. Sara had sent him in to collect an unusually large sum of money, some 16,000 crowns that she was owed by the pork butcher to whom she had sold her fattened pigs.
That evening he did not return home, nor the next. Three days went by and still he had not come.
Sara became very anxious. It occurred to her that it was always possible that Laszlo had spent the money or lost it, but she swiftly dismissed the idea which indeed would have been a small matter compared with the thought that he might have left her. When he had still not reappeared by noon of the fourth day, Sara ordered the horses to be put to her carriage and drove into town. She went straight to the Central Hotel as she knew he always stayed there when he did not return.
Her instinct had been right and, said the porter when she enquired, he was in his room. She went up and opened the door suddenly thinking that maybe he had a woman with him. Gyeroffy was alone, walking up and down, as he had been for some hours. He had not shaved for four days and in his dirty crumpled shirt he looked a wreck. The brandy bottles on the table were empty.
When the door opened and Sara came in he looked at her with undisguised hostility.
‘Well? What do you want?’ His tone was disagreeable and the expression on his face harder and more stubborn than she had ever seen it. Then he said again, ‘Well? What do you want?’
‘Me? Why?’ said Sara in the lightest tone she could muster, for she was determined to appear unconcerned. ‘I came in to do some shopping and as I was here I thought you might like a lift home. Do you want to come in the carriage with me, because …?’
Laszlo interrupted her, ‘You’re lying, I know it! Why? What for? Do you think I don’t know you’re always spying on me? That’s what you came for, isn’t it? I suppose you’re worried about your money? Well, you needn’t be, it’s all here … and more, much more! Do you want it? Do you want me to settle the account? Good, because that’s what I want too.’
Sara’s large eyes filled with tears. She did not answer, but turned away, so that he should not see how hurt she was, and tried hard to get control of herself. Then, as calmly as she could, she said, ‘Please, Laszlo, don’t talk like that. Not here, not in the hotel,’ she add
ed imploringly.
He came downstairs with her and they got into the carriage and started for home. Outside the town they met a strong northwest wind, cold and gusty with rain and snow. They had the hood put up and well-anchored onto the mudguards, and huddled together as far back as possible.
Sara was reminded of that other ride home on St Hubert’s Day, when they had sat back clinging to each other, though not then so estranged and hostile. Nevertheless it was from that day that Laszlo had started to change and Sara’s road to Calvary had begun.
For the woman it was a dreadful ordeal to sit there together in hostility and silence. Finally she could stand it no longer and made a great effort to speak, fighting all the time against breaking down in tears. ‘Why are you so horrid to me? I haven’t done anything to harm you!’ she said sadly, neither angry nor offended. She spoke only in sorrow from the depths of her rejected maternal love.
Gyeroffy hardly seemed to notice her and answered coldly and unconcernedly, ‘Oh, shut up! I’ll tell you later, when we’re back at the house,’ and his voice trailed off as he stared ahead of him, seeing nothing but going over and over in his mind what he had been thinking about for the last three days.
After collecting Sara’s pig money from the pork butcher in the Hidelven district he was walking back into town along Bridge Street when he had seen old Crookface Kendy coming towards him. In the last few months, if Gyeroffy had caught sight of anyone he knew, he would take avoiding action by turning into a side street or going into a shop, anything not to have to greet somebody. He did this instinctively without even giving himself a reason, for always lurking somewhere near the surface of his mind was the disagreeable memory of that unfortunate meeting with Uncle Ambrus on St Hubert’s Day when the older man had laughed at him with insulting innuendo with the words ‘Free room and board, eh? Bed … and breakfast!’. He didn’t want to repeat that experience.
They Were Found Wanting (Writing on the Wall: The Transylvania Trilogy) Page 48
