Margit looked around her.
The room was one of the hotel’s grand sitting-rooms, but the furniture had been pushed to the walls to make way for a large baize-covered table that had been placed directly under the crystal chandelier. It was surrounded by eight cane chairs for the players, but her husband Adam was not among them. She saw Akos, his youngest brother, but it was only later that she remembered how deathly pale he had looked. She was about to leave the room when she caught sight of her husband. He was lying in a gilt armchair just behind where she was standing. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and he was fast asleep. He was sleeping so soundly that his mouth was slightly open like a young child’s and on his face was an expression of happiness and content. He was asleep out of sheer exhaustion, for although since his marriage he had never once gone out carousing with his friends, he had spent all the previous night carrying his newborn baby about who was suffering from colic and who started crying again every time Adam put him down. He adored his son and fussed over him like any nanny.
Margit moved silently over to her husband and ever so gently started to caress his forehead. Still half asleep Adam reached for her hand and brushing it across his face started to kiss her arm just as he might have if they were in bed at night. He did not try to open his eyes, imagining that that was just where they were.
It must have been a familiar movement for Margit broke out in soft giggles. Still, she had to see that Adam was properly awake.
‘Anna Laczok, Countess Harinay, doesn’t have a dinner partner. I told her you’d sent me to ask her for you. But it would be nice if you’d go and ask her yourself, just to be polite, you know. The dinner will be served in half an hour and it wouldn’t look right to wait until the last minute.’
Adam jumped up. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ll go at once.’
As they moved away little Margit looked up at the great height of her husband and said, ‘I hope you’re pleased I got you such a pretty partner. You can’t accuse me of being a jealous wife!’
‘Why ever should you be?’ he answered good-naturedly and they walked hand in hand out of the card-room, their steps matching each other exactly as the steps do of those who have a total understanding of each other. And although there was no one to see them in the deserted corridor the two of them, linked by their intertwined hands, made a picture of perfect happiness.
Tamas Laczok, having had his fun with Aunt Lizinka, went to look for his brother and Weissfeld. After all, he said to himself, he had gone to a lot of trouble and expense – ten crowns, no less! – to get to the ball so now he might as well see that he got his money’s worth, and that meant teasing the others as well. He went in search of the smoking-room.
There they both were, sitting with about twenty other men in a wide circle discussing politics, as Hungarian men always do when a group of them gather together. They were mostly the patrons of the ball, or the husbands of the Lady Patronesses, who were now condemned to wait until they had to escort their wives to the supper room.
Jeno Laczok, with his vast bulk, sat stiff and motionless, a prisoner of his own fat. He was like a statue carved from stone. Beside him sat the banker from Vasarhely who never left his friend’s side in Kolozsvar, partly because he always felt the need of his support when among strangers but also because no one here knew what an important person he was in his home town.
The Rector of the University, Dr Korosi (whose wife felt so neglected), was pompously explaining some abstruse point, when Tamas’s rumbustious entrance interrupted what he was saying and so spoiled his carefully constructed argument.
‘Servus Sandor! Servus Adam! Servus Stanislo! Servus everyone! Greetings to you all. What a long time since I saw you!’ and he shook hands all round, introducing himself to some of those he did not know, but not all as they did not interest him much, and Tamas had never been a stickler for convention. When he had almost come full circle he came face to face with his brother. With glee he slapped Jeno’s protruding stomach and, seizing his shoulders with both hands, gave him a good shake while roaring out, ‘Wow! You look pale! Where did you get that yellow colour?’ and though his brother started coldly to deny it, he went on: ‘Oh yes, you are! You’re very, very yellow. Of course you don’t notice it as you see yourself in the mirror every day.’ Then, turning to the others, he appealed to them all for confirmation, ‘It’s true, isn’t it? Don’t you see it? Of course you’re all far too polite to say it out loud, but you can to me, you know. After all I’m his brother, and it’s my duty to tell him the truth!’
Tamas turned back to his brother and without a word to Weissfeld, who had got up, took the latter’s seat.
‘You really should have yourself looked at, Jeno! It could be very serious, very serious indeed,’ and he dropped his voice to a penetrating whisper and went on, ‘Just think about it. Father died of cancer, didn’t he? And they all say there can be a hereditary disposition … not that it’s absolutely certain.’
‘To hell with you!’ said Jeno trying to laugh it off, but his laughter sounded somewhat forced. Tamas knew only too well that he had touched upon Jeno’s weakest spot and that his attempt to scare him was not in vain. Ever since their youth Jeno had had this one fear and so, when Tamas knew that his drop of poison was working, he became all solicitous, and said kindly, ‘Don’t you worry, it’s probably something quite different, too much acidity, or maybe gallstones. Anyhow I certainly should see a doctor!’ Then he turned to the others. ‘Do forgive me! I’m afraid I’ve interrupted a most interesting discussion with this family talk … you really must excuse me!’ and fell silent. The two brothers who hated each other sat side by side, as alike as twins. Apart from one having a beard and the other not they were almost identical, the same tuft of black hair on their otherwise shining skulls, the same enquiring eyebrows and high cheekbones. They even sat in the same way, solid and granitelike, with their hands planted firmly on their knees.
Dr Korosi now went on where he had left off.
He had been talking about the recent announcement that recruiting to the army was to be increased and its equipment modernized. This had happened in January but the details had only just been made public. It seemed that an extra 50,000 men were required and that the annual army budget was to be raised by 20 million crowns, 60,000 of which would be made available immediately. Three weeks before, Lukacs, the Minister of Finance, had given a most reassuring speech declaring that none of these new measures would entail raising taxes, though at the same time he said that more battleships were to be built. Lukacs had spoken with calm assurance and had explained that the Dual Monarchy’s fleet was obsolete compared with those of the other great powers, and that they could not now afford to lag behind in the armaments race that was taking place all over Europe. Austria-Hungary’s continued status as a great power, and as an equal partner with her allies, depended upon her armed forces being on a plane of equality with those of everyone else. He talked about the annexation of Bosnia-Herzegovina and the international crisis it had provoked, cited the build-up of the German navy, and referred to the importance to the nation of Hungary’s commercial shipping interests. Dr Korosi went on to recount how the news of the increase in the army had been received with indifference by most people who had become all too accustomed to being told over the years that it would soon be necessary, just as they all knew that the real enemy was Russia and that the Tsar, aided by French millions, had for a long time been preparing for war. The question of the navy, however, was something new and very different. Why, people were asking, did the navy have to be built up? Who was the enemy?
Dr Korosi made the most of this last point, for he was the leader of the opposition party in Transylvania. Speaking with a broad, rather flat, accent, for he came from Szeged, he asked, ‘Whaat therefore is the Naavy to us? Whaat is it for? Against whom should we use it?’ and he went on to repeat what everyone present knew already, that Austria-Hungary had no colonies and no overseas interests, that the Ger
man navy was already far stronger than the French, and no matter how many ships were built by the Dual Monarchy they would never be able to compete with the enormous British fleet. That left only Italy, whom everyone knew to be Hungary’s staunchest ally, and so no reinforcement would be needed there for it had already been agreed that Italy would participate in the defence of the Adriatic. Now, though Korosi ignored the fact, not everything could be discussed in political terms nor all official announcements be relied upon. It was not generally known that the Austro-Hungarian general staff had for some time been dubious about the strength of the Italian alliance, even to the point of preparing for the possibility that, in the event of war, Italy might quite possibly side with their enemies. Every alliance, they knew, stood up only as long as it was in the interests of both sides to maintain it, and only the strong kept their friends. The man in the street, however, who was always childishly naive in anything to do with foreign affairs, would never try to understand what might be going on under the surface. As a result people were now searching for concealed, secret and even totally absurd reasons for the modernization of the navy.
This is what most people believed and now they heard it confirmed by what Korosi was saying.
‘It is obvious,’ said the Rector, ‘thaat the Heir simply wishes to indulge his ridiculous desire to be an admiral! Franz-Ferdinand wants only to emulate the Kaiser Wilhelm, and so he needs a squadron! Thaat, and thaat only, is why the government is prepared to squander all those millions. To satisfy the Heir’s absurd ambitions they are only too ready to spend Hungarian pennies to build Austrian battleships!’
‘Of course, of course, that’s it!’ said several of his audience.
Stanislo Gyeroffy passed his hand over his carrot-coloured wig, as if to make sure it was still firmly in place, and then added with an air of official authority, ‘I’m not sure that is entirely true; but even if it is then surely it could do no harm to humour the Archduke a little? After all one day soon he’ll be our King!’
‘He’ll only be our King if we crown him!’ cried someone impetuously.
‘He’ll be King anyhow,’ said another.
‘After the Pragmatic Sanction it needs a Parliamentary decision.’
‘I say: until it happens, fiddlesticks!’
‘No army, no navy!’ cried another, though no one quite knew what he meant. Then followed a hot debate about the prerogatives of Parliament and what clauses should be added to what texts and what should be insisted upon and what ignored. Before long they were arguing hotly about the wording to be used as if it were they who would have to decide and as if it had to be settled right where they sat. They argued about the status of Bosnia-Herzegovina and some demanded that Dalmatia too should be annexed without delay. Others hotly disputed this, saying that it would lead to Trialism, only to find themselves contradicted at once. The battle of wits was as contrived and as synthetic as military manoeuvres and though the weapons may have been as impressive as political invective they could no more win the day than could cannons loaded with blanks. All the same tempers flared and eyes flashed as the armchair politicians snarled at each other. Every issue of the day was brought up and dissected – but no one stopped to think of the welfare of the nation.
Above the hubbub could be heard the high-pitched screech of Stanislo Gyeroffy and the deep baritone of Dr Korosi, who were rapidly arriving at the point where personal insults would be hurled at each other. Then the unexpected happened. It started when someone unwisely suggested that the government might be intimidated by the rising power of the newly self-styled King of Montenegro, nicknamed ‘Nikita’. This was picked up by Kalman Harinay, Ida Laczok’s husband, who cried out arrogantly, ‘Well, as for that, we might just as well be afraid of those apes in Albania.’
At this point Tamas jumped up and let out a roar, ‘Don’t you judge them by yourself, my lad! Those Albanians are tougher than you ever will be! I know them well!’
This was doubly unexpected: firstly because no one had for a moment thought that anyone present would have any firsthand knowledge of Albanians, and secondly because this plump stocky man whom few of them knew, and who hardly ever spoke, should suddenly interrupt so passionately. Furthermore Tamas’s scornful attack on Harinay impressed them because Transylvanians like nothing more than a well-justified rebuke. Some of them laughed, but they all looked at the newcomer with dawning respect.
Stanislo Gyeroffy, thankful to find a diversion from his deepening disagreement with Korosi, quickly picked up Tamas’s last words, saying, ‘Do you know Albania well? Hasn’t there recently been some insurrection against the Turks?’
‘There certainly has! It’s a real war. According to the ‘Petit Parisien’, which I get regularly, the Malissors overwhelmed Torkut Pasha and were immediately joined by the Miridiots.’
This was greeted by a storm of ironic laughter.
‘What kind of idiots?’ cried Harinay, while the others shouted out, ‘Is that what they are called? Are the Malissors idiots too? Is that really what they call themselves? Ho! Ho! Ho! That’s wonderful, that is!’
‘The Malissors and the Miridiots are the two fiercest tribes of Albania! And you, fellow-me-lad,’ said Tamas coldly to Harinay who was laughing immoderately at his own pun, ‘tu ne rigolerai pas comme une baleine – you wouldn’t be laughing like a whale if you found yourself their prisoner. These are true men of the mountains, bandits all of them.’ And he turned away because it had just occurred to him that this was a God-given chance to have a go at the banker Weissfeld. Smiling as if merely going on with his explication, ‘This lot are far more than your well-born forest thieves, my banker friend. These are not men who polish the seats of their chairs in their nice safe city offices, no sedentary businessmen who plot behind the security of the limited companies that they have founded. No! Not at all! These are real fighting men, warriors who risk their skins every day of their lives!’
Some of his listeners, who knew something of the forestry combine between Tamas’s brother and Weissfeld, realized what lay behind these last words and put their heads together chuckling at Tamas’s audacity, while some of the others, not understanding but now aware what a sharp tongue the elder Laczok had, fell silent and for a while did not attempt any further interruption. Tamas went on with his tale.
He was standing at the centre of the circle, turning from time to time to one side or the other, and he looked extremely comical. He was dressed in an old tail coat cut in the fashion of many years before, which was now stretched tightly across his bulging stomach; and with his bald head and long wispy beard he was like an actor in a vulgar farce. This impression was heightened by his exaggeratedly upward-slanting eyebrows, by the tuft of black hair on the top of his skull, and by the droll way that he would twist round with tiny steps whenever Stanislo Gyeroffy, Sandor Kendy or Major Bogacsy asked a question. These mostly came from the ex-soldier, for though he was nowadays principally interested in questions of honour, he had once served in Bosnia and knew something of the Balkans.
The audience, mischievous as ever, soon started muttering behind Tamas’s back; and one of them whispered, ‘Looks like a blackcock calling for his mate!’ at which the others barely suppressed their amusement for few of them were at all interested in what he was saying.
Nevertheless what he was saying was of interest. He must have been a keen observer who rarely forgot anything he saw and he could talk about his experiences with logic and clarity. He had not survived in the Atlas mountains for so many years without managing to keep his wits about him, and this was now clear from what he was recounting. The gist of his discourse was that this new rebellion in Albania was quite unlike any that had preceded it. Now, for the first time, several of the tribes that had traditionally been deadly enemies had joined together to fight the suzerainty of Turkey. Christians and Muslims were fighting side by side and what is more, they had somehow managed to obtain a supply of up-to-date guns as well as apparently limitless ammunition. Many people had been
speculating where this came from, especially as the rebels had no funds. The money must have been given to them, but by whom? To Tamas the answer was obvious: it could only be Nikita, the King of Montenegro. One amazing fact led only to this conclusion. Since the anti-Turk movement had begun small bands of the insurgents had taken refuge from time to time across the Montenegrin border; and had swiftly come back. This had never happened before. If any Albanian had dared to set so much as a foot across the frontier into the border district of Chernagora, they were immediately slaughtered by the Chernagorians, while the Albanians did the same to anyone coming in the opposite direction. If this ancient tribal hatred had been abruptly changed to friendship, only one man could possibly have managed it, and that was the wily old Nikita. Therefore it must be he who was providing the ammunition and guns. But where did he get it all from? Well, a year before he had told the correspondent of the French newspaper La Gloire that Montenegro obtained her armaments not only from Serbia but also from the great international firm of Schneider-Creuzot. The question was, where did Nikita get his money from, for it was well-known that the Montenegrin treasury was empty? Here again the answer was obvious to anyone with eyes to see: it must be Russia. It must be the Tsar who paid for Nikita’s guns and therefore also for those of the Albanian rebels. There was something very sinister going on in the Balkans. It was significant that when Nikita, then merely Prince of Montenegro, proclaimed himself King, Russian grand-dukes were present at the celebrations along with the kings of Serbia and Bulgaria. This in itself was strange since a couple of years before the last two were hardly on speaking terms and were known to detest each other.
They Were Divided Page 18
