“This is Kristóf, my son,” said Kristóf’s dad to the man. Turning back, he now said to his son, “This is Uncle Laci, your dad’s friend.”
“Feel free to call me Laci, Kristóf,” said the man, extending his hand to the boy. He had deep-set, jittery, brown eyes. Kristóf shook his hand in fear. They drove on.
“I’ll let you know where we have to turn,” said Laci.
“OK.”
“You look good. How long has it been since we last saw each other? Ten years?”
“More like fifteen. How’s Aunt Kuki, your mom?”
“The doctor let her home from the hospital. Not because she’s better. Mother isn’t good at all. That’s also why we got in touch.”
“It’s good you did.”
“I’m glad you could come. That both of you could.”
“Of course.”
“Did you bring the rifle?”
“Yes. It’s in the trunk.”
“Good, then.”
Huddled into the corner of the back, Kristóf stared with suspicion at the stranger. Finally he spoke up.”
“Uncle Laci, why is your skin so dark?”
“Kristóf,” growled his dad.
Laci’s face lit up.
“Because I’m a Gypsy, my son,” he said, turning back and giving the boy’s leg a pat, “And Gypsies have darker skin.”
“This is where we should have turned.”
Kristóf’s dad braked and backed up. The reverse lights colored the fog red. They reached the turnoff, a dirt road. Turning onto it, the car began to shake as they moved slowly forward. Finally, the contours of a little peasant house came into view right by the woods. The house was surrounded by a big, rusty iron fence, with several cars out front in the yard, which was unkempt, with heaps of scrap metal on the packed earth. The baying of dogs could be heard coming from the open windows of the house.
“I’ll go tie up the dogs,” said Laci and got out of the car.
“Listen, Kristóf, I’d like it if you were very nice to the people here,” said Kristóf’s dad.
“OK.”
“You know, the lady we’ve come to see helped out your grandmother a whole lot.”
“How did she help?”
“When I was born, you know, I was in big, big trouble.”
“As big trouble as I was in?”
“Even bigger. Csufi, your grandmother, my mother, was a really, really little gal, not much heavier than a feather. She almost died giving me birth. The doctors fought for days to save her life.”
“And this lady saved Csufi’s life?”
“No, my son. It was my life that Aunt Kuki saved. You see, Csufi was so weak that she couldn’t even feed me. Aunt Kuki fed me instead. I was still a little baby. You know what little babies eat?”
“Yes. Milk. From their mommies’ boobies.”
“Just like you did. It was Aunt Kuki who fed me when I was a little baby.”
They got out of the car and headed toward the house.
Laci was waiting for them by the front gate. The dogs were still baying, but now from further off. The hubbub of children at play filtered their way from the yard. Kristóf and his father looked, and saw five little kids scampering about outside in the shadow of the scrap metal.
“This way,” said Laci.
He led Kristóf and his father through the yard and into the house. The scent of wax mixed with that of clothing inside. Candles were burning. The lighting was dim. Eight people were sitting in the largest room of the peasant house. Four men and four women. The men were all wearing white shirts and black suit coats; the women, black skirts with floral embroideries, and had kerchiefs on their heads. In the middle of the room was a wood-framed double bed. A scrawny old woman with a furrowed face lay among the quilts. She was in a skirt and a red blouse. Her face was rouged and lipstick shone on her lips. Beside the bed was an IV pole, and the tube led to her left arm. The woman was unconscious.
“They’re here,” said Laci on stepping into the room.
“Hi everyone,” said Kristóf’s dad.
Kristóf spontaneously took his father’s hand.
“Hi,” said a thirtyish woman. Kristóf’s dad now recognized her as Kuki’s daughter, Ágnes. They’d played together for years as children. Her eyes were red from crying, like those of the other women.
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Ági.”
“Is he your son?”
“Yes.”
“He’s just like you were,” said Ágnes. “Come on, little boy, you must be hungry. Let me give you a nice thick slice of fresh bread with lard and salt on top.”
“I don’t like bread with lard,” Kristóf replied and hid behind his father’s leg. His dad leaned down to his son.
“Dad’s got to talk over a couple of things. If you’re not hungry, go out and play with the kids in the yard, OK?”
“OK.”
Kristóf headed toward the yard. His dad watched him disappear down the hallway. On hearing the door to the yard slam shut, he turned again to the adults. He looked at the rawboned old woman on the bed and could not reconcile her with his memory of the large, vibrant woman who had been a constant guest in their home in his early years.
“How is she?”
“Yesterday she was awake for only an hour,” said Ágnes.” “The doctor said she’d pass today.” She fell to tears.
The other women began crying, too. Kristóf’s dad sat down on one of the chairs and stared straight ahead. When he looked up from his ruminations he saw his son standing by the entrance to the room in wonderment. He stood up and went over to him.
“What’s the matter, Kristóf?”
“The other kids are barefoot, Dad.”
“They don’t want to get mud on their dress shoes. Go ahead and take off your shoes, too.”
“It’s cold.”
“If the little girls are barefoot, too, it can’t be that cold.”
He caressed the boy’s head and took him to the front door. He watched as Kristóf slipped lissomely out of his sneakers and removed his socks. Slowly, hesitantly he stepped out to the yard; he wasn’t used to walking barefoot.
He’ll get used to it, thought his dad. I did too.
For a while he watched his son as he went back over to the other children and then join them in play.
“You should go out,” said Laci to Kristóf’s dad, putting a hand on his shoulder. “May that much be accomplished, at least, since she asked for it.”
“I’m going,” said Kristóf’s dad, and stood up.
He got on his jacket and went out to the yard. The sun had completely done away with the fog by now. The air was warmer, too. He walked to the car. He opened the trunk and took out the IZS27 shotgun. He opened the barrel to see if there was a shell in it. There wasn’t. He reached into the cardboard box that had been beside the gun, took out four red shells, and stuffed them into his jacket pocket.
“Kristóf!” he called out.
His son looked up and ran over to him.
“I’m going hunting. Won’t you come with me?”
“I will.”
They went out to the dirt road, on each side of which moist grass was sparkling blue.
“What are we hunting, Dad?” asked Kristóf.
“Crows.”
“Why are we hunting crows?”
“To eat them.”
“But you can’t eat crows. Only rabbits, wild boar, and deer.”
“You can eat crows, too. It’s just that we’re not in the habit of doing so.”
“Why not?”
“Because we eat crow only on really special occasions. When someone is very sick.”
“And we’re now hunting because the lady is very sick?”
“Yes. The Gypsies believe that death flies on a crow’s wings. By eating crows they can scare it away.”
For a while they walked beside each other without a word. Kristóf broke the silence.
“My feet h
urt a little, Dad.”
Kristóf’s dad looked at the boy and only then realized he hadn’t gotten on his shoes.
“Do you want me to put you on my shoulders?”
“No. I’m a big boy already. It’s enough if we go more slowly.”
Kristóf’s dad stepped out of his own shoes and took off his socks. He tied the shoes together by the laces and slung them on his shoulder. They went on. Ten minutes later they left the dirt road and walked through the plowed field. The oleaginous black earth squelched under their weight. They went all the way to the middle of the field. They stopped on seeing a flock of crows, fat ones, some twenty meters away, clawing at the soil. Kristóf began excitedly hopping about.
“There they are, there they are,” he said, pointing to the crows.
“Keep quiet. If they notice us, they’ll fly off. Crows are very smart animals.”
“They can’t be smarter than us.”
Kristóf’s dad took the shotgun off his shoulder.
“Can I load it?” asked the boy.
“If you’re careful.”
Kristóf picked up the gun. Careful to have it pointing at the ground, he opened the barrel. He was looking at his dad the whole time. His dad handed him two of the shells. The boy stuffed them into the barrel, and then his dad snapped the barrel back in place.
“You did it well.”
“I can hardly wait to shoot the gun myself,” the boy whispered.
“When you’re able to hold the gun more easily.”
Kristóf’s dad took the weapon, released the safety, and pressed the stock against his shoulder. He fired once, twice. The bang echoed off the distant trees. Several dozen crows flew up into the air.
“You got some, you got some!” yelled the boy, running over to where his dad had shot. Four birds were lying on the ground.
They got back to the house an hour later. Kristóf was riding on his dad’s shoulders. His dad held the shotgun in one hand, and with his other hand he held the four crows by their feet. Blood dripped from their heads onto the dirt road. The dogs were not barking. The breeze carried snatches of singing their way from the house.
Where I wander, even the trees do weep,
Leaves are falling from its branches so weak.
Fall on down, leaves, hide me, cover me up. . . .
Kristóf’s dad put down his son and opened the iron gate. Laci was standing in the yard. He was shaking from his tears. In his hand was a kitchen knife, with which he was cutting the buttons off his shirt.
“My dear mother has died,” he said.
Kristóf’s dad stepped into the house, his son following close behind. In the hallway the women, still singing, were turning backward the pictures and the mirror on the wall. The men, sitting, were wordlessly cutting the buttons off their suit coats. The dead woman was lying there as if asleep. Her hands had been clasped over her chest.
“I’ll take that,” said Ági on noticing Kristóf and his dad.
She took the crows from Kristóf’s dad and went to the kitchen.
Kristóf’s dad lit a cigarette in the yard.
“Did the lady die because we didn’t hurry enough?” asked Kristóf.
“I don’t think so. She was old and very sick.”
“Will we die this way, too, Dad?”
“Not necessarily like this. But it’s certain that we will.”
“When I die, will you shoot crows for me?”
“Yes. I’ll shoot you some crows.”
“And will you hurry up doing so?”
“Yes, I’ll hurry.”
“I’ll shoot crows for you, too.”
“I know,” replied the dad, caressing the boy’s head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you with me.”
“What will they do now?”
“They’ll mourn their mother for three days. Then they’ll go back to Germany.”
“Will they eat the crows?”
“Yes. That will be lunch. We don’t have to wait around for that.”
“I’d like to wait,” said Kristóf.
The women set a plastic table in the yard. They cooked the crows in a big brown pot, and ladled out the soup into each person’s bowl. The red meat alone reminded them that it wasn’t chicken. Kristóf had three bowls, which surprised his dad.
After lunch they said goodbye to the whole family and got back in the car. They headed off. For twenty minutes they didn’t say a word to each other. Kristóf’s dad figured the boy was asleep. Only on looking into the rearview mirror did he notice that he was awake. The little boy was sitting there, his legs pulled up, worried eyes gazing out the window.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m wondering of we ate enough.”
“For what?”
“To scare away death.”
“We sure did,” said Kristóf’s dad. “Don’t you worry on account of that.”
Kristóf kept looking out the window. The trees were blooming by the side of the road, and the crops were sprouting on the fields. With the sparkling sunlight, too, it seemed death really was very far away.
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Williamstown, Massachusetts
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sándor Jászberényi (Shahn-dor Yahs-ber-ay-ñee) is the author of The Devil Is a Black Dog: Stories from the Middle East and Beyond (first edition: New Europe Books, 2014; also published by Scribe in the UK and the Commonwealth and Speaking Tiger Books in India). In 2017 he received Hungary’s prestigious Libri Literary Prize for The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul. As a correspondent
for Hungarian news sites, he has covered the conflict with Islamic State, unrest in Ukraine, the revolutions in Egypt and Libya, and the Gaza War. His writing has appeared in the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times Magazine, the Irish Times, AGNI, Tablet, Guernica, BODY Literature, and the Brooklyn Rail. He divides his time between Budapest and Cairo.
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Paul Olchváry has translated many Hungarian books to English, including György Dragomán’s The White King and András Forgách’s No Live Files Remain. He has received translation grants from the US National Endowment for the Arts and PEN American Center, and is a past recipient of the Milán Füst Prize of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences. A native of Amherst, New York, Olchváry was born to Hungarian parents and lived in Hungary for twelve years as an adult, settling there as the Cold War ended. Today he lives in Williamstown, Massachusetts.
The Most Beautiful Night of the Soul Page 18
