Csardas (24 page)

There was a flurry from the other side of the door, and Alfred jumped up to help Eva with the tea.

“Delightful!” he cried with obvious relief. “Let us hope this will be the first of many family parties together this summer.”

The only people in the room who did not seem disturbed were Karoly and Amalia.

Four days later he called, and the interview with Papa was brief and to the point. He spoke first, not waiting for Papa to intimidate him, and he spoke while sitting, excusing himself because he was still unable to stand for any length of time.

“I shall not disturb you for too long,” he said, politely but without interest. “You know, naturally, that I wish to marry Amalia... eventually. I cannot marry her now; I do not know if I am going to live or die. But if I survive the war, we shall marry. It will naturally be pleasanter if you are agreeable to this.”

Papa’s world was crumbling about him, his world where his children did as they were told and where he was stronger than anyone else. “You know I do not consider a marriage between you and Amalia suitable. I have made myself clear on this many times.”

“Yes, well—” Karoly paused to succumb to a severe bout of coughing. When he had finished a thin film of sweat stood across his forehead. “Yes, of course. Some of your doubts I can remove. My promotion, for one thing. If I can manage to stay alive I will be promoted very quickly. Already I am a captain.” He smiled, but the smile held no humour. “It is no longer necessary to prove one’s military abilities or have influence at the staff college in order to be promoted. It is much simpler now; one only has to stay alive. My family estate—no doubt you have already made inquiries into the conditions of our land—this too has been... assisted by the war. My father has sold most of the ground to a Jewish grain merchant, enough to clear the debts and establish himself in Budapest. We have been very lucky.”

Everything was said in the same flat, toneless voice. A series of facts, no more, no intention to prove a point or remind Zsigmond Ferenc of his origins.

“I am afraid I still do not think such a marriage suitable for my daughter.” He wondered where his fury had gone, the anger that had kept his family in check for so long. He hated this young man with the dying face, but somewhere in his consciousness lay the knowledge that if he succumbed to fury he would be made to feel like a small, badly behaved child. He could not risk the contempt, the contempt of a soldier for a civilian.

“We can plan no time for our marriage,” Karoly continued, as though Papa had not spoken. “We must wait until the war is over. If it ends soon and you do not give your consent, we must wait until Amalia is of age. Alternatively, if you wish to expel her from your family circle now, I will take her to my parents in Budapest, and she can stay with them until her marriage can be arranged.”

It was as though he were talking of someone known casually to both of them, talking of a vague business situation that had to be arranged in a satisfactory manner.

“I—”

‘“My feeling is that it would be better if Amalia remained here, with her family, until the war is ended.” He began to cough again, very badly this time, and as he held a cloth to his mouth Zsigmond noticed that it was flecked with blood. The coughing went on and on; he was hunched forward in his chair, one hand held to his stomach, the other clasping the handkerchief. Finally it ended and he lay back exhausted, panting a little and with his eyes half closed.

“I wonder,” he gasped. “Could I have a little water, please?”

He was about to ring for Roza, and then he remembered that Roza would be working in the fields and that either Amalia or Eva would come. He wanted neither of his daughters to see Karoly Vilaghy at the moment, so he removed himself quietly from the room and hurried downstairs to get a jug of water. When he came back he thought for one moment that the hussar captain was dead. He was lying back on the chair with his eyes closed and his face a sickly yellow colour.

“Water,” he said, pouring and passing a glass. The young man drank it slowly, then lay back again in the chair, staring out of the window towards the vines with their heavy crops of grapes, to the peaches and apricots lying on top of the wine press, drying in the sun, to the chickens and geese and dogs, all scratching together in the dust, to the acacia woods that led down to the river.

“How peaceful it is here,” Karoly murmured dreamily. “How quiet and peaceful, like Amalia.” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “Did you know how close the Russians were last year? I don’t suppose they told you: nearly over the Carpathians. All this”—he waved his hand towards the window—“would have looked like Galicia, everything burnt and dead and full of shell holes, the peasants hanging from trees, all the food gone, just guns and soldiers and burnt huts.”

He couldn’t answer. Too much had happened. He wanted to drive the young man from his house with a whip, hurl him down the steps into the dust of the yard. He could still do it, physically he could still do it; he was a big man, a strong man in spite of his years. But how could he throw a soldier with a medal ribbon and a bloodstained handkerchief from his house? How could he quell him with words and silent threats when the soldier was no longer afraid of him? He wanted to pound his fists on something, or somebody, raise his voice to the heavens and scream his anger, but how could he do this when the cold blue eyes would just stare at him with indifference and apathy?

“I shall go home... to Cousin Alfred’s.” Karoly began to pull himself to his feet. “The coach is waiting and I have stayed too long.” As he walked slowly towards the door he added casually, “It is agreed, then. Amalia stays here until the war is over and we can be married.”

He opened the door and she was waiting outside. Her face lit into a smile when she saw him and swiftly she slid her arm round his waist in a gesture that combined femininity with the need to support and help him.

“It is agreed,” Karoly told her. “We shall marry as soon as the war is over.”

She turned back, smiling, said, “Thank you, Papa,” and then returned all her attention to helping him through the hall and down the steps.

He watched them from the window—the thin, young-old man bent exhausted over the prop of the girl’s body—and dimly he began to understand why Kati and his sister had been crying.

It wasn’t that she was jealous of Malie—no, not at all. Poor Malie had had a very difficult time with Papa since meeting Karoly, and it was only right that at last darling Malie and dear Karoly should be rewarded for their constancy. She wasn’t one little bit jealous; she loved her sister very much. Indeed, in some curious way Malie was more important to her than Mama, who was gay and charming but... unreliable. Oh, no, she was very happy for Malie, delighted that at last Papa had agreed that one day they could get married. She wasn’t jealous at all.

It was just that it was so unfair! Always it had been Eva first,
then
Malie. Even when they were little girls she could remember Mama saying, “No, Amalia! You must let Eva have the doll because she is your little sister and you must be kind to her.” And Malie had been kind. Eva had had the dolls, and the chance to choose first when there were picture books or crayons to be divided between them. And when they were older and the French mademoiselle who made the clothes for the town’s gentry began to come and measure them, always it was Eva’s dress that was sewn before Malie’s, and Eva who was allowed to make the first selection from the festive dress lengths.

And she was prettier than Malie too. They were called the enchanting Ferenc girls, and of course Malie was very handsome, but Eva knew she was really the prettier of the two; every young man who had ever danced or skated or walked or drunk coffee with her had told her so. “Oh, yes, your sister is very nice to look at, but you—you are wonderful, Eva!”

She could see it in the mirror. Every time she looked at her delicate heart-shaped face with the bright eyes and thick mass of black curls, she knew she was prettier than Malie. And—she blushed at the thought, but nonetheless it was true—she had more... seduction than Malie. She pretended not to notice the way men looked at her, but all the time she was conscious of their eyes; even Uncle Alfred stared overlong at her narrow waist and the curves of her bosom and hips. Whenever he kissed her he always kept his arms round her just a little longer than necessary.

That’s why it was so unfair. She had always been first, and now Malie was in love, and Karoly was in love too. Karoly had never even looked at her. Even when Malie was absent and she tried to cheer him up a little by laughing and teasing, he didn’t really look
at
her. He was the second young man not to notice how pretty she was, how naughty and
moderne
and seductive, and while Karoly’s indifference merely annoyed her, Felix’s failure to appreciate how exceptional she was both hurt and humiliated her. She had done everything: flirted, laughed, provoked, sulked, smiled, pouted, pirouetted, winked, giggled, and flattered. She had, in the course of her pursuit of Felix, collected a number of ardent young men who had been shattered by the side effects of her smiles. They had gone off to the war expressing their devotion and hinting that perhaps it would be rewarded once the war had been won. And Felix had gone away too—smiling at her, saying how much he would miss her, flirting with her—and none of it meant anything. She, who had carelessly charmed so often, knew the difference between a-heart heavily inflicted with dramatic love and a pleasant but meaningless romance.

She had even forced herself to pay frequent and dreary calls on Madame Kaldy during the summer. She made Malie go with her, and they had sat and conversed stiffly about the letters they all received from the front. She had asked Felix’s mother about the farm, about Adam’s boring beet fields, about how she was managing with the men all away. The only time she had seen Madame Kaldy soften was when they called on her soon after Karoly had returned. Malie appeared to be living in some euphoric dream world since Papa’s capitulation, and when they had entered Madame Kaldy’s drawing-room the older woman had crossed to Malie and kissed her on both cheeks.

“My dear,” she said, quite kindly, “I am happy for your good fortune. I believe you will be happy with the young man.”

Malie flushed, shy but gratified. “We cannot marry until the war is won,” she said guardedly, but her face was bright.

Madame Kaldy nodded and raised her hand. “There are difficulties. Obviously it is not the match your papa would have wished, but in the circumstances....”

Eva was angry. Driving back to the farm, her wrath exploded. “How dare she say that. How dare she!”

Amalia frowned. “Say what, Eva?”

“About ‘in the circumstances.’ Because Papa is not of the gentry—that’s what she meant—she thinks we are not really good enough for the old families like the Vilaghys and the Kaldys.”

“Why no, Eva! That wasn’t what she meant at all. She was referring to the fact that Karoly and I—that we love one another and have refused to give in to Papa. That is what she meant.”

She was so obviously upset that Eva said no more. But she knew what the old witch had meant. She hadn’t been talking to Malie at all. She had been telling Eva that no Ferenc girl was good enough for
her
son, and that Eva Ferenc could forget about Felix Kaldy.

“Well, I don’t like her! And I’m not going there again,” she said, hitting angrily at a butterfly that had settled on her skirt. “I only visited her because I felt sorry for her, both Felix and Adam away at the war and no one to talk to her. That’s the only reason I went, just to be kind, but I shan’t go again.” She was annoyed, not only by the “old witch’s” remark but also by the way Madame Kaldy had kissed Malie and wished her well. Everyone was kissing Malie: Mama, Roza, Kati, even Aunt Gizi. Everyone was saying how wonderful it was that she and Karoly were to be allowed to marry once the war was won. Everyone was talking about nothing else but Malie—and it wasn’t fair!

At the end of September they had to get ready to return to town in time for the little boys to begin their school term. And then the final unfairness of all burst upon her.

Uncle Alfred and Aunt Gizi came to see Papa. There was a long and loud (although not loud enough to hear exactly what was said) conversation in the drawing-room, and then Papa had come out looking cross and confused. Aunt Gizi had apparently persuaded him to let Malie stay with them in the country until Karoly was fit and well again.

“He will be here for only a little longer,” she said persuasively. “Just as soon as the doctor has declared him fit he will return to the front. Malie can stay until then. It will be company for Kati too.”

Eva felt as betrayed by Aunt Gizi as her father. Always Gizi could be relied upon to interfere with her nieces’ lives, usually to their disadvantage. Always she was ready to persuade Papa that they should not do this or that, should not go to so many parties, or have so many new dresses. And now Aunt Gizi was actually persuading Papa that Malie should stay in the country, having a lovely time at the Racs-Rassay villa and celebrating the grape harvest with Karoly. She was so angry and peeved that she couldn’t even say good-bye to Malie.

The little boys were unhappy about leaving Malie too. They never liked leaving the farm at the end of summer, but this year was even worse because Eva was in such a bad temper. She slapped them both when they climbed up in the coach to go home. She said they had trodden on her dress.

The journey down from the hills was miserable and dreary. Mama prattled gaily for a while—all about Karoly and Malie, of course—until finally Papa said coldly, “I do not see the necessity for constant chatter, Marta. I would appreciate it if you could manage to be silent for a few moments.”

Jozsef and Leo sat glaring sullenly at Eva. They had not forgotten the slap, and they were already missing their beloved Malie. The presence of Uncle Sandor on the box afforded a small comfort, but it didn’t outweigh the gloomy presence of Papa or their resentment of Eva. In silence they trundled along the dusty roads, between woods and farmlands, until finally the fields flattened out into a monotonous landscape of small holdings and houses that grew thicker as the town approached.