Csardas (38 page)

When Eva and Papa came up she felt slightly relieved; now the burden would no longer be on her. But Eva was not much help. She was subdued and irritable and not even the flattering attentions of their guest—he flirted equally with Mama and with Eva—could lift her spirits.

The day came when they had to call on Uncle Alfred and Aunt Gizi. Eva’s small face was white and her mouth was pinched into a grimace of self-control. She had not seen Felix for a long time and now, in the presence of hated Aunt Gizi, she had to greet the betrothed couple as though nothing had happened. At the last moment she declared she would not go.

“I can’t, Malie. I can’t go and have them gloating over me! Have Aunt Gizi preening and—”

“Oh, darling! She won’t!”

“Yes, she will. And supposing Madame Kaldy is there. I couldn’t bear it if she were there. I can’t go, Malie! I can’t go. I—” Tears welled up again. “I don’t want to see Felix with Kati,” she whispered.

Malie tried to persuade her, but it was Mr. Klein who finally solved the dilemma, or rather it was Mr. Klein’s motorcar. He came into the drawing-room, ignoring Eva’s unhappy face, and said, “I trust I shall have the privilege of escorting you to your cousin’s in my motor. Your uncle, I am sure, would be most interested in seeing the vehicle, and I would like to pay my compliments once more to your relatives.”

His voice was droll, amused, as though making fun of his own formal way of speaking.

“I feel it would enhance my reputation if I were to arrive with the adorable Ferenc ladies in my motorcar.”

And immediately Eva saw how it would look. No longer would she be the discarded sweetheart arriving to brave it out before her cousin and her erstwhile suitor. No! She would drive up in a new and splendid machine that even Uncle Alfred didn’t possess, in spite of all his money. And at the wheel would be smooth, elegant, rich Mr. Klein, on whose financial transactions Uncle Alfred relied. And she and Malie and Mama, dressed as beautifully, as
moderne
as they could manage, would descend from the motor, full of their exciting ride and talking about speed and danger instead of Kati’s wedding.

It was even better than she thought. Mr. Klein pressed down on the accelerator just before they arrived at Uncle Alfred’s villa, and they pulled swiftly into the drive and braked to a sensational halt. The car was polished and gleaming, and so was Mr. Klein in his pale linen suit and silk shirt. Papa had come with them, and so the ladies were assisted from the car and then escorted to the steps before an admiring and slightly awestruck audience. Eva, on the arm of Mr. Klein, was able to laugh and make little mock gestures of relief at being out of the dangerous machine, placing her hand on her breast and making provocative moues with her mouth.

“Well!” enthused Uncle Alfred. “How splendid, David! How magnificent!”

They all crowded round the machine—Felix too—admiring and envious and somehow Eva managed to give the impression that the motorcar was hers as well as Mr. Klein’s and by the time they went into the house the horror of meeting them all together for the first time was over.

Aunt Gizi talked of nothing but the wedding. She was overwrought but rapturous. Alfred seemed affable but talked of nothing but Mr. Klein’s motorcar. Felix and Kati talked of nothing. Felix looked bored and unhappy, Kati frightened and unhappy. The gayest people in the room were Eva and Mr. Klein.

Under cover of conversation Felix finally worked his way round the room and sat beside Eva.

“Such a long while since I saw you, Eva,” he said wistfully.

Eva laughed.

“I suppose you were... surprised... when you heard about Kati and me.”

Eva laughed again.

“Mama says it will be good for me to be married,” he said, resigned. And then, cheering a little, “And Eva, you should see the old manor. I am making it look quite beautiful. I am having bathrooms added, two bathrooms! And—you will hardly believe it, Eva—there was no modern lighting! We are having electricity installed, but in the most tasteful way. I cannot wait for you to see how beautiful it all is. I know you will love it.”

“Yes,” said Eva, smiling. “I’m sure I shall.”

“You will come, won’t you?” he asked eagerly. “You are such a dear, dear friend, I could not bear to think you wouldn’t come to see us often. Mama is so fond of you, I know you would be welcome to visit us.”

Eva smiled, sweetly and dangerously. “Of course I shall come, Felix, if Kati, your wife, invites me.”

“Kati?” he asked, puzzled.

“Why, yes! Kati, the new mistress of the Kaldy house.”

“Oh, yes.” His eyes rested on Kati across the room, then moved hurriedly away. “Mama intends to give parties and dances once everything is finished. You must promise me that you will come.”

And Eva laughed again and said she supposed she would have to come as Kati was so fond of her.

They climbed into Mr. Klein’s motor, Malie, Eva, and Mama in the back, and as they moved away Eva’s smile cracked and tears began to roll down her cheeks. Mr. Klein blew his horn and threw the car into a stylish whirl so that they left the house in a flurry of exciting noise and movement. Malie put her arm round Eva’s shoulder and reflected, as Eva’s control finally disintegrated altogether, that it was the second time Mr. Klein and his motor had saved them from a distressing situation.

The harvesters arrived. One or two of the old people, the pre-war ones, were there, but mostly they were new people, some wearing their old army uniforms. The songs were the same though. All the tall grasses fell before the scythes, the choruses echoed over the fields. Leo and Jozsef, old enough now to understand the ribald verses, giggled with the reapers and then, when they came into supper at the end of the day, daringly hummed the tunes of the songs they dared not sing.

Mr. Klein rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and his arms turned brown in the sun. His beautiful riding breeches and boots began to look worn and more familiar. He watched the hay being brought in, saw the apricots and peaches ripening on the trees, and spent much time with Papa walking over the farm and talking in the study.

At the end of the harvest the gypsies arrived and Roza haggled with the leader over a price for the harvest music. The money was agreed upon, and the band—two violins and a
cimbalom
—set up on the veranda. A fire was built in the yard, the huge black pot suspended over it, and Roza began to heat goulash.

Mama, looking extraordinarily pretty in a white cotton dress that was daringly short and showed five or six inches of ankle, set out loaves of bread on the wine press and pretended to help Roza. She was usually rather bored by the harvest festivities—she was expected to dance with the reapers and most of them, by the end of the afternoon, were drunk and ungainly—but this year the presence of Mr. Klein made it different. This year she was Madame Ferenc, showing how enchanting she could be at a pastoral festival.

The head man of the harvesters, dressed in his best clothes, came formally up the steps to Papa. “Sir—God be praised—it is my happiness to report that a good crop has been gathered.”

Papa nodded affably. The two men shook hands with great ceremony; then Papa turned to the gypsies, raised his eyebrows, bowed, and the music began.

Smiling and pretty, Mama was led down the steps by the chief harvester. Gracefully, to the melody of an old waltz, they circled once on the baked soil of the yard as the onlookers, waiting for the free goulash and wine, murmured appreciatively.

Most of the wives were dressed in formal black, but some of the young girls from the village were wearing the old festival garments of weddings and feast days. When Malie and Eva were younger they had worn them too. Roza had made the costumes for them, the embroidered bodices and caps sewn painstakingly during the winter months. Just before the party began Malie, seized by a sudden lightening of the spirits, a relief that she was, after all that had happened, still alive, had suggested that they get the old skirts and bodices out and wear them again.

“It’s the first harvest party for so many years, Eva! And it would make us realize... make us realize that the war is over.” It would be the first time that she had felt any gladness, and joy, since Karoly had died. She was not happy, but a slow contentment was creeping round her heart—an acceptance, mingled with sadness, of all the things that had happened—and at last the grace to find peace and tenderness had returned.

“Oh, no! No one wears those silly costumes any more.”

“Some of the village girls might.”

Eva shrugged. “It isn’t worth dressing up just for the harvesters. I would rather wear something fashionable.”

And so they had worn pale cotton dresses, short like Mama’s, with lace collars and contrasting sashes. When Malie saw the occasional coloured skirt whirling among the dancers she felt sad about Eva’s lack of enthusiasm.

Uncle Zoltan, propped on his crutches, stood by the wine cask. In the old days he had been the first to ask Mama to dance. Now his self-respect demanded some kind of authority, and so he said from time to time, “Fill your cups! As much as you like! Good farm wine for everyone!”

As the wine flowed the reserve of the reapers melted a little. A young one—there seemed to be so few young ones now—took courage and asked Eva to dance. He was strong and brown, the column of his neck straight, his arms firm. He was only a peasant and was very respectful while dancing, but his brown eyes were like those of any other young man, warm, challenging, admiring. Eva began to revive. Her smile arched a little, her head went back, and she began to dance as though she were one of the enchanting Ferenc sisters.

“It is many years since I have danced a
csardas.
I think I would like to try.”

Malie, absorbed, had been watching the dancing couples, and now Mr. Klein was in front of her, smiling, sad, laughing at himself. Automatically she began to refuse, then remembered that it was Mr. Klein, so smiled and descended the steps. Her body instinctively withdrew from his as he placed his arm round her waist, but then, as they danced, the wildness of the music made her relax a little.

“You should grip me a little firmer. Otherwise you will spin away.”

She forced herself to tighten her arm around Mr. Klein. Through his silk shirt she could feel sweat on his body; did Mr. Klein sweat like other men? They spun, twisted, then balanced gracefully for the slow steps. People of Mr. Klein’s age usually only survived a few movements of the
csardas,
unless they were peasants who were capable of controlled stamina when dancing. To her surprise Mr. Klein didn’t even seem to be out of breath. He gripped her firmly when it was necessary, guided her when their dancing should be stately, and never once fell out of step with the violins and
cimbalom.
A pang, a foolish whim swept over her. How she wished she were wearing the old embroidered bodice and cotton skirt. Dancing here, on the soil of their own farm, with the harvest in and the war over, how she would have loved to be dressed in the colourful clothes of their childhood, their innocence!

They were well matched, she could feel it; their height was balanced and they moved well. Suddenly she was able to see, as though from an onlooker’s angle, how pleasing they looked together, how handsome and graceful, even though he was so much older. She was gratified, and then the feeling vanished and she thought,
What am I doing, dancing with this stranger? Oh, Karoly, Karoly! You are my partner, no one but you!
And she knew a renewal of the old feeling, the old voice that said,
You will never dance with, or speak to, or see Karoly Vilaghy again.

“I’m sorry. I can’t dance any more.”

She pulled away, and her arm slid through his hand. She had enough sense of courtesy not to snatch her hand away too, and Mr. Klein held it, staring at her, puffing a little, with beads of perspiration standing out on his brow.

“It is enough,” he agreed. “Come, we shall walk out a little, to see the harvest.”

She was suddenly tired. She wanted to go back to the veranda and watch—observing others brought her peace and contentment—but obediently she followed Mr. Klein onto the track that led through the acacia woods.

Mr. Klein was very quiet. He walked and hummed a soft little tune to himself. Shocked, she realized what the tune was, the bawdy verse sung by the reapers. Mr. Klein must have picked it up without appreciating what the words were! She gazed sideways at him and was disconcerted to see him wink very slowly and deliberately.

“So,” he said at last. “What are you going to do with the rest of your life?”

“Do?”

“Mmmm. You are... how old? Twenty-four. And your fiance has been killed and the world is no longer the same place that it once was.”

“But it will be,” she said quickly. “Everything is returning to normal now. Horthy is bringing the old ways back.”

“At what a cost, Amalia,” he said slowly. “At what a cost. Do you hear nothing of what has happened in the south, or even in Budapest?”

Of course she had heard—a little, as much as she wanted to hear: stories of the dreadful revenge exacted by Horthy’s soldiers on the Communists who had been running the country a year ago, the Communists who had killed Uncle Sandor. But the stories came from the south, and who was to say how true they were?

“They did no worse than the men who murdered Uncle Sandor. You don’t know about Uncle Sandor, our coachman, he—”

“Oh, yes, I know about your coachman. He was murdered by frightened rebels. And now it is the turn of the soldiers, the old Austro-Hungarian officers who are executing Communists, socialists, liberals, intellectuals, Jews—”

“All that is over,” she said loudly. “The war is over, and so are all the revolutions. I don’t believe any of the stories you tell me!”

But she did believe him. She knew he was right; the red terror had been followed by the white. But she didn’t want to hear about it. They were safe, safe on their mountain farm with all the killing and punishment taking place in the south. She didn’t want any more. It was over. It must be over!