Iza's Ballad (13 page)

The square seemed real enough, chiefly because of the pigeons, the flock reminding her of Captain in some way, and after a while she started bringing crumbs and imagined that a particular ruff-necked pigeon with blue eyes had befriended her because it often perched on her bench.

Other old women came to Ráday Square to catch the sun, and some old men too, men who resembled Vince, the skin in soft folds under their chins, often wearing a woollen scarf even in the surprisingly warm spring sunshine. The old men read papers or just sat with closed eyes, their heads turned to the sun, lost in thought, much as she was. Slowly she got used to it and made it her favourite place to go. There was no grass there yet, just the promise of a park; gardeners were working around her, digging flower beds, and a path was being built in the centre; and this too was entertainment of a sort, watching the cauldron, the low fire under the simmering asphalt, the flames that were now yellow, now carmine red.

Back home old people tended to gather round the statue of Kossuth to get the air and everyone knew everybody.

She had never become part of that group of ‘pensioners’: she would take her place on the bench even on less than fine summer mornings but would never greet those who had looked at Vince in
that
way back
then
, not Bella Tahy, nor Tódorka Kovács, nobody. Actually it would have been easier to take the sun and make friends here with someone as solitary as herself, someone who had never known Vince or hurt him.

For days she kept gazing at the faces.

The old people, the old of the square, would arrive at almost the same time while the sun was at its height at noon and, when possible, would take their usual seats. Slowly she got to recognise them all and could see that some were happy, minding little children, and had friends to play pocket chess with, who ate pretzels and, occasionally, laughed. There was an old man who every lunch hour was sought out by someone from the workshop opposite the park to chat or for advice on drawings and tools. She did not dare approach the men though they were in a majority because even at that age, she thought, it wasn’t right. She just sat and dreamt the time away before lunch waiting for someone to speak to her. Teréz was amazed – she was often late.

For a long time nothing happened.

Then one day the hoped-for event did occur. An old, deeply wrinkled woman settled down beside her. Her face made up, her nails painted, she was wearing a fur collar and high heels, and was something of mutton dressed as lamb. She drew away from her and felt sad and inadequate: others could look after themselves. She couldn’t even manage this. She had never used nail varnish.

She felt the stranger was sizing her up and was in two minds: should she talk to her? Shouldn’t she? She was practically trembling with pleasure at the thought of someone wanting to talk to her. ‘Go on,’ she said to herself in a two-syllable prayer. ‘Go on, say something.’ She was almost overcome by happiness when the old woman eventually asked her whether she didn’t think that, after all that horrible rain, an unusually nice spring seemed to be on its way.

After half an hour of telling the stranger everything about herself she could still not stop talking. The woman listened, interjecting a word here and there, nodding and smoking, responding with her own sadness or delight as she went on. Having sketched out her life she felt strangely relieved. The other woman was looking at her with such undisguised envy, clearly thinking, here is a woman with nothing to do, that she suddenly felt it was quite nice like this: it was just that she hadn’t anticipated it, hadn’t thought it through. Well, of course Iza was so busy she didn’t have time for anything – she didn’t really need her help and everything that happened or didn’t happen at home was just Iza looking after her. The old woman beside her was called Hilda, Hilda Virág, and it turned out they lived very close to each other, just three blocks away.

Hilda Virág said she shared a room with her young relatives. Well then, they should meet not at her place but at Iza’s. She would be happy to see her this afternoon at four if that’s convenient, she told Hilda. On her way home she first thought of baking something, but then she dropped the idea: it was not worth the risk because Teréz was sure to notice. She bought biscuits instead. Once home she ate with a good appetite, prettied her room and felt it looked unusually impressive. All the furniture looked impeccably nice thanks to Iza, so clever to make sure everything in the room was perfect – it was a real pleasure to look at.

Hilda Virág arrived on time and praised the coffee put before her. She didn’t want to discuss her family though the old woman would have liked to know more about her, and after a while she stopped questioning her and let her talk about whatever she wanted. Hilda knew all kinds of amusing stories about Pest as it had once been, remembered clearly the details of her honeymoon year, 1911, and rolled out great lists of cabaret and music-hall venues, one of which at least she and Vince had been to but had left, blushing and embarrassed, at the interval. Hilda Virág knew a lot of songs and had a nice voice if a little tremulous. She was orphaned early in her life and all she would say about herself is that she lived independently without any support. Her younger relatives cared only for themselves and expected her to clean and cook for them without anything in return. And she had never won anything on the lottery yet, though she’d love to.

The old woman was ready to offer her money but, just in time, thought better of it. When Hilda Virág talked of her old friends she mentioned such prominent names of the past that the old woman realised there could be no thought of insulting her with a cash gift. If the woman’s young relatives neglected her to such a degree, she’d look to help Hilda Virág in this or that way of her own instead. What a good creature she was and what fun it was being with her. She showed her a photograph of Vince and several of Iza as a child. Her guest loved it all. She kept tapping the radiator, saying she wished just once in her life she had a flat like this where you didn’t have to keep feeding the fire and it was so heavenly and warm. The old woman looked around her with innocent pride, feeling how beautiful the room was and thought she must have been blinded by years of unhappiness not to notice it – she had simply not adjusted to her new life. ‘Teréz,’ sighed Hilda Virág. If only she had a Teréz in her life! But it was she who played the role of Teréz where she lived. How terrible!

Iza was astounded when she returned and heard laughter. Her mother’s voice sounded full of life. She was clearly chatting to someone who was humming in an awful old voice. She took off her coat and walked in.

‘My daughter,’ the old woman declared, glowing. ‘My little daughter, the doctor. She has just returned from work and is tired, the poor thing. Will you sit down, Izzy?’

Iza stood in the doorway and looked at Hilda Virág. The visitor muttered something and stood up. The old woman felt bad about this for some reason. Why should the elderly woman stand up when a younger woman enters the room? Because the flat belonged to Iza? No, it must be something else. Iza did not sit down and was remarkably unfriendly, saying simply hello, then turning on her heel and leaving. The conversation came to an awkward stop. Hilda Virág stuttered something about how young and vigorous Iza looked while the old woman was consumed with shame: she did not think Iza was being energetic but offensive. Her visitor left, a lot less sparkling than when she had arrived, without inviting the old woman back to her place even though she was trembling with excitement at the prospect – it is what she had been waiting for all afternoon. The young relatives wouldn’t have bothered her. She liked young people. She wouldn’t even have had to cross the street to get to Hilda Virág’s flat. What a convenient friendship it might have been.

She rinsed the cups. Unfortunately Iza had noticed that she hadn’t emptied the spirit burner and had made the coffee in the quick boiler, but then it was in her own room and here, she thought, she might be free to do as she liked; after all, she didn’t know how to operate Iza’s coffee-maker. Iza didn’t come to her room till supper.

‘Where did you pick up that old baggage?’ asked Iza.

She didn’t understand the word at first and thought her daughter was talking about clothes. Iza sometimes called patched jumpers and nighties the ‘baggage’, so she had to ask again and have the answer using a different word before she understood what she was being asked, and then she was so frightened her eyes began to fill with tears.

‘I come home to find you having coffee with a prostitute. Have you lost your mind, mother? What were you thinking of? This is Pest, a city of two million people; did you think you were home in the village? Where did you pick her up? In Ráday Square? How do you know who is likely to come and sit down beside you? She started the conversation – that I can well imagine. What if you brought a murderer home one day and he decided to cut your throat, some hooligan who tells you he’s a novice monk? Don’t get into conversations in the street, mother, and on no account think of bringing anyone home. It was sheer luck that I hadn’t planned anything for this afternoon, that I happened to be tired and needed a rest, but I might have come home with a guest or with work to do. I find this woman sitting here, boasting how this or that grand acquaintance of hers is a proper gentleman. Amazing!’

She threw the crumbs she had collected for the ruff-necked pigeons in Ráday Square out of the window and watched anxiously from above in case there was a policeman coming up to punish her for littering the street, but she didn’t dare take the bag for the crumbs into the kitchen because she was frightened of being told off, of being asked what was up with her now, with this beggarly mania of hers for sweeping the crumbs on the tablecloth into bags. She no longer visited the square and stuck to wandering the side streets, looking in shop windows, thinking what might be nice to have but she couldn’t think of anything. She did see Hilda Virág one more time, leaving the house whose number she had mentioned when talking about her flat. She was carrying a string bag, her face lavishly painted as before, dark circles round her sad eyes. She felt so ashamed she slipped into a doorway so she shouldn’t have to greet her.

After the experience with Hilda, any stranger frightened her.

She never opened the door to anyone unless Teréz was in the house, not even the postman. The janitor brought up any letters addressed to Iza in the evening, and he always made some remark to the effect that if the old lady never went out why did she burden someone else with the post? She felt bad about this and afterwards would look through the spyhole in the door and, depending on what the caller wanted, would shout that her daughter wasn’t at home and that she wasn’t allowed to let anybody in, that the key had been taken away and she didn’t want brushes or washing powder or patched rugs because she was a widow with a very small pension which, in any case, she did not keep at home. But she also felt bad if the visitor went away and once, when Iza was spending the weekend elsewhere, she didn’t undress but went to bed fully clothed wondering how she would defend herself if she were attacked.

Days floated by in a quite unreal fashion.

In the morning she had to wait until Iza was finished in the bathroom and then she rushed through everything in a panic so that Teréz shouldn’t surprise her. While Teréz was there she had to keep out of her way by making herself small in the big armchair or by going out to the street. And then there was Iza to wait for, Iza with her unpredictable moods, having to sit by the window with her eyes on the bus stop, with a heartbreaking anxiety she had never experienced before, wondering if Iza was safe or had been run down, because she had never imagined there could be as much traffic as there was in Pest. When the girl arrived she had to wait for the most unobtrusive moment to go into the kitchen and have some supper, and hope that Iza would eat a little more than usual; you couldn’t tell by looking at her how little she ate and how, when tired, she wanted nothing more than a very watery lemonade, a piece of cheese and an apple. After supper she’d wait for that man, Domokos, who was a regular visitor and wonder what the faint noises, those hardly audible noises, meant. What could they be doing in Iza’s room and surely it couldn’t be what she thought? Once she remembered what Iza had called Hilda Virág and started weeping because if Iza’s relationship with Domokos was of the same kind then Iza couldn’t be a respectable girl either.

The hours of waiting were filled with memories.

She never thought that remembering could be such an energetic activity.

Little by little the old lady went through the events of her life. She had never had time for it before. Her options, all those possibilities she had thought through and through, had solidified around her: recalling the arrival of Captain, getting him to adapt and become house-trained, always made her think he was actually here, just hiding under the bed, as he used to do sometimes back home when he heard Iza’s footsteps. Captain was frightened of Iza. She gave up on Aunt Emma, growing bitter about the wickedness, a wickedness that time somehow refused to heal. Teréz would look at her suspiciously the way she sat in her big chair doing absolutely nothing with just a mysterious smile on her face, or some inexpressible sadness – what on earth was going on in that old woman’s mind? The old woman thought and thought about the loss of Endrus and the days she spent with Vince, and it turned out it hardly mattered what oceans of time had passed, she remembered everything, not only things that happened to them personally but events in the life of the town, and above the busy traffic of the ring road she was wondering whether it was in 1903 that they built the pavilion in the copse, the one where the band played every Sunday afternoon. Teréz froze and listened every time she heard a noise from within. She didn’t know the tune and the old woman couldn’t sing so she couldn’t know that she was trying to recall the German song,
Alle miteinander, alle miteinander, grüss euch Gott!
The old woman had even given up on Queen Zita’s dress, the bunch of violets in her hands that she was nervously sniffing at and which was almost certainly sprinkled with antiseptic. The king and queen were passing through town just when Spanish flu was raging, when little Dóri Kubek and Aurél Inárcs died of it. She had stood right at the back of the queue of ladies, and she only went to annoy Aunt Emma, despite Vince begging her not to. It was the only time she and Vince had a real row because he stayed right at home, claiming at court that he had been ill with a touch of Spanish flu. In reality he was at home reading Dickens and she even remembered the name of the book,
Dombey and Son
, and that he said he wasn’t interested in kings and would rather read.