Iza's Ballad (36 page)

Authors: Magda Szabo,George Szirtes

Tags: #Contemporary, #Literary, #Contemporary Women, #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Family Life, #Genre Fiction, #Domestic Life

BOOK: Iza's Ballad

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‘I knew I had to leave you before the terrible discipline you imposed on your own life to save you from distractions took me over too; before I grew so much a part of you that I could only see through your eyes and think of Dorozs as a sanatorium made of concrete and glass, rather than as an ancient spring and an intense desire to put right something that time should put right.

‘I couldn’t live with you.

‘When I first saw you, you were like a child conscript before a battle. You were standing next to your father who was the most generous pauper who ever walked the earth. I thought you would be like him and, like the two simple souls either side of you, offer your generosity to anyone who needed it. But I have never met anyone as emotionally tight-fisted as you, so grudging in your generosity, nor anyone more cowardly, not even when you carried grenades in your briefcase and said to the policeman who stopped you, “What’s the matter, have you never seen a student before?”’

Captain was panting and gave a great human sigh. He had followed Antal through the partly open door. Antal took a cigarette but tipped over the ashtray while reaching for a match. Iza gave a shudder and opened her eyes, immediately wide awake, immediately conscious of where she was. Captain hid under the table. It was dark outside and she checked her watch. It was gone six.

She sat up, straightened her skirt and stretched out her hand for the cigarette. Antal offered it to her.

‘Why did Domokos leave?’ asked Antal.

He got no answer.

‘I looked for him outside, but saw neither him nor the car. Dekker told me he had called on him to thank him for the hospitality, then he said goodbye. At half past two he set out for Pest. Will he come back down for the funeral?’

He didn’t know what effect his words were having until she turned to him and he could see her tense face and note the sudden dampness at her lips. What he saw was one of the damned to whom one is not supposed to offer shelter or even a drop of water. The clock juddered and gave a mighty slam.
Slam-slam-slam
they both heard as if some fearsome beast were locked into the mechanism.
Slam!

Iza carried on sitting for a while, gazing at the smoke and taking big deep breaths, like someone who had long been aware of the precarious state of her health. ‘She doesn’t understand,’ thought Antal with infinite pity. ‘She really doesn’t understand.’

He leaned over to her the way Iza had only yesterday desired and drew her close. It was years since he had touched her, not once since he told her he was leaving. Iza tore herself away, stood up, looked into his face as if about to tell him something but changed her mind and hastily started grabbing her belongings. She ran into the bathroom where the carefully folded yellow bath towel still hung. She gathered up the necessary things and threw in her nightdress. Her hat and coat were beside her. She hadn’t said a word.

‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ said Iza. ‘Now that the conference is over there should be room at The Lamb.’

She didn’t wait for an answer but went straight out. She didn’t look back, she didn’t glance round. It was dark in the house but she didn’t knock anything over, she just left as if something were leading her. It was how they had left eight years ago, Iza leading even then with Antal following, both with suitcases in their hands. Antal knew then it would be for the last time. There wouldn’t be a third time.

Captain set off after her but Iza swept past him not even touching him. The evening above the garden was starless, without a moon, somehow locked down. The light in the arch over the gate was still on. Iza stopped and turned round.

‘Hold on a minute, I’ll get my coat and see you up there,’ said Antal.

‘No.’

They didn’t shake hands. The gate did not creak, nor did the inside door that turned smoothly on its hinges, softly swinging back into position. Antal waited until the familiar steps faded away, then bolted the door.

She could only see the upper half of Kolman – it was as if he’d been cut in two. He was pouring milk into a blue plastic can, his loaves like a set of smiling faces behind him. The shop window displayed tins, glazed jars filled with strawflower on top of them, and, under the tins, a small open sack and a pile of walnuts. She crossed over and waited heartbroken for the grocery door to open. Kolman must sense that she was there. She longed for the touch of Kolman’s old onion-smelling hands and for his friendly grumbling voice. Surely he would rush out, embrace her, stroke her hair and say, ‘Izzy! You’re the best little girl in the whole world.’ The top half of Kolman’s body was bending down behind the counter. He was talking to some unknown women. His moustache was glossy. Now he was slicing bread and playing with the scales.

She walked on past the shop.

The news-stand on the corner was empty. Iza stopped. She never used to look back having gone this far. It always made her nervous to feel that she was being watched all the way to Budenz Alley. In any case she was worried for the two old people watching her. What if they caught a chill or got too excited watching her go? Not that she could ever dissuade them from standing outside, however it might snow, waving their handkerchiefs, or gazing after her until she disappeared inside a taxi. Vince would stand without a coat or an umbrella, holding the drainpipe under the dragon-shaped spout even when the spout was drenching him with water, peering at her however dark it was, however dense the veil of water, and the old woman would be there too, always without a headscarf, never worrying about the wind or snow, just so she should be able to see the back of her daughter’s head or the shape of the glistening car. There was nobody standing there now. Even the street was mysteriously quiet. The light had just gone on in Antal’s street-facing windows. Seeing this, she grabbed her suitcase and set off as if the lights were a reminder not to hang about near a stranger’s home.

The garden in front of the church had been dug up and she stepped carefully round the ridges. Yesterday she hardly noticed how many more neon signs there were along the high street; neon letters flowed along the rooftops. A neon coffee pot was flashing on and off, neon coffee pouring from its nozzle into a round neon mug. On top of The Lamb, a neon sulphur-yellow lamb looked down on the central square, one front leg raised like a dog’s when it is fully focused on something.

The swing doors were heavy, heavier than they had been in the morning. It was warm inside, the dry warmth of central heating. A young man was at the reception desk just putting down the receiver. She set down her case on the ugly mosaic floor and asked for a room.

‘Single?’ asked the young man.

Of course. She thought of Domokos and ground her teeth. Her ballpoint pen wouldn’t work so the receptionist gave her another one to complete the necessary form. She wrote in a slow, large hand. She felt cold.

‘Were you born here?’ asked the young man with a show of hospitality reserved for visitors from Budapest who had once had something to do with the place. ‘The lift isn’t working, I’m afraid. Room one-one-six.’

The room was on the third floor and the stairs took time, so she was a little puffed out by the time she got there. The hotel was quiet, unusually empty. She didn’t meet anyone in the corridor. She had been given a corner room with a balcony. She closed the door and looked around. The room was just what you’d expect: impersonal, a floral still life on the wall, a radio on the bedside table.

She opened the door to the balcony and stepped out. A gust was rustling the boughs. It messed up her hair. It was a northerly wind from the plains. She gazed down over the town, looked at the sky and ran her eyes along the roofs.

‘Mama,’ said Iza to herself, addressing them for the first time. ‘Mama! Papa!’

The wind blew, the badly propped door behind her slammed. The neon coffee poured from the neon coffee pot, scarlet now, like fire.

The dead did not answer.

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Epub ISBN: 9781448156078

Version 1.0

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Harvill Secker 2014

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

First published with the title
Pilátus
in 1963

by Magveto
̋
, Budapest

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

Harvill Secker

Random House

20 Vauxhall Bridge Road

London SW1V 2SA